Mark's Random Musings

He Hui's Met debut

2009-11-24T10:46:00.006+08:00

A belated word of congratulations to the Shanghai-born He Hui (何慧) for booking her Met debut. As Aida, she is scheduled to sing opposite Salvatore Licitra's Radamès in Sonja Frisell's production in Spring 2010.

Magic Flute

2009-11-22T23:46:00.004+08:00

After a brief hiatus, opera returns to the NCPA's main stage with Mozart's Magic Flute, a co-production of the Centre, the Norwegian National Opera & Ballet, and Opera Hong Kong. It is a work of multilingual art: Emanuel Schikaneder's German libretto, recitative in English, stage props with letter art in both languages (at the gate of Sarastro's temple, the words "Nature" and "Vernun"), and a good number of [improvised?] Chinese injected into the recitative (all by Papageno). The production team of Warren Mok, Chen Ping and Per Larsen adds conspicuous Chinese elements, including Papageno's Chinese hunter costume, a dragon to replace the serpent at the beginning of Act I, and twelve Chinese zodiac animals (with funky fluorescent heads and tails) to be called up by Tamino's flute.

In yet another evidence of the production's deference to the fluorescent plasticism of the 60s and 70s, the chorus in both acts carries fluorescent light sabers that remind me of Achim Freyer's Act I in Walkure. Some design elements are simple but effective: the chief temple is depicted by a piece of backdrop drapery with nothing but a simple printed circle, while the pyramid scene is decorated with another piece of drapery with an encircled triangle (the circle and triangle depicting, respectively, Sarastro's temple and the pyramid). Other designs are more elaborate, including the penultimate scene where Monostatos and the Queen are to slowly climb a flight of ascending stairs, only to be cast into eternal darkness with the stair prop moving sideways to stage right and lighting dimming to a ghostly effect. The glockenspiel prop is a little bit more curious, because instead of the more traditional handheld glock or tuned tam-tam, it is depicted more metaphorically with what looks like (at least from my balcony seat) a bronze sistrum or a muffed-up sleigh bell.

Mimma Briganti's Queen makes a spectacular entrance from above using wires and dazzles with a fantastic start to "O zittre nicht". In an ending that sadly mirrors her entrance, she crash lands (pun intended) by chicken scratching the high F. Even though she would end her evening by blowing her other four Fs in quite dramatic fashion in "Der Hölle Rache", the audience nevertheless appreciates her effort with a gracious round of applause. Eric Margiore's Tamino is too lightweight for NCPA's monstrous space, and is evidently overwhelmed by Inna Dukach's Pamina in the duet "Wir wandelten durch Feuersgluten" and in the quartet "Der, welcher...Beschwerden".

I always believe Magic Flute's dramatic crux rests with Papageno's comedic overtones, and in this respect baritone Brian Montgomery does not disappoint. He is sassy and funny, and is able to lid up lighting designer David Jacques' rather somber ambiance. In terms of singing, Montgomery's "Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja" sounds hesitant and tired (probably due to his need to climb up and down the set), but he fully redeems himself with a good-natured and well-sung "Pa-Pa-Pa".

Able to radiate Pamina's two distinct personalities --naive playfulness and pensive melancholy --Inna Dukach is perfect for the role and is the star of the evening. Her voice is deep, with a rounded vibrato -- listening to her is like pouring sweet honey over warm caprino while candle light flickers in an air of subtle evening lust. But I digress.

Mika Kares steals some of Dukach's stars with a commanding Sarastro, delivering "O Isis und Osiris" with plenty of regal power and paternal authority. Meanwhile, the three ladies are feisty and well-acted but sound at times disoriented and lacking tonal balance. Conductor Jari Hämäläinen frequently modulates his speed, with Queen's both arias running under tempo and "Der Arme kann..." running dramatically ahead -- with the latter's acceleration rewarding the audience with a more dramatic interchange among Tamino, Papageno, and the three ladies.

To be honest, it's hard for me to be awed by any contemporary Magic Flute production, and this one is no exception: it seems to me nearly impossible to cast for the production today --Magic Flute requires a bright leggiero tenor and a lyric soprano against a scintillating Queen and baritone who can both sing and act. (How about JDF, Fleming, Damrau and Pisaroni?) Nevertheless, I must admit this Magic Flute is still quite entertaining, with some interesting multicultural elements and a few laughs ("北京烤鴨", or Peking Duck making a cameo in Papageno's recitative) that make the evening seem shorter than it really is.

Nessun dorma, at the Bird's Nest

2009-10-06T23:22:00.003+08:00

The National Stadium, home to the drama-filled Beijing Olympics and an architectural masterpiece, plays host tonight to a different kind of dramatic and architectural device: Puccini's Turandot, staged by famed Chinese film director Zhang Yimou. When I have more time I shall write a more detailed review of the performance. But for now, here are some photos:

The stage, spanning across the 400m and 1500m starting points.

Getting ready for Act I.

A stadium of opera goers.

O giovinetto.

Tenor Dai Yuqiang (戴玉強) gave a solid performance of Nessun dorma.

The modified finale.

Cosi comanda Turandot.

The whole evening was marred by bad acoustics, but I found a winning alternative with good visuals and better acoustics -- at least in Act I: Montserrat Caballe's stirring and heart-melting rendition of Liu's signature aria...on my iPod.

Romance of the West Chamber, a Kunqu classic

2009-07-26T15:25:00.010+08:00

Over the years I have attended plenty of Kunqu classics, including the Peony Pavilion, The Jade Hairpin Tale, and The Palace of Eternity. But Romance of the West Chamber (西廂記), considered to be a hugely significant, if not the most monumental, piece in the classical repertoire, has eluded me, until now.

The NCPA currently plays host to Beifang Kunqu Opera Theater (北方昆曲劇院), which has put together a fine West Chamber production and has been going rounds in China in the past few years. Helmed by famed director Guo Xiaonan (郭曉男) and staged by Huang Kaifu (黃楷夫), the production is shortened for the ADD-infested modern audience, the kind of Blackberry-toting, multiple cellphone-juggling Twitter-phile who prefers book rags over actual tomes and one-liner news digests over newspaper copies. Aptly named the "Metropolitan" version (大都版), this Guo/Huang version, to be performed over the span of two days and includes 3 volumes and 12 chapters, is not exactly pocket-sized, but is still heavily condensed from an original magnum opus featuring 5 volumes and 21 chapters to be played out in three days. The compaction is different from the recital hall version (廳堂版) of the Peony Pavilion at the Imperial Granary in that the latter highlights famous chapters while the former reworks some of the chapters to re-weave the entire story line without taking away substance and performance (at least in theory, but more later).

The piece tells the story of Zhang Sheng (張生), an intelligent young man of proletarian origins, who meets and falls in love with Cui Yingying (崔鶯鶯), an elegant woman with prim lineage. They meet while he is resting at a temple on his way to attend the imperial examination. As this happens, Sun Feihu (孫飛虎), a rebel leader, surrounds the temple and demands the betrothal of Cui. Cui’s mother, under pressure, vows to marry her daughter away to anyone who could save them from the evil hands of Sun. The ever resourceful Zhang, steeped in his new-found love, sees opportunity and manages to find outside help who then, as if right on script, quashes Sun’s hopes. But Cui’s mother backpedals and, instead of giving Cui’s hand to Zhang, she simply makes Zhang Cui’s brother, reopening the prospects of a betrothal with a well-to-do family. Siblinghood, however, does not stop Cui’s chamber maid (紅娘) from stringing the two lovebirds together, as she deftly arranges their dates and secret rendezvous, thereby ensuring that the fruit of love between Zhang and Cui continues to ripen. Eventually, recognizing a path of inevitability but remaining stubbornly allergic to Zhang’s less-than-impressive lineage, the mother devises her allergy suppressor and agrees to their marriage under one condition: that Zhang would have to return triumphant from the examination. After a painful departure and an extended period of separation, Zhang finally returns as a top scholar, proves his upward mobility, and returns to find a life of happiness with Cui.

The original version of the story is invariably more complicated, in which the mother is so hostile to the peasantry class that she tries to ensconce the truth about Zhang’s examination triumph from Cui and plans ahead to marry Cui off to an aristocrat – until the truth eventually reveals itself. Wei Chunrong (魏春榮) and Wang Zhenyi (王振義), both of whom I had the privilege of listening to multiple times back in April, star as the pair of lovebirds. The performance is heavily modernized, with a production set that projects an art-deco flavor a la Frank Lloyd Wright, albeit with motifs seemingly, and loosely, based on the auspicious cloud (祥雲), a more organic and traditional Chinese elemental feature. The stage is a glass platform that lit from below by a plethora of colorful lighting, to be switched on and off based on the scene and character mood. Minimalist decorations draped from the lighting grid and sparsely anchored on stage provide subtle cues depicting seasonal and scenic changes. Between chapters, no curtain is dropped while lights are rarely dimmed enough to hide scene changes. The furniture, considered a cornerstone of the movement and the basis for character interaction in traditional Chinese opera, is not the typical fabric-wrapped kind that is abundantly featured in traditional opera fare. Instead, the chair and the table are actually somewhat a cross between Rococo and Chinoiserie revivals, subtly paying, if only accidental, homage to Thomas Chippendale and, with some imagination, Townsend-Goddard. Lighting is heavily modernized too, with spot lights and modulated coloration that not just provide illumination but awash the set with the mood of the moment. By comparison, several features of the art form, including the costume, head dressing, and the rare cues of martial arts, are decidedly more traditional. Also faithful to tradition is the lack of physical props, e.g. unlike some other revivals I've seen on DVD, this production offers no physical barrier in the critical wall scene (跳墙); nor are there painted curtains to convey scenes and background. That leaves much of the scenic description to the acting.

The actors are magnificent, with Wang bringing out the comic, if not also slightly naiveté, nature of Zhang. Wang's Zhang transitions from wandering pensiveness to streaks of thoughtful deliberation, to great effect. Wei, with her fragile porcelain face and her immaculate bodily movement, exudes a poignant character with profound intellect and a virgin’s vulnerability. Wang and Wei’s characters are meticulously built up over two evenings, culminating in a verboten scene where their relationship is consummated in a prolonged physical embrace underneath a piece of white fabric -- decorated, or metaphorically tainted, with an embroidered, bright-red peony -- that could have been a tad too suggestive and scandalous not too long ago. While the two lovebirds strike the right tone by themselves, West Chamber, in my view, is really pulled together by Hong Niang, the chamber maid character, a vocally prodigious and visually demanding creation that provides the necessary emotional, energetic, and philosophical anchor-piece to facilitate the slow-brewing love story between the two lead characters. Ni Hong (倪泓), as a Shanghai-based invitee to this northern production, handily delivers the role of the maid, with a fiendish expressiveness and a dominating stage presence. Ni's voice is pitch-perfect, with a robust coloratura projection and a convincing range of dynamics.

In my opinion, this "Metropolitan" version is just a chapter or two too short, thus leaving more to be desired. At 1.5 hours, the second evening is much shorter than the first (almost 2.5 hours without intermission). It seems to me that the ending is a little too rushed, with the all-important return scene not acted out but merely recited in a quick, unemotional epilogue. This is unfortunate, because even though the crux of the story is about the romantic, and sometimes annoying, aspects of courtship, this courtship is not going to achieve consummation in totem, at least in spirit, without Zhang’s triumphant return following a painful separation scene (長亭送別). Perhaps this is one way for Guo/Huang to downplay a de facto caste system in ancient China imbued with strict adherence to intra-caste marriage between aristocracies with traceable gotras. That said, this West Chamber is marked by excellent acting, as well as a hauntingly minimalist yet superbly effective stage modernization that showcases Kunqu, in my view, not merely as an artistic relic of the yesteryear but an art form willing and able to adapt for a rapidly modernizing aesthetic POV and social psyche.

Teatro Regio di Parma in Beijing

2009-06-19T03:01:00.004+08:00

Teatro Regio di Parma, together with the National Centre for the Performing Arts, staged a stunning production of Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto this week, during Beijing's Opera Festival. In the early afternoon before Thursday's premiere, Beijing was darkened by rapidly-collecting rainclouds before finally sloshed with heavy rain, a fitting prelude to match the opera's penultimate, or the "Apollo", scene. Another random coincidence was that Rigoletto was first premiered at La Fenice, whose opera company was in Beijing just a week ago.

The stage was designed and produced by the late Pier Luigi Samaritani, who mixed traditional forms and structures with practical solutions of modern minimalism. His Sparafucile house was an elevated stage with a meticulous, castle-like exterior which ruptured laterally at an angle to reveal the interior. This opening worked perfectly, especially during the quartet, Un dì, se ben rammentomi, when the two pairs of characters were supposed to juxtapose vocally without physically being together. The Mantua palace was minimalistic but worked effectively, with plenty of open spaces for the noblemen and the Duke's ladies to jostle around. I'm generally not a fan of modern screens, but the use of a drop-down screen to separate Sparafucile and Rigoletto in the deal scene was effective because it helped to describe the seemingly conflicting notions of the two characters' actual proximity and the darkness that infinitely separated them.

Singing the role of the Duke was Francesco Demuro, whose voice was simply too lightweight for a hall as big as the NCPA's opera house. He was visibly and audibly nervous during La donna è mobile, where his high registers seemed completely forced, dry, and uncontrolled. His lower registers were tidy enough, but for an aria so frequently heard everywhere, tidy enough was not good enough. Demuro wobbled his final B5...with the subsequent applause short and, at least as it sounded to me, almost too unnecessarily gratuitous. As a side note, Demuro was audibly looser and more relaxed in his off-stage aria during Rigoletto's Della vendetta alfin giunge l'istante! recitative -- perhaps that was when the burdensome baggage of the famous aria was finally off his shoulders.

Gilda was sung by Désirée Rancatore, whose voice was bright and impassioned. In Sì! Vendetta, tremenda vendetta!, she hit her un-scored Eb6 with apparently little effort. She actually did it twice -- but I'll explain later. So it was slightly disappointing that she chose not to hit the dominating but somewhat frivolous "diva Db6" in the quartet. The only blemish in her voice was the world's difference between her high-range singing voice and her lower-range speaking voice. When she sang a passage that hit both ranges, she sounded like two voices combined in one -- sort of like listening to Hasselbeck and Goldberg bitch-slapping each other on The View (ok, maybe this was an unfair analogy, but I ran out of ideas as I wrapped up writing this entry at 3am). Felipe Bou delivered a solid Sparafucile, with a devilish playfulness during the deal scene and a forceful assertion during the Apollo scene. The rest of the cast was solid, including Francesca Franci, who blossomed with an abundance of molasses-like sassyness in the contralto role of Maddalena, and Roberto Tagliavini, who delivered a warm-voiced Count Monterone.

But the night, without a doubt, belonged to Leo Nucci. At 67, I had little expectation, especially given that my experience with José Carreras last year, then at 61, was less than completely satisfying. But Nucci was dominant from the get-go, with a powerful voice that permeated all corners of the opera house, and with spot-on acting that brought out the complicated emotions of the title role. His Rigoletto was complex, with alternating tinges of deviousness and compassion. His voice sounded best when the lighting was mostly off, or when he hid in an unlid portion of the stage -- that was where there was no visual distraction, thereby pushing his notes after notes of deliciousness to the showcasing center. With a convexly humped spine and a weather-washed visage, Nucci was the perfect Rigoletto: Nucci was Rigoletto as much as Rigoletto was Nucci. In Cortigiani, vil razza dannata, his impassioned display of paternal love and human fragility brought the entire audience to their feet. With a prolonged ovation, Nucci had to step out of his role to thank the audience and the orchestra, and deservedly, he seemed to relish that moment. Barely two bars later, he slipped back into his character, which he must have played a million times, as he made eye contact with Gilda and responded with:

"Dio! mia Gilda!"
"Gilda, my daughter!" (my translation)

That line radiated a quality of loving sentimentalism that befitted a Thursday evening just before Father's Day weekend.

I don't say this often, but this was definitely one of my favorite opera experiences. Nucci was hands-down my favorite Rigoletto, surpassing even Wixell in the monumental '83 production with Chailly/VPO, or MacNeil in the passionate '77 live recording with Levine/Met. When Sì! Vendetta concluded Act II, the audience's reception was so rapturous that Nucci, beaming with satisfaction, called upon conductor Donato Renzetti to encore the duet (that was also where Rancatore hit her second Eb6). When his voice began to speak Verdi's language, his enduring charisma had the entire audience on a tight leash. Ultimately, it was obvious why Nucci owned both the audience and the night.

Madama Butterfly

2009-06-13T17:24:00.006+08:00

Beijing's opera season steps into high gear with Madama Butterfly, a co-production between La Fenice di Venezia and the National Centre for the Performing Arts. This marks the first collaboration between the two groups. Based on the fruits of their efforts, there is no reason why there shouldn't be more collaborations to come.

The production, directed by Daniele Abbado, featured a minimalist set that felt like a simple tesseract projected into our three-dimensional world. Puccini's characters would then move about in the inner cube. The set's simplicity was augmented with a thoughtful, albeit at times too cerebral, interchange of lighting colors. These colors were meant to emphasize the natural colors of Nagasaki's seasons and the more iconographic shadings of the libretto's mood. The stage sported a chessboard of translucent panels illuminated from below, pulsating with varying colors as the music motioned forward: brighter when the mood was light, and darker when the mood was sappy and subdued. Similarly back-lit translucent walls reflected mood and time of day. The rest of the stage was devoid of other props, except the presence of a table and two zabutons (for kneeling) which, in my opinion, rightfully paid tribute to the sort of minimalist furniture setup in traditional Asian theater (一桌兩椅).

Butterfly was the Ukrainian soprano Oksana Dyka: her Cio Cio San, emanating an air of fragility and natural bereavement, was spot-on. Her voice, like aged Burgundy, was sultry and round. Her upper registers were brilliant and brisk, albeit also slightly asserted -- the effect was, especially in softer passages, an audible, though not persistent, loss in command of dynamics control. More impressive, by comparison, was her natural beauty and fluid body movements, which readily seduced Pinkerton. During the love duet, Bimba, Bimba, non piangere, the two characters' beautiful, intertwining voices drew the audience to the edge of their seats and, at the moment when Pinkerton waxed poetic about Cio Cio San's intoxicating eyes:

"Tutta la tua tribù e i Bonzi tutti del Giappon
non valgono il pianto di quegli occhi cari e belli."

"Your family and priests in Japan
are not worth the tears from your loving, beautiful eyes." (my translation)

triggered in me an emotional wildfire where my burning desire to jump on stage and be part of their tight embrace was only marginally suppressed by what remained of my rapidly-deteriorating self-restraint.

Pinkerton, sung by tenor Kamen Chanev, captured the character's shift from a vibrant, passionate lover to a dark, remorseful sinner. Sharpless was sung by baritone Simone Piazzola, who was comfortably solid and clear.

Daniela Innamorati, as Suzuki, had a solid stage presence that was commanding yet inoffensive. When Cio Cio San asked that all-important question in "Suzuki, Suzuki!", Suzuki's response, a soft "Si", evoked a whiff of inevitability and vulnerability that, in my opinion, perfectly encapsulated the climatic moment of the entire piece's storyline. Her Suzuki moved me in ways that many Suzukis in the past could not.

Conductor Nicola Luisotti kept the thrust of Puccini's melodic line in locomotion without caving into singers' preferred tempos, which, in the case of Madama Butterfly, were often slower and more drawn-out. During the mellow chorus, "Coro a bocca chiusa", Luisotti was respectful to the notation and spirit of the music, and led the orchestra into an idyllic, almost solipsistic sojourn. Less respectful was the audience, who managed to generate a fair amount of noise that didn't jive well with the ethereal fluidity of Puccini's passage. But as a whole, this Madama Butterfly, though not without inadequacies, was successfully executed and a well-deserved star of the opera season.

Yuja Wang at the NCPA: a house of flying daggers

2009-06-05T23:06:00.010+08:00

Yuja Wang is undoubtedly talented. Her debut recording, Sonatas and Etudes, with DG, provides an early glimpse of what the 22-year-old pianist is capable of: her technique is feisty but confident, while her attacking style is relentless but controlled. When her two hands propel onwards, her piano notes fly off my loudspeaker like a swarm of flying daggers.

But her concert on June 4 at the the National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA) showed nothing of that promise. Her concentration was clearly absent at the beginning, when she moved a quartet of Scarlatti Sonatas with an air of banality and seeming indifference. She seemed more at ease and warmed up, albeit marginally, by the time she began Brahms' 28 Variations on a Theme by Paganini. In Book I, she managed to sustain a slow but steady build-up, with the final few variations blossoming to life. But that was when the evening took a dramatic turn. Her Book II was unsentimental, and for some unspoken reason, Wang, having seemingly lost her steady tempo, began a mad dash to the finish in a way that felt unnecessarily rushed. After the intermission, she played a lackadaisical Chopin Sonata No. 2 that was adequate on the surface but devoid of any passionate resonance -- it was almost as if Chopin's score was scanned into the music machine and reconstituted, via digital MIDI, in mechanical verbatim. The evening's final, programmed piece was Stravinsky's Petrouchka, which she played by the book but lacked the kind of playfulness often expected from Stravinsky's piece.

I certainly came to the concert hall expecting something great from Wang, but her performance tonight was anything but. Overall, she seemed to have used her sustain pedal just a tad more than she needed to, thereby rendering a night that felt more like a syrupy Monet when, given the programme's flavor, it should really have been a crisp van Eyck. More troubling was a very audible (at least to me) imbalance between a stronger left and a weaker right hand throughout the evening -- something that was clearly not an issue in her debut recording. Her last two encore pieces showed not the kind of pianist Wang could be (I believe she could be much more than displayed tonight) but should be (at least for this particular evening in Beijing): a dexterous, flamboyant artist who not only can show the [predominantly Chinese] audience a good time but can have a good time herself. Her rendition of Rondo alla Turca a la Volodos was energetic and colorful, while her Flight of the Bumble Bee was spontaneous but unflushed. It was these last two encores where the flying daggers hit their intended targets, and brought the half-sold-out audience to their feet.

2009 Burger Journey: North America Edition

2009-05-30T09:54:00.028+08:00

Introduction

Living in Beijing has its privileges, but not quite when one talks about easy access to good old-fashioned burgers. I have complained to folks time and again that there isn't a single place where I can get a decent burger in China's capital city. Places such as Durty Nellie's, Blue Frog, and Tim's Texas offer a decent ensemble that is good, adequate, but not great. Maison Boulud serves up a db burger of whose texture I am not an avid fan -- it resembles too much like a pulled-pork sandwich or a sloppy Joes. Plus, I prefer bacon over foie gras with my burgers, any day. I have previously raved about 25 Degrees, but mainly as an exercise of nostalgia (multiple visits subsequent to my initial review indicate that their quality has somewhat diminished).

Hence, when I made a trip to the U.S. last month I tried to visit as many burger joints as humanly (and beastly!) possible. My task was Herculean: 8 burger joints in 4 days -- a rare feat considering that those visits were squeezed between multiple work lunches/dinners, two meals with relatives and another dinner with friends. Health be damned, and here are my tasting notes for my 2009 Burger Journey, North America Edition:

0. Eat at Ed Debevic's
640 N Wells St
Chicago, IL 60654

Day 0. Originally I was to begin my burger journey in Southern California, but thought it would be awesome if I could start my burger journey on my way to SoCal...i.e. on the plane! Therefore, between my lunch-time and my mandatory boarding time at O'Hare, I managed to drop by Ed Debevic's and pick up an order of bacon cheeseburger for the road.

The burger and the fries were carried away in a nice takeaway box, which drew plenty of eyeballs and votes of culinary approval as I journeyed from downtown Chicago to my departure gate. Because the point was to eat on the plane, I didn't open the box until midway between Chicago and Los Angeles, but by that time the burger became cold and stale. Even though jealous eyes scanned me and my food object as I unpacked and started eating, I couldn't help but think how much lovelier the burger would have tasted had I killed the romantic but impractical idea of eating on the plane. While I was nursing my burger, a flight attendant came by to give my takeaway choice her two-thumbs-up -- an ironic twist since I was just thinking about how I would rather dine in and be verbally abused by those silly hosts at Ed's than to eat a burger that was dead on arrival.

Burger: Bacon cheeseburger
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: bun-cheese-patty-lettuce leaves-bacon-bun
Dressing: none

1. Pie ‘N Burger
913 E. California Blvd.
Pasadena, CA 91106

Day 1. On my way to Santa Monica, I dropped by Pie 'N Burger on California. The place was a throw-back to a bygone era, as evidenced by its faux-wood counter top, faux-brick linoleum in smudged burgundy, and a griddle so puffed up in smokes that if this weren't a burger joint you'd think the place was on fire. The cheeseburger was ordered medium with a slice of tomato on the side. The 1/4-lb. patty was nicely cooked, with a slightly, crisply char along the rim. The Russian dressing was sweet, delicate, but not overwhelming. The ingredients were fresh and were stacked in a harmonious chorus. It was difficult to pick the star, but every bit players did a marvellous job as part of the whole. Because I had a lunch appointment only an hour thereafter, I hesitated to order more food but, upon repeated urging of the lovely hostess, my wisdom gave way to gluttony. I asked her if her pies were any good, and she said that if I liked their burgers I really had to try their pies; after all, she proclaimed: "pies come before burgers, in name and in spirit". I ordered their banana merange pie, which did not disappoint: a decadent custard with plenty of banana and buttery flavors was sandwiched between a freshly-baked pie crust and a thick merange top. Flavors of tropical bananas and fresh eggs danced merrily, as if in a duet in a pristine floral garden. The tartness of the merange, right on cue, helped to cut through the residual grease in my mouth. While I had more than my share of food (especially considering that I downed an entire triple-decker club sandwich an hour later), I thought I couldn't have scripted a better way to begin my burger journey.

Burger: Cheeseburger
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: bun-lettuce leaves-cheese-patty-red onions-Russian dressing-bun
Dressing: Russian

2. In-N-Out
throughout southern California

Day 1. After an excellent start at Pie 'N Burger, I was psyched. I was so psyched that, a mere 4 hours later (with a club sandwich in between), I stopped at an In-N-Out to order my usual item: a double-double. In-N-Out, in my opinion, offers the best bang for the buck in the entire universe, with two patties, two pieces of American cheddar, and flavorful grilled onions at merely $3. The overall stack was just a pinch oversalted but otherwise very well executed.

Burger: Double-double
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: bun-cheese-patty-grilled onions-cheese-patty-bun
Dressing: none

3. 25 Degrees
at The Hollywood Roosevelt
7000 Hollywood Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90028

Day 1. I have previously blogged about why I thought Hotel G offers the best burger in Beijing. Thus, revisiting the original was on top of my agenda. Tucked inside the Hollywood Roosevelt, 25 Degrees sports turn-of-the-last-century early modernism with pressed aluminum ceiling, velvet wallpaper with Depression Scherenschnitte patterns, and plush leather couches. I ordered a BYO burger, and to wash it down, a Guinness shake. The BYO burger was made with ground sirloin (ordered medium), crescenza cheese, bacon and caramelized onions. Onions, tomatoes and lettuce were served on the side. The meat was just a bit over medium but effused an aromatic, yet intense, charcoal-grilled flavor. The cheese, soft, mild and with a subtle reference to the corresponding fresh cow milk, provided a nice, almost un contrepoint féminin to the meat's robust masculinity. The caramelized onions provided just enough sweetness to round out the stack. Any BYO burger could be a blessing or a curse, but this stack was packed with flavors that complemented each other. The Guiness milkshake was made with vanilla bean, chocolate ice cream and a shot of Guinness. It was too sweet as a dining companion but worked wonderfully as an opulent dessert to finish off the evening. Seated with a direct view of the passing cars on Hollywood Boulevard, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic again: could Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart have sat at the same spot, looking at the same view, some years back? Life is good.

Burger: BYO
Bun: well toasted, with a charred rim
Architecture: bun-caramelized onions-bacon-crescenza cheese-patty-bun (pickles, tomatoes, onions, lettuce on the side)
Dressing: none

4. The Counter
2901 Ocean Park Blvd.
Santa Monica, CA 90405

Day 2. This was my second visit to The Counter. It was considered to be the standard for the build-your-own style, with efficient service, fresh ingredients, and a laid-back but professional service staff. I hope this concept goes far and (world-)wide...a Beijing outpost, anyone? The burger I ordered included a sharp Tillamook cheddar with a generous helping of baby greens, grilled onions, and roasted chiles. Architecturally, the hamburger bun was a little too small for the gigantic, 1/3 lb. meat package; the alternative would have been a honey wheat bun, which had a slightly larger footprint, although I was always skeptical of deviating away from the standard bun triumvirate of regular flour, brioche, and sour dough. The chiles slightly overwhelmed the rest of the veggies, but provided a playful touch to the hefty beef that was packed with juices and beefy flavors. The beef was also brought to table medium as requested, with an off-charcoal exterior -- draped with melted Tillamook -- that slowly graduated into a pink interior. The bun was lightly toasted and came out crisp at the rim and soft in the interior.

Burger: BYO
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: buttered bun-onion-cheese-patty-chiles-baby greens-bun
Dressing: Russian, on the side

5. Apple Pan
10801 W Pico Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90064

Day 2. As Apple Pan is located a stone's throw away from where I used to live, I am well familiar with this place. In fact, one of the servers, Pedro, still remembered me as I walked in, even though I wasn't wearing my trademark surfer shorts and yellow T-shirt that read "surf instructor" and at which Pedro and his kitchen comrades often gleefully mocked at my fragile ego's expense. No words can better describe Apple Pan's burger than the word: classic. Opened in 1947 and a west side institution ever since, Apple Pan offers a classic steak burger with a ketchup relish and mayonnaise. Burger elites be damned, but relish + ketchup + mayo + pickles work wonders as a group and, if executed properly, can be heaven on the palate. The AP staff simply knew how to cook a patty, bringing out plenty of beefy flavors by rendering away just enough fat to keep the patty flavorful while keeping the interior moist and juicy. The relish sauce was sharp at the initial bite but harmonious on the finish. As I sat at the U-shaped counter, looking at Pedro and his comrades working the griddle area, my mind slowly drifted away into a time-collapsed eternity where there was nothing but beefy grease, smokes and heavenly burgers. Yeah, Apple Pan was this good.

Burger: Cheeseburger
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: bun-relish ketchup sauce-cheese-patty-lettuce shreds-pickles-mayo-bun
Dressing: relish ketchup + mayo

6. Mom's Burgers
336 W Alondra Blvd.
Compton, CA 90220

Day 3. The highlight of my burger tour was Mom's Burgers, simply because I have heard a lot about it and it was one of the two places (the other being Pie 'N Burger) that I have not visited before. Mom's Burgers is located at the heart of Compton, about 15 minutes drive from Santa Monica. Judging from the outside, you'd never imagine that a shack the size of a standard 40-feet container could serve up some of the finest burgers in Compton, if not Southern California. My order was the DCMB, or Double Cheese Mom's Burger -- a concoction of beef, cheeses, mayo, ketchup, relish and veggies stacked up to the sky. All orders were paper-wrapped to go, but I chose to consume at the counter. As I unwrapped, a swarm of heavenly aromatics bursted into the open: the smell of beef, cheese, onions -- as if they have been stashed away for too long and yearned for freedom. The beef was presented with an nutty, chewy texture and a forceful punch to the nose. The cheese that looked manufactured and uninspiring on the griddle not only caressed the beef in a tight, longing embrace but sang merrily with the rest of the stack. The tricky marriage of mayo and ketchup was executed harmoniously -- probably the best I have ever had -- they simultaneously brought layers of sharpness and buttery smoothness to the burger. My palate and my olfactory senses weren't the only being amply rewarded: the whole scene was filled with Bow Wow's music (after all, we were in Compton) while I basked under the California sun, watching sup-ed up cars of the yesteryear zoom past.

Before I left Compton I thought I needed to check out at least one fried chicken joint. About 5 minutes down the road was Honey’s Kettle, a non-descript fried chicken joint on the edge of Compton on Alondra. I ordered two pieces of chicken and an order of butter biscuit -- a courageous affair after just having downed a DCMB. In any case, I thought I would just give them a taste, but they were so good that I felt disrespectful if I didn't finish them all. The biscuit was soft and airy, with so much butter that I wondered if some day they had to legally call it baked butter with biscuit flour lest they be accused of misleading marketing. The chicken was lightly seasoned, leaving much of the responsibility in the flavor department to the chicken's natural juices. The chicken did not disappoint: it was juicy, flavorful, and just greasy enough to put a tremendous satisfactory grin on my face.

Burger: Double Cheese Mom’s Burger (the DCMB)
Bun: toasted, charred rim
Architecture: bun-mayo-cheese-meat-cheese-meat-onions-relish-tomato-lettuce shreds-mustard-bun
Dressing: none

Un petit dessert: two pieces of freshly fried Honey's Kettle fried chicken and buttery biscuit

7. Original Tommy’s World Famous
5873 Hollywood Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90028

Day 3. Aside from In-N-Out OTWF would be the other fast food burger joint on my hit list. I thought I'd end the journey with a distinctly California style burger, which is, to slather chili all over the burger. OTWF certainly was neither the proprietor nor the top-of-the-class purveyor in this space, but at $3 a pop it was a deal not to be sniffed at. After all, we were sitting in the middle of the worst global recession in more than a generation, and it was only appropriate to include a regular fare that didn't have to break the bank account even if one were to pay a visit daily. The buns were soft and freshly toasted; the rest of the stack was comfortably covered by a warm blanket of chili, which was mild and, to my surprise, quite meaty. The beef was a little disappointing, though exactly what it was supposed to be: a flavorless fast food burger patty, albeit with enough coarseness and texture to counterpoint the chili and the cheese.

Burger: Cheeseburger
Bun: lightly toasted
Architecture: bun-mustard-tomato-pickles and onions-patty-cheese-chili-bun
Dressing: none

Conclusion

The burger journey was not meant to identify the best burger in Southern California. (On my to-go or to-revisit list are: Ammo, Beacon, BoHo, Five Guys, Golden State, Laurel Tavern, Lucky Devils, Rush Street, Rustic Canyon, Umami, and Yard House.) It was meant for me to revisit some of the places I used to visit and to hand pick one or two places for an experience I wouldn't soon forget: Pie 'N Burger provides a feel-good, nostalgic setting while Mom's gives an exotic, in-your-face experience --the analogy in the music world being, if I may, Perry Como vs. Dr Dre. In my opinion, the burger as a dish has inherited so much stigma from mass production houses like the big M and the burger royal that, around the world, it has lost due respect as both a legitimate entrée item and a serious cuisine. Daniel Boulud's $40 db burger, with braised short ribs and foie gras, even though not up to my burger standard, aims to reverse exactly that. America remains the ultimate destination for burgers, if only because it is a land so well endowed that finding good quality ingredients is painlessly easy. It is also because the culture is so infused with a burger psyche (thanks in part to big M, but also to cultural infusions; see here and here) that it is both fast and comfort food for the masses, rich or poor. Beijing needs a good ol' burger joint not merely because there has got to be plenty of burger-loving souls seeking one, but because the city that embraces all and touts the slogan "One World, One Dream" should take this dish, and cuisine, seriously. I look forward to more burgers. Bring on the stack, the dripping juices and the grease!

Navigating Heathrow

2009-05-10T21:26:00.004+08:00

You've got to be kidding me: Europe's busiest airport does not have a single express mail service counter! Yup, I was expected to easily locate an express mail service (e.g. DHL, Fedex) at Heathrow and from there, mail a package to Monte Carlo, but Heathrow was not sender-friendly at all. Option #1, according to the airport's information desk, was a one-day courier service at 40 quids (for 3 DVDs and a written letter), and the courier counter was not to open until 9am, less than 1.5 hours before my international departure. Worse, the courier counter was located in Terminal 2, a full 15-minute walk to the security check point at Terminal 3, where my gate was. The gate was another 10-minute walk once I were to cross the security check point, meaning that I would have gone down to the wire had I opted for the 40-quid courier.

So instead, I opted for option #2. At 7:15am (3 hours before my departure) I called up a friend, a hotshot DHL executive based in Brussels, who promised that I should be able to deposit my package at the sorting location inside Heathrow's cargo terminal, something that the info desk service agent suggested but could not vouch for. But in order for me to get there, I had to first take a 10-minute train to Terminal 4, and then a public bus from T4 to the cargo terminal. From there, I were to walk another 15 minutes before reaching the far end of the cargo terminal, where DHL held court. Alternatively, I could have taken a cab, but after talking to three cabbies I was convinced that cabbies were either clueless about the cargo terminal's whereabouts or not interested at all in navigating into the dumpster area of Middlesex/Hounslow. When I finally arrived at the cargo terminal I was dismayed to find out -- in a somewhat expected moment of self-deprecating schadenfreude -- the DHL sorting location would not accept my package. Now, at 8:40am I was faced with the daunting task of running the length of the cargo terminal, waiting for the public bus, taking the public bus back to T4, taking the train back to T3, running from T3 to T2, mailing my package at the expensive courier service counter a la option #1, running back to T3, making across security and immigration, and running to the gate. I must have covered 4 to 5 miles, at least 1 of them fumbling with my backpack and my suit bag barely attaching to my moving body...at the end, I made it to the gate as the second last person to board, just a tad ahead of a drunk Brit who appeared to have just left the pub and, had he not been assisted by an airline agent, he would probably have still been lying piss-drunk somewhere in Heathrow.

My package was mailed out and finally delivered, but not before my adventurous detour to the cargo terminal. The package was delivered on time (it was a submission to a film festival in Monte Carlo), and hopefully the DVDs were able to play despite having drenched in my sweat and desperation.

Addendum #1: DHL and Fedex, when are you going to set up shop in Heathrow?

Addendum #2: Hotshot executives may know a thing or two about fat checks and corporate dining rooms, but most certainly not sorting locations at aviation cargo terminals.

Three Nights, Three Kunqu Operas

2009-04-08T10:46:00.010+08:00

Wei Chunrong (魏春榮), one of my favorite Kunqu (昆曲) artists, has recently completed an impressive cycle of Kunqu performances at Changan Theater (長安大戲院): Guan Hanqing (關漢卿), Peony Pavilion (牡丹亭), The Li Family Saga (奇雙會), and The Jade Hairpin Tale (玉簪記) (anglicized translations are mine). I bought tickets to attend the three pieces that I haven't listened to before: Guan Hanqing, The Li Family Saga, and The Jade Hairpin Tale.

Each of the performances was produced by the Beifang Kunqu Opera Theater (北方昆曲劇院) and each featured Wei, whom I already had the privilege of hearing last year when she performed a segment in The Palace of Eternity (長生殿). In any case, here's a recap:

April 2: Guan Hanqing. The Company puts forth a winning effort in modernizing this production, with meticulously choreographed stage work and lighting. This modernization is tasteful, and, in my opinion, complements perfectly the traditional vocal and gestural artistry in Kunqu. The modernization also reminds me of Bai Xianyong (白先勇)'s Peony Pavilion, which was modernized back in 2004 to monstrous critical acclaim. Wei kicks off the evening with a persuasive Zhu Lianxiu (珠簾秀), the heroine who carries much of the dramatic -- and spiritual -- weight of the story. By comparison, Wang Zhenyi (王振義)'s eponymous character submits an initial effort that seems to me listless and sluggish, leaving Wei with even more on-stage burden. That burden is, as it seems to me, not relieved until the penultimate number, My Life is Proffered to the Dramatic Arts (雜劇就是咱的宿命), in which Wang's Guan springs to life with a forceful, emotional reckoning. The powerful ending sends the crowd to a roaring standing ovation.

April 4: The Li Family Saga. This production is worthwhile if only because it is rarely staged. Compared with Guan, this production is more subtle and much more in agreement with Kunqu's traditional forms, whereby minimal stage work and simple lighting take a more comfortable backseat to gestural movements, facial expressiveness and the vocal box. Wei's Li Guizhi (李桂枝) is convincing, but, for much of the evening, Wei seems agitated by the faulty microphone that pipes plenty of annoying static to all four corners of the auditorium.

April 5: The Jade Hairpin Tale. If this performance is rated by virtue of its stage design it has to be an utter failure -- not because it is any more different from a regular Kunqu performance but because Guan's aesthetic modernization makes Jade appear as if it were Guan's outmoded cousin. My apparently vanguard taste notwithstanding, this lyrical drama of courtship and love is perfect in every way, the centerpiece being Wei and Wang's incisive and revelatory interpretation of the piece's elegant poetry. The story basically unfolds in three major sketches: 琴挑, 問病, and 偷詩. Wei's Chen Miaochang (陳妙常) is as ethereal as her dramatic gestures are subtly sapid. Wang's Pan Bizheng (潘必正) is playful and crisp. In fact, Wang is so into his character that, at the final curtain call, he, looking roiled and disoriented, still seems mentally embroiled in Pan's world. Overall, this performance is reminiscent of the classic performance by Yu Zhenfei (俞振飛) and Yan Huizhu (言慧珠) -- except that Wei's Chen seems to me more refined. The literary brilliance in 琴挑, the comedy in 問病, and the playful gestures in 偷詩, in my opinion, showcase the full glory of the literary and dramatic qualities of Kunqu -- a befitting ending to half a week of outstanding performance.

Revolutionary Poetry: 长征组歌

2009-03-08T11:36:00.008+08:00

2009 marks the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Accordingly, this year’s art and cultural scene in Beijing has been inundated with activities with an unmistakably revolutionary theme. One such activity is the revival of the monumental 长征组歌, a Liederkreis that poetically draws up the poignant history of the Chinese Red Army’s Long March between 1934 and 1936.

The cycle starts with Bidding Farewell (告别), a serious number portraying the scene where marchers parted with their families to fight for a greater cause. In the middle of the cycle, Traversing the Snow Mountains and Grasslands (过雪山草地) depicts the great difficulty when the marchers scaled the rugged mountains in the brutal continental winter. The cycle ends with a predictably upbeat but still stunningly rapturous finale, set at Gansu’s Huining (甘肃会宁), where the choir tutti praises Chairman Mao and the Communist Party. This struggle-to-victory story flow is understandably similar to that of Flower Girl, the DPRK revolutionary opera that I attended and wrote about last year.

In keeping with tradition, the musicians wear red army uniforms (红军服) and straw sandals during the performance of the cycle. The evening’s performance also includes recitals of a few revolutionary classics, including Our Soldiers (咱当兵的人; video) and Motherland (祖国慈祥的母亲; video).

As someone who does not regularly tune into CCTV's entertainment programming that caters to the patriotic crowd, I must confess I am not at all familiar with revolutionary music -- the genre. I am attracted to and intrigued by last night’s performance not least because the performance is supposedly a defining moment in this year's gargantuan slate of anniversary activities, but because I like to wean on and study more about this patriotic culture that grows beyond what is parochially required of all citizens in China. After all, the tickets are not cheap; and no one (at least for people like me) is forced to attend the concert. Still, judging by the way the audience connects with the music and its stars, it is obvious to me that: (1) many audience members are intimately familiar with the music's genre and can readily recite most of the lyrics by memory; and (2) some of these stars, including Liu Bin (刘斌; bio, in Chinese) and Geng Lianfeng (耿莲凤; bio, in Chinese), are genuine heavyweights in the genre of revolutionary music, much like Pavarotti and Sutherland in opera. They draw a rabid fan following – as evidenced by fans’ enthusiastic reception upon their entrance on stage. They issue their own CDs (revolutionary music usually has its separate section at CD shops all over Beijing), run their music troupes, write new music (咱当兵的人, which was used by President Jiang Zemin to inspect the line during 1999’s military parade, was written by Liu Bin) and star regularly in CCTV’s plethora of entertainment programming. This culture is something that I am only recently introduced to; in fact, I am eager to find out if this culture exists all across China, or only in the unabashedly patriotic fishbowl of Beijing.

I was grateful to find one friend willing to attend this amazing performance with me. Our attendance was quite improbable: considering that most of these sing-along attendees -- some in their uniforms -- were in their 50s or 60s, we were conspicuous by virtue of our relatively young age. In the end however, we, or at least I, realized that well-written lyrics and melodic tunes find no bounds in affecting the audience and bringing the audience back for a brief ride back to history’s past.

A Train ride home, during China’s Great Migration

2009-01-25T12:38:00.004+08:00

Words cannot begin to describe how gleeful I am to have spent an entire day traveling by train from Beijing to Hong Kong, four days before the Chinese new year, to partake in the annual homecoming ritual for migrant workers. These few days before the Chinese new year mark the annual period (春运) during which migrant workers in job-rich coastal cities like Beijing bring their bounty home and share their faraway tales. To be sure, my family in Hong Kong hardly needs me to lavish them with largesse from the north, and, most certainly, my faraway tales, already piped a few times a week back to Hong Kong by way of cellular and electronic communications, are hardly so outrageously sodden with juicy bits as to command an in-person delivery.

But the presentation of a bounty and a tale is not the point. This annual period is also when migrant workers would go out of their way to find their way home, despite the all-impossible task of scoring a ticket when millions of other souls would try to do the exact same thing; despite the fact that China’s domestic train system would be stretched way beyond its designed capacity; and despite the fact that a good portion of this migrating population would actually travel without an assigned seat, be left standing in the train car for hours upon hours before legs would buckle and knees yield, only to still manage to drag their carcasses home and then be awakened from the dead by the heroic cheers of their home crowd upon their return. The point: I want to participate and immerse myself in the migration process in order to fully understand what it means to survive the journey and find destination, where, allegedly, pompoms gyrate and firecrackers await for the hero returning from the capital city. A train ticket would buy me an immersive experience that my Dragonair ticket, bought a month ago, never would. Thus, three days before I were to fly back, I canceled my flight and opted instead to take a train -- with a standing room ticket for the most honest, proletarian form of experience -- from Beijing to Shenzhen. From there I would take the MTR home.

On the night of my departure, Beijing’s temperature dropped precipitously from mid single digits to negative teens, yielding a severe condition that was depicted, ever so creatively, as “colder'n a witch's titty” by Kaiser Kuo, a friend in Beijing. Because I came to the train station prepared for a Siberian winter, I was happily surprised to find a train compartment filled with fuzzy warmth upon entry. While this warmth was partially attributable to the train’s adequate heating system, I suspected that the fuzziness was chiefly due to a combination of air-tight insulation and the sheer overcrowding in the train car. The train car in which I stayed, apparently designed for 120 sitting folks and another dozen or so stand-uppers, ended up engulfing, by my count, more than 200 homecoming souls. This insular body heat, together with the corresponding body odor and bad breath, was much of what I had to come to terms with on the way home. The standing room was jam packed with standers and littered with bounty bags. The compressed crowd reminded me of the Hong Kong MTR during the rush hours, but such comparison would end as soon as I reminded myself that I never had to stand in the MTR for 23 hours with neither a bed nor an assigned seat.

As soon as the train started to move, the first order of business, for those with standing room tickets, was to jostle for valuable space. Reclining surfaces for leaning onto, valuable; middle aisles, not. Since I didn’t act quickly enough, the only spot left for me to claim was between a six-foot tall man and a broad-shouldered college student; both, like me, were left standing in the middle aisle, with neither reclining surfaces to lean on nor enough space to fold ourselves in a more restful, genuflecting/squatting position.

The unintended intimacy with my two fellow passengers could have been very awkward had we not attempted to strike up some conversation – after all, parts of our bodies would occasionally touch each other for the ensuing 7 to 8 hours. The tall man has been working in Beijing for the past 7 years, first as a construction worker and now as a HVAC manager at a commercial building in the CBD area. The man, with an acutely chiseled countenance and a robust body frame, was at first terse in his conversation and overly protective of his privacy. But after half an hour or so, he warmed up enough to slowly reveal his usual loquacious self, and started talking incessantly about his work and life in Beijing. He beamed a clear partisan affection for Beijing, and was obviously very proud of what he had achieved while managing about in the capital city. He was excited about going back to his hometown, near Ganzhou (赣州), for the first time since he left for a job opportunity in Beijing, a heavy handling gig in the construction of one of those spaceship-looking buildings in Zhongguancun (中关村). He was also slightly perturbed by his prolonged absence – that he wouldn’t recognize his rapidly developing hometown. A cloud of anxiety also gathered around him as he explained how everyone back home had expectations of him, and how he, the supposedly vagabond shoes-wearing king of the hill Beijinger, would now not only recount his experience in the vast land’s capital but also spread and share the material wealth. That was the focal point of his anxiety: he confessed that while he brought dozens of MP3 players, cell phones and other electronics, he may still not have enough units to go around. More significantly, he may not have bought enough good-quality trappings to satisfy the mushrooming level of expectations. After all, in this age of ferocious advertising and relentless product placements, his folks back home are all too familiar with the iPods and iPhones of the world, and the knockoffs (山寨机) that he could afford and bought, considering the not-so-insignificant quantity needed, were anything but. His honest re-weaving of the social fabric of his more down-to-earth hometown vis-a-vis that of a rapidly cosmopolitan-izing coastal city like Beijing caught my full attention, but apparently didn’t impress the computer engineering college student well enough to keep him from leaving our conversation and submerging into his PSP screen.

Kneeling on the floor next to us was an affable couple, a husband and a wife who were both janitors at a military hospital in Beijing. They told us that they moved to Beijing to work at their current jobs a few years ago after getting recommended by a militarily-connected relative in Jian (吉安), their hometown. While reminiscing their previous journeys on the same train in the years gone by, they were initially perplexed by how this year’s bounty bags were plumper, and the fellow passengers’ wardrobe sharper, despite all indications of a recessing economy and a tougher road ahead, even for these richer coastal workers migrating home for the new year. They professed that, while their jobs were relatively secure, they could observe society’s economic anxiety by how people would spend at the grocery store or at the eateries – that the days of unruly big spending, noted the wife, were gone. Her theory was that these migrant workers had to channel the “all is good” message back home, lest their family back home be disgraced by a returnee not living up to full expectations. Her intuition was grim but, in my view, dead-on.

A few hours later, the sardine-like packing eased up slightly because, as if by osmosis, some folks eventually found less crowded cars to stand in. Some other passengers would arrive and disembark. It was by this time that we had more space to move around, untangle our legs, and either find fresh faces to chat with or just slip away into solitude.

As folks began to acknowledge each other’s presence and acquaint oneself with others, they loosened up not only their guard but their bounty bags too: a few took out fruits, biscuits, breads and noodles to share with fellow passengers, cultivating a season of warmth and good fellowship in an improvised pot-luck feast. The camaraderie of this working class underscored all the goodness of humanity, and presented a welcoming contrast to the foreign media’s oft-Hobbesian portrayal of an unruly Chinese populace…at least that portion of the population practicing ruthless entrepreneurship and those now embroiled in food safety, toy safety and corruption scandals.

After standing on my feet for 18 hours, I finally found myself an empty bench of seats vacated by a group of disembarking passengers. In the subsequent hours, I rolled myself into a deep coma, thoroughly exhausted but amazed by my two legs – a couple of workhorses that never let up and buckle. When the train finally stopped in Shenzhen, I felt renewed and profoundly enriched. The erstwhile day slipped by as if in a blink of a moment. Two hours later, and after a dinner with a friend gracious enough to cross the HK-China border to meet up with me at the Shenzhen train station, I reached home, glad to see my parents and happy to unload my bounty of a thoroughly sumptuous, uniquely relishing experience.

Dudamel conducts Bernstein and Mahler in Beijing

2008-12-14T18:31:00.003+08:00

This past Friday evening, my friend and I attended a concert by Simón Bolívar National Youth Orchestra of Venezuela, conducted by the 27-year-old phenomenon, Gustavo Dudamel.

Simón Bolívar and Dudamel performed two pieces: Bernstein's West Side Story Symphonic Dances and, after intermission, Mahler's First. The rendition of Bernstein's West Side Story was, for me to put it mildly, less than enthusiastic. The outcome was stiff and uninspiring, and lacked the interplay between jubilance and mellowness, as well as the mischievous energy that was called upon by Bernstein. The performance was sourly disappointing, not least because I was eagerly looking forward to this performance after having read and heard so much about Dudamel, who was to become L.A. Phil's youngest-ever music director starting next (2009-10) season, and the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolívar, one of more than 200 youth orchestras in Venezuela funded by the Venezuelan government with the aim of uplifting poor neighborhoods and children who live in them through structured music education. Simón Bolívar, considered the apex of this wildly successful art and social experiment, has won accolades and praises not just for its narrative as a pioneering, broad-reaching social program but also for its symphonic prowess and artistic balance. Therefore, when we heard something that was more like my high school band than one with multiple DG recordings, at least I was so crestfallen that, before the Bernstein was half completed, my mind was drifting away, not into Manhattan's west side as Dudamel probably had hoped, but to endless permutations of how to salvage this Friday evening if we were to skip after intermission.

After intermission, we went back nevertheless, with her Proustian reminder that, even if we had tried, we couldn't have found a better place to be on a brutally cold Friday night in Beijing than in the embrace of the National Centre for Performing Arts. And boy, we were glad we didn't bail! When the first sets of A chords came out, we knew right away that our concerns were unnecessary - they came out with plenty of force and confidence, projecting one-part of controlled balance and one-part of sensual opulence. The Gesellen passages were superbly rendered with meticulousness -- evoking, rightfully so, memories of listening to the Wayfarer Lieder with Kubelik and Fischer-Dieskau, on which part of the first movement is based. The galore continued with a majestic entrance to the second movement, intermingled with a velvety, triple-time mid-passage. The third movement was spacious but not in any way dragging. The voicing of the Frère Jacques passage was smooth and gleeful, with a perfect relay of windwinds meandering through Mahler's handcrafted dazzle. By the fourth movement, I was wondering how much, during the Bernstein, I had missed under the cloak of my suspicion and unwarranted anxiety. The fourth movement was perhaps the high point of the evening, with monstrous horns, plush strings, and a percussion section that made me feel inadequate.

Without a doubt, Dudamel's baton managed to control all of that artistry with precision, raising Simón Bolívar's spirit and energy as he saw fit. And mind you, Simón Bolívar was not an easy baby to control: it had about 150 musicians for the Mahler and over 200 for the Bernstein. By the time the Mahler was marching towards its grand finale, Dudamel was at his best, unleashing a galloping orchestral splendor filled with dramatic outbursts, ending the evening with a feeling of finality and authority. I have always been a huge fan of Mahler, but always in a subdued, measured kind of way. But the way I reacted to Dudamel's Mahler was alien to me -- it was warm, emotional, and fulfilling. Toasting to that, this Mahler by Simón Bolívar and Dudamel was as good as any Mahler's First I have heard.

White Castle casserole

2008-11-26T00:02:00.000+08:00

White Castle sliders are heavenly. So is anything oven-baked, as I've zestfully attempted many times before, with bacon, cheese and eggs (like a bacon quiche). But I haven't been so ridiculous and comical as to try to combine the two. But now that someone has made a casserole with White Castle sliders with bacon and cheese in a quiche-like bake --with great success I must add -- I think I may just be inspired enough to give it a try soon...

Serious faux pas at Let's Burger

2008-11-23T23:59:00.002+08:00

I have yet another chance to revisit Let's Burger, the burger joint inside The Village at Sanlitun. The food was, as I expected, quite good -- I had an order of its crispy fries and a grilled chicken salad -- the latter I actually found to be quite fantastic. The smoky grilled chicken was augmented with what I believe to be a welcoming honey glaze, and was roughly cut and served over a bed of beautiful greens. The greens were fresh and tossed with just the right amount of sweet Russian dressing. At less than forty yuan, it was a steal.

Food experience aside, I witnessed two horrifying incidents inside the open kitchen that would likely kill any desire to go back. I sat at the Robuchon-like dining bar, which had a full and uninhibited view of the kitchen area; I was sat directly opposite the washing station. This area was between a bun toasting station and the pantry, where coffee was brewed and wines poured. This was also the area where I witnessed both faux pas of the evening. The person responsible for toasting all the hamburger buns was standing on the opposite side of the dining bar, just half a meter to my left. He was very good at his job -- he would diligently take out the buns from the plastic wrapper (four buns in a wrapper), meticulously place the buns in their upright positions and carefully slice open the buns, and feed the bun into the conveyor-belt toaster. And that was all that he needed to do all night: slice the buns, place them onto toaster, and hand off the toasted bun to the hamburger dresser. He was so good at his routine that each repetition was nearly identical to the last, so mechanical and perfectly executed as to leave no room for error or criticism. That was the case until, of course, when disaster struck: when he was opening one of the plastic wrappers, some mysterious force was exerted out of nowhere, in such a disastrous direction that one of the buns, instead of staying inside the wrapper or on the cutting table, decided to roll over and into the washing liquid in the sink, at the washing station nearby. It was obvious that he was verily horrified by the unscripted event, but with no time for second thoughts whatsoever, he picked up the bun from the sink and placed it right back on the slicing table. I couldn't tell if it was contaminated with detergent, but by then its top was visibly wet, as evidenced by the wet gloss on top of that naughty bun, as juxtaposed against the three others from the same wrapper that had no such wet gloss. Just as I was hoping that he would give a second thought and decide to throw the bun away, he picked up his knife, and after slicing open the bun, quickly put the bun into the toaster. With the disaster seemingly evaporating into thin air (and the fouled wetness toasting away) and truth that only he and I would know, he briefly looked up, and most certainly had to find my bewildered eyes fixated on his! He looked away, as if nothing happened, and less a minute later, the bun that had earlier found itself touching the washing liquid in the sink was getting bused to the diner at the other side of the restaurant.

Another incident happened a few minutes later, when a tournant was cutting carrots right in front of me. He was also very good at his job...holding and using the knife properly, and making mechanical cuts so precise that, had anyone seen the final result without looking at the process, would have concluded that it was the work of an industrial mandoline. But human mandolines made mistakes: a piece of carrot would eventually fall onto the ground. Like any other diner, I hoped that he would pick up and throw away that fallen piece of vegetable --which he did. Like any other diner, I was also hoping that he would then go about to wash his hands before going back to his station to work on his vegetables --and horrors! his hands were, merely seconds after touching the floor and with no side trip to the tap, now fiddling with other pieces of vegetables. What would happen if those vegetables were not slated for cooking at all but were tossed in a salad?

After these two incidents I could bear to see no more. I promptly finished my meal and left. I am sure many kitchens are like that (I have, to be quite honest, witnessed a few), but this is the first time that I have seen a serious kitchen offense (two, no less) played out, without redress, in an open kitchen. When the proprietor decides to open the kitchen, the reason has to be simple: to key the diners in for a show. It's supposed to be a window to a scripted fairy tale, and not supposed to be a window to the reality of commercial cooking. As a gut check, we all know that live shows would, from time to time, find themselves in an unscripted situation, but any reasonably good director would have a scripted solution to an unscripted situation -- how about: (a) throw away any dirty food, and (b) wash hands after having touched, or even the remote possibility of being perceived to have touched, something dirty? I am prepared to see the dark side if I demand to walk into a closeted kitchen, but I am not prepared to see what I don't want to see if the open kitchen is there for all to see. And when disaster happens, the staff should well know how to go to Plan B. But there was no Plan B; there was only Plan A. Let's Burger still has good food, especially its crispy fries, an outstanding selection of potato dips, a juicy cheeseburger to die for and an excellent grilled chicken salad I mentioned earlier in this post. But for all its greatness, the massive offenses that I witnessed first hand would give me serious second thoughts before I dare to ever venture inside again.

Table 1280

2008-11-21T23:24:00.004+08:00

I haven't given much thought on museum dining, but after having recently checked out Table 1280 at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, Georgia, I have found a renewed interest on this sub-genre. Table 1280 serves up elegant, contemporary American cuisine in a hip, contemporary setting. Designed by Renzo Piano, the restaurant has comfortable seating, plenty of sunlight cozying up the interior space through ceiling-to-floor windows, and a precision-meets-elegance aura that fits snugly inside the Richard Meier-designed Museum.

The burger came perfectly cooked to my requirements and laid out in the same sort of geometric elegance that befalls Meier's architecture. Sitting right by the ultra-wide windows, I had an unobstructed view of the High's interior courtyard, and could feel the nurturing, warm hands of the late-autumn sun. My seat was so comfortable that I almost forgot I had a couple of important exhibits to catch (treasures from not only the Louvre but also the V&A).

Due to a tight traveling schedule, I wasn't able to check out Table 1280's elegant bar, which seems to offer an impressive wine list and a hideout for spending time with friends. Nevertheless, I was verily impressed by its delicious food, comfortable environment, and the way in which Piano's inrerior blends perfectly with Meier's exteriors. For any one of those reasons above, I would readily recommend Table 1280. But for all of those reasons, I would even rank Table 1280 on par with some of the great museum dining establishments I've come to love: Seventeen Seventeen, the superior restaurant inside the Dallas Museum of Art; the easy-going Pentimento at the LACMA in Los Angeles; the jaw-droppingly pompous but undeniably impressive The Modern at New York's MOMA; and amazingly hard-to-book but cozy Map Cafe inside the Museum of pre-Colombian Art in Cusco, Peru. Perhaps I'll do a post on these restaurants one day.

Burgers in Korea

2008-11-21T22:39:00.000+08:00

As I research more about burgers, I found this awesome post on burgers in Korea by Daniel Gray, the man behind Seoul Eats, a great blog for chowhounds in search for a good plate in Korea. Don't miss the post and the blog!

In search of the best burger in Beijing

2008-10-26T00:15:00.000+08:00

A mundane burger often reminds me of those years when I lived in America, when I often had to subsist on mass-produced burgers that I'd imagine tasted like dirty socks soaked in sewage-diluted ketchup. A great burger, however, reminds me of the good times I've had, mainly in two places: Texas, and California. Texas' burgers are memorable because the beef is always fresh and flavorful, and often charcoal-grilled with cracking mesquite wood that gives an additional layer of sweetness. Californian burgers are great because they dare to be inventive: new ingredients (e.g. organic greens), new sauces (e.g. sweet aioli, jalapeño-flavored salsa), and new ways of ordering (e.g. secret menu, at In-N-Out).

The Mission

Burger is not something that pops into my mind when I talk about my foodie experience in Beijing. While many Beijing hotels have coffee shops that can offer a decent burger, albeit at exorbitant prices, I have yet to find, until now, a burger joint that I could confidently recommend to others. Hooters, Durty Nellie's and Paddy O'Shea's serve up good burgers as pub grubs, but I recommend those places with reasons that are far more important than, say, to get a half-decent burger. Therefore, I decided to undertake a mission to find the best burger, as I know it, in a town better known for roast ducks wrapped with steamed pancakes than beef patty on a bun -- with one additional requirement: that any restaurant's burger must be the #1 reason why I, or anyone to whom I pass on my recommendation, would want to go to that restaurant. Therefore, places like Durty Nellie's and Outback Steakhouse won't count. With some input from some well-fed Beijingers, I tried out twelve burger joints in a little under five weeks, and came up with four good recommendations, below.

The Taste Test

Tim's Texas BBQ (Guanghua Road)

Tim's offers an all-American Border burger laden with bacon, cheese, jalapeños. The beef patty was supremely grilled with a dense, robust flavor. The bacon had a nice, smoky nose and a chewy texture. The winning ingredient was the pungent jalapeños, which nicely cut into the excess fat of the beef and the bacon and provided that extra zing. Tim's also serves up a superb chopped beef brisket sandwich, which by itself is worthy of a separate visit (or, if self-indulgence shall be forgiven, of a same-visit, side-by-side burger-sandwich face/off).

Exploit: one Border burger, one frozen margarita: ￥80.

One East on Third (Hilton Hotel Beijing)

With foie gras, black truffles and Waygu beef, the Waygu burger oozed more pomp and circumstance than cheeses and mushroom juices. It was tough for me not to feel a little pugnacious after shelling out ￥325 just so that I got to feel like an aristocratic jackass for half an hour. Nevertheless, I have to admit that, strictly in terms of taste, the burger was actually more than just a garbled pile of dollar signs; I would freely admit that it was not too far away from the majestic double truffle burger royale that I had at Daniel Boulud's joint in New York two years ago.

Exploit: one Waygu burger, one glass of Californian red wine, one expresso: ￥420.

Let's Burger (The Village at Sanlitun)

This is a straight-up, burger-only joint that serves up some juicy patties in a bistro environment. My order: an Australian double burger with six ounces (by my estimate) of ground sirloin. The Australian was amply dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, two fat slices of bacon, and a fried egg. I felt like my life was ticking away as the burger was being devoured. The only thing that kept me from putting the burger down and calling it quits was the devil in me, reminding me that if my blood vessels were to clot and if I were to drop dead on the spot, I would still die a very, very happy man. On my first visit, the patties were a little disappointing because they were overcooked, bland, and devoid of beefy flavors, but on my second visit (revisiting the exact same order), the patties came to life with all the beefy aromatics and succulent juices. The fries were hand-cut and well-fried, with a crunchy shell and a soft, starchy body. A winning feature at this joint was the impressive array of dipping sauces (over ten of them!), including two that I would recommend in a heartbeat (if I still have one): a creamy remoulade and a flavorful wasabi mayonnaise.

Twice exploited: The Australian, one order of hand-cut fries, one glass of house red: ￥150 per exploit.

25 Degrees (Hotel G)

Named after the temperature (in Celsius) between a raw and a well-done burger, 25 Degrees provides the diner an art-meets-science flavor to the burger experience. One can design and build one's own burger with dozens of a la carte toppings to choose from, or pick from three excellent preset choices. My choice on my first visit (preset #1) was a ground-sirloin burger dressed with carmelized onions, arugula salad, thousand island dressing and a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese --this combination reminds me of Father's Office burger in Santa Monica, California, which has a nearly verbatim rendition, except the bun: Father's Office uses a fluffy and long French baguette, while 25 Degrees uses a round, wheat/rye bun. This resemblance of taste, however, is not entirely accidental, as 25 Degrees is an aspiring burger concept originated in Los Angeles, a stone's throw away from Father's Office. In any case, 25 Degrees' burger was a protein-carb-veg juggernaut with a good balance of flavor (juicily beefy but not oily), taste (the Gorgonzola danced merrily with the caramelized onion), and texture (the crispiness of the arugula salad jazzed perfectly with the softness of the onions and the chewiness of the beef). Like the original joint in Hollywood, the lettuces, tomatoes and sliced pickles were served on the side and readily available for the truly ambitious table-side burger engineers. The French fries were generously sprinkled with sea salt and thyme, and arrived at the table crispy and piping hot.

I got to build my own burger on my second visit: one identical to preset #1 except that I chose Gruyère over Gorgonzola. The result was equally impressive, and the taste was not materially discernible from the original in Hollywood. I mean, why mess with the battle-tested recipe when the original is already working brilliantly well? I also got to check out the wine list, which in my opinion was slightly excessive (in price) for a burger joint but nevertheless impressive given its geographical and varietal depth.

Twice exploited: one preset #1: ￥175; one build-my-own burger, one half-bottle of red wine (shared with two other friends): ￥180.

Conclusion

25 Degrees. Taste notwithstanding, 25 Degrees wins the ambiance test too. It has a hip but unassuming decor, and superior music. By contrast, the bistro-style dining and Henry Mancini-esque music at Let's Burger are just a tad too formal. With a knowledgeable staff and attentive service, 25 Degrees also has the best service among the final four.

With pac's Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z. album playing in the background, my mind drifted, momentarily, back to the yesteryear when, after a burger at the original 25 Degrees, I would drive on Hollywood Blvd., with my windows rolled down, Cali. rap music blaring from the Cadillac in front and multiple Louboutin clogs clicking away on the sidewalk. That reconnection to the past, attentive but unobtrusive service, and plain ol' good food are the reasons why 25 Degrees has my vote for the best burger in Beijing.

On Liu Xiang's pull-out...why didn't he just walk towards the finish line?

2008-08-18T16:55:00.001+08:00

The most important and obvious news today is that Liu Xiang has pulled out of 110m hurdles, meaning that the most anticipated moment in this Beijing Olympics -- a showdown between the national hero and Dayron Robles of Cuba -- will not transpire.

Liu Xiang did and will continue to inspire millions of young athletes in China, and many around the world. His performance in Athens was a watershed moment in Asian sports history, not least because he delivered on his promise that Asians can beat the best sprinters in the world.

Liu Xiang will always have his place in Chinese sports history, but by comparison, today's episode makes Li Ning's (李寧) 1988 appearance even more special and endearing. By the time the Seoul Games began, Li was way past his prime. Li sustained an ankle injury but he endured Seoul because China gymnastics had no up-and-comers (接班人) at that time. He may have fallen, but he got up, finished his routines, and smiled for the whole world to see. He wasn't made any less of a champion by falling, only more so because he got back up, because he smiled with dignity. In that respect, Li Ning is the true hero of the people (人民英雄). Nobody needs to finish first all the time; it is the spirit that matters.

I believe in what Liu Xiang's coach, Sun Haiping, said when he announced on TV that Liu Xiang's injury was serious. But I also wonder, if it were all that serious, why couldn't Liu just skip the race, return to the stadium in street clothing and address the crowd regarding his health condition? If Liu felt that he was fit enough to be present at the lanes, couldn't he have at least walked to the finish line? I wish he did. Because that would have been a class act, just to cross the finish line even knowing that he had no hopes of winning. I wish he did, because tomorrow's newspapers would have been adorned with this image: Liu Xiang crossing the finish line, despite having limped through the distance, with two fists in mid air, full showing that he would refuse to quit. That would have been the Olympic spirit. That would have been THE moment for the Games. That would have been the image that Li Ning conveyed to us back in 1988. Now, tomorrow's newspapers would likely be plastered with Sun Haiping's tear-soaked face and the dreadful image of Liu walking into the darkness of the stadium interior. No matter how anyone spun it, today's episode was still a quitter's act. Liu Xiang may still come back (though, by my judgment only, not likely), but his act today would have left an indelible mark in the psyche of Chinese people -- the same kind of mark that, if you shall allow me, Li Ning could have left if he had fallen from the rings and, neither smiling nor bowing out with grace, walked straight to the changing room amidst spectators' bewilderment and confusion.

I wish Liu Xiang could have walked to the finish line. He would not have delivered a winning time, but he would have delivered a lot more.

Kunqu: Copper Coins

2008-06-26T03:13:00.001+08:00

I just came back from a Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe's production of Copper Coins (十五贯) at the National Centre for Performing Arts. Copper Coins is easily one of my favorite Kunqu operas, mainly because, with a heavy comedic element, it is less dry than many other Kunqu operas, where philosophical dream scapes and imminent deaths are often the norm. The protagonist was played by the indefatigable Ji Zhenhua (计镇华), arguably the grand master of old masculine Kunqu characters (老生). I had the fortune of attending one of master Ji's performance a month earlier, when Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe was in town for a one-time only scintillating performance of 邯郸梦 at Changan Theatre.

For the evening, the singing was superb, but the acting was even better. Master Ji's each and every gesture exuded the kind of regal authority befitting immortals just as other mortals on stage and off looked on in awe. The night, however, belonged to Liu Shenglong (刘昇龙), the clown figure who provided the comedic and playful counteraction to master Ji's mastery and control. The performance flowed with a rhythmic consistency and a sinusoidal intensity, tossing between Ji's tenacity and Liu's mischief. It was drama at its best.

Anne-Sophie Mutter in Beijing

2008-05-29T00:07:00.001+08:00

Anne-Sophie Mutter has never moved me to tears. Until yesterday.

I have heard ASM a handful of times, most recently a few years back in the U.S. before her repertorial shift to focus more on pre-Romantic string works. By most accounts, she has few peers when it comes to nailing down the technicality and artistry of Romantic-period and Impressionist works, including Tchaikovsky's marvel, and Sarasate's lyricism. But with her technical achievements so flawless and her performance so consistently, emotionally juiced, I wonder if she could also rise as a star on the other side of the spectrum of great violinists: the kind who has the cerebral clarity and intellectual acumen to tackle the subtleties hidden in classical period pieces. Sure, Vivaldi's Four Seasons was exuberant (and it was one of two pieces she performed last night; the other was Bach's Magnificat, BWV1042 ), but it seems best amplified when performed (at least also) with the kind of intellectual seriousness that, for example, the legendary Isaac Stern would bestow upon his each and every melodic phrase, and in it, each and every played note -- bringing a composition so alive as to genuinely connect with the audience.

Obviously, I went into the concert hall with trepidation, knowing that anything other than an exceptional experience would be a disappointment. Like any great violinist would do, she imposed her authority on her chamber players as soon as she basked in her spotlight. Soon enough, Bach's notes gracefully filled the Concert Hall of the National Centre for Performing Arts, each with determination and nobility. Her string work was luxurious, with neither a slight feeling of decorative impurity nor excessive oomph. The only flaw was perhaps that she looked, it seems to me, a little stiff going into the glissando passages in the middle of Allegro non troppo. But as ASM worked through the Bach, she more than redeemed herself, ending before intermission with a joyous, jubilant Allegro assai that galloped towards a rapturous applause.

ASM looked noticeably pleased after her Bach, and that seemed to build onto her confidence in her post-intermission Vivaldi. ASM tackled the Four Seasons with the same elegance, care, and grace that she so effortlessly displayed ever since she was a teenage phenomenon. A few absent notes notwithstanding, she was magnificent and, more importantly, in full control of the Vivaldi and Trondheim Solistene, the excellent Norwegian chamber orchestra. Her expression with Winter's Largo provided ample evidence that ASM is not just a technically masterful violinist, but an expressive and intellectual artist that renders each note into part of a lyrical conversation with her audience.

Her composure was a sign of her experience, not of her age (she will be 45 in June). Considering that she was somewhat handicapped by a majority Chinese audience who was not exactly respectful: ringing cellphones, what seemed to be cameras hitting stubbornly onto the hall's wooden floor (and why were they being fidgeted in a place that prohibited photography, anyway?!), and what seemed to be a bizarre, one-second-long dog howl (don't get me started on why and how it happened), I have no doubt that she delivered her goods.

But delivering her goods was not why I went to an ASM concert, and certainly not why I was so moved as to shed a tear. After a regurgitation of Summer's Presto as a cookie-cutter, uninspiring encore, I was ready to call it a night and leave. But after the sixth curtain call (and the third after the first encore), ASM walked up to the stage, and hinted to the concertmaster as if she was going to dictate something unusual. And she did. She turned to the audience, and, with her flawless English and terse to the point, she dedicated Bach's Air (Suite No. 3, BWV1068 ) to the victims of the Sichuan earthquake. At that very instance when she finished her dedication, there was a slight commotion in the audience (with probably a few, unable to understand her, trying to get/guess what ASM just said). Soon thereafter, she engaged into Bach's monumental, albeit perennially overplayed, Magnum Opus. Overplayed always, but not last night. The majestic tranquility of ASM's air almost betrayed (or perhaps faultlessly portrayed?) the subject matter to which the piece was dedicated. The legato was one of the longest in my musical experience, not least because, as ASM ran with her fingers, a seemingly neverending surge of sad, somber images came rushing through my mind. I could also, right at that beginning moment, recall a Dallas Symphony concert I attended soon after 9/11, when the mood was similarly dreary, but because Maestro Andrew Litton picked DSCH's 11 to reflect President Bush's resolve, that night's audience could not help but felt a little resilient and upbeat with DSCH's faithful chimes and glorious symphonic march to the symphonic finale. Had ASM played something along the lines of DSCH 11's majestic, monumental ending, her effort would have been valiant, and almost entirely predictable (and in fact, that was what I was expecting, given the not-to-be-soon-forgotten hindsight of the Chinese audience's preference for big, optimistic endings, such as DPRK's performance last month). But not Bach's Air. And ASM's Air started where it ended -- morne et sombre, tranquility as an inevitable prelude to death, picture perfection as an antonymous juxtaposition to a harrowing episode of human tragedy. Bach's Air described Sichuan in a way that Litton's DSCH did not, in a way that, as it seems to me, was humane, genuine, and so calm as to condense the enormity of thousands of lost lives into three minutes of haunting stillness. I was totally plugged into that imagery. And right there, she nailed me.

And that was the very reason why I shed a tear.

You know you're a nerd when...

2008-05-12T06:33:00.002+08:00

...you see computer icons wherever you go. Case in point: I was awaiting my flight at Beijing's new airport terminal Saturday morning, when I suddenly found myself looking at a familiar icon: the Gmail icon. Am I hallucinating, or is the nerd in me manifesting himself?

Do you see the Gmail icon?

Digesting 長生殿

2008-05-04T08:05:00.001+08:00

長生殿 is a Kunju piece I don't know much about, so it was a giant leap of faith to subscribe myself into four consecutive evenings of its performances, 3+ hours each evening. That surely complicated my already jam-packed schedule with 8+ hours in the office and another 3-4 hours manning other non-profit stuff I'm active with.

But then, this was not just another rendition of 長生殿. According to the program notes, 長生殿 has not been staged in Beijing in its entirety in the past 300-plus years, and the art politburo made it a point that 長生殿 was to return to the Imperial City in its monumental glory in the year when modern China is to open for the whole world to witness (rumors had it that Shanghai Kunju Troupe, the company staging the Kunju, was politely asked to move its performance schedule in Beijing to coincide with the pre-Olympics art schedule). In any case, to play up 長生殿's return, the entire cast was even arranged to present themselves in a lavish ceremony at the Imperial Granary to pay homage to 老郎神, the assumed spiritual guardian of Chinese dramatic arts.

After four intense evenings of performances, I must say I am, more than ever, intrigued by the art form, but would probably stop short of saying that I am safely a lifelong convert. Nevertheless, I am quite hooked by its complex singing style, its elaborate costumes and makeups, its adroit limp artistry, and its tremendously efficient motion-as-metaphor stage arrangements. I find the stage in Kunju a bit more thoroughly exploited than the stage in Jingju, especially the use of diagonal movements, counter movements, mirroring juxtapositions, and other tricks that render the experience more fulfilling, dynamic, and wholesome.

I will regret making the following analogy in haste, but I'll attempt so anyway: if Peking Opera is a fast ride on a Porsche that promises a rush of adrenaline and a taste of emotive exuberance, Kunju is an elegant experience in a Jaguar, not merely entertaining and not out-of-bounds, but comfortable, comforting, and feeling just like home.

A follow-up to a night at the opera

2008-04-22T23:58:00.002+08:00

Using my Nokia 6280, I managed to take a couple of photos inside the opera house. Of course, the photo quality was mediocre but my phone camera was all that I had at the time. The first photo was taken during the final curtain call after nearly three hours of singing, and the second photo was taken when the percussionist was packing up her snare drum. As far as I can tell, she could rip a mean snare:

A different kind of opera

2008-04-22T23:04:00.001+08:00

Last weekend I attended a production of "Flower Girl”, an opera staged at the National Theatre by a North Korean opera troupe.

"Flower Girl" focuses on the plight of a Korean family whose fortunes were ravaged by the selfish behavior of a landowner and his family, saved only at the end by the glory of the revolution (i.e. the Marxist-Lenin communist revolution). Without a doubt, "Flower Girl" was designed to be a partisan, propagandist surrogate whose message was simple and easy to understand. By the time the opera ended, the only question left unanswered, as it seems to me, was how soon (or not!) the supposedly inspired audience would arm themselves and join the revolution.

According to the program notes, the opera was commissioned by and written in the 30s by Kim Il-Sung, the founding father of the DPRK and father of North Korea's current leader, Kim Jong-Il. The Chinese public got their first taste of the opera through a film version of the opera, which was briefly released in the mainland in the early 70s and was well received. Since then, the opera has made various rounds in the mainland, playing mainly for small, strategically selected crowds (i.e. the PLA, young communist brigades etc.). It seems to me that while the opera has gained Chinese fans over the years, but because it has never been widely staged, it has never gained widespread prominence in the country's psyche. Over the years, the opera has been reedited by and for its chief patron, the Kim family, probably to perfect its underlying proletarian and revolutionary messages. To me, such messages were unmistakable: the landowners are(were) evil, Jesus Christ offers(-ed) no helping hand, and the proletarian revolution is(was) every Korean's ultimate salvation. The surtitles would punch out verses upon verses that sing the virtues of proletarian values, all the while ripping apart property rights and capitalistic misadventures. I felt like a cliff-side rock, looking helplessly as rapturous waves of such messages soldiered towards me in an endless repetition, finally engulfing and obliterating me, as if obliging me to accept its imminent and inevitable victory.

Politics aside, the opera was, strictly speaking, not an opera, because the main singers were given microphones to sing with. Unusual in an opera, a non-acting choir located on both sides of the orchestra sang not only the chorus, but more significantly the part of the heavenly voice seeking to explain everything to the audience -- for example, who to blame for all the poor people's plight (the landowner) and who to get credit for saving the poor (the revolution). Without a sliver of a doubt, Kim Il-Sung was to live vicariously and eternally through the united voice of the choir --an arrangement that, in itself, was a fitting, if not accidental, metaphor. Operatically, it was somewhat difficult to pinpoint exactly where "Flower Girl" would fit. The music was comprised of a chain of short tunes, each of which was tonally structured like a romantic aria, but each also woven with more sincere philosophical discourse and less floral sentimentality. "Flower Girl" is, thus, as it seems to me, Wagnerian in its content but romantic in its delivery. The singing was superb, despite the horrifying presence of the microphone. The production direction was amply satisfying, especially a prison scene whereby prisoners, understood to be locked down by the autocratic class, thumped through the prison ground as if they were laboring mindlessly in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. In the end, I was convinced that the mezzo soprano (the protagonist) and probably a few others could have sung their entire roles without the help of any electronics. Another mezzo soprano (the protagonist's mother) also sang superbly, and I found it somewhat tragic that her role was small and limiting.

The highlight of the evening was at the end, when I made my way to the orchestral pit and shook hands with a couple of musicians. I could hardly speak Korean (and I would assume they could hardly understand a word of Chinese --though I could be wrong), but I found no such need to communicate verbally. We exchanged smiles in a way that spoke a thousand words: theirs, being appreciative of a keen audience and the sincerity of those who chose to stay behind to greet and thank the musicians; and ours, being thankful for a lovely spring evening imbued with fine music, talented singing and, most importantly, the North Korean's rare but priceless presence. For different reasons, the night was special to each involved. I couldn't help but felt the urge to summarize the evening with a tinge of romantic sentimentality: that while the exchange of human warmth was a small gesture between a few men (and women), it was a giant gesture for all of mankind, in an act that verily shows how humanity by way of musical and facial proxy can transcend language, politics, ideology. No word needed spoken, for music and facial gestures cultivated the seeds of understanding and mutual admiration. That moment was, to me, the singularly most heartwarming and unique experience I have ever had in an opera house.

CCTV idol

2008-04-21T07:55:00.002+08:00

I am not a huge fan of reality TV, though when I was still living in the U.S. I used to watch Dancing with the Stars and The Apprentice. My viewing habit hasn't changed much since moving to China, although I would watch reality shows from time to time, to catch a break from my otherwise mundane schedule. But I jumped at the chance when I was offered to sit in a live broadcast of a nation-wide singing competition produced by CCTV.

CCTV is not mainly known for its reality TV shows: the champ goes to Hunan Television, for its brazen copycat (but immensely popular) American Idol-like shows. But there is no doubt that CCTV's 青歌赛 (Youth Singing Competition --my translation) is influential. Winners are often given spots to sing at one of those Spring Festival shows watched by every one and their mother during Chinese New Year --attaining the kind of prestige and glory that are hard to quantify. Equally importantly, these winners (and many contestants with a coattail of bulletin-board buzz long after the show) carry on by performing in public events, for regional television stations etc. Doors are open by virtue of "having made it" on CCTV.

The show is divided into various categories, including pop singing and ethnic music. There's a category that is difficult to translate: 民族唱法, which I would liberally translate as anything that has something to do with Chinese culture (most contestants choose to belt out a nationalist song; many others sing songs that praise China's nature, abundant resources, kind people etc. -- you get the idea). I was invited to two live studio broadcasts over the past week, and I must say while there was nothing out of the ordinary, it was memorable, if only because I got to see the inside of CCTV's headquarters in the west side of town before they move to the new OMA building in Chaoyang.

The format is not similar to American Idol --for one, there is no heart-ripping, reality-checking speeches by Simon Cowell. Contestants would come out and sing their song, and then would go through an interactive session whereby contestants are either asked to tell a story (from a selection of topics), answer a few culture-related questions, and/or do melodic dictation --all in front of a live television audience. For the singing, the contestants are judged by 10 judges, each of whom would give a maximum of 99 points. A maximum of one point would be given for a contestant's performance during the interactive session. Needless to say, no serious contestant would spend his/her life trying to ace this interactive session, although it is this part that seemed to glue the television audience, if not for the heart-warming stories (a lot were about how contestants wished to thank their deceased mothers or fathers or teachers) or for the comic responses (especially in melodic dictation, where a seemingly good dictation would deteriorate into something between a jazzy improvisation and a melodically challenged fiasco) then certainly for the cultural commentator's incisive social and cultural commentary. Most contestants are serious contenders (no pretenders or jokers), although my sampling points were skewed because I went at the final elimination rounds (the competition would begin at regional TV stations, who would then send their winners to Beijing for a final round of competition). Since the competition is only held once every two years, it is considered to be the Olympic of Chinese singing competition (if not for the follow-on lucrative commercial contracts, then certainly for the glory of winning a CCTV competition and the opportunity to be invited to sing at the Chinese New Year TV bash). A closer look at the contestants certainly reveals that while a majority of them were sent to the final round by regional television stations, many others were sent by government agencies (the "danwei"s), including the army, the navy, various music/art universities etc.

My conversation with a friend who has intimate knowledge about the show (and the necessary connection to sneak me in) revealed that many of these "danwei"s would send their representatives to these competitions mainly for bragging rights. She said that "danwei"s actually make a big deal out of a winner sent from their cohort. When I asked my friend why there was no representation from private enterprises, she explained that they just didn't have to privilege of bypassing the "regionals" to go straight to the finals, as would be the case for those representatives from "danwei"s. While the arrangement may seem patrician and patronizing, she defended the practice by saying, to which I agree, that the competition within the "danwei"s to search for a winner is, by most standards, even more, not less, strenuous than the competition at a regional competition, simply because of the military-style training and the resources. Private companies simply don't have the time and effort to train and nurture a final-ready contestant, and one may argue that "bypassing" the regionals is not by itself patronizing because the "bypassed" alternative is probably even more, not less, strenuous. And then there's the dreaded cultural reality: face -- a "danwei" simply can't just send a mediocre contestant up for embarrassment on the national stage. Good enough is simply not good enough for these "danwei"s, and the superior quality of their representatives is the number one and only necessary testament that my friend's explanation was adequate to me.

These idols aren't necessarily commercially viable, especially when what they sing isn't something that someone can hum to or follow through at a karaoke joint (some of these 民族歌 are scored to shock and awe with rapid firing of high notes). But these idols will have attained national fame by standing atop the CCTV stage and, by being there and performing well, will have made whom they represent proud. At the end of the day, anybody can sing, but only a few can sing on the CCTV stage and be given an opportunity to sing to hundreds of millions of people. Now, that's bragging rights commercial success can't buy.

Saturday morning

2008-04-06T18:09:00.001+08:00

It was an eerily tranquil Saturday morning in Beijing. As I strolled along one of the less-traversed streets in the Haidian district, I witnessed a peaceful layer of mist floating in mid air, as if persuading me into a slumbering repose.

It was 4:30am, and dawn was still more than an hour away. It seemed that my early morning jaunt was devoid of any purpose, just as my body and mind were drifting away amidst this enormous calmness. All that seemed ideal, well, until I got into a cab, in a moment that reminded me of my purpose: I was going to Tiananmen Square, not merely to witness the raising of the flag (officially at 5:52am), but also to be one of the first few to pay respects to Mao during the Tomb Sweeping long weekend in China.

The cab driver was soundly sleeping inside his cab along the curb, before I woke him up by knocking lightly on his door. He woke up, and signaled to me that, whatever good dream of his that I just smashed, he was nevertheless ready to do business. When I told him that I was going to Tiananmen Square, he lifted his head slightly, in a moment of acutely heightened alertness, as if he was not just ready for business but awakened for a purpose. As he started his car and slowly drove off the curb and onto the main road, he asked me, with a solemn but serious tone: "when does our flag go up today?" ("今天我们的国旗是几点钟升啊?")

It was this reassuring first person plural, "our", that made me feel I wasn't too delusional into believing that waking up at 4am to watch the national flag was a serious yet superbly cool idea. The 20-minute cab ride in a hibernating Beijing was accentuated by a nice conversation between me and the cab driver about Mao's politics (idealistic), his place in modern Chinese history (undisputedly secure), and what we thought might happen during the Olympics (probably some isolated protests around the world, but droned out by the spectacle and the media frenzy dedicated to the Event). Sensing that he was probably a Mao fan, I promised him that I would dedicate (and I did) a bouquet of flowers on his behalf at Mao's Mausoleum.

The day was cloudy, and the flag raising ceremony was not much different from another one I saw back in October (though that one happened later, around 6:30am). The crowd was noticeably larger --probably because most, like myself, was going for both the flag raising ceremony and a visit to Mao's Mausoleum (for the symbolic tomb sweeping). Not long after the flag was raised, and definitely before 6am, there were already hundreds of people lined up in front of Mao's Mausoleum (it officially opens at 8am). By the time I got in line (I was sidetracked by photo-taking in and around Tiananmen Square) there must be at least a thousand folks ready to get in. The Mausoleum opened a little after 7:30am, ahead of time (probably to adjust for the increased number of visitors during the Qingming Festival), and I got in just before 8am. Seeing Mao (or just the prosthetic Mao) was surreal, not merely because of the earlier cab conversation but because I was there during the Qingming Festival weekend. It was an unforgettable experience to see how patriotic countrymen, some traveling from faraway provinces and others with small children in tow, went in droves to pay respect to a man who singlehandedly founded the modern Chinese psyche, much of which is attributable to Mao's voluminous poetry and general writings.

The enormous crowd also made me wonder what Mao would think of modern China as it exists today: the first thing I saw after leaving Tiananmen Square was a two-story KFC, which would probably be visited by many of those hungry tomb sweepers but to me also represents the kind of foreign commercial invasion that Mao by and large detested. Some of the folks in the crowd probably even love some of the modern extravagance and excess that were once thought to be capitalist vices. Some of these folks walked into Mao's Mausoleum wearing the Vuittons and the Guccis of the world in a stratified society where the rich holds considerable influence, economic and political. Is that the China that Mao envisioned? I certainly didn't see Mao rolling in his grave (or on the Mausoleum bed), but are some of these Gucci-totting visitors (or the modern Chinese in general) ready to revert back to a share-all society steeped with Mao's proletarian values?

Le roi d'Ys

2008-04-05T18:42:00.001+08:00

Édouard Lalo is well known for his string compositions, for a good reason: he was an accomplished violin and viola player himself. His Spanish Symphony, a violin concerto, is considered to be an important rite of passage for many aspiring violinists.

His opera compositions, however, are less well known. Le Roi d'Ys, considered to be Lalos' most well-scored and sophisticated opera, is rarely staged. (The Met, for example, staged Le Roi six times in its 120+ years history --and these six were performed in a single season: 1921-1922.) This rarity was the primary reason why I was excited to learn that Le Roi would be staged this week at the National Theatre in Beijing, in a production co-produced by the National Theatre and the Theatre du Capitole de Toulouse.

Last night I went to the second of four Le Roi performances this weekend. Honestly, I don't have much exposure to Lalo's work prior to last night, and I was somewhat surprised by the Wagnerian nature of the composition. By the second Act, I was convinced why Lalo's work remains in the back bin of any company's repertoire: one simply can't market a Wagnerian feature under the banner of a French composer. The two concepts just don't mix...selling Le Roi, as it seems to me, is like selling existential philosophy at a burlesque factory. I am not trying deliberately to make a direct and parallel analogy here: my point, however, is that no easy way exists to fuse the two perceptibly differing concepts into one coherent, marketable product.

But last night's production was as close to achieving something monstrous as I could possibly imagine. Even so, the production was not devoid of misses: the singing, by most standards, was lackluster. The tenor singing the role of Mylio was simply not up for the challenge. His voice was weak and unable to project adequately to all corners of the hall (I sat in a perfectly located orchestra center seat but felt that his delivery was timid, particularly towards the end when Lalo obviously expected Mylio to be brazen and bold). Rozenn, a soprano role, delivered technically but was incapable of establishing any emotional connection with the audience (perhaps she was merely effectuating the role, which was supposed to be simple but oblivious to most of what went on?). It was due to the miscast of both Mylio and Rozenn that I found Margared, a mezzo-soprano role, to be sumptuously fulfilling, perhaps simply by comparison. The villainous role was hardly bel canto in nature (after all, Le Roi is, at least to me, Wagnerian), but the singer was able to deliver a top quality voice that not only danced powerfully with the orchestral score, but invited the audience (or just me?) to feel her villainous rage.

But Margared alone was not enough to save the day. What made Le Roi work, or rather, this Le Roi work was the production stage. The set includes a beautifully painted, two-story stage with plenty of ornamental details and fabulous engravings. The opera also calls for a dramatic flooding scene in the final scene. Common sense would dictate that no production would actually flood the stage with real water, but would only metaphorically do so through stage effects (e.g. blue lighting, and/or dancing ribbons) to falsify an imminent tidal surge. But no, the production designer actually flooded the stage, not merely with a few metaphoric buckets but with gallons upon gallons of fresh water gushing from the top of the two-story stage down a central stair piece and onto the stage floor! (The water was, as it seemed to me, then captured by slits across the stage.) It was as magnificent as real elephants in Aida or marching horses in Khovanshchina, except, of course, that this water design was so much more difficult to pull off not merely because of the logistic nightmare of recapturing the water but also of the #1 issue in any stage design: safety.

According to the production notes, the stage seems to be conceptualized and managed by folks at the National Theatre. If anything, this Le Roi set proves that Chinese production designers are world class, and that the Theatre's mechanics can deliver such a technical marvel, so seemingly unfathomable anywhere else, that the production was saved from mediocrity.

José Carreras recital

2008-01-19T01:14:00.004+08:00

I almost missed out on a great opportunity to listen to Carreras because by the time I learned about the recital earlier this week, it was already sold out. If I hadn't exhausted all my contacts and traded some favors, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to catch one of the finest living opera singers in my lifetime.

The concert: while Carreras has lost some of his range (the highest note he hit all night, if my pitch hasn't failed me, was a Ab5 --and that was delivered with visible strain), he more than made up with an impassioned, controlled delivery. His intense concentration was amply projected through his voice and, to an even greater extent, his facial emotions. Notwithstanding a few strained high notes, Carreras' voice oozed with a mature, dutiful yet non-threatening perfection. The dramatic highlight of the evening was a superbly crafted encore piece --Verdi's Libiamo ne' lieti calici, together with soprano Po-ching Ip (no, I don't believe Carreras hit the last Bb...but who cares...the capacity audience, including I, went absolutely berserk after a prolonged, rousing third-last note, the G5). In an earlier encore (he did a total of three encores), Carreras first confounded the audience by revealing what seemed to be a hastily scribbled cheat sheet, and then turned the house into a pandemonium when he began singing to the tune of "在那遙遠的地方", in accented (but arguably well spelled-out?) Mandarin Chinese. While Carreras was taking breaks on backstage between his 10 arias of the evening, Ip (who was a classmate of mine at music school in HK, over 10 years ago) filled in with memorable performances, including Puccini's O mio babbino caro and, as an encore, Gounod's Je veux vivre dans ce reve.

To end, a little about the performance venue: it was held at the white-themed Concert Hall at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (or The Egg, as it is affectionately known). Similar to the opera house (which I visited two weeks ago when it first opened), the concert hall's interior is subtly tasteful and, thank goodness, without the kind of excessive exuberance that seems to define the modern Chinese taste. My only complaint: the existence of pieces of glass-like material separating the grid lights from the ambiance. When these grid lights hit the side of this glass-like material, a magnified refraction is casted on the side of the concert hall. Because the grid is suspended through wires from the ceiling, it could move, if ever so slightly, enough to cause the magnified refraction to move, in a musically miscued and visually annoying manner.

Christmas in China (Part II)

2008-01-10T10:55:00.001+08:00

As a follow-up to my earlier post, I would only add that while Christmas (as a religious affair) remains a minority's business, Christmas as part of popular culture is alive and well. Many shopping malls in Beijing would blast Christmas music throughout much of December. Company offices were decorated with all kinds of Christmas motifs, ranging from white Santa pin-ups (so far I haven't heard from ethno-nationalists complaining about companies getting too decked out by white faces) to blinking Christmas trees (quite a full circle, considering that China is the world's manufacturer of plastic trees and blinking lights). To be sure, Christmas has become the marketer's gift from God --no pun intended --it provides a preprogrammed, westernized theme according to which products and services are repackaged and marketed. To this day, my local Sichuan restaurant still has a "Christmas special" that includes three dishes and a soup -- a fairly unprovocative combination of beef, pork and vegetables that could allude to anything but, at least to me, Christmas. I mean, could the restauranteur at least have concocted some dishes that are more marginally related to Christmas, or at least have renamed them with a more representative portraiture of the holy day...such as, if you shall bear with me, 白色聖誕, for 水蒸豆腐...much in the same way restaurants would for 春節 dishes, such as 年年有餘? Christmas in China, like Christmas in Hong Kong, is essentially a month-long shopping and dining orgy during which consumers spend and marketers market, all in the name of the holy spirit. I can't help but think that it won't be moral philosophy but 21st century consumerism that will eventually marginalize theology --just as jingle bells get droned out by the endless ringing of the marketer's bloated cash registers.

Christmas in China

2008-01-10T03:27:00.002+08:00

“China doesn't celebrate Christmas” is probably as misinforming as “Brooklynite doesn’t swear”. Of course, most mild-mannered folks from Brooklyn don’t swear (at least not in public), and most Chinese don’t celebrate Christmas the way most westerners do in the west. But by most conservative estimates, there are at least 50 million Christians in China, and, while they are merely a fraction of China’s massive population, they are not, in absolute terms, insubstantial.

Yet, their religiosity is mostly masked away, for personal piety or for whatever reason you may think to be related to the Chinese government’s alleged micromanagement of religion in China.

Thus, there are both a mist of romanticism and a tinge of mystique about attending a church service in China, not least on Christmas Eve: romantic, because it is as if one is seeking a forbidden fruit; mystical, because one hears so much about it yet experiences so little. My last church visit was three years ago, also on Christmas Eve, in a little Arizonan town called Flagstaff. I was there because a pastor's child with whom I was road-tripping in the area at that time compelled me to check out Jesus Christ. It wasn’t as if I’ve never checked out J.C. before –I grew up with some family members who are evangelical, born-again Christians, and spent a great deal of my childhood in a high school supervised by the Anglican Church. Yet, I went with my road-tripping buddy anyway because I didn't want to sit in the motel room alone, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels while TV showed Jerry Springer repeats. But I digress. Three years later, I wasn’t trying to deal with solitude, but to find out more about religion in China: thus I found myself sitting inside a church in Beijing, singing Christmas carols in Chinese and observing each and every moving part during the church service. Midway into the church service, its surprising familiarity compelled me to wonder whether, language aside, the same moment could have replayed anywhere else, especially given that I expected a state-sanctioned church service to be drastically different from a non-supervised one, like the one in Arizona. My observation was this: if there were any difference, it was minute. I was told that state-sanctioned churches, where the pastors are pre-screened by the state, forbid pastors from aggressive evangelism and from mustering certain phrases, such as heavenly kingdom (天國) and road to heaven (去天國的路), lest they be contrary to the proletarian ideals. I didn’t believe I heard any of such phrases, or any phrases that I’d imagine could be “smoking guns”. On the other hand, that could also mean that I was simply not paying attention to what the pastor was saying (or that it was impossible, unless after some heavy post facto analysis, to find out what was censored and left unsaid). Anyway, I was honestly too preoccupied romanticizing that surreal moment – the moment where a nonbeliever like me was sitting in a Communist-sanctioned church in China, on Christmas Eve, listening to his brothers and sisters singing Lord-praising phrases in unified choruses – to give much thought about what was said or unsaid. Admittedly, a lot of folks were just like me –they were there to satisfy their curiosity, while others just seized any opportunity to snap digital pictures as if they were bedeviled by Annie Leibovitz’s spirit. But, like that 50 million+ folks in China, the rest was enlivened by the joyous moment, praising the glory of the Lord in a genuine act of faith and dedication to J.C. and his heavenly father.

I am not ready to say that I was moved by any of the romanticization. My agnosticism aside, however, I am somewhat relieved to see how at least some folks in China genuinely believe in something other than Louis Vuittons and the kind of material comfort that is devoid of non-utilitarian substance.

My Tribute to Oscar

2007-12-26T17:57:00.001+08:00

December 2007 would be my first December since 1996 where I would not have listened to Oscar Peterson’s Christmas album (1995 Telarc) at least once before folks around me started belching out Auld Lang Syne. I bought the Peterson recording shortly before Christmas in the year of 1996, and have since then bestowed a prerogative thereupon to entertain me, ahead of everything else, in the month of December. That recording, perhaps Peterson’s best-selling and most accessible recording of seasonal music, is a gorgeous yet subtly effusive piece of art work that has defined many a December for me in ways that not even ecclesiastic traditions and conventions have.

But 2007 is not exactly a normal year for me. 2007 was the year I uprooted myself from America, where I have spent a great majority of my past 11 years, and moved to Beijing, where I now reside. I settled down in Beijing with trepidation and a great level of uncertainty. I also arrived with one suitcase, with just enough space for my clothes and not nearly enough to include any of my CDs (including my Petersons). For whatever reason, though my iPod has enough music to keep me entertained for a month without a single song repeat, none in my digital collection has anything to do with Christmas, and certainly nothing of the Peterson recording that I have been listening to every December in the past decade.

The above revelation, still, would not begin to describe how terribly I feel right now. As I posted earlier, Peterson passed away this Christmas Eve, an irony in timing, as if, not merely to remind me of that Christmas album (disclosure: I certainly was listening to his music, albeit not that specific recording of Christmas music), but also to formalize my guilt for having abandoned his recording this year, and alas, for the first time in more than a decade.

Oscar Peterson, whom I have never met in person, has always been special to me. The first jazz recording that captured my imagination was “We Get Requests”, a light but delightful, controlled execution of popular bossa nova standards such as “Girl from Ipanema” and “Corcovado”. Back in 1993, it was my most perfect introduction to jazz as Peterson, in that recording, was unambiguously deferential to the original bossa nova melodies – thus making the music more accessible –even as he colored them with jubilant but judiciously modest jazz constructions. This bit of discovery came well after I started repeating the tracks, before I had any inkling that the record, as it stands today in history, has its place in jazz history as an exemplary cornerstone of a movement that attempted to bring jazz back to a more polished, tuneful nature after a go-go period of bop, when melodies were often liberally dismantled, dissected and reduced, with abandon, into their most naked and primitive forms before being reconstructed into something else. Because jazz connoisseurs often find such “reconstructions” intellectually appealing, “We Get Requests” is often considered to be harmonic fluff, but the kind of frothy fluff so well made that reminds people of a perfectly executed soufflé in its immaculate, indefectible erection. Just as it takes nothing less than a chef obsessed with precision, restraint and finesse to deliver a lush soufflé beyond compare, it takes nothing less than a musical genius like Peterson to deliver musical numbers as palatable and joyous, yet simple and uncluttered, as those found in “We Get Requests”.

When my taste for jazz was finally mature enough to tackle Peterson’s more progressive works, I knew I was in for a serious treat. Of all of Peterson’s more formulaic, progressive works, I count the series titled “The Exclusively for My Friends” one of my all-time favorites. If metaphorized into painting, the music in that series offered a much larger, freer canvas on which Peterson could execute with more aesthetic flair and technical fervor. Peterson, at least as technically proficient as any other jazz pianist in the history of the music form, had a free roam in this vast, unadulterated land of improvising opportunity, often delivering numbers upon numbers of music that, if readers so indulge me, conjures delirious episodes of synesthesia and orgasmic nirvana. This canvas was where Peterson would unleash his technical and artistic arsenals: augmented arpeggios, catchy leitmotifs, re-harmonization of blues chords, temporal dissonance, block and parallel chords, alteration of dominant functions etc., providing a continuous source of sensory, almost dizzy triggers that allow the audience to drift into Peterson's personally handcrafted world. Technical dexterity notwithstanding, Peterson’s ability to control dynamics and tempo was another foundation of his artistic mastery, the kind of magical aptitude similar to that perfected by a sorcerer who would wave his wand and control the ebb and flow of the emotional and episodic energy flowing through mortals like us. Peterson’s music flies and glides in a border-less sky of emotional and spiritual possibilities, soaring into the celestial outer-space in Peterson’s sanctioned instances while sharp diving into the abyss in others, thereby creating a sensory roller coaster that leaves an enduring, indelible mark in the audience’s perceptive psyche.

I remember listening to a rare interview of Peterson speaking of how he would prepare before a performance. To Peterson, the only preparation was to feel the depth of the keys, or the extent to which a key needs to be pressed before the hammer butt (which is coupled with the keyboard element) pivots towards the sound-generating string of the instrument. That description, though mechanical, if not also archaic, underlies Peterson’s pure genius: the same question posed to any other musician would probably induce responses such as a few minutes of physical warm-ups with chromatic scales and arpeggios, seat adjustments, a few deep breaths etc. To Peterson, it was merely a brief outreaching action to the keys that allowed them to become a part of him –in a way that seamlessly bound the musician with the musical instrument. This recollection reminds me of a quote by composer Phil Nimmons, a longtime friend of Peterson and a co-producer of Peterson’s “Canadiana Suite”: “The piano is like an extension of [Peterson’s] own physical being.”

I wish in my lifetime, I could say, with neither shame nor moral opprobrium, that the piano is an extension of my physical being. Just like a basketball, in the hands of Michael Jordan, becomes a part of the basketball player until Jordan decides to destine it for the basket, piano keys were completely Peterson’s until he decided to allow them to produce sounds for transmission to human audio nerves. While I have never listened to Peterson in a live concert, I would imagine how the audience, being mortals, would drop their jaws in an unrehearsed yet synchronized manner as they luxuriated in Peterson’s acoustic splendor.

My endless outpour of praise aside, I must contend that some of Peterson’s compositions, including famous ones such as "Place St. Henri", were, at least to me, more about technical exuberance than emotional connectivity which, I truly believe, is the anchoring hallmark of any jazz composition. "Place St. Henri", a piece that was slated to portray the vibrant economic and cultural viability in Peterson’s home town of Montreal, seems, at least to me, to glorify breathless technical rigor much more than the artist’s emotional connection with the geographical subject matter. As I read a plethora of obituary tomes (listed below), I wish obit writers would place more emphasis on Peterson’s more enterprising, radical compositions, one such as "Easter Suite", a magnum opus less known by the public but perhaps one that proves to be critically significant in the history of jazz composition. Commissioned by a British television show and broadcasted nationwide in England on Good Friday, April 24, 1984, the piece has eight movements, each following the events narrated in the corresponding gospel story. While other musicians before Peterson had improvised on top of gospel music, few have exploited a biblical story as a source of improvisational inspiration. In addition, it also seems ironic, if not fundamentally flawed, that a well-known, predictable story in the Bible was re-construed via the free-minded, unpredictable nature of jazz improvisation. Another tidbit that obit writers failed to capture was a part of Peterson’s childhood that was instrumental to Peterson’s development not only as a solo musician but as a part of a jazz collaboration. In cassettes of oral interviews to which I was able to access while I was still an extremely slack (but lucky) student in university, I had a strong impression that Peterson was exposed to collaborative music making and tonal balancing by playing with the rest of his family as his father would gather family members (including Oscar's sister, who was at one point Peterson's piano teacher) in weekly jamming sessions where everyone would take turns to play different instruments and produce music in a way that would allow one to be cognizant of the presence of other musicians’ lines.

Peterson’s music will always have a special place in my heart. With reference to classical music, I would characterize Peterson’s playing as Liszt-like, albeit with a jazz flavor –a characterization that was not off the mark as Peterson’s childhood piano teacher was himself a student of the famous Hungarian pianist –while his melodic integrity, punctuated with appropriate improvisational dissonance and rhythmic permutation, was akin to a jazzy parallel to Rachmaninoff’s variations of an original classical theme.

2007 is a calendar year that proves to be one of the most brutal and disheartening for a jazz lover: Carlos Valdez, Cecil Payne, Joe Zawinul (a founder of The Weather Report), Max Roach and Michael Brecker are among those who passed away this year. When Peterson's name was added to the list, the intensity of any grief must be (and surely is, at least as it seems to me) levitated to levels previously unfathomable. I will always have the music of Oscar Peterson on Christmas Eve, but Christmas Eve will never have the good grace of the legend. Nevertheless, Christmas Eve will always mark the day that my favorite jazz pianist has, appropriately, returned to the musical heaven from which he arrived 82 years ago...from which the invisible hand has, if ever so temporarily, lent him to mortals like us.

Obituaries worth reading: AP, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Toronto Star, CBC News.

Oscar Peterson

2007-12-25T07:00:00.000+08:00

This is an immensely sad day for me. Oscar Peterson just died, leaving one of my lifelong dreams –to meet Oscar in person – permanently unfulfilled, at least in my lifetime. Oscar will be sorely missed. Read the news here.

Localization of Sam Walton's Vision

2007-12-12T18:48:00.002+08:00

Strolling down the aisles of a Walmart in the U.S., one would find not only a gazillion different products and agricultural produces, but cooked items ranging from sliced pepperoni pizzas to grilled chicken salad in Cajun dressing. But at the end of the day, all items sold are unmistakably targeting at the American taste.

When I first heard that Walmart has a presence in China, my first reaction was whether they would know the Chinese consumer well enough to do well here. My experience at two Walmart Supercenters in Shenzhen (allegedly two of the most profitable Walmart locations anywhere in the world) and here in Beijing confirms that Walmart has done their homework before investing here in China.

Here in China, Walmart "localizes" by filling shelves with products and produces that are distinctly Chinese: dried sausages stuffed with duck livers and fat, pigeons cooked in sweetened soy sauce, pork knuckles braised with star anise, aromatic ginger and peppercorns, pickled radishes and cucumbers, and, you read it correctly, live turtles, bluntly labeled to reflect its eventual destiny not in an aquarium but at the dining table. A Walmart here is imbued with a fragrance that is unmistakably raw, but also very Chinese. Instead of seeing chicken meat modularized and prepackaged into frozen, brick-like constructions, a Chinese Walmart goes so far as to allow the shopper to see the rawness of a chicken's skinning and frenching, in ways that would probably raise a few eyebrows with PETA in the U.S. In a sense, this rawness brings honesty to what we eat --that what we eat were once living animals and plants, not merely goblets or slabs of proteins or cellulose with a bar-code and a USDA nutrition tag.

Each Walmart location seems to cater to a slightly different crowd, e.g. the Walmart in Nanshan, Shenzhen has an older crowd while the Walmart in Zhongguancun, Beijing has a younger, college-educated crowd. In any case, seasoned shoppers would guardedly stand next to mountains upon mountains of geometrically stacked produces and juggle with each item on the stack until they find and isolate the best ones that pass their touch and nose tests. Little kids would at times stray away from their distracted parents to munch on bite-size samples at food counters. The occasional first-timers would try, without success, to haggle with Walmart associates over prices. All that, on top of raised voices projected by associates across counters and wrecking sounds generated by shopping carts slamming into each other, form the basis of an improvised, locally-performed symphony of sounds and vibrations. I also can't help but hear, on top of my head, cash registers ringing and Walmart shareholders laughing all the way to financial freedom.

Bicycle Nation

2007-12-10T07:25:00.001+08:00

Inside Beihang U: how does one find her own bike?

To breathe and experience Seoul like another (local)

2007-11-29T22:35:00.002+08:00

I don't know how to begin describing my visit to Seoul, for it fell well outside of my normal travel paradigm. Unlike previous trips, I neither defined any goals (e.g. to visit a physical place of interest, or to eat at a well-known establishment), nor immersed myself with the destination’s culture and history (e.g. by consuming related reading materials). My unpreparedness was compounded by two not-quite-insignificant factors: a language that is completely foreign to me; and, since it was my first visit to Korea, the lack of any prior experience to fall back on. Finally, I know not a single soul, other than a friend who now lives there.

All that, however, didn't amount to a blatantly pathetic oversight, because I did plan on experiencing South Korea not through the polished lens of popular recommendation but by my intuition and improvisation. My (true) plan, conjured up as I was aboard my short flight from Beijing to Seoul, is two pronged. While my friend was at work, I would spend as much time as possible walking the streets of Seoul and soaking up the city's aura and energy. While he was not at work, we would spend time at places where locals would escape to and deflate the day’s pressure.

After breezing past immigration, the first thing that came to my mind was to turn on my mobile phone. I was not expecting any calls; nor was I ready to make one. Instead, I was eager to find out, and be gratified by, the beauty of 3G’s ubiquity across different 3G standards. (Prior to 3G, a GSM phone from China or Hong Kong would not work in South Korea.) When I saw those four bars of salute (i.e. signal strength) lit up next to a 3G icon on my Nokia 6280, I beamed with unspeakable elation, not least because the techie in me has just jumped out in full force but because, over the years, I have been championing the ideals of cross compatibility in 3G (my cellular provider operates exclusively under one 3G standard, while SK Telecom operates another). With all the Jockey Club’s bet spreads and Yahoo! Finance’s stock quotes suddenly available to me through my 3G connection, I was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the rolling hills and calm waterfronts that galloped past me as I was bused from the airport to Seoul’s city center.

By the time I realized that my data roaming bill was getting obscenely enormous, I was already in the city center, at a stop just between City Hall and Deoksu Palace. A bit about Deoksu Palace: dating back to the 15^th century, it is a walled compound of palaces that has served many a royalty of the Korean Empire. Decorated with groomed and forested gardens, the compound's palaces capture the brashness of the Empire’s past glory while its manicured gardens define the more subtle, refined essence of the aesthetic past. Today Deoksu Palace is surrounded by a countless number of concrete high rises, including, most visibly, the Imperial Palace Hotel which stands, at more than 20 floors and merely four traffic lanes away from the Deoksu Palace, as though it was seeking to outshine its namesake forebear. When I turned into the side streets that radiate from City Hall, I discovered a plethora of sensual stimulants: simmering pots of soups would effervesce a potent, gritty smell of cooked meats and a more subtle, delectable bouquet of blossoming spices. Hunks of pork and beef, grilled and slightly charred over choice charcoal, would emanate the rhapsodic aromatics of cooked animal fats and proteins. The most extraordinary, however, was brought forth by a middle-aged man who, standing outside what seemed to be his proprietary used-book store, would charcoal-grill a fat slab of squid, seasoned with salt flakes and little else, over a small, make-shift stove. When the grilled squid was ready, the man, with his stentorian voice, would make dinner calls to his neighbors. Upon his and his neighbors' insistence, I tried a piece of his masterpiece, which turned out to be a genuine pleasure as the squid retained much of its impeccably fresh juices just as the charcoal heat worked magic to provide a smoky surface flavor. My only other thought at that time: if only I had a cold beer handy to wash it all down. Anyway, these small but amicable side streets would eventually merge into larger streets where larger buildings would dominate. These imposing concrete monsters were bustling with energy as office types shuttled in and out of the revolving doors while jumbotrons flashed endlessly into eternity. As if there wasn't enough emotion, psychedelic fractals were projected onto facades of many of these big buildings, where they danced merrily to the music of pedestrian and automotive traffic.

While my friend was at work, I would use all sorts of improvised body language to communicate with local folks to overcome my language barrier. I must admit I took pleasure relishing the fruits of the most minute communicative success, fully knowing that I would experience something entirely different if my friend, a native, were around and allowed me to fall into the conversational background (imagine being a Robin to the Batman, i.e. always there but never quite able to claim any achievements as one's own). It would take me nearly twenty minutes to get my order right at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where I relied on finger-pointing and hand gesturing to tell the chef what I wanted to eat (by the way, my meal, which included fried rice with salted shrimp and kimchi, was delightful). One of my most memorable moments was spent at Sky Bar, a well-known drinking establishment in Gangnam that was unmistakably pompous and stylish. I was attracted to the joint because of its bird's eye view of Gangnam and of the beautiful folks that adorned the place (surely I was superficial but, after all, I was on vacation). I was also attracted by its atmosphere, in which soft Korean ballades, played through Sky's impeccable sound system, helped to smooth out (or perhaps blend with) the ruffles generated by a bartender's mixer. I also had a few great conversations, one of which was with Hae Jin (慧珍), a bartender with big, sparkling eyes and a rubicund visage. Her flirtatious, feisty manners betrayed her inward sincerity – despite her limited English vocabulary, she was patient enough to communicate at length with me, often at loss over (the lack of) word choice but never faltered, and essentially became my first Korean teacher and my trusted, breathing guide book. What intrigued me in our conversation was this rhythmic oscillation between frenzied spontaneity and cold stillness –something that mirrored a side street's vibrant sensation juxtaposed against the tranquil repose of an ancient palace. Also, as awkward as it may sound, Hae Jin also implored me to experience teenage authenticity by visiting a "DVD bar" where, originally designed for friends to rent and watch DVDs, teenagers nowadays would go and make out in privacy (I took her recommendation, sans the making out). She also convinced me to check out an exhibit at a vocational training school in the more industrial side of town. Helmed by her friend from high school and some other graduating students in industrial design, the exhibit was a mind-blowing experience as it amply disproved any notion that Asians always copy and never know how to create.

When my friend was finally not at work, we covered the city, checking out bars, restaurants, clubs, noraebangs (karaoke joints) as though I have been living in Seoul since time immemorial. My friend also took me to MTL, which is a “talking bar” in Gangnam (and a stone throw away from his house). In these “talking bars”, the bartender makes drinks for you, and for you only until you either decide to leave or run out of money. In other words, each bartender only handles one client at any given time, although a number of friends may go to such “talking bars” and engage an equal number of bartenders. The idea is such that the client gets to engage and talk with the bartender without the fear of losing the bartender’s attention. While one has to work hard to catch a bartender's attention (and certainly as it was the case with me, to catch Hae Jin’s attention at Sky), a bartender at these “talking bars” is ready and willing to talk (again, at least until one either decides to leave or runs out of money). My bartender was a twenty-something college student with a porcelain face and slightly bulging eyes who hoped to enter into a career in beauty care after finishing design school, in a year’s time. She told me her life stories, in broken English and with my friend’s sporadic (and obviously alcohol-influenced) translative help. She also asked me about my life, although she seemed lost the moment I punched the two dreaded words: intellectual property. In any case, based on the way she groomed and handled herself, I had little question that she had all the aesthetic talent and mental toughness to do well in what she aspired to do. These “talking bars”, as I was told, are mainly designed for the working men of Korea who are too macho and proud to talk small talk with their wives at home but otherwise want to do so with somebody, even if they have to pay for it. Furthermore, it seems to me (though I may be wrong) that this format of “bartending” is very unique to Korean culture and not commonly, if at all, found in other countries. As far as I understand, although the clientele is predominantly male and these bartenders are predominantly female, such talking bars strictly forbid unseemly, immoral transactions beyond drinking/talking and are not, at least in principle, set up for men to “pick up” bartenders. Nevertheless, this makes me wonder whether the proliferation of these talking bars highlights a social ill in South Korea –that, because Korean men would generally prefer spilling their hearts to a stranger at a talking bar over talking to their spouse, there is something inherently missing in the typical Korean spousal relationship. I have tried seeking an answer to that question, but most people I have spoken with, including many of my Korean friends, have not formed any solid opinions in respect of such a warped social dynamic.

Attending an exhibit at a vocational training school or listening to a beautician talk extensively, albeit in broken English, about her career was not what I would plan to do in any other ordinary course of visit. But there was nothing ordinary about this visit. When I left South Korea, I didn’t bring with me any photograph of me standing in front of one of those luscious palaces that would prove my visit. Yet, by doing what locals do, I have breathed, lived, and experienced a South Korea in a way that was very raw, yet, at least as it seems to me, honest and authentic.

Modern Sky Festival and its Crowd

2007-10-03T07:40:00.001+08:00

Amid the effusion of praise that I have lavished on China's rock scene, I must admit that the Modern Sky Festival fell well short of my expectations.

Granted, my observation was not truly representative, since I was to attend only one of three days of the festival (I reserved tomorrow for hiking and for the rest of the week, I would be in HK), which featured dozens of artists performing at different time slots over those days. Nevertheless, I found my patience running out as I went from stage to stage, only to find artists who severely lacked the kind of punch and energy which one would typically expect from a rock festival, and a lukewarm audience whose apathy seemed to feed right back to the subconsciousness of the artists.

To be sure, there were exceptions to the case. At the stage for new bands, an enthusiastic audience clamored for more after No Name completed their set with a Sum 41-like, whirlwind locomotion infused with well-known Chinese elements. Enthusiastic audience members would also climb over each other and wave their limbs in an absolutely gorgeous, blue-sky day in Haidian Park. At the electric/techno stage, a few ebullient souls showed off their acrobatic dance moves neither caution nor compulsion. There was also the flag-waving, body-thumping, beer-splashing crowd in front of the main stage, a scene reminiscent of Woodstock. Those aside, however, I couldn't help but recognize a wall of expressionless folks, who looked either too tired, too stoned, or just plain too indifferent to physically react to the music. Not even the head nod...not even the lap tap...are we all becoming the disengaged philosopher whose relationship with live music is strictly analytical? Most of the time I just felt that people were just standing there in front of the stage, as if waiting to board an imaginary subway train.

Perhaps it was just me, but while it seems that the organizers did a great job by putting slightly different music on different stages to cater to each and everyone at any given time, the heavy metal on one stage seemed to drown out, for example, Sandee Chen's melancholic, twitter-like ballade on another. Was there not enough insulation mechanism to at least compartmentalize the sound a little better? Of course, nobody would be serious enough to demand concert hall acoustics at a rock festival, but when it got to the point where the sound from another stage became a distraction, the feeling of liveliness and spontaneity instantly became a nuisance.

Would I go back? Sure...only to prove myself wrong. The crowd was perhaps merely recovering of a full day of partying on National Day, but I am sure music fans, and a lot of them, could do better not merely by showing up physically but by being more engaged in circulating (and amplifying) energy to and from the artists --something which I find to be the unique hallmark of live rock music. But I would give the benefit of the doubt, until next time.

Jacky Cheung World Tour '07

2007-10-02T06:51:00.001+08:00

It seems ironic that I would go to a canto-pop concert in Beijing, and even more ironic, as my mom would put it, that I would go to a canto-pop concert at all. It is true that my interest in canto-pop has been lukewarm over the years, and that my only real claim to (any) connection with canto-pop was a stint as a member of a drumming consortium that once backed up The Winners (are they really canto-pop?) and a gig as a percussionist at a Hacken Lee concert. Otherwise, you won't see any canto-pop CDs on my rack or see me humming to a canto-pop track.

That said, I wouldn't say I was not fascinated by canto-pop's rise as a major force in Greater China's music scene. Jacky Cheung's music, for starters, transcends any geopolitical barrier by making the hit list at every metropolitan area where Chinese congregates: there used to be a saying that in some communities in and near Vancouver and Toronto, one would hear Jacky Cheung on radio more often than Madonna+Backstreet Boys+Bruce Springsteen+Westlife+(fill in with your favorite non-Asian artists) combined. Beijing folks can sing Jacky's Cantonese songs even though they have little idea whether they are hitting the right 白话 pronunciation, while folks in Hong Kong can lip sync to any of Jacky's Mandarin songs before Mandarin was even considered an indispensable linguistic asset in what was then an English-speaking British colony.

But Jacky today was not the Jacky who won the singing contest that made him famous 23 years ago. His voice is still brilliant by most standards. Yet, it also seems to show its age, as it no longer carries the level of high-octane punch that was the hallmark of his old voice. I also counted at least two occasions where some of his high notes cracked, only to be mercifully drowned out by an dutiful band behind him. As perhaps canto-pop's most consistently successful superhero, he nevertheless represents a star fading into a more contemplative, reflective phase of his career. That said, the concert was supremely organized (other than transportation to and from Feng Tai Stadium, of which, alas, there was none), the stage well-designed, the acoustics quite adequate, and the dancing numbers quite well choreographed. Jacky is the kind of performer that requires neither exquisite dance arrangements nor scantily-clad models/dancers gyrating around him --both of which seem to be the norm today for any Asian male star trying to make it in the Asian music scene. Instead, it seems to me that Jacky naturally, and only relies on emotional appeal and a face of human ingenuity (whether feigned or real) to connect to his audience, and I must say he was very good at those last night.

Perhaps to no importance to most, during the concert I did yell out "got maid?" as an ironic vituperation of his off-stage antics as a sub-par employer, although I doubt anyone who heard that -- he most certainly could not, given the level of noise in the stadium and the position of my nose-bleed seat -- had any inkling of what I meant.

My Pavarotti

2007-09-06T17:49:00.003+08:00

For the past few weeks, we have been hearing about Pavarotti undergoing further treatment for his pancreatic cancer. The news has been cautiously optimistic, until yesterday when Pavarotti’s condition was reported to have worsened. Today we finally heard the news that Pavarotti has left us. I am sure that in the next few weeks we shall be hearing a lot about Pavarotti, the hymns eulogizing the passing of the great tenor, his flamboyant style, and his no-nonsense, anti-establishment approach to widen the opera fan base.

He was not as politically savvy as Domingo. Nor was he as sexually appealing and attractive as Bocelli. He was the raw, unrefined lion on stage, and the relentless businessman off stage. If everything written about him was true, then he was at least as shrewd and ruthless as Howard Breslin would describe him to be. If his public behavior was any guidance as to who he really was, then he must savor his moments as opera’s royal paladin, as evidenced by his frequent, last-minute cancellations of public appearances in the twilight of his career. He was the womanizer who would dump his wife of 35 years to hook up with his 26-year-old secretary.

But there is no question that Pavarotti was a talented tenor. In my opinion, he was possibly the most naturally talented tenor in the 20^th century. Beniamino Gigli and Giuseppe Di Stefano, two of the best tenors of our time, often looked strained and tired when trying to sustain high notes. Domingo, perhaps the modern-day tenor most beloved by opera aficionados, is a great interpreter of opera composer’s works and a great master of tonal quality, but always sounds as though he couldn’t reach a level of vocal projections that he would want, especially between A5 and C6. Without implying to put down any other tenors, Pavarotti seems to have a natural ability to punch high notes with not only rhythmic precision but also superior tonal quality. I am not merely talking about the nine C6s that Pavarotti famously belted out with ease in “Ah! Mes amis,” in Donizetti’s “La Fille du Regiment” at the Met in 1972. I am also talking about how he, in his early years, handled Verdi’s requirement of a Bb5 in pianissimo in “Celeste Aida” in Verdi’s “Aida”. To be sure, Pavarotti wasn’t Franco Corelli, who arguably was the best recorded Radames ever, but Pavarotti never had as nimble a voice as Corelli’s, which made rendering of the pianissimo a lot more manageable. I’m sure when I go back to Pavarotti’s earlier recordings, I would rediscover the beauty of Pavarotti’s voice – a bold but agile voice – like a Ferrari creaming a tight corner or Michael Jordan swooshing a turnaround jumper – effortless to the regular eyes, but magical to those who practice such, day in, day out.

In terms of singing, Pavarotti’s public legacy will be linked to his high notes and his handling of the passaggios. In my opinion, however, his flamboyant and raw style made him the ultimate, purest interpreter of canzone napoletana/italiane: the Marechiares, the O Sole Mios, the Torna a Surrientos of the world, providing a standard upon which all future tenors of the napoletana genre shall be judged. He will, in my mind, forever be linked with the genre, and the genre will, in my mind, always be linked with Pavarotti.
It is incredibly sad to see him go. Had he entered the world in the early 19^th century, he would have left us with nothing tangible except a mythical legacy. But he left us with an incredible amount of recorded music that we and future generations will be able to enjoy. Pavarotti the man has left, but Pavarotti the voice will live and grace us forever.

Obituaries: The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, The AP (via Yahoo! News).

My first classical music concert in China

2007-09-02T17:51:00.003+08:00

The China Philharmonic opened its 2007-2008 Season last night with a heavyweight program featuring the world premiere of a composition by Chinese composer Ye Xiaogang, and the Piano Concerto No. 3 by Sergei Rachmaninoff.

Ye’s new work, The Lofty Kunlun Mountains, is a monumental piece of music commissioned by and written for the China Philharmonic, and was completed barely a month ago. Continuing his ongoing series of scores featuring the customs and cultures of China’s various regions, Ye borrows from Qinghai province’s instrumental and vocal elements to carve out a substantial piece of work with three contrasting symphonic movements. Kunlun Mountains’ orchestral footprint is similar to that of Ye’s other work, Twilight in Tibet, in that Kunlun Mountains weaves through an intricate balance of rapturous Mahlerian moments and delicate pianissimo harmonics to illustrate the imposing and undulating landscapes of the region. The first movement, “The Lofty Kunlun Mountains”, is a testament to Ye’s frequent practice of east-meets-west ideals in which Holstian orchestral frameworks were gorgeously realized through the application of cascading pentatonic scales. The second movement, “The Ode to the Kunlun Mountains”, is an emotional interlude that reminds the audience of the tranquils of Howard Shore’s middle earth. Its baroque, careful string structures also provide perhaps the most poetic and original moment of the three movements. The third movement, “The Chinese March”, is the most symphonically bold, yet also stylistically least interesting, as if the piece tried to gallop to a Khrushchevian closure. In Poly Theatre’s foyer after the concert, I had a brief moment to congratulate Ye on finishing the composition, but I stopped short, for whatever lame reason including, out of deference, of complaining that Kunlun Mountains, while successful in evoking an impressive array of ethnic elements, lacked a fundamentally unique style that I often attribute to the composer's other more satisfying compositions.

Rach 3 was performed by Kun-Woo Paik, a Korean-born pianist most famous for his interpretation of Liszt. Last night’s performance was average, although anyone who knows more than a thing or two about Rach 3 would testify that any pianist who can sprint through the extremely difficult, “finger-breaking” piece without major lapses deserves at least a few rounds of standing ovations. And Paik got his share and more, at least half a dozen of them. Paik’s performance wasn’t necessarily bad –in fact, his rendition of Rachmaninoff’s legato moments in the first movement was as lyrical as any I have ever heard –but, on the overall, Paik’s Rach 3 seems to lack a sense of controlled fragility that seems, at least to me, to be the hallmark of Rachmaninoff’s piece. The third movement was also slow –a tad slower than Ashkenazy’s typical, leisurely pace of 15 minutes and a lot slower than Argerich’s exuberant pace at just over 13 minutes (in the legendary RSO Berlin/Chailly recording). To be sure, nobody will ever accuse a pianist of dragging in a performance, although if Paik had admitted that his performance dragged last night, it would not necessarily have been his fault: there were times when it seems obvious that Paik was trying to race the orchestra to a tempo of his liking, only then to be suppressed by the baton of conductor Long Yu. It was not easy to conclude who dragged and who raced, but there were moments when I had a clear impression that there wasn’t enough communication between the concerto conductor and the concerto performer.

In any case, it was an incredible night not least because it was my first time to listen to classical music in Beijing, but also because I always fancied finding out what kind of crowd I would get at a classical music concert in mainland China. I was quite impressed – other than a slight mishap in which an audience sitting not far behind me felt the need to ruffle his/her plastic bag (whose act was then promptly verbally abused and denounced by other audience members nearby) – the crowd was very courteous, and did not clap, contrary to my earlier expectation, between concerto movements. I went to the concert with Carrie, a smart auditor who often lets her disengaged, emotion-less self spill over to her personal life. So it was only fitting that the highlight of my evening was to see her face light up, and her emotions flow, as she raved about Ye’s sweetness and Rachmaninoff’s genius.

La Bohème

2007-08-27T15:58:00.003+08:00

La Bohème is undoubtedly one of my favorite operas. Coincidentally, there are two pieces written about it today: by Tim Page in the Washington Post, and by Mike Greenberg at Express-News. Greenberg’s article was a fairly standard review of the San Antonio Opera at the Lila Cockrell Theatre. While it is mundane and devoid of the flowering descriptions that usually grace a classical music review, it does serve a good, descriptive purpose:

The traditional sets, built for New Orleans Opera, worked well and looked pretty good, though they fell short of the current state of the art. Tim Francis' lighting design was fairly basic. The off-the-rack costumes had that off-the-rack look.

Page’s writing, on the other hand, is nothing but mundane. As he writes a preview of Kennedy Center’s upcoming season, he trumphets the social and romantic values of what may be Puccini’s most famous work:

I wonder if there is another opera that so convincingly bewails the horrors of poverty while making most of the resultant hardships seem so romantic. Cold weather permeates "La Bohème," and yet the impression we take away with us is inevitably that of a suffusion of warmth.

I sincerely hope that when The Egg opens, there will be more opera performances here in Beijing. In the meantime, I will indulge myself in DVDs, and in reviews of performances around the world.

Super Band

2007-08-19T04:59:00.002+08:00

Super Band is an American Idol-like competition for rock bands in China. It is jointly produced by media outlets in Guangzhou and Hong Kong to promote original compositions, to discover new talent, and to nurture a crop of Chinese musicians that have the potential to redefine the country’s rock scene in the coming years.

Zhang Peirong, a friend here in Beijing, told me about Super Band while we downed a few Yanjings in Houhai a few weeks ago. Peirong, by all standards, is quite a character. By day, he labors as a film editor in the city. By night, he is a rocker who hounds the Houhai scene. While he is extremely fluent in and deferential to the history and traditions of rock, he is adamant that China as a nation be proactive in developing its own rock sound. He also informed me of a Super Band regional, and implored me to check it out if I ever want to seriously understand China’s pop music and culture.

I have not been extensively exposed to rock and its history, but decided to give it a try anyways, not least because he was dead right about my severe lack of knowledge in China’s pop music but also because I was very interested in the competition format that has swept through China in the past few years.

And boy, what an experience: impeccable on-stage coordination, exquisite fretboard fingering, assertive vocals…those are some of the things that impressed me most. After nearly four hours of music, I came away feeling a little full and a little empty. Full, in a sense that the experience was wholesome, educating, and different from anything I have ever seen. Empty, in a sense that, despite all the classical training that I was fortunate to get when I was young, I have been cloaked away (in some ways by my own doing) from this other world of music in which passion and creativity flow with the freedom of the mind. It is unfortunate that I didn’t discover this world until now, but it is also fortunate that I have, finally, discovered it. Here are some of the highlights:

Band 1: excellent contrast between two entries; male vocalist was superb in creating a soulful, interactive experience with the audience

Band 8: young but very mature, a careful balancing act amongst the players; it first appeared a little thin and weak but soon emerged as this emotional train that charged all the way to the finale

Band 9: pretty sound, but drummer seemed disjointed from the rest of the group

Band 11: well rehearsed with precise control of instrumental and melodic flow; I love its charismatic and pentatonic-heavy sound.

Band 12: a blend of German punk and novel vocal; the ending was crisp and clean

I wished I had written down the bands’ names. Perhaps I’ll one day dig them up from Super Band’s website.