Life and death in the Third Reich

Kaiser Überall in his bunker in The Emperor of Atlantis.

Okay, folks - this one is important.

If you care about twentieth-century opera (or opera in general); if you care about Jewish history and the Holocaust; if you care about World War II; hell, if you care about the old "human spirit," then you must see Viktor Ullmann’s The Emperor of Atlantis, which is currently holding court in a mostly brilliant production from Boston Lyric Opera, only through this weekend at the Calderwood Pavilion.

The big news here is simply the opera itself, which feels like an incredible discovery.  Even though most opera buffs have at least heard of it, few have seen or heard it (myself included) - due to its short length, fragmentary nature, and curiously whimsical tone, it has rarely been seen in the United States, or indeed anywhere.

Yet it's certainly one of the major cultural documents of the Holocaust, and perhaps one of the major operas of the twentieth century.  I know, I know - you think I'm hyperventilating.  Just go see it and then tell me I'm hyperventilating.  (I don't think you will.) [Update - unfortunately, the production has completely sold out.]

First, though, a warning - you may want to come late.  As if the first New England production of this rarity wasn't challenge enough, BLO has also commissioned a companion piece to fill out a full evening of performance (Emperor reigns for only about an hour). The idea - a very worthy one - was to add to the marketability of the opera by creating a handy companion piece for it.

But alas, the evening's prologue, Harvard composer Richard Beaudoin's "The After-Image," though pleasant enough in an earnest way, is a bit attenuated and tedious. The piece is a meditation on the meaning of a photograph, and as it's based on texts from Rilke and Rückert, it hints (or half-hints) at all sorts of intriguing intellectual issues regarding history and the transmission of meaning. But somehow this "tableau for two voices" never quite coheres; if you can imagine Susan Sontag warbling along to the Quartet for the End of Time,  you've got roughly the idea. And things weren't helped much by silly performance art flourishes from director David Schweizer that obscured, rather than illuminated, the overall arc of the evening.

Still, I suppose there's no use crying over spilt Rilke, and once the far-more-robust opera proper gets going, everything is suddenly imbued with the strange fire of a wild poem written in one's last hour, in which one attempts desperately to convey everything one knows about life and love before the final curtain falls.  That sense of poetic urgency is so palpable because the composers of The Emperor of Atlantis were, indeed, facing annihilation: Ullmann and his libettrist, Petr Kien, composed it from behind the barbed wire of the Terezín concentration camp, which was the "showplace" of the Nazi work camps (designed to fool the Red Cross into believing the camps were habitable). At one time four concert groups operated within the walls of Terezín, and Ullmann composed some twenty works during his time there; he never saw Emperor of Atlantis performed, however. Sensing its piercing allegory, the authorities shut it down during rehearsals, and Ullmann and Kien were soon transported to Auschwitz, where they were quickly murdered.

The dance of death in Emperor of Atlantis.

This was the official reaction to the brilliant allegory at the heart of Kien's witty book, in which the mad Kaiser Überall (that's him up top, mustache, epaulets and all) has declared a war to end all wars - indeed, its only real purpose is to kill every single person on the planet.   The carnage becomes so great, however, that Death himself is affronted, feeling he is being treated like a kind of mechanical lackey - and soon he's on strike, leaving the Emperor practically apoplectic as more and more people are unable to expire on schedule.  Executions grind to a halt - they're pointless - and on the battlefield, soldiers lay down their useless weapons and begin to sing to each other of love.  Clearly this can't go on; but Death only relents, and agrees to pick up his scythe, on one condition - that the Kaiser be the first to fall to it.

You appreciate immediately, I imagine, the genius of the libretto.  And Ullmann's music is barely a step behind; perhaps it's a pastiche, but what a pastiche - in Atlantis, snatches of Weimar cabaret bump into “Deutschland, Deutschland, Über Alles,” bits of Bach, and even a melancholy reworking of "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" (that most Germanic of hymns), as the Grim Reaper returns to his work.  The ironic mood reaches its highest, sweetest peak in the lovely aria granted to the Kaiser at his death - it's really the most beautiful music in the entire opera.  And at moments like this The Emperor of Atlantis seems to sail beyond the normal bounds of irony and into some sublime new sphere - this is irony that can break your heart; the humanity of Ullmann and Kien's conception - their almost whimsical portrayal of their own killers - stands as one of the noblest artistic gestures of all time.

All this found its fullest form (and force) in a galvanic central performance by Kevin Burdette as Death (combined in this version with the associated role of "The Loudspeaker"). Burdette is blessed with both a commanding bass and hilarious comic chops, and in this dazzlingly manic tour de force, he seemed at times to all but personify the opera. Almost as good were baritone Andrew Wilkowske (another inspired clown with a great voice) as the Emperor and tenor John Mac Master (above, with Burdette) as a harlequin who's nearly as bitter about how things are going as the big guy himself.

Director David Schweizer seemed to recover his sense of humor after the languors of "The After-Image," and generally delivered a defiantly witty take on the opera's action, although at times the staging was a bit generically Regietheater-esque.  At other moments, however - as in the funereal finale - Schweizer delivered delicately haunting moods and imagery. Designer Caleb Wertenbaker's set (left) was a grand post-industrial wasteland littered with technological junk, while the talented Nancy Leary's imaginative costumes evoked something of the desperation of life in Terezín (both Death and the Harlequin sported accessories made of barbed wire).   This, actually, was one of the few moments in which the production referenced the Holocaust concretely - something I felt it could have done more often; how even more piercing this gallant piece of modernism might have seemed! Then again, perhaps some distance on the work is what's required; otherwise this particular testament to humanity could be almost overwhelming.

Il ritorno d'Ulisse in puppetry

Ulysses takes down the suitors who would have Penelope's hand in The Return of Ulysses.

As I took my seat at the Cyclorama last weekend to take in Bread and Puppet's version of Claudio Monteverdi's The Return of Ulysses (original title: Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria) I knew I was about to witness a car crash. For Peter Schumann, the shaggy guru of Bread and Puppet, is all about "cheap art." But Claudio Monteverdi, the guy who practically invented opera, was all about (shall we say) expensive art. Think of Schumann, and you imagine brass bands in the great outdoors. Think of Monteverdi, and you hear chamber music - or even sacred music. Schumann - broad. Monteverdi - subtle. Schumann - protest. Monteverdi - acceptance. You can't get further apart than these two auteurs.

But if I expected a car crash, what I got was a train wreck. Schumann did exactly the opposite of what he should have done, IMHO - he didn't really listen to Monteverdi at all, or even pay attention to the themes of his source. For the story of The Odyssey should have proven fascinating new terrain for the crunchy Bread and Puppeteers. It is, after all, a tale of the re-integration of the military man back into domestic society - even back into the marriage bed (fighting all the way, btw).

But how does a grizzled war protester even begin to treat the humanization of his longtime nemesis? Well, I guess he doesn't. Instead, Schumann tried to yoke Ulysses to our current egregious misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan. The calmly rendered scenes of slaughter of the local populace by American soldiers (with audio drawn from Wikileak-ed tapes of the conflict) were indeed chilling in their deadpan jargon and banality. But their connection to the tale of Ulysses was, at best, oblique. And the imposition of a brass band onto Monteverdi's delicate score - well, of this let no more be said; aside from a few appropriately raucous blares, instrumentally the piece was a defiant disaster. The soloists were a bit better, but were clearly stretched beyond their limits (and the dreadful acoustics of the Cyclorama did nobody any favors). Surprisingly, however, the choruses came off rather well - largely thanks to the direction of the unbelievably versatile Greg Corbino (who also sang and played trumpet and accordion). The choruses weren't polished, mind you, but had a rough lyricism that gave a hint of what a Bread and Puppet/Claudio Monteverdi mash-up might have been like if Schumann had made a more honest attempt at one.

Still, despite everything, the evening had its moments; some of the choreography was striking, and Schumann's gigantic puppets often did their familiar magic. (This time around, Schumann not only cribbed from Egon Schiele but also from Picasso, who seemed to have provided inspiration for Minerva, Ulysses's ship, and other masks and props.)

As usual, I left Bread and Puppet wishing I'd liked the show more, and musing in puzzlement over the troupe's cult. It is of course only smug to smile at B&P's passion, which I don't think has had much of any political effect since the 60's. Their protests may be a lost cause, but then almost all the best causes are lost causes, aren't they. Schumann's essential problem, it seems to me, is that the very political situation that fuels his outrage - America's dismaying ability to wage foreign war while maintaining domestic peace - also renders him politically impotent. Only when the draft was on - that is, when our warmongering touched the heartland itself - did Bread and Puppet have political traction. Which is a situation the worldly Monteverdi, I think, would have understood perfectly.

From Berlin with love

The Philharmonia Quartett Berlin (at left) really needs no introduction, given the orchestra referenced by its name - these are four players on holiday from what is probably the best (and certainly the most prestigious) symphony on the planet.  Be that as it may, however, they're still orchestra players - who are often known more for sublime craft than for electricity or passion.

Which isn't to say the Philharmonia only colored within the lines at their Celebrity Series concert last weekend (their Boston debut) - they just rarely let rip.  But at the same time, they undemonstratively demonstrated something far more than craftsmanship (even far more than the finest craftsmanship).  Their readings of the Shostakovich Quartet No. 13, Beethoven's "Razumovsky" and Schubert's "Death and the Maiden" revealed superb insight and an unfailing musical intelligence.  I'm glad I heard them. But at least until the Schubert,  a sense of over-arching musical meaning often eluded these expert players, perhaps because they seemed to prefer attention to detail to construction of a grand statement.  Having shed their conductor (these days the erstwhile Simon Rattle), you sometimes got the feeling they still needed one.

The Shostakovich quartet - a late one - proved most problematic.  In it the Russian master faces death squarely, like Beckett, and without illusion or even hope; still,  despite its bracing honesty, the piece clearly is keening at times - other moments come off as paroxysms of sheer terror - and the composer's characteristic wicked scratch still has a little life left in it.  Even more to the point, the quartet closes with a seeming scream, and then a few clock-like ticks: the last seconds of life are dripping out.  Yet the Philharmonia's studious approach seemed to bring out every facet of the work without conveying either its grief or its sense of bitter acceptance; thus it was absorbing as a musical demonstration without being gripping as drama.

Better was the Beethoven "Razumovsky" - even though again the Philharmonia's devotion to detail seemed to undo the kind of impression the piece can make in other hands.  But to be fair, this time the problem lies right in the music: the "Razumovsky" seems to steadily pose brilliant, even grand, ideas, only to diminish them, even fritter them away - and the Philharmonics (that's what I'll call them from now on) refused to fudge on that; they followed Beethoven's instructions to the letter.

The best, fortunately, was yet to come: the famous Andante con moto of "Death and the Maiden" was just about everything it should be: sublimely lyrical, yet delicately poised and effortlessly balanced.  This music, of course, lies near the beginning of the long sweep of nineteenth century music that is the Berlin's specialty, so it was no surprise the quartet should have such a nuanced understanding of it.  But I was almost shocked by what came next (as an encore): a really stunning reading of the slow movement from Debussy's single string quartet; in a way, it struck me as the best playing of the night.  But then Debussy is all about texture, about atmosphere, rather than statement; and this offered the Philharmonics' wonderful craft a special opportunity to shine.

Nein!

Timothy John Smith and the women of Nine.

I've only seen Nine once before, in a mediocre community production many years ago; I didn't care for it much back then.  But after seeing SpeakEasy Stage's sleek new version (at the BCA through Feb. 20), I have to admit I've changed my mind. Now I hate it.

Perhaps it takes a great production to confirm one's suspicions that a particular play or musical is mediocre (in talented hands there's no place for the material to hide).  But I really should have been sure of the truth about Nine long ago - and anyone who admires its inspiration, Frederico Fellini's psychological fantasy 8½, should be warned to keep a safe distance.  For the musical is transparently designed for people who either haven't seen, or haven't understood, that iconic Italian director's seminal 1963 masterpiece.

If that's the case for you, then you may enjoy the show, for it's a standard-issue set of late-Broadway gay-Jewish conventions: serviceable songs and predictable "adult" jokes arrayed in something like a revue.  That's right - it's a gay, Jewish revue about a straight Italian Catholic.  Go figure. But at least it showcases a bevy of Boston's loveliest and most talented female performers, each of whom gets one of those serviceable songs (or two), and knows how to sell it.

Therefore it's easy on the eyes, and the ears - unless, of course, you can feel the shadow of its source looming over it.  Because then the whole thing seems like a travesty.  I'll admit Nine does hold some interest for me, but only in a single way - as was the case with The Blue Flower before it, you can tell its creators (Arthur Kopit, Maury Yeston, and director Tommy Tune) labored under the delusion they were creating an homage.  Yes - they "loved" 8½, too - and that's what's a little scary, frankly; for how could they "love" something they seem to want to destroy?  (Although the old saw that love is blind may apply doubly to the world of art, I suppose.)

Aimee Doherty in Nine.

To those behind the pointlessly-retitled Nine, it seems 8½ may have been a grand meta-cinematic experiment (it's a film about its own making, or rather un-making), an investigation of one director's creative block, and a stunning visual fantasy (see clip below if you doubt me).  And it may have even featured a ravishing score by the great Nino Rota. But somehow it still demanded improvement.  Its creator, Fellini - or his alter ego, "Guido" - may, at the end of his psychological carnival, have told the many women in his life (and beyond them, the vast, needy audience they represented) that they must "take me as I am, if you want me."  But Kopit and Weston have other ideas - in their eyes, what Guido needs is to grow up.

It doesn't seem to have occurred to them that if Fellini grew up, then there'd be no more Fellini.  And therefore no more movies like Nights of Cabiria or La Dolce Vita.  Perhaps that's why their advice is precisely the prescription the director didn't take in the original film.  But then Kopit and Weston don't really have that much interest in the original film. They drop almost everything they can't approximate with an all-female cast (their concept is basically a replay of the notorious "Guido's Harem" scene, below); thus the death of Guido's father, his relationship to the Church, and even the wild climax at the set of the movie he's "supposed" to make (tellingly, it's a launching pad for a spaceship that hasn't been built) never make an appearance in Nine.  And more's the pity, because without them, the musical has no depth or texture.

It doesn't even have any really good songs.  From Nino Rota to Maury Weston - ah, what a falling off was there!  I still remember Rota's melodies, from years ago - but while Weston quotes a few of them here and there, strangely, it does him little good; I can' remember his score even though I only heard it about a week ago.


The director who wouldn't grow up takes a whip to the women who want him to in 8½.

Oh, well, the good news is that at least Nine means a lot of Boston's best actresses have work, and it was great to see local stars Aimee Doherty (above left), Cheryl McMahon, and Kerry A. Dowling carry on at their usual high level, even with lesser material.  Meanwhile comedienne Maureen Keiller got to shine in the kind of number we haven't seen her in for ages ("Folies Bergere," seemingly borrowed from La Cage, which I think premiered the same year).  It was also great to welcome back the gorgeous Jennifer Ellis - where has she been? - as well as watch newcomer Shana Dirik dazzle the  SpeakEasy crowd the way she's been dazzling the Metro Stage crowd for years.  There was also a very poised turn by Erik March as the younger Guido, and nice moments around the edges by Santina Umbach, Amy Jackson, and McCaela Donovan.

Alas, Donovan sort of typified what was wrong with the production's vision of Fellini's women, though - she was far too svelte, and not nearly zaftig enough (and zaftigity is important to Fellini). And for once, I was a bit disappointed in the reliable Timothy John Smith's Guido - he channeled little of the suave urbanity the part should have. But then the role had been shorn of its real reason for being - Guido's writer's block (in Nine you can barely tell he's desperately trying to find inspiration for a film).  And while the production's design was sumptuous, its visual cues seemed slightly wrong - the dark set suggested not at all the glamorously arid modernity of the film, and Seághan McKay's projections - amazing as they were - likewise only rarely quoted the director's visual language. Meanwhile Charles Schoonmaker's striking costumes didn't really conjure the fashion atmosphere of the early 60's (which Fellini's movies helped define). But maybe all these talented designers had simply picked up earlier than I did on the fact that Nine ain't 8½. Not by half.

Last Saturday I attended a performance down at the Roxbury Center for the Arts called "Screaming Bloody Murder." An attempt by local theatre folks (chief among them directors Kaili Y. Turner and Vincent Ernest Siders) to engage with the violence that has been scarring their community, the evening included four plays by African-American writers along with dance performances and a talkback.

In this kind of case - a non-Equity production by a community, for a community - I don't think my usual modes of critical writing really apply. Indeed, I admit even my attendance at this kind of event was unusual - it had been sparked by an earlier post here at the Hub Review, in which I bemoaned the fact that, though our theatres are supposedly utterly committed to diversity programming, we never hear much on their stages about the struggles of people of color right here in Boston. "Screaming Bloody Murder" both complicated this critique and, I'm afraid, validated it to a large degree - for there were at least two playwrights on tap here who deserve more attention (and probably a commission) from our larger theatres, and one dance artist who belongs on stages across the city, and maybe even across the country.

But first, back to the type of evening that "Screaming Bloody Murder" hoped to be. In the talkback that followed the performance, it was obvious that pretty much only the white folks in attendance (such as myself and erstwhile blogger Art Hennessey, who's even whiter than I am) did not have a friend or family member who had been injured or killed in street violence. All the people of color in the crowd were survivors, at least at one remove, of such attacks - even one of the performers, Vincent Siders, had developed his monologue from the experience of being shot and left to die on the streets of Washington D.C.

This kind of open wound in an audience puts a special onus on a performance - one that I'm happy to say "Screaming Bloody Murder" mostly met, but not entirely. Oddly enough, the talkback may be the toughest part of this kind of assignment, and here I'm afraid the conversation spun out of control a bit, probably because it takes a very experienced leader (experienced with both the community and the program in question) to guide and shape a discussion in which emotions inevitably run very high.

Of the one-act plays on offer, clearly the strongest was the punchy "To Hell with this Village," by S. Travis Taylor - which also boasted the most polished cast (among them local stars Akiba Abaka and Siders, who also directed). The script masterfully balanced bracing comedy with shocking violence in its exploration of a young gay man's rejection by his family - and local development programs take note, it almost cries out for expansion into a larger work. Meanwhile Frank A. Shefton's "Wounds," though less dazzlingly crafted, still gripped with its Tarantino-esque tale of young thugs hoping to extract a bullet from a fallen comrade in a dentist's chair - and featured a confidently affecting turn from young actor Joan Mejia.

The only one-act I had concerns about was "Hollering Murder," by the playwright Mwalim, which, like "To Hell with this Village," dealt with domestic violence within the community. Here, however, the script followed a female partner in a troubled couple perpetrating violence against her man - which of course is a valid choice artistically, but doesn't map well to the statistics we have on the problem. What's more, the dramatic action hinted the woman in question might have been egging on her partner to an assault - an excuse heard more than once by perpetrators of violence against women! If the play is to remain in the "Screaming Bloody Murder" program - and there's an argument that it should - it will require, I think, clear framing by the talkback coordinator.

On the lighter side, Vincent Ernest Siders offered a quite funny take on his own shooting. Yes, this was the lighter side of the dramatic program - although actually, I wished Siders, always a clever and canny performer, would mine more pathos and complexity from his predicament than he has so far. Rounding things off was a charming display of coordinated dance and movement by Swagga Inc. and especially a riveting tap performance by Sean C. Fielder, artistic director of the Boston Tap Company, and his able student, Brianne Cannady. The serenely poised Mr. Fielder is something of a wonder; it may not be too much to call him Boston's answer to Savion Glover. Mr. Fielder is open enough to admit he has been a convicted felon, and also talented and generous enough to convince you that any kind of history, no matter how troubled, can become a thing of the past. Which is basically the aim of worthy programs like "Screaming Bloody Murder." So I'll simply close with a graceful solo by Mr. Fielder, from the 2010 Beantown Tap Fest.

Gen Y goes to the circus

I suppose the circus will spring eternal - or at least that's what I thought after watching Psy (pronounced "See" because it's Franch, dontchaknow) the millennial circus at ArtsEmerson that spurns the usual accoutrements of the form.  There aren't any spangles, sequins or peekaboo leotards here, and certainly little sense of eurotrashy va-va-voom. Indeed, you get the feeling the show's creators, the Montreal troupe The Seven Fingers of the Hand, almost spurn that kind of sexy showmanship; they probably think the garishly fantastic Cirque du Soleil (also spawned in Montreal, btw) would be better termed Cirque du So Lame.

No, the Fingers prefer to affect the shrugging mope of the millennium; sometimes they take stuff off, sure, but they prefer to chill out in slacks, with their shirt-tails out.  And their set is self-consciously utilitarian - indeed, it's almost anti-fantastic; it looks like the shelf you'd store your computer peripherals on.  The twist they bring to the circus is that they're casual about it, and everything about them all but screams "Whatever, dude."

But trust me,  it's still the circus, just the same, even if at first things seem a little grim as we're introduced to an encounter group full of depressed and damaged souls - an insomniac, an agoraphobic, an amnesiac - you name it.  But it turns out, of course, that these mental patients are also the familiar types from the big top, like the knife-thrower, the juggler, and the girl on the flying trapeze; and their circus skills allow them to either express or escape their "real-world" depression with the greatest of ease.

Which is what the circus has always done, and this clinical wrinkle on the basics of the form strikes you as more and more clever as the evening progresses.  For it allows the wonders of jumps and flips and outright flight to erupt out of the realistic; there are no big set-ups in Psy, no drum rolls and often not even a spotlight; instead, astonishing acrobatics just start to happen before your disbelieving eyes.

Of these wonders, perhaps my favorites were the whimsically quicksilver "juggling" of Florent Lestage (who sometimes seemed like Bip on Ritalin), and Julien Silliau's intensely hypnotic turn on the German wheel, as well as Héloïse Bourgeois and William Underwood's narcoleptic routine on the Chinese pole. And the girl on the flying trapeze - Danica Gagnon-Plamondon (the one with the fear of heights!) - was of course thrilling as she swung up among the rafters of the Cutler Majestic. Perhaps my favorite moment, however, was the riotous cluster-juggle in which the stage seemed to suddenly be filled with a veritable cloud of candlepins.

To be brutally honest, sometimes the studied casualness of the Fingers looks a little unfocused at the edges - but they make up for this with that subtly joyous sense of surprise. And sure, the psychological "concept" winds up being half-forgotten as the most exciting acts get going - but who cares? By the end of the evening, as the cast crowds to the edge of the stage, ready to diagnose the audience, too, I guarantee whatever mental cloud you're under will have completely lifted.

Brandenburgs 3, 4 & more

Days and days have passed without my noting the lovely evening of music I heard last weekend at Jordan Hall, courtesy of the Handel and Haydn Society.  This was one of their "just us folks" evenings - all the soloists were from the Society's ranks, save conductor Ian Watson, who did double duty much of the time on harpsichord.  The program was centered on two of the Brandenburgs (3 and 4), although around these "greatest hits" of the baroque era were grouped a few pieces as obscure as the Brandenburgs are famous.  (I've never heard of Charles Avison, for instance, much less his Concerto Grosso No. 5.)  These obscurities all proved worthy -  and some, more than worthy - although the overall effect of the evening was bit like a very enjoyable lecture built around the theme, "There were many great composers in the eighteenth century, but here's why Bach was best."

The one outlier to this thesis - Henry Purcell - was actually a seventeenth-century composer of course, although his one piece on the program, "Pavane and Chacony," sounded like it could have been written by some young turk only yesterday, particularly the strangely moving pavane, which stretched dissonant suspensions almost past their breaking points (while conductor Watson allowed his players to slowly edge toward a kind of keening anarchy).  A highly unusual - and memorable - performance of a highly unusual piece.

Elsewhere, Watson (at right) cut a conducting profile that, as usual, was muscular, intelligent, and above all, heartily rhythmic; while this program didn't include any jigs or rondos, you still could have cut a rug to most of it - and it's somehow wonderful to watch a period band sway with the tunes they're playing as lustily as the Handel-and-Haydneers have learned to do.

There were, however, a few slight disappointments here and there; the Telemann Viola Concerto in G Major, for instance, was certainly lovely, but violist David Miller, though technically fastidious, didn't quite bring enough emotional expansiveness to his solos to make them transporting.  And even though much of the baroque repertoire is sourced in dance, as period music aficionados love to point out, still, dance is not the end-all (much less the be-all) of baroque music.  And so while Watson's approach often paid huge dividends, especially in the lesser works by Boyce and Avison (which proved perfectly smashing), I didn't feel it brought any new dimension to the Brandenburgs.  They danced alright, but not in any enlightening or original way; perhaps there's a subtle sense of musical space to these concerti that you can't capture through lilting rhythms alone.  I must at the same time note, however, that No. 4 was brightened by sparkling playing from Christopher Krueger and Stephen Hammer on recorder, and an almost frenzied turn by the great Christina Day Martinson on violin, and that No. 3 featured perhaps the most focused ensemble work of the program.  Still, I think it will be that grief-stricken Pavane from Purcell that I'll remember most vividly from this enjoyable evening.