Tuesday, December 13, 2016

KEITH PATCHEL'S NEW OPERA PREMIERES AT MEDICINE SHOW THEATRE

Keith Patchel's new opus, The Plain of Jars, based on a novel by the same name, premiered at The Medicine Show Theatre December 10th. This performance was a significant cultural event that should be noticed and honored, if only for the spectacular talent involved in the production that was created from scratch over a 12 day period. If Rossini remarked that it takes "about 21 days to make an opera," making this new work sets a new record. Patchel's work defies classification, as it might be described as a docudrama, musical play, or opera.  Patchel's background as a film composer is evident  as he has created a tapestry where the music flows without interruption, sometimes as the dominant feature and other times as commentary on the scenes of intrigue, exploring the motives of political characters and agents involved in the bombing of Laos during the Vietnam War.

The "Plain of Jars" is a garden-of-eden-like place in Laos that was life sustaining  for Laotians, who led a simple, peaceful life until their homeland was used by the US to test new weapons and bombing strategies during the Vietnam War.

Besides the Laotians, the cast of characters includes JFK, played by Robert E. Turner, Nixon, portrayed by Timothy McCown Reynolds, LBJ acted by Jon L. Peacock, and Henry Kissinger, depicted by John Hayden. Patchel's treatment of the characters satirizes them in the light of their criminal and covert actions, with the exception of Kennedy regarded as the hope of change for the direction for the country. Turner's stately and passionate enactment of JFK provided a stark contrast to the political trio who plot the death of Kennedy. In addition to the rich diversity of these characters, two CIA cohorts (played by Sayaka Aiba and Clare Francesca) add to the scheming and deceit, playing a critical role in persuading the politicians to use the Vietnam War to test new weapons.

The Laotians are performed by Sayaka Aiba, Clare Francesca, Jialin Li, and Xi Yang, and their opening scene of the tranquility of the Laotian natives was serenely projected with their melodic lines interweaving and overlapping, shimmeringly mystical. 

The scene shifts to the White House with JFK and the political trio in which the killing of Kennedy to prevent the withdrawal of US troops from Vietnam establishes the symbolic presence of his spirit. Patchel's conception of having JFK portrayed an an African American is an inspired gesture and Robert E. Turner brings a sense of dignity and destiny to the role. It stands in stark contrast to a CIA-directed White House and State Department intent on using the "falling domino" theory as an excuse for the war.

The trio of conspirators, provided a bitingly satirical commentary, and each actor emerged sharply etched as a caricature deeply embedded in a personal grasp of the demeanor and rhetoric of politicians caught in the web of their own deceit. Timothy McCown Reynolds was brilliant in capturing the expressions and blustering mannerisms of Nixon. John Hayden's Kissinger was covertly evil in his quest for power and posterity, a stunning range of characterization. LBJ was indeed "with heavy heart" as possibly the most powerful and reckless of the trio, but traumatized by the enormity of his transgressions against America and Vietnam. Vietnam was a force that spiraled out of control and each response only made matters worse. Peacock's characterization was accurate, revealing a troubled LBJ who could not overcome his own tragic flaws.

There are two extraordinary scenes that seem to transcend the structure: a "Death Dance" danced by Robert Turner, Cantata Fan, and Sayaka Aiba, an eloquent gesture mourning the death of Laotians. This was a powerful moment, abstract but also immediate and irrevocable.

The concluding scene of the opera is the final aria of Gaia (Yang Xi), a powerful apotheosis of the Laotian pride whose survival in the world exacts a justice, a redemption for having endured the slaughter of innocence. The pride and purity of the Laotians remain untouched. The aria begins in the symbolic demise of Kissinger, Nixon and LBJ entombed in the giant Jars of the Plains. The music celebrates triumph of Laotians over evil. In many ways, the structure of the work is a series of climaxes, each surpassing the previous. Yang Xi's musical sensibility and strength of interpretive expression uses her remarkable voice to shape each nuance and climax demanded in this powerful and expressive aria.

Patchel's music unfolds as a continuous tapestry of sound embellished by live instruments performed by Kento Iwazaki (Koto), Cantata Fan (Pipa), Alan Gruber (violin), and the keyboard manned by the composer. Their presence as a substantive texture, provided an unfolding spontaneity.

Adding to the ambiance of the evening was the wonderful set created by Alexis Kandra, simple, but enriched with the nuance of an primeval space invaded by the technology of 20th Century war... the giant jars on the Plains ultimately serving to entomb Kissinger, Nixon, and Johnson, indicted for their crimes against humanity.

A highlight that must be noted is Clara Francesca's solo "This is the only war we've got..." Her performance was powerful, Brechtian, yet bitterly poignant, confirming the opera's pervasive tone as satire. Perhaps the strength of libretto is the tension between the gentle presence of the Laotians and the sharp, caustic satire enacted with such brilliant individuality by Reynolds, Peacock and Hayden. 

The Plain of Jars theatrical premiere created an unforgettable quality for New York City on December 10, and 11 by bringing to our attention a regrettable and shameful time in American history.  The opera focuses on the violence in Vietnam and the culpability of the United States. Even though video footage of the bombing and violence in Laos was included in scenes, the libretto did not explore the atmosphere in this country that was violent, explosive and cruel, with riots, demonstrations and killings of innocent protestors.

Patchel is to be commended on creating a work that reminds us that Time does not erase such moments, but elevates them to renewed significance as we discover new meaning ifrom events of the past.




Sunday, September 11, 2016

SEVEN FOR NINE ELEVEN

Songs of Sorrow,
      Songs of Hope

       Seven for Nine Eleven

                I.

September morning---
 Clear and calm …
 Streaking, screaming jets
 Collide with the crisp serenity,
 Crushing the dreams of thousands
 Of world citizens
 In one prolonged
 Agonizing instant---
 Altering perceptions and events
 In a tangle
 Of terror,
 Toppling towers,
 And barbaric entombment

              II.

 All the fallen heroes
 Rushing to rescue
 Innocent victims of violence…
 Trapped between their selfless bravery
 And fanatic hatred
 Focused on annihilation
 Of all hope and happiness…

Gone in the momentous collapse
 Of monuments and unsung miracles…
 All the fallen heroes,
 Mourned and remembered,
 Forevermore.

             III.

Bewildered with rage 
 And weeping,
 We gather and huddle
 In streets and parks,
 Embracing strangers, 
 Posting our private grief
 On walls and chain-link fences…
 Coming together in the spirit 
 Of ourselves
 As though this magnitude
 Of love
 Could stifle and smother
 The animosity,
 The atrocity,
 That has befallen us.

            IV.

Weep, world…
 Many lost their lives today.

Weep for clashing cultures
 Exploding on the world.
 The eleventh of September
 Collides with human destiny…
 Ending all innocence
 And immunity.

Weep, world,
 Weep in sorrow…
 Many lost their lives today…
 Yet, beneath the smoldering debris,
 A new spirit struggles to erupt.
              V.

 A fragile experiment,
 Begun in a time
 When humanity defied tyranny
 And sought a sanctuary
 Of liberty…

Once begun,
 There was no assurance
 It would survive…

Even now
 Tyrants and barbarians
 Threaten the frangible frame of freedom.

             VI.

 We will not die---
 There is a gentle presence
 That gathers strength 
 In our awareness---
 Through all the adversity,
 Through all the tears,
 Through all that perished
 On that frail September day,
 We find the substance
 Of ourselves
 Embedded in all who have gone
 Before us…
 Grasping intangible threads 
 Binding us...  
 
            VII.

 Celebrate the loved ones
 We have lost…
 Celebrate the right to sing
 Of one another…
 Cherish the links
 Connecting us…
 To dare to dream,
 To seek to hope,
 To make festivals
 Of images and sounds
 Leaping like magic
 Across an electric consciousness
 Like shooting stars
 Across the cosmos 
 Confronting chaos 
 With the simple song of ourselves.

© Copyright John Gilbert, September 12, 2011, 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Monday, September 05, 2016

AUTUMN IN NEW YORK--- A YEAR LATER

September, another Autumn in New York. Jerome had started walking north from Washington Square Park. He had started around 4 p.m. after meeting his friend George in the park. They sat in the park where George had seen his "butterfly girl"and the whole experience seem as vivid as a year ago when he became obsessed about finding her. Suddenly seeing her at the ferry had bolstered George's spirits, but his hopes were dashed when he saw her on the dock as the ferry was pulling away. So near and yet never meeting.

Jerome felt George's angst. George could not let go of the vision of the stranger in the park as a butterfly flew around her head and landed as if by command on the book the woman was reading. He felt that karma had teased him and cheated him.

Jerome found himself in Chelsea and suddenly felt a tinge of Déjà vu. A year ago he had walked this area, strains of Autumn in New York playing in his head:
Glimmering crowds
And shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They're making me feel, I'm home...
But this year it was different. There was no celebrating of first-nighting--- only the bittersweet feeling of joys past and emptiness ahead. No more renaissances he thought... You've gone to the well too often, and now Time betrays you.

Even so, there were new melodies that lingered, and lyrics that tried to penetrate the hard veneer that clung to him. For Jerome, September was always the end and the beginning.
Autumn in New York
Is often mingled with pain
Jerome felt the pain. That was the yin and yang of September, the sad/happy, bitter/sweet reservoir of feeling and perception, the ultimate quest that gave him the energy to overcome impediments to his work. 

His work. What was that exactly? Some cryptic destiny. He could think of his action only as process, a means of engaging Time to make something tangible, authentic...wonderful. It could be anything, as long as it was wrought from emptiness of Time and Space and placed in the continuum of so-called reality, whatever that is. It could be a poem, music, painting, a chair, a feast, an equation, a story, or just anything that might be pulled from the empty terrain through an encounter with Time. Something created in and through Time became something substantive, something that might endure, a somethingness as opposed to nothingness.

There had been decades of triumphs and defeats. His road was always rough, with terrain that at times seemed impassible. He felt the despair of emptiness, and wondered if the Muse had deserted him. In some ways, his life had been in pursuit of THE MUSE. He remembered the many lost works as the result of such carelessness and disregard for history. Now decades had passed, and his sense of loss overwhelmed him into silence.
Not this far. . .I never knew I would surviveBeyond a barrierSelf conceived and self imposedSo long agoThat empty pages found a wayTo mock my delusion,Imitating the nothingnessOf anticipated emptiness.Now these words . . .I never knew I could reviveAn unknown continentRemembered, yet emergingSo far awayThat silent chambers now resoundTo shape a new perception,Celebrating the resonance . . .Restoring such abundant songs!
Now as he walked north the Chelsea, the creative energy seemed to drain from him, and he was confronted by a sense of doom. The very thought of impending disaster seemed too melodramatic for him. He knew that he just needed to engage. But he also was plagued by the fear that his mental capacity would dissolve into anonymity... a new malady of the twenty-first century. He smiled as he thought whatever work might survive would be anonymous.