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.