While there have been performances of Hensel’s Overture since it was discovered, recorded and performed by The Women’s Philharmonic in the early 1990s (including one in 1996 by the Tufts University Orchestra, directed by George Mathew, BCO Director Steven Lipsitt pointed out that this was the Boston premiere of this work.) Since the piece is not only one of historical interest but also one of great artistic vigor and beauty, this premiere status is rather astounding; but it does seem to be true, and perhaps it was even (could it be??) the professional premiere of the Overture on the East Coast.

Let it be the first performance of many. The BCO’s crisp and energetic reading made a compelling case for the Overture. It begins with a slow introduction that skillfully builds anticipation, using sustained winds to build a feeling of suspense. The ensemble’s “splayed” seating of the violins — first on the left and seconds on the right — was used to great effect in this work, first in the cascade of 16th-notes that wrapped the audience in virtuosity and transported us from the introduction into the Allegro. Elsewhere this seating highlighted vivid exchanges of motives between the violins. Some unexpected harmonic turns enlivened the transition to the more lyrical second theme. Lipsitt brought out the strength and inventiveness of the composer’s use of sonata form, for instance by broadening out the tempo at the end of the development section to add to the sense of brilliance when the trumpets anticipate the recapitulation. A closing theme offered an elegiac soaring quality (over the continuous momentum of the work), and a coda was both a drive to the end but also introduced more ideas and development.

In his insightful comments, Lipsitt observed that while it was her only work for orchestra alone, that she did write other music with orchestra, including an oratorio. The 2010 biography of Fanny Hensel, by Larry Todd offers some rich insights into the Overture, including its musical context. He suggests she wrote it in in the spring of 1832, building on her recent orchestral experience of composing three cantatas and a concert aria. While Todd states “the stimulus of the work is unknown,” a possible motivation came to me when I read Fanny’s words that “on Nov. 1, I delivered a dead baby girl.” Could the Overture of the previous spring have been the product of the excitement and good news of her learning of her pregnancy? Perhaps if the child (which would have been Fanny’s second) had lived, the Overture would have been served as the first movement of a symphony (which Lipsitt pointed out it aptly could do). That, of course is speculation, but Todd’s rich and engaging biography reveals much about how Fanny’s composing was woven into the fabric of her too-short life.

While the next work, Felix Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor, certainly is a contrast — being well-known, the performance by the BCO did offer fresh insights. Faneuil Hall is a lovely venue (with outside noise being the one real drawback), and the BCO slogan “Great music up close” is apt in light of the intimacy that the space offers. Soloist Irina Muresanu offered a luscious velvety tone and complete command of every nuance and flourish. The one ragged edge was in the third movement, the orchestral doubling of the soloist’s sprightly, staccato eighths just never coalesced into the perfection of ensemble that was heard elsewhere.

I was happy to be introduced to Felix Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 1, op. 11. The first movement had lovely moments of lyricism and interesting effects of colors such as an oscillating figure that was heard in the winds. Then followed an Andante that grew out of a tender and touching “song without words.” The Minuet (perhaps) drew inspiration from Mozart’s G minor Symphony No. 40, with its fixation on driving contrapuntal exchanges, but with a mood much more charming and graceful. The movement’s Trio section was more brooding and moody; Lipsitt effectively enhanced its emotion in easing the tempo before the return of the Minuet.

The final movement also reminded me of Mozart — again, the G minor symphony — in the intensity of the exchange of antecedent and consequent phrases of the opening motive of its finale, and his Symphony No. 41 with its prominent fugue, although the fugal treatment is used very differently here. Another compelling section (the form seemed to be a structured sequence of episodes, perhaps some kind of sonata rondo) was the passage with the spare pizzicato strings underlying an expansive clarinet melody; this moment of a startling originality returned later with flute doubling the clarinet. The dramatic accelerando and shift to a major key that ends the movement and may be a bit formulaic, but nevertheless it was effective to bring the work — and the concert — to a rousing and exciting conclusion.

My only other criticism of the orchestra is that they could use one more cello — the two players are excellent, but with first and second violins at six and six, I often felt the need for an additional cello to give more presence to their part.

The lack of any backstage in Faneuil Hall might be seen as a disadvantage, but I find it charming, to have not only the musicians but also the conductor and soloist pass through the middle of the audience in order to reach the front of the hall; this is another aspect of the “up close” slogan.

Lipsitt was a graceful, precise and elegant presence on the podium. He was clear and unobtrusive, but shared a wonderful electrical connection with the musicians — who obviously enjoy working with him. In his comments to the audience, he apologized (mopping his brow) for the warmth of the hall. I’ve mentioned here before my opinion that concert dress should reflect the athleticism of the musicians’ job, with practicality and comfort coming before tradition. This is one area in which men face more constriction than women: the tuxedo and suit jacket are just not designed to encourage free use of the arms. So, by all means, guys, if you’re warm you really should take your jackets off!

And one further comment on Lipsitt’s comments: he made a reference to one of the statues in the Hall, saying it was “Susan B. Anthony.” Well, as a representative of the Boston Women’s Heritage Trail I’d be happy to tell anyone about the significance of Lucy Stone; perhaps in Faneuil Hall as a pre-pre-concert presentation, or I invite Maestro Lipsitt and supporters of the BCO to join me on a walking tour of Beacon Hill or Back Bay.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

The piano four-hands, with Megan Henderson and John McDonald, was sparkling and effervescent, often illustrating the text, as the chirping of nightingales, or the twinkling of stars. The singers all sang warmly and lusciously. The featured Young Artist, Daniel McGrew, has a lovely, nuanced tenor. He warmed to his role gradually and clearly has great potential. In general I wanted more drama from the singers, with the exception being mezzo Katherine Growdon, who used her eyes and expressive face to heighten the meaning of all she sang; I was riveted and felt like she was singing directly to me. Perhaps the Met HD opera broadcasts have raised the bar. We really expect content to be communicated; singers must also act. There were a few flirtatious glances among the singers, but mostly Growdon cast glances while the others read their music. A theatrical director might be employed to bring out the dramatic potential of a work like this.

Peggy Pearson, artistic director Winsor Music, is a well-known local oboist. Following intermission was the premiere of a work commissioned by the group, Oboe Quartet by Scottish composer Helen Grime (b. 1981). A former oboist herself, she has a real understanding of the oboe as an expressive and passionate instrument, and she also is from a musical family with siblings who are string players. Grime and composer John Harbison offered some commentary on the work, pointing out its slow and gradual unfolding. Pearson, whose playing was inspired and flawless, begins as the protagonist, provoking the strings with evocative and lyrical gestures; they comment and respond. The oboe glided into high registers and later rumbled at the bottom of its range; at points a cloth inserted in the bell was used to mute it, subtly rounding its tone. Eventually the four instruments reach a point where instead of dialogue and argument, they become, as Grimes observed, like one big instrument. The shape of this dramatic opening up, and the sustained but gentle ecstatic fervor of the work reminded me just a bit of the last movement of Ives’s Quartet no. 2; there was something transcendent in its spirit, drawn from the subtle use of timbre, of melding pitches from the oboe to the strings in a way to suggest an endless expansion, a glimpse of something infinite; it gave me goose bumps. This subsided very gradually, leaving the audience collectively breathless.

Some readjusting of the stage for the next work allowed us the necessary brief interval. Then followed J. S. Bach’s Cantata BWV 99 Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan. Directed by Harbison, this was given a modern instrument performance (except for the use of a small organ), but the influence of period instruments was there in the flow and lightness of the tempo, with the recitatives reflecting the natural speed of speech. In the multi-layered splendor of the opening chorale, the rich harmonization of the voices, and intricate dialogue between the instruments (two violins, viola, oboe d’amore, flute, and organ, with ‘cello and string bass as continuo) suggested the intricate shimmering majesty of God’s rule. The solo flute in the tenor aria was relentless in its fast pace and energy. Ann Bobo (flute) was sure-footed in this exhilarating passage, which must be the “sweetness” mentioned in the text, offering encouragement to the “despairing soul” that the tenor evocatively addressed. The penultimate movement, with soprano-alto duet, suggested the inevitability of the slow march with the cross and its somber path to redemption. Redemption, in the final choral verse, was presented in a simple affirming harmonization and brought the program to a satisfying close.

Now, back to that Brahms. . . G. F. Daumer’s texts for the Liebeslieder Waltzes are so mawkish that you just wish, in this case, that Brahms had put his skills to better use. They certainly do not bear a lot of deep thought. Rather it’s like eating a box of chocolate bon-bons. Delicious for two or three. More than that, cloying and even a bit annoying. Moreover, a chamber series as distinguished and well attended as this one is in a place to be more inventive and adventurous in its programming, to go beyond including two of “The Three ‘B’s.” I commend its devotion to new music and commissions, but this also could have been a chance to excavate and explore historic works that for whatever reason have been unjustly neglected and blocked from any possibility of entering the canon. This program had a need to use the singers on hand for the Bach cantata, fine. But this Brahms is rather overdone and not substantial.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

I am excited because this is the first time we will actually perform a complete large-scale work by one of these unknown composers that I have been researching. We have been doing extended excerpts of operas, but this time we will perform the entire piece.

Oh, yes, Camilla de Rossi’s a wonderful composer. I knew that from studying the manuscript, I’ve been editing the score from months; but to hear it come alive in the rehearsal,… she is really SO good. She really knows how to write a melody that conveys the affect, the emotions of the text. And the pacing is good, the action moves very fast, with not a lot of recitative. The arias are in the best Baroque style; you will think of Handel, Bach, and Vivaldi.

The arias are traditional ABA form, plus there are instrumental ritornelli, where the instruments round off the arias, with some material of the aria. But she doesn’t always do that. It’s varied. These singers — Julianne Baird is so renowned — all the musicians, really, but especially these singers, are expert in their ornamentation. You might think with Da Capo form, that you get bored, when you hear the A part again. But these singers are extraordinary in their ornamentation; they’ll just knock your socks off! And Rossi gets so much variety out of the small string ensemble; each aria has its distinct character.

The writing is very compelling; de Rossi really understands the characters. They are not just black and white; they are portrayed with nuance, with humor and contradiction. There’s the impulsiveness of the Prodigal Son, to abandon everything for his liberty — our Prodigal Son, countertenor Gerrod Pagenkopf, does a fantastic job — but then when he gets his freedom you feel that it is already somehow bittersweet.

Rossi is able to convey that complexity of the relationships, I wonder if she, like Gerrod and I are, was the youngest in her family, that she has such a personal empathy with this character. All are drawn so strongly! The role of the brother is a male soprano role, but we decided to have him sung by a woman, and this soprano, Kimberly Moller, thinks the opera should be called “Fratello: the Brother of The Prodigal Son” because she feels her arias are so important! Already, within our crew, we have some tension. [laughs] Julianne Baird, a soprano, sings the role of the mother. It is such a privilege to work with her. And Pablo Bustos is the father. I love working with these singers.

At the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis, where I’m in residence, it’s been a very good place to think about the possibility that de Rossi may have been related to the Jewish composer, Salomone Rossi. We don’t know anything about her life. At first I didn’t understand the Prodigal Son story. I didn’t think it was fair for this kid to get it all. But a Jewish writer told me that the parable portrays a Jewish family. The family unit is so central in the Jewish faith that when the son leaves, the family is broken. So when he comes back, they are not just forgiving him to be nice to him; his return makes the family whole again. That is more important than anything else. Of course that concept transfers to other families and other traditions. It’s universal.

One thing we do know about her: Camilla de Rossi was commissioned to write her oratorios by the Imperial chapel in Vienna, and they were performed there between 1707 and 1710. On the manuscripts, she is called “Romana” — “from Rome,” perhaps? It also says that she wrote the text, the libretto, but there is another setting of the Prodigal Son from that time, by Carlo Cesarini, and it appears that he set the same libretto. Only his manuscript says the text is by Benedetto Pamphili. So, it’s not clear. She set other texts by Pamphili; he was such an influential cultural figure in Rome, with connections to Handel and Alessandro Scarlatti. They are the context for her music.

Handel is in Rome in 1708. I have this hunch that their paths crossed; when you hear this music, you can’t avoiding thinking of that. That’s an important part of putting this in context, hearing it and thinking of where it fits in stylistically.

At speaking of the Jewish family, there is a unique scene at the very end: to celebrate the return of the son, the mother calls for the Musician to sing a song. That character has just this one aria, but it is very special, and it’s one of the longest arias, about five minutes. The music, to me, has a hint of Sephardic flavor. I chose Daniela Tošic for that. She’s perfect for this role. We might not ever find out if Camilla was Jewish, but here is this aria, where the musician is called for, there is this lively rhythm that hasn’t been used in the entire work, plus some melodic intervals that are a little exotic. So I have a surprise for the audience, we are going to do something fun that concert-goers aren’t used to.

I don’t want to give it away.

La Donna Musicale has information about the venues and tickets, and also offers audio of four complete arias from another of Rossi’s oratorios, which the ensemble performed last year.

See related review here.

La Donna Musicale in recent rehearsal (Peter R. Barber photo)

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

Montgomery began with an unmeasured Prelude in a minor (1687). Having no notated rhythms, the music gives the performer freedom, which Montgomery seized. The gestures flowed like harmonious rivulets, building into swift cascades, and even torrents. Grabbing the listeners with its ebb and flow, the piece carried us on a short but tumultuous journey. Next was a Trio Sonata in D Major (1707). Flute and violin were paired as the upper instruments, and the crisp timbre of the violin contrasted with the warm and mellifluous tone of the flute as they exchanged ideas and motives. Jacquet’s music is prone to twists and turns; sometime, approaching a cadence, one feels the building momentum, but then there is a sudden  harmonic twist that delays the arrival of the goal. This results in a sense of playfulness and energy, the whimsy that Montgomery mentioned in her commentary. The driving momentum often is akin to careening or cavorting. Spritely dance figures and unexpected cross- rhythms fill the music with energy and demand perfection in ensemble to bring it off; and this took place with complete confidence.

Violinist Dana Maiben was featured in a Sonata in G major (1707). Maiben’s playing has reached a remarkable artistic apex of style, precision, and energy in execution. Or maybe it has been there all along, but if so I have to kick myself for not having heard her sooner. (I did know about her wonderful recording of Sonatas by Francesca Le Brun). Maiben offered sensitivity to the style, a language full of drama and abrupt changes of mood, a larger-than-life emotional intensity yet interpreted in a nuanced performance. The range of articulations produced in the bowing was part of this, resulting in a vivid speech-like communication, and complete understanding of the poetry of the music. Sarah Mead (viola da gamba) did not always match Maiben’s expressive range of articulation, but there was often warmth in her melodic lines.

The largest work of the program was the cantata, L’Isle de Delos, which concluded the evening. This cantata portrayed a pastoral scene of a beautiful, peaceful island. The movements are illustrations — frolicking shepherds and nymphs, flowing streams and tranquil fields, rustling leaves, singing nightingales, and, finally, a walk with Wisdom (anthropomorphized). Well, what about that island? It doesn’t really matter where it is, or who is the narrator. It is all a lovely meditation.

Janet Youngdahl, soprano, was the featured performer. She had some occasional hesitancy and momentary lapses; upon inquiry, I learned that she had had to cancel two performances over the weekend, due to vocal strain in rehearsal on Friday. Certainly there were weak moments, but also some brilliant and inspired singing. For instance, her “Reign, brilliant Flora!” was a passionate, powerful imperative command. Preceding that passage was a Muzette, evoking the innocence of the shepherds by suggesting bagpipes, and a rustic feel through rolled chords on the viola da gamba. The Air (song) that evoked the flowing water (“our flowing time is as peaceful as the stream”) was placed in a very high register, precarious for the ensemble, but they negotiated it securely. The final Air maintained a rhapsodic freshness, a feeling of spontaneity, even in a contained formal structure.

The program was beautifully balanced and remarkably executed. Jacquet de la Guere is one of those many, many important composers who did not find her way into my music history textbooks back when I took the survey course 30-plus years ago. Fortunately now, that is no longer the case, and we listeners are so fortunate for the exciting change that has happened in the past decades. Jacquet is now recognized as a central figure in French music of the 17^th-18^th centuries. As Montgomery observed, her music is distinct in its inventiveness, whimsy, and style of ornamentation. She suggested that the music offers something distinctly female in its style. Of course, that’s a matter of opinion, but what is true is the trajectory — being such a widely recognized success in her lifetime, then being erased completely from music history and only to be rediscovered with the advent of the women’s movement in the 1980s — that is an experience specific to women composers.

While the RapaporteTreasure Hall (in the library on the Brandeis campus) is a nice size with good acoustic, the stage area was poorly lit, and sight lines are poor (could some platforms be provided to offer a real stage?)

Finally, here’s a disclaimer (which I wrote before hearing the concert). This concert is sponsored by the Women’s Studies Research Center (Brandeis University), where I have been a researcher since its founding (and where two of the musicians are my colleagues). Is this connection going to bias my writing as a review? I would say not, or at least, no more than I am usually biased.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is  here.

About the plot: well, I actually tried drawing myself a chart of the love triangles (were they parallelograms?), which all intersect with Alidoro, the male lead, a wandering painter. The Prologue begins with the pensive (and poverty-stricken) Filosofia (anthropomorphized Philosophy), goaded by the god of Love, Amore, an imperious child who rules the world. La Filosofia was given suitable gravitas by Alyssa Koogler, and Amore, playful innocence by Elise Groves. Amore, who gets the plot rolling (and entangling) is often an onlooker in the opera, but has no more singing.

The title character, Orontea, is the queen of a mythical Egypt, played with regal bearing and power by Jin Kim (Friday night). When we first meet her, she sings with conviction of rejecting love in order to hold on to her freedom and power over her realm. Creonte, a court advisor, offers his wisdom, that her subjects will expect her to marry and produce an heir, but Oreontea is adamant. For about 60 seconds, because then Alidoro enters the scene.

There were many instances when the nine instrumentalists – grouped in the program as “Orontea’s string band” (two violins, cello, and viola da gamba) and “basso continuo” (three harpsichords, a small organ, cello, viola da gamba, and two large lutes), provided an exhilarating range of instrumental color and musical energy. For instance the Sinfonia that began the event (borrowed from composer Marcello Uccelini, but serving aptly as an instrumental overture) featured the two violinists standing on opposite sides of the ensemble so they could toss their melodies back and forth.

Another striking effect was Orontea’s soliloquy, when she realizes that feelings of love are awakening in her. The accompaniment of viola da gamba alone underscores the stark poignancy of the moment. James Williamson was sensitive and virtuosic playing chords, bass line and some countermelody.

In the expressive sung speech of recitative each singer was underscored by his/her own instrumental ensemble, the groups going back and forth in the flexible exchanges and intense debates at which the fluid style of the era was so adept.

A comic showcase was provided by Gelone, the drunken servant. Justin Hicks brought the role both comic timing and a majestic and flexible bass voice. This was one of the singers whom I look forward to hearing again. Tibrino, a male servant (played with vigor by soprano Caitlin Hadeler), is often a counterpart to Gelone, at times clashing with him, in his brash, youthful aggressiveness, but at other times joining in the drunken fun: “To War! To War!” sings Tibrino with his sword raised, and Gelone answers “To Wine! To Wine!”

Another slapstick role is the (ostensive) mother of Alidoro, Aristea. This drag part was played with a gushy flirtatiousness by Ben Katz (Friday night). A strapping, hairy-chested, uh, linebacker (I may be out of my depth with that term), Katz batted his eyelashes, flounced his curls, fingered his lace, sung in a breathy alto and “enjoyed being a (middle-aged) girl.” Well, who wouldn’t?

Back to the love triangles. Silandra (a lady in waiting to Orontea) also falls for Alidoro, although Silandra must then spurn Corindo, a courtier. Silandra (played by Camila Parias, was dramatically sure, but with a cloying voice. Clare McNamara played Corindo with a lushly evocative mezzo (another voice I want to hear again), and over-the-top comic anguish for his/her lovelorn state. The “Cross-Gender Guide” provided by the program was a handy break-down for the who’s who of the line-up.

Giacinta (a woman concealing herself as a man) also falls for Alidoro; soprano Caitlin McCarville was powerful and expressive in this role. It’s all far beyond seeming a bit much when Aristea then falls for Giacinta, and resorts to bribery to get what she wants, she sings “Gold is love’s escort; a golden key opens all doors.” A sentiment that crosses boundaries of time, we might recall it as “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Here in 1656 we see plenty of operatic conventions that are still going strong two centuries later in Gilbert and Sullivan (for instance, pirates as parents; abducted child raised thinking he is someone else; and ridiculing the middle-aged woman, … “There is no uglier monster than an amorous old women” – says Alidoro, in horror, of the woman who has raised him as a mother).

As Alidoro, Brian Gonzalez has some vocal power at mezzo-forte (or more) dynamic level, but was muddy or faltering at other times. It was hard to sense the charisma that makes him so magnetic to three women of the opera. The comic characters ultimately engage in the serious plot, revealing that Alidoro really is of noble birth and thus that he can be a suitable spouse for Orontea, without her needing to lower herself to loving a commoner.

The supertitles were projected on a wall next to the stage, and this had an advantage over the use of computer screens that are often used for this purpose: longer passages of text — several paragraphs — could be put up at a time (as opposed to just a line or two), making it easier for the audience to follow. Without supertitles (would lateraltitles be the literal term in this case?) you would miss the import of the quick banter, the interplay and intense engagement of the characters (I don’t know how we learned to love opera back in Olden Times …).

Over three hours in length, this opera holds ones attention with the fluidity of the musical language and the way the layers upon layers of plot complications do seem to be hurtling towards a joyful ending where everything somehow manages to fall into place.

As conductor and music director (at a harpsichord) Dana Maiben gave the musicians leadership when they needed it and stayed out of the way when they didn’t. Many complex artistic decisions have been made behind the scenes in a work like this; for instance adding the initial Sinfonia was a brilliant stroke, as modern audiences expect some instrumental prelude before the singers enter; only later did I notice that this was not part of the original work. Donna Roll was credited with the mise-en-scene which seemed entirely apt and enhancing the artistic content. One thing I missed was a lengthier program giving notes on all the musicians’ backgrounds (surely there’s an App for that so we can just download them right onto our phone gizmos??).

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

Francesco Cavalli’s La Callisto, with libretto by Giovanni Faustini, was presented by Harvard Early Music Society on December 8th in Harvard’s Farkas Hall on Holyoke Street. Ryaan Ahmed, Music Director, was an adept conductor from the theorbo, and Giselle Ty was the stage director.

Interwoven around this plot are many dramatic conventions. A prologue with anthropomorphized aspects of existence: Nature and Eternity, who welcome the audience, and Destiny, who reveals the ending, that Calisto will be elevated to the heavens, just because she (Destiny) wants it. Diana and Endimione are a secondary love interest, a trio of Satyrs provide comic relief, dance scenes end the first two acts, and a chorus concludes the opera. Despite some mis-steps in the performance, the opera engaged and held attention and is sure to only get better in the next performances.

It was the golden age of recitative: text heightened through the completely nuanced and flexible musical language, the human voice and a sparse basso continuo. Because of its lack of rhythmic regularity, the style is extraordinarily suited to convey both words and emotions. The arias, with fixed rhythmic frameworks, express sayings or observations; but it is in the recitative that the whirl of emotions come through. Certainly there are some duets, but the recitative contains the emotional core of the work, and everyone gets a chance to express themselves through it.

In the demanding title role, Erika Vogel was attractive and sympathetic, and her voice was beautiful, if not always precise in the florid passagework. Giove and his sidekick, Mercurio, are like a couple of frat buddies with their chummy scheme, that Giove disguises himself as Diana to seduce Calisto. Jacob Cooper was excellent as the Giove of weakness and longing — beset by desire, and then, wearing Diana’s dress and singing in a cracked falsetto, as funny as Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot. (Cooper was less convincing as the regal, imposing god; a difficult role after all the comic antics.) I wondered (abstractly) if it might be possible to cast the Diana singer to portray Giove in Diana’s body, so that the audience would see the Giove/Diana that the characters see. That too would have a lot of comic (not to mention erotic) potential, for a singer who could layer artifices of swagger and femininity.

That the ruler of the universe feels no compunction about lying to get what he wants (Mercurio even has an aria praising the value of lying) and has no forethought about the consequences of his actions, just makes him look like so many modern male politicians. Giove remains head of the Gods despite his deceit, and is revered in the last act; Calisto, rather than expressing anger at being tricked, feels only affection for him; well, it’s all a male fantasy, isn’t it?

As Diana, Rachel Gitner had some lovely tones, but no lower register and didn’t seem at home in the Italian language. Leslie Tay conveyed the hapless God Pane (Pan) with comic pathos, but the part was too high for his range. Alexandra Dietrich was compelling both as Natura, in the prologue, and as Linfea, follower of Diana who is questioning her own vow of celibacy. Pane’s satyr sidekicks (Jared Levin as Silvano, and Roselin Osser as Satirino) brought excellent comic energy to their parts as well as vocal adeptness and skilled slapstick physicality: the playful satyr Satirino spies on Diana and Endimione, and tries to persuade Linfea that a boy/goat is what she is looking for in a man. I hope to hear Osser sometime in a more lyrical role.

Endimione — the shepherd/astronomer (shepherd/astronomer?) in love with Diana — was played with sensitivity by Gerrod Pagenkopf, but I wondered if this role could be turned into a comic one. His lamenting and pining for Diana could be pushed to something edgy and madcap, and might be played with a wider range of vocal color. Claire Raphaelson, as Giunone, drew her convincingly as a complex character — frustrated in her unhappy marriage, and realizing that her vengeance on Calisto was an inadequate response. Raphaelson demonstrated expressivity, nuance, and also vocal power, for instance in her aria addressed to all unhappy wives.

Even with its flaws I loved the freshness and intimacy of the production, for instance, seeing the musicians just below the stage, sometimes involved in the drama (as when they added bleating sounds to the satyrs’ antics). The musical ensemble of eight — two harpsichords, two theorbos, vihuela, cello, and two violins — was sometimes thin (not helped by the extremely dry acoustic), and I often wished for more warmth from the bowed strings (I know they are baroque violins, but it seems unwise that vibrato is strictly verboten). The ensemble sometimes produced some real fire, as in the clattering cascade at the entrance of the Furies, who enact Gionone’s revenge on Calisto.

Farkas Hall has been renamed (from New College Hall) so recently that there aren’t any signs yet with the new name. It offers excellent sight lines and an intimate atmosphere (holding 270), and the steep descent of the seating allowed the Gods of the prologue to descend, not via machinery from the heavens, but down the aisle from the back of the audience. One problem was a ventilating system; I actually briefly wondered if it might be a sound effect — rushing wind or crashing waves? Luckily it stopped sometime in act two.

Additional performances are on Dec. 10 at 8 pm and Dec. 11 at 3 pm.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

Kendra Colton (soprano) and Megan Henderson (piano) opened with an exhilarating set of Brahms Lieder. First was Von waldbekränzer Höhe, (From forest-crowned heights); while rousing and energetic, Colton’s tone was a bit edgy and even brassy. My favorite of the set, Es träumte mir (I dreamed), revealed a side of Brahms I didn’t know before, spare and abstract in its expression of heartbreak and grief. Henderson and Colton were absolutely spine-chilling in their powerful yet restrained evocation of this gem.

Also moving was In stiller nacht (In the quiet night) where the voice floated over the shimmering accompaniment. The mood of hushed poignancy was conveyed perfectly by this artistic pair. While the next song, Die Mainacht, also was effective, I couldn’t help but reflect how Fanny Hensel’s setting of this text is superior.

The program included two area premieres. Peter Child’s Finite Infinity set three poems in contrasting but connected sections. Colson and Henderson were joined by Artistic Director Peggy Pearson on the oboe. The first, from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, was vigorous, bold and declamatory. Next, Emily Dickinson’s There is solitude of space used delicate cascading arpeggios in the piano, building in intensity to the word “soul.”

This segued to a poem by the British poet John Clare, All Nature has a Feeling which was a perfect Baroque ritornello form, with motives exchanged between the voice and oboe, the piano keeping the rhythmic drive; the passage of time and the seasons was conveyed with compelling energy, and indeed a sense of unstoppable transcendence. The whole was satisfying and balanced; the performance was flawless.

In the pre-concert discussion, featured composer Melinda Wagner commented (in her unassuming way) on how composers worry about the title of a piece; you want something distinctive, but hoping that people will try and read things into it. Scritch, the title of her piece, was bound to provoke questions. As she explained, it was a word from a children’s book that her father used to read to her. It was the noise the cat made when advancing on the protagonist mouse of one story. And “scritch” became part of the family vocabulary for any alarming or perplexing sound: “What is all that scritching going on!?”

The work was not about a cat and mouse but rather abstract musical ideas, motives, themes and textures – as she described it, a scratchy burlap precedes a smooth satiny texture, and ultimately threads from the two textures are interwoven. The ensemble of oboe plus string quartet served as the basis for much of the interplay – the oboe juxtaposed from the strings in a tumbling interplay, then the instruments coming together (almost with a surprised gasp) in a rhythmic unison. After catching their breath (metaphorically), the musicians continued with a languid melody surrounded by fragments of ideas. This gradually thickened, and the oboe added interjections around the strings. The work had a taut lyricism, and on first hearing it was completely engaging, and certainly a piece I want to hear again – and again. The themes and their development and relationship to each other would be more apparent with repeated listening. Melissa Wagner is a composer of whom I would like to hear more. For instance, has her Pulitzer-Prize winning Concerto for Flute, Strings, and Percussion been played in the Boston area? I know it from a recording, but it would be great to hear it live — or one of her other concertos. Scritch was played with great sensitivity and electricity by the ensemble, including some seasoned area veterans: Pearson, oboe; Gabriela Diaz and Shaw Pong Liu, violins; Wenting Kang, viola; Rafael Popper-Keizer, cello.

Luigi Boccherini is also not programmed enough. I was surprised to learn he wrote over 100 symphonies, but I don’t recall ever hearing one. Whenever I encounter his chamber works, I find them captivating and completely original. The Quintet in C major, op. 28, no. 4, was a showcase for the featured Young Artist, Tony Rymer, on ‘cello. Pearson had arranged this Quintet so that she played the first violin part on oboe, which I found very effective. Rymer, playing the part that Boccherini wrote for himself, was frequently above the oboe as they played the melody in thirds (and the cello also adding some accompaniment with arpeggios on the lower strings). Boccherini was a pioneer in discovering and establishing the capacity of the cello, and Rymer was impressive in his ease and pure panache in this role.

Following the energetic first movement, the Minuetto was elegant and rococo, in an ornamented, graceful style; the Trio section featured the cello in a melancholy mood, followed by the Grave, warmly expressive. While Gabriela Diaz is a remarkable performer, second fiddle is really not the best job for her, as the intensity of her lines and her magnetic presence sometimes overpowered the main melody. The final Rondeau had a bouncy motive with lots of resonant open strings and more opportunities for Rymer to enchant us with his luscious upper range. He is clearly on his way to a stellar career. I was glad that Pearson had warned us about the false ending, so no audience member had to be caught by that trap!

The program ended with a short encore, one of Winsor Music’s “Songs for the Spirit,” commissions to be sung by the congregation of a faith community (as explained by composer Peter Child, and also on the website here,  but performed at this concert by Colton with string quartet and oboe. The Peace Poem After an Ugaritic Inscription was a moving invocation, austere and modal in flavor, and providing a spiritual moment for the conclusion of a wonderful evening of music.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

Derek Bermel’s Thracian Sketches was a compelling performance of material drawn from Bulgarian folk songs, rendered on the solo clarinet. It began with an intimate murmur invoking a sepia-toned nostalgia, and built with momentum driven by the intricate dance rhythms; it was performed with complete virtuosic control by Diane Heffner. But I wondered, to what extent was this a transcription of folk material modified for concert hall performance? Bermel acknowledges his sources in the program, but it seems that he is restating, recasting, rebuilding, but seemingly doing very little that is original.

So that is one problem with the “Dissolving Boundaries” theme: the fusion of genres, the “complete integration at an intrinsic level” (as the program explained) is not always successful, or perhaps the boundaries still remain as boundaries – folk music that is still folk music, rather than transformed into something newly composed music for the concert stage.

Similarly with Dance for solo violin by Theo Loevendie, played with vigor by Gabriela Diaz; the foot-stomping and bell-jingling that the soloist was required to do just seemed a distraction from the demanding, intricate violin playing (which provided enough energy on its own).

If I say the piece for toy piano (East Broadway, by Julia Wolfe) was rather silly, I feel like I’m taking some proffered bait. Surely there needed to be some mention of the pre-recorded audio track that was also part of the piece. Donald Berman performed with fervor.

But the rest of my discussion is of three pieces that I found completely moving and memorable (although each in different ways). Barbara Kolb’s Homage to Keith Jarrett and Gary Burton was the oldest piece on the program, from 1976. It is a successful example of an inspiration by another work, an album by the two Jazz greats that included a piece titled “Grow your own.” While cognoscenti know the reference, surely some in the audience need an explanation that “your own” was marijuana. The piece was more thoughtful than dreamy, Kolb’s reflection on Burton and Jarrett’s improvisation, with room for the two performers to add their own improvisatory layer. Hershman-Tcherepnin’s flute tone was a bit breathy in the lower registers, but she and Robert Schultz (vibraphone) had an expressive ensemble, with nuanced and fluid phrasing. The effect was otherworldly, at times abstract, at others, coursing with momentum.

Gabriela Ortiz Torres’ description of her piece Trifolium was not illuminating. I’m sure one could do a study on how the music is related to the 2002 painting which was her inspiration (and which itself was inspired by a 1618 painting). But nevertheless, I found the piece entirely engaging; Diaz (violin), David Russell (‘cello), and Berman (piano) caught fire, as the three exchanged evocative, spontaneous gestures, gradually building a structure with a motoric rhythm and lyrical interjections, which ultimately expanded to a furious, roiling unison.

David Sanford’s Dogma74 was a revelatory piece, for flute, clarinet, viola (Anne Black), cello, and piano, with Julian Pellicano conducting. Both the title and the names of the movements could have used a bit more explanation, but (again), never mind. It would be nice to know more about the incidents the titles refer to – the scholar in me loves this background – but, really the piece is completely self-sufficient without any overlap of specific ideas or memories. It was entirely electrifying and compelling. In the pre-concert discussion, co-director Yu-Hui Chang had mentioned the piece’s origins in Big Band Jazz, but those elements were subtle. As Sanford mentioned, there was the convention of the sax section having a unison solo, and that was referenced, in the first movement, in the winds and strings coming together in a jagged, angular melody. There were also moments of walking bass that emerged from the piano. But this was within a context of a gradual building of energy, with the five instruments intertwining abstractly, with fragmented bits of motives interlocking and a mournful cello line emerging and leading to the group coalescence. It was highly charged and riveting.

The second movement, “Turner’s Market,” cast a spell like sparse shafts of light, single overlapping tones in a hymn-like solemnity. Out of this emerged a meditative viola solo, followed by a playful, even bouncy passage that then intertwined with the sustained beams of light. The third movement, “20th Street Cafeteria,” was all forward drive and energy, the quick exchanges and interjections then interrupted by a the soulful wail the jazz viola — I was struck by what a perfect jazz instrument the viola can be! — punctuated by the crisp pizzicati of the cello and propulsion of the piano. There was another merging of the instruments, amazing after their freewheeling counterpoint, in a taut, climactic unison, concluding with a dissolving into fragments of melody.

A quibble: I don’t understand is why photography is tolerated during such a concert, surely the snapping and clicking (at least there was no flash) of people with cameras — there were two — is just as distracting as an errant cell phone might be, and at least a cell phone is an accident and is usually quickly silenced by a contrite audience member, while the clicking of the shutterbugs seemed like it might go on indefinitely. If photo shoots are desired, they should be scheduled before or after the performance, or it is also easy enough to have a stationary (i.e. not distracting) video camera from which stills can be extracted. My two cents!

I came away from this concert really excited by hearing Kolb’s, Ortiz’s and Sanford’s music and determined to hear more of their work. One thing I wanted to know was a little more about the history of the ensemble – it is so wonderful that they have been going for 37 seasons – who were the founders and previous directors? What various formats and philosophies have they experimented with? And why the name “Dinosaur Annex?” Well, I looked on their website and it didn’t find answers to those questions, but I did find quite an amazing repository here –“a partial list of works performed by Dinosaur Annex since 1987. Over 470 performances are listed, of which 87 were world premieres, 15 were U.S. premieres, and 130 were Boston premieres.” The range and variety of music they have presented is impressive. While a three-concert season is a modest undertaking, it is important that they have built and maintain a loyal fan base, and that they continue to explore and bring to light composers who are off the beaten path. I feel so grateful for Dinosaur Annex and its co-directors, Sue- Ellen Hershman-Tcherepnin and Yu-Hui Chang for continuing this important work.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

Krista River then joined Eskin for six settings of Dickinson poems by Aaron Copland (1950). River has an understated intensity and clarity of expression as a singer; together the pair easily and gracefully brought these songs to life. The set was varied and balanced. In Nature, the Gentlest Mother, the delicate vocal part was surrounded by polish filigree in the piano; the artists sensitively illuminated the imagery of the poem. There Came a Wild Bugle was suitably bold. The World feels Dusty When we Stop to Die had a limpid melody with a restrained rocking accompaniment. Heart We Will Forget Him was also restrained, spare, and understated in its quiet deliberateness. Going to Heaven, with its cascading motive bounding upstairs, was full of dynamic energy, until its somber ending (but that too was given a playful final flourish).

One might question the function of provided printed text to the audience when the poetry being sung is in English. One might say it shouldn’t be needed – that we should be able to understand the words as sung. But my experience is that, even when sung with both precision and expression, and set so the voice is enhanced rather than overpowered (as were all the case here), I still tend to miss a word or phrase because I listen to the whole, and not just the words. Reading along helps me to keep focus on the words, and also is helpful in giving the big picture of the poem. If we agree on that point, then it is important to make sure that the version of the text being sung is the same as that which is given in print to the audience, and this was not the case. Providing English texts is helpful to the audience, but it is more helpful when the sung version and the version in the program agree.

A visit to the Dickinson house museum in Amherst emphasizes that most of the poet’s works survive in multiple versions, and that deciding on authoritative reading is no small task. Copland set (and River sang) versions of the poems that differed (on occasion) from those distributed to the audience. Hearing that difference brings a moment of confusion, and thus these texts ought to agree, and that complexities in the existence of multiple versions are matters to be addressed in the program notes. These notes (or a spoken comment) also should provide some guidance to the meaning and vocabulary of the poems, which are sometimes quite opaque. (“Hybla balms”? “neigh like Boanerges”? Lil’ help here, please!) The provided note was (in the case of Copland) generic, giving a broad introduction to the composer, rather than specific information. Clearly the notes were written before the details of the program were decided on, which lessened their usefulness.

I’ve gone on at length about this issue, which really was a very minor detail, because it’s a point that often comes up in performances of vocal works. It is a small factor in making a meaningful experience, and it is worth taking the time to make sure that this integrity is attained.

Eskin then performed two delightful solo piano works, Jazzy and Cat and Mouse, by the young Copland (1920). She announced that the next song, by Marion Bauer (1882-1955), might be a premiere, since it is from the library of the McDowell Colony. Bauer is one of the composers whom Eskin has championed in performances and recordings, and this song, Star-Trysts (poem by Thomas Walsh), was indeed a notable discovery. The musical language is not innovative but, rather, timeless. I found myself holding my breath so as not to disturb the perfect peace of the evening scene.

Three more piano works by Bauer followed, the most memorable, Indian Pipes. Eskin had brought an example the plant by that name from her garden, so we could see its delicate white fronds. The piece, however, was one of strong chiseled angularity. I’m not quite sure how a connection to the plant is made, but this was the most modern and adventurous of the Bauer pieces, its bold shifting chord blocks like granite formations, and its angular melodic fragments exchanging and echoing.

Composer Gordon Getty (b. 1934), completely unknown to me, was a welcome discovery; his settings were straightforward and graceful enhancements to the set of five Dickinson poems. In The first day’s night has come, the piano illustrated the onset of compulsive laughter, and expresses the wistful question “Could it be madness – this?” There came a wild bugle was an interesting contrast with the Copland version, since it was a recitative style parlando, underscored with piano outbursts. The final line, “and yet abide the world” is hushed, resigned. The set ended with Beauty crowns me till I die, an evocative lullaby of pure, brief simplicity.

Beach’s Variations on Balkan Themes, Op. 60 (1904) is one of the composers most monumental and weighty works for piano. However this was not the case in the version that Eskin presented on Sunday, concluding the program. Perhaps a different approach was hinted at in her brisk approach to the theme, marked “Adagio malincolico.” Variation II, “Maestoso” was played with brilliance and bravura in its Lisztian flourishes. The piece (which has four themes) then moved into more atmospheric climates, some variations sparkly and shimmering, others more melancholy in the emphasis of harmonic minor. Variation VII picks up with its vigorous Hungarian Rhapsody. Yes, it was gearing up (I thought) – but then Eskin brought the piece to a close with a flourish!  Eskin made this quite convincing and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in the audience to feel surprise and disappointment at only hearing half the piece. An announcement explaining that she would only present a section of the work would have been helpful. From one point of view it does make sense to leave out the funeral march section (too lugubrious for a beautiful Sunday afternoon), and to end with a rollicking (rather than somber) conclusion. Eskin has been a pioneering performer of Beach for many years, and she has recorded this work twice. We can certainly benefit from her ideas for reinterpreting and recasting the work, but I think we just deserved a “heads up.”

Apart from a few details, it was a gorgeous and spirit-lifting afternoon, and I was glad to take in part of Monadnock Festival, which always brings a wealth of interesting programming and quality musicianship.

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.

The concert (repeating on July 27 in Andover and July 28 at Emmanuel Church, Boston) is offering women composers (the specialty of the ensemble) from Italy in the seventeenth and very early eighteenth centuries, in a range of styles, emotions, and levels of intensity. There was also a range of level of familiarity. While all of this music was unknown twenty-five years ago, now Barbara Strozzi and Chiara Maria Cozzalani, while perhaps not household names, are frequently performed, studied and recorded, and La Donna Musicale has played an influential part in bringing about this change. On the other hand, new discoveries and frontiers continue to be explored: a world premiere of a sprightly duet aria by Camilla de Rossi (fl. 1707-1710) was included, and Gutiérrez promises more music by the Rossi in the future (and more information as well; almost nothing is known about her).

The music, both sacred and secular, featured an emphasis on the sensual.  The cloistered life of the nuns, as Gutiérrez suggested in her lively comments, meant that their feelings — of love, sensuality and ecstasy — were channeled into religious devotion via musical expression. Cozzalani’s O quam bonum is over the top in this expression of rapture, almost pornographic in its fetishization of Christ’s wounds and the Virgin Mary’s breasts and milk, conveyed musically through panting exchanges and relentless, driving ostinati. Tošic and Wilson conveyed the white hot heat with vocal intensity, and the ensemble was adept and flexible in the pushes and pulls of tempi.

In Vulnerasti cor meum, by Alba Tressina, Tošic was sultry and evocative.  Occasionally in the duets she had a weak entrance, understandable given that sometimes she had the tessitura of a soprano and others a contralto.   Gutiérrez took the second vocal line with great sensitivity in Tressina’s In nomine Jesu, responding in the exchanges and harmonizing with fluidity.

St. Peter’s Church was a spacious and comfortable venue, resonant and with good sight lines. The traffic outside wasn’t as much of problem as I had feared, just occasionally during quiet moments.  For instance, the final, silenced cadence of Strozzi’s  “I baci” – “bacia e taci!” — “kiss me and fall silent” (or more colloquially, “kiss me and shut up!”), was overpowered by passing traffic.

A solo motet by one Rosa Giacina Badella (O serene pupille) was given as a violin solo by Laura Gulley (with Angelini and Gutiérrez as the responsive, flexible  continuo, as they were throughout the program). Giving the florid virtuosity of some of the middle sections, it worked perfectly as an instrumental work, and Gulley approached slower declamation with real vocal sensitivity. Gulley’s tone has a rich warmth, and she has the grace of a dancer — I love to watch her play as well as hear her.  As she matures her sense of ease and elegance has ripened and deepened.

Violinist Adele Ohki had the lead in Rossi’s Sinfonia con eco (and Gulley was the echo). Ohki’s sound was bright, even edgy, but she was adept and full of sensitive nuance in the charged interplay with Gulley.

A powerful aria from Rossi’s Oratorio Santa Beatrice d’Este concluded the program; it is Handelian in its scope, with a vigorous A section, and a more pensive, solemn B section (with interjections from the A material by the violins), and an impressively ornamented return. Wilson was a sure-footed soprano, agile, crystalline, perfect in diction and emphasis, and with the bearing of an imperious Queen.  Here was music of such grandeur that it ought to be heard in Symphony Hall!

Liane Curtis (Ph.D., Musicology) is Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center, Brandeis University. Her website is here.