The Fredösphere

The Catholic Church:  they've made some ... changes.  (Tip o' the red hat to the Sci-Fi Catholic.)

Meanwhile...

I'm going to get all Alexy Rossy on you and muse for a bit about the health of orchestras in the heartland.  We spent the weekend with some friends in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and on their advice attended the "Picnic Pops" concert of that city's Symphony.  This is not the kind of event I would choose on my own, and I admit the first half disappointed.  Grofé, Gottschalk:  the programming choices were neither canonical nor bold, but they did fit the New Orleans theme, necessitated by the guest appearance of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band.

PHJB isn't really my thing either, but they were at least compelling.  This concert gave me a chance to think hard about something I've been wondering about:  is Dixieland Jazz the only example of a truly popular countrapuntal style?  Where else do casual listeners tolerate so much independence of voices?  Is there a secret we lovers of counterpoint ought to learn and exploit?  These are not a rhetorical questions; if you have insight, please leave a comment.

The outdoor ambiance (on a ski slope) facilitated dancing, which really made the evening for my daughter and me.  Generally speaking, the best parts of the experience (landscape, picnic atmosphere, alcohol for those imbibing it, guest artists playing jazz at a very high level, kinesthetic interaction) had nothing to do with this idea that paying 100 instrumentalists to play together all at the same time is the right thing to do.  Still, the concerts are genuinely popular, and Grand Rapids has the corporations (Chase Bank) and the aristocracy (the De Vos family) to keep it funded, so bully to them.  I'll have to attend one of their regular concerts and report back.  (Hint to the GRS bosses:  Sibelius might lie at the exact center of the intersection of my and the popular tastes.)

One final bit of weirdness:  ever since reading the excellent Benjamin Britten biography written by Humphrey Carpenter, I can't help associating BB with Grand Rapids, since that city was, implausibly, bizarrely, the scene of ... well, apparently we don't know exactly what, but it was where ... oh, go read the book.  Still, the idea that this very conservative, very Dutch (Corrie ten Boom Dutch, not modern-day Amsterdam Dutch) town was destined to become a landmark in Britten's personal oddysey is something I couldn't quite put out of my mind as violinists sawed away, patrons sipped wine from plastic cups, the sun set, and my kids frolicked on a swing set off in the distance.

Labels: Counterpoint, Culture, local