Anne-Sophie Mutter in Beijing

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...

...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

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

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

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

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

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?