Blier's Blog

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February 9, 2012
My living room has turned into a hormonal hive of Kinsey-esque creativity, as we work on A Modern Person's Guide to Hooking Up and Breaking Up. The comic stuff is a riot--no surprises there--but the show is even richer than I had imagined; since almost everyone in the room is either married or engaged (including me), the cast is bringing a depth of experience and emotion to the songs that I was not anticipating. There are some pretty kinetic people in the room, and I'll probably have to buy my downstairs neighbors some chocolates because of all the choreo....Now, if we just don't get banned in Boston....

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December 28, 2011
I just read of Martin Isepp's death. He was a teacher of mine at a crucial moment in my life. When I was 20, I enrolled in the extension division at Juilliard to work with him (at the insistence of Matthew Epstein). Martin helped to tune my ear, he boosted my confidence, he showed me what a professional collaborative pianist did, and thought about, and knew—and gave. He helped me a great deal and I have always been grateful to him. Requiescat, Martin. May Victoria de los Angeles and Margaret Price serenade you in Heaven.

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November 16, 2011
We had a beautiful show last night in Maryland. As always, I want to steal that Gildenhorn Hall at University of Maryland; it's a perfect place to do song and New York unfortunately doesn't have anything like it. We had a very good house and they seemed utterly fascinated with the program. Pretty good laughers: superlative listeners.

I have such powerful feelings about Manning the Canon and the four guys in the cast. I've known each of them for a while now and I feel as if I've watched them step into in their adulthood before my very eyes. We all know each other's strengths and passions, we are gently aware of each other's fears and vulnerabilities. I really love those guys with all my heart.

My favorite moment—among many—was the big laugh we got in "You're the Top" on "You're Camembert!" I took a little stretch in the tempo so Jesse could really lean into Scott's armpit and ostentatiously demonstrate his ecstasy to the audience. As I mentioned…I invented that bit of 'ography. (I am good with an armpit.)

I always wonder if Manning the Canon will work its magic on straight people. Wonder no longer, Steve: it did last night. There were a few enclaves of gay guys (and a few gay women) in the audience but we were not preaching to the choir in Maryland. At the end of the show, two elderly ladies made a beeline for me. "We just wanted to say… that…. was…. AMAZING. I've never seen your group before….and that was….one of the most AMAZING evenings of song I ever heard." Two more satisfied customers, and not the ones I was expecting.

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November 10, 2011
No sooner is one concert over than all other projects come flooding in. I had about 8 minutes of calm after In the Memory Palace before reality hit me: A Goyishe Christmas to You! (our December show) and Invitation to the Dance (the Juilliard program, due to hit the boards in January) needed to be finished. And Manning the Canon was just about to go into rehearsal—a revival with one new song and one new cast member, and yikes, I haven't touched the music in a year.

I'll skip the ulcer-inducing 12-day interval and cut to the golden present: Goyishe and Invitation are pretty much programmed, and Manning the Canon is falling back into place. The gnarly spots in the music that kicked my ass last time are kicking my ass again, only not as hard. And the guys in that show are a collaborator's dream: beautiful musicians, and men with the kind of spirits that make you think there might be a god after all. I've known Jesse Blumberg for a long time, and I've always loved the guy. But at our rehearsal the other day—as we worked up our Britten and Tchaikovsky again—I felt that we'd become one musical entity, one expressive being. We even screwed up at the same time.

Matt Boehler is a force of nature, sort of a benign tsunami; Scott Murphree sings Poulenc and Saint-Saëns exactly the way I hear them in my head—an uncannily intimate experience; and Tim McDevitt, the new guy, already knows the moves for the ensemble pieces better than the guys who created what we call the "'ography." He is rapidly taking possession of his solo pieces, which are going to fly high. Since Jesse and Scott haven't rehearsed together yet, I haven't yet seen my favorite moment—the 'ography for the lyric "You're Camembert!" in Cole Porter's "You're the Top." (That bit is mine. Maybe I shouldn't be admitting this.)

Cole Porter, "You're the Top": You're an O'Neill drama, You're Whistler's mama, You're Camembert!

Friday night we're doing a workthrough of the whole concert and then cooking dinner together. The Friday cast dinner is by now a tradition with this show. I haven't told Tim about the hazing ceremonies we have for new cast members. I'm sure he'll be fine. He's young.

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October 26, 2011
I shouldn't have been surprised at the power of In the Memory Palace—but I was. The quattro staggioni effect of four song cycles, each of them intense and utterly different from one another, worked even more magic than I had expected. The beauty of not being especially confident is that good experiences still fill me with wonder and joy. Tuesday's concert was such an experience—a wonderful evening where everything worked like gangbusters. Michelle, Becca Jo, Paul, Andy: American originals, brilliantly gifted vocalists, sublime ensemble artists. And Michael played like an angel/demon. Best of all, Gabe Kahane's cycle swept everyone away; every singer I spoke to afterwards said, "OK, I want those songs."

Rinse and repeat tomorrow....

Memory Palace cast after the dress at Merkin Hall: Michael, Becca, Andy, Steve, Michelle, and Paul

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October 24, 2011
Moving to Merkin from our Washington venue was a bit like going from dating Twiggy to dating Gina Lollabrigida. Our Washington space was a Bombay martini; Merkin is graciously reverberant, and it sure LOVES the piano. We spent a pleasant afternoon adjusting to the new (but by now familiar) acoustics—both its challenges and its possibilities. Everyone is trying to bleach out those last "ring around the collar" moments in the show, the tiny errors that refuse to listen to reason. The quartets sound so beautiful at Merkin, and the cast is starting to take up permanent residence in their solo cycles.

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October 23, 2011
It sounds simple: you leave town to make music in another locale, and then you come home. But touring is seldom a bed of roses, and this bed was unusually thorny. Dramas abounded. When we got to Union Station in Washington on Friday night, our specially pre-ordered cab (with a ramp for my wheelchair) had blithely loaded another passenger (without a wheelchair). Off they went, leaving us stranded at the train station. The driver worked for Royal Cabs, who seem to have gotten their idea of Royalty from Henry the Eighth, i.e. they screw whomever they want. After some heated negotiation, the dispatcher condescended to send the driver back after he had dropped off the interloper; two hours later, he showed up. We drove into town in silence as he took us to the wrong address. Finally disgorging two very tired angry guys at the Westin Georgetown, he burst out with, "You're LUCKY I came back for you! I wasn't GOING to!" Just as I was about to lace him with some choice Big Apple invective, I managed to locate what I call my Inner Flicka (Frederica von Stade's nickname). Flicka is among the gentlest and most forgiving people I know, and if I can summon up her spirit in time, I manage to avoid epic pissing matches that I cannot win. What would Flicka do? She'd say a prayer for him. I couldn't quite summon that up, but at least I kept my mouth shut.

The people that ran the performance space were the exact opposite of my cab driver the day before: meticulous about their jobs. The hall was one of those black-boxy places where the crew always tells you within the first 45 seconds, "Oh, it's a bit dry for the performer but we assure you the sound out front is crystal clear." This is a bit like telling someone that no one else will feel their bee sting—comforting, but irrelevant in the moment. Michael's piano had a big, brave sound. Mine was more like a Wellesley sophomore: sweet, elegant, not forceful, cultured. I quietly gave up the idea of colorful climactic phrases and geared myself to the Barricini version of my songs.

We all had our meet-your-maker moments Saturday night, and I was in a fine lather by the end of the performance. I have one need before I walk onstage: I must play through all of my songs. But between one thing and another (including the need to tune two pianos, a Q&A session with four very bright voice students, and the auspices's decision to open the house 45 minutes before showtime), I didn't get my warmup. I had gotten caught between extremes of callous incompetence on Friday and OCD-ish efficiency on Saturday. The good news? In spite of it all, it was crystal clear that "In the Memory Palace" is a first-rate NYFOS show, great songs, great performers, great sequencing. Gabe Kahane's cycle grabbed the audience's heart. Frank Bridge astonished, Granados detonated, Villa-Lobos seduced. On the way to the restaurant after the show a guy drove up, came to a screeching halt in front of us, jumped out of his car, and yelled, "I LOVE THOSE GABE KAHANE SONGS! THEY'RE GREAT! THANK YOU!"

Mission accomplished. Glad to be out of the space capsule and back on the earth again.

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October 19, 2011
Today is my late father's 100th birthday. One of the cast members took his photograph down from my windowsill and put it on my coffeetable—the Danish Modern one I inherited from him. It gave my dad a ringside seat for the six-plus hours of rehearsal today, and I think he enjoyed it. I mean, he was grinning throughout the whole day. Of course, he's been smiling like that since the picture was snapped in 1956.

He had a lot to grin about. The cast is doing sensational work, and I am in love with the music for next week's concert. There is always a horrible interval between the optimism of conceiving the program and the first few days of working on the concert. During that six-week period I always think I have created a monster. I go through all of the Kubler-Ross stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance—acceptance that I am preparing a latke, a flat tire, a root canal of a concert. Then the cast walks in and starts singing the songs we sent them, and I am amazed at how beautiful the music is, especially in their hands. This drama is so predictable that by now I pay it no mind, but I have never lost the wonder of hearing the birth of the show. "In the Memory Palace" is so arrestingly lovely and fascinating; I am grateful to all the composers and all the singers.

Above: Steven's dad, still smiling

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October 17, 2011
A recent NYFOS tradition: the roadside display of personalized mugs for rehearsals at my place. I spend too much time thinking about who gets assigned which color.

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October 16, 2011
As I get ready to rehearse Granados's Tonadillas, I've been tempted to listen compulsively to other performances of them—I have about six recordings on my iPod. But I realized that rather than torture myself hearing de los Angeles and Gerald Moore for the ninetieth time, I'd do better to spend that time slugging it out at the piano myself. After all, I've known those recordings since I was about 12 years old and they're already embedded on my internal hard drive. What I'd rather hear, of course, is their out-takes, the wrong notes, the phrases that needed to be re-done, the curse words they spat out when they screwed up. That would be comforting! And educational.

Lacking that stimulation, I embarked on a high-minded course of cultural enrichment. I admit that this happened by chance: at a recent used-CD sale I picked up a recording of the Beaux Arts Trio playing Turina and Granados. The Turina piece was lovely, and absolutely what I expected: a gorgeous sound track of picturesque Españolitude, full of flair and charm. Musical paella. But the Granados—what a shock. It starts out with a riff that sound like the love-child of Keith Jarrett and Philip Glass, and goes on to evoke the beauty of Brahms leavened with of the sweet transparency of Fauré. The Tonadillas are pure Madrid, and they're sublime. But this piano trio is like getting on a plane with Granados and having dinner with him all over Europe—in the best restaurants.

I'd written in the program note about the Goya paintings that inspired Granados to write the Tonadillas, so after I'd busted my knuckles on them for a while I decided I'd earned a cup of tea and 10 minutes of web surfing. I found my way to the Frick Museum site where they had posted a brush-and-ink drawing called "A Fight." Two people are brawling in the background, maybe two women but maybe a man and a woman; in the foreground a Spanish dandy, a majo, is also sprawled on the floor—but he's laughing at them.

When I went back to the piano, with my mind full of Keith Jarrett and angry Spaniards wrestling like crazy people, the Tonadillas started to fall under my fingers pretty easily. Bless caffeine, the internet, and m'man Granados. The link > www.frick.org

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September 23, 2011
I had a revelation yesterday afternoon that may surprise you. It certainly surprised me. To be a good citizen, I went up to Caramoor for the afternoon. They were giving a special concert honoring their four mentoring programs, and since I am the artistic director of one of them, the Vocal Rising Stars, I felt I should make an appearance. The surprise? I was completely swept away by the beauty and power of the music—songs and chamber music by Clara and Robert Schumann, Johannes Brahms.

Because of my line of work, I get to/have to listen to lots and lots of live singing. Eventually all the different places I hear vocal music start to blend together, and the distinctions between coachings, rehearsals, auditions, and performances by students or superstars get quite blurry. My unguarded (and mercifully unspoken) reaction to Anna Netrebko's first aria at the Met's dress rehearsal of Anna Bolena was, "OK, wow, there’s lots to work on, so let's start again from the recit...."

Yesterday’s concert was an unexpected gift. It transported me back to the magical way I heard music when I was a kid. I have to confess that I wasn't able to silence my mental chatter during the one vocal piece, much as I enjoyed it. My inner coach was on the sidelines all the way through Schumann's "Spanisches Liebeslieder," listening for vowel choices, monitoring breath support, evaluating acting choices and tempi. The only “off button” for that seems to involve the consumption of several alcoholic beverages.

But when the instrumentalists offered the chamber pieces, I went to another world. Those players set me on fire—the Linden Quartet, violinist Benjamin Beilman, cellist Alice Yoo, and especially the pianist Roman Rabinovich who seems to wed the emotional depth of Rudolf Serkin with the gorgeous fantasy of Bill Evans. I was reminded of something I didn't even realize I'd forgotten: the intense beauty of hearing music performed live. I remembered what a miracle it is to touch a piano, draw a bow across a string—and in the process heal souls. People often talk excitedly about going to concerts to “see people take risks.” That kind of daring has little interest for me—once I’m aware a musician is taking a risk, I lose track of the music and start obsessing about how brave or foolhardy or egomaniacal the performer is. All I want is to be drawn forcibly into the current of the music, to take artistic communion with the musicians, the audience, and the composer, to go to my inner Woodstock. Yesterday I got to do just that—and now I’m fired up for my own season of concerts. What a beautiful way to start the Jewish New Year.