Go to YouTube and search AlitisaMusic.

I've posted 4 selections. Today I posted the "music-minus-one" version of "Gute Nacht" - the first song in Schubert's warhorse, "Winterreise".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39moY0JN1SY

I've included a lengthy description so I won't double it here. But I also couldn't include my unedited interpretation on the text Schubert used. For that, you must click below to see it.

You must be 18 or older to view this.

Now that autumn is in full swing this brings me to college football. On the surface, college football does not appear to have much to do with music, classical or otherwise. Perhaps I am dating myself a bit, but there was a time when at halftime, the marching bands were shown on TV. Today was not one of those days however. For those of you keeping track, the USC band played "Victory" 18 times and "Conquest" 22 times. Not that I know the difference between the two (in that respect they remind me of Mozart's first 13 symphonies except Conquest and Victory are both far more memorable). These days there still is one game where the marching bands get some airtime and that is the Bayou Classic (someone went to the NASCAR and WWE schools of Marketing) between Southern University and Grambling State University to be held on November 28th.
A marching band is slightly different from a symphony orchestra. On one hand, the musicians get off their ass while they are playing (unlike a symphony orchestra). They are also spread out over 50 or 60 yards where a symphony may be spread out over 60 feet. There are other things that can be compared between the two and unfortunately one of those is that a marching band again has some pompous fuck waving a stick in front of it. Sometimes it is a couple of pompous fucks waving sticks. Being someone who has actually watched the people playing the instruments instead of the pompous stick-waving fuck, I have a couple of observations.
Some of these people have a card dimension of QxQ in front of them. At an angle Z that represents their displacement in meters T, the pompous stick-waving fuck is completely invisible behind the card, but these people can still play something that is recognizable (even to uneducated barbarians such as myself). Never mind that I left out that sound travels at a specific speed if temperature and pressure are constant. Never mind that the Superdome is an acoustic nightmare. Just ignore that hurricane blowing in, it will not make any difference. If you do not believe me, take a physics class. Fuck, take 2 or 3 physics classes, we are all idiots here (Ok, I'm not an idiot, I just play one on the internet and sometimes I do a better job than other times).
Next time you go to the Symphony, or the Ballet, or the Metallica concert, or the Opera, or whatever the fuck I left out, remember that that pompous stick waving fuck really does not have a functional use.
My dislike of pompous fucks waving a stick is pretty well documented. Some of you would consider me a pompous fuck, and you would be right. I however manage to be one without waving a stick in front of a bunch of people.

What do Jenna Jameson and Charles Barkley have in common (aside from
Charles' traffic ticket because he was in a hurry to get a blow job (frankly
the police should have let him go simply for giving a completely honest
answer as to why he was speeding but never mind that))? Combined, we can
refer to them as the "Round Mounds of Rebounds". Aside from that, both of
them spent time performing in the entertainment industry. It's not sports,
its sports entertainment. That Vince McMahon dude from WWE got it right. Now
what do Charles, Jenna and (and if you have a different conductor that you
particularly dislike feel free to substitute your personal choice here)
Herbert von Karajan have in common? Absolutely nothing, Herbie the K never
did learn that he was in the entertainment industry. Lets try a different
comparison. What do gold, silver, and copper have in common with Herbie?
Again, absolutely nothing; gold, silver and copper are excellent conductors.
Before anyone tries to point out that Jenna's silicone monuments qualify her
as a semiconductor (and that is more credit than I will assign to Herbie),
it is silicon that is the semiconductor not silicone. I didn't intend this
to become a lesson in metallurgy (that is a pretty big word for such a small
beer, I had better correct that) so it's time to move on.
The frequency that I find things noteworthy (good or bad) is not
particularly high. The last piece of "classical" music that I heard for the
first time that I even remember was by Carl Nielson, and that was at least
15 years ago (remembering it means that it didn't make me want to throw up
or that I did throw up after hearing it). I don't count soundtracks for
movies, if I did, the Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and
Aliens series would count for much.
I am sure that this is going somewhere even if none of us has figured out when
or where. Somewhere along the line, I have referred to some pompous fuck
waving a stick. I am sure that if I try hard enough, I can find something
good to say about the pompous fucks. Well, this took a lot of effort (and
beer) but the really good thing about pompous fucks is that if I wait long
enough, they die! Rest in peace Herbie, I can't honestly say that I miss you
or any of the others.
Most of us have seen or heard groups of different size perform. It might be
3 - 5 people, it might 15, it might be 50 or 100 or 435 or 1000. Have you
ever noticed that as a group gets larger, inevitably it winds up with some
pompous fuck waving a stick? I rarely see rock bands with 3-8 members or
string trios/quartets/quintets with a conductor. On the other side, I see
some very dysfunctional groups of varying size like the State Legislature,
Symphony Orchestras, the US House of Representatives, and the US Senate.
These groups all have something in common. Care to guess what it is? That's
right, it is some pompous fuck waving a stick.
Next time we search for the elusive non-pompous stick waving fuck, but
until then, I am out of beer.

Ludwig

(much as I would LOVE to take credit for this article, I cannot write even half this well. Honest - this isn't me - MC)

A Very Short Story - by Maria Choban (describing the Ballade in g minor, op. 23 composed by Chopin)

Let's talk about the Chopin g minor Ballade, shall we?

Where do we come in? 7 measures of murky darkness. We can't see a thing. Not a thing. But we feel the portent. We know 2 people are somewhere in here. Searching. Hunting. Sexually charged. It's her turn first. She is measured. We hear her heart beat or her breathing. She is intimate and intense. She is not romantic. She watches his every move. She smells him when he moves and she turns her head to follow the scent.....somewhere across this murky darkness where we can't see a thing. She sniffs and moves toward him. We hear her breathing; ragged, not at all romantic. We hear her blood flow quicken. We sense her starting to lose her grip, lusting his scent. We know when she finds him by her growl and her senseless throwing of her body and mouth and teeth on him. And we know he's caught her and allows her to feed. And then it's his theme, his turn. He is the E-flat Major theme. He is the romantic. And while she feeds she unobstructs him. His loveliness, his gentle strength shines. He captivates us. We wonder why he can't find someone closer to his ethereal, sublimely ethereal yearning. And then he becomes human. He slides into her darkness, her tearing, and she takes her theme back. The beautiful melding of Major tonics and Dominant sevenths is replaced by her raspy breath. She is primitive. She needs to pull away and assess the feeding, the feeder. And the one who feeds loves the wild psychopath that she is. He watches her spin herself into these frenzies he knows and is terrified (because he's not sure who's going to die) and he grabs her and breaks her body on his. In a gesture romantic and brutal he crushes her and kisses her and listens to her scream, no, roar with the pain and the ecstasy and he lays her gently on the bed. You hear him moving in the octaves under her. You hear her excitement in the sharp acid f-sharp melodic minor ascension and the plummeting into the f-sharp diminished arpeggiated passage that cadances in HIS key - E-flat Major. God he loves her. For two pages he finds the words to sob his lament and his love of her. For two pages he thinks only of this need he has to devour her, to envelope her, to make her understand - but he can't. She breaks his reverie with her totally self absorbed theme which never ever varies. She is strictly sensual - of the senses. Her breathing is ragged and raspy. She is reason and insanity. The thought of unbounded hedonism isn't (a thought) with her - it's the thing she most tries to hold in check. But not now. Once more she's spun herself undone. She slaps him very very hard across the face. Every time it comes to this. Every time we wonder why this romantic mythic god of a man mates with this demon bitch. It's because she moves him. She will loose his boundaries. She will throw invectives at him, humiliating him, in a voice lower than the devil's and only barely animal and certainly not human. He yells, no - sobs "NO". But she knows this means yes - or maybe she doesn't care. He's crying. He begs, whispers "please". She smiles - no, only half her mouth smiles. It's a Halloween ending. There is blood everywhere. You decide who lives and who dies.

WARNING: If you click "Read full post" you will be seeing the unedited XXX version.

Catch this concert of The Winterreise (A Winter's Journey) song cycle and The f-minor Fantasy for piano duet

Date: Saturday, March 7, 2009.
Time: 7:30pm
Place: Southminster Presbyterian Church; 12250 SW Denney Rd, Beaverton, 97008

Tickets: $10 Adults $8 Students/Seniors $20 family

Program: Die Winterreise by Franz Schubert and Fantasy in f-minor by Franz Schubert.

CONTACT INFO: 503-644-2073 or bosendorfer97@comcast.net


Tenor: Ken Beare
Pianists: Dr. Kenn Willson and Maria Choban

It's been a long cold lonely winter, so we thought we'd cheer you up a bit. Perspective is a wonderful thing; if you think you have problems, how about the guy who's best girl just left him? In the dead of winter? In a seriously bi-polar condition? With no meds? We welcome back from Europe Ken Beare, the man who sings us this emotionally wracked journey into insanity. Dr. Kenn Willson and Maria Choban divide the task of accompanying Ken's dystopia. To further assault our senses, captioned slides. All this while we sit in the midst of a nationally acclaimed yearly art show. And as if this weren't enough, Schubert's Fantasy in f-minor for piano duet - one of the greatest metaphors for suicide - ends the program. Cyanide will be doled out at the door (because no amount of Prozac will help you recover).

And to further entice you......here's MY translation of the first song in that cycle titled "Good Night". (I'll post MY translations/interpretations of each song as I draft them - please burn your own translations of each in the comments section)


A stranger I came.
A stranger I go.
May bloomed all over me with bunches of flowers: She spoke of love, her mother even intimated marriage.
No More! It's a dark world - snow covered with grey skies.


I didn't choose this.
But I have to find my way through this.
I am accompanied by the dark side of the moon,
...and a single deer - who's only evidence is it's hoof prints in the snow.


It would be humiliating to hang around until someone drove me away.
Listen to your lovers - your stray dogs howling outside your door.
Love wanders, by necessity - as you did from me.
Goodnight, angel.


I don't want to disturb your dreams (HA!)
I don't want to wake you (HA!)
You won't hear me leave (bitch!)
Softly, softly - I close the door,
and on your gate I write "Good Night" as I leave,
so that you might have some inkling of the pain you caused me, you Mother Fucking Cunt.

Now THIS is how you diss a piece. Senior Classical Music Critic from The Oregonian, David Stabler, reviewed my concert last Sunday. Clearly he loved the concert. Clearly he hated my Chopin. This is the most entertaining review of a concert I've read in YEARS. Enjoy!

Read about it here:
http://blog.oregonlive.com/classicalmusic/2008/10/maria_choban_passion_and_grit.html

One of my Republican friends confessed his fear that his party may never recover from the onslaught of narrow thinking conservatives and he was seriously thinking of abandoning ship and becoming a Democrat. I, a Democrat, admonished that now is not the time to leave the Republican Party. The party needs serious, well spoken, intelligent folks like my friend. One of my sophisticated musician friends opined that I ought to consider changing my description from Classical Pianist to maybe something like "Fresh, from the Past". And like my reaction to my Republican friend, I say NO. I am what I am - a Classical Pianist. I think like I think, feel what I feel, interpret how I interpret, despite what has become a warped and narrowed idiom by the onslaught of Classical Music conservatives. I won't abandon this ship. I may go down with it though.

David Stabler, Senior Critic for The Oregonian
posted this, this morning.

Now THIS is how you write program notes. OK, the bit about the Chopin Ballade is over the top, but why not?

Maria Choban is a Portland pianist with a rock 'n' roll soul. She hates convention, hates the rituals of classical music and hasn't played in public for a while. She plays like she writes -- vivid, direct, non-negotiable. She's back with a concert on Oct. 26.

Here's what I wrote about her in a story in 1994:

Maria Choban couldn't resist. It was Mother's Day, after all.

First, the bad-girl pianist squeezed into a Barbie-size black dress. Then, she reclined atop the piano so her hair tumbled over the keyboard.

Gradually, the lights came up. Choban arched her back and slowly sat up. The audience, out for a nice Mother's Day concert, just stared. Perhaps people thought they were watching Michelle Pfeiffer do her steamy rendition of ``Makin' Whoopee'' in the film ``The Fabulous Baker Boys.''

Classical music concerts don't start this way -- which is exactly Choban's point. Why not? Why are concerts so predictable? Why do audiences sit so politely? Why don't they stand on their seats and cheer? Why don't they boo? Or walk out?

Choban wants to kick the classical world in the butt. It's too stuffy, too white bread, she claims.

Wake up!

Here's what Choban hates: polite audiences, stuffy performers, white Wonder Bread music, ``nice'' sounds.

Here's what Choban loves: teaching disadvantaged children; cultural diversity; Greek music; audiences who think for themselves, sensual, earthy sounds; Elvis.

Choban sums up her philosophy this way: ``Music mirrors life. It's not always pretty and tailored. Sometimes you just have to go out and use your instinct. It can be raucous and screaming and eruptive. I like to lose propriety.''

Choban can be eruptive, too. She vibrates with energy. She waves her hands when she talks, and when she pauses, they tremble against the light. She grows impatient if she loses her train of thought.

``What's the word? What's the word? What's the word?'' she demands.

Even her hair is on the move. Black as her dresses, strands of it keep trying to escape. But her nose is what gives her away. In silhouette, Choban has a wonderful, Maria Callas nose.

Choban lost her own ``niceness'' after playing for Mark Westcott, the prize-winning pianist who grew up in Portland. ``Your sound is nice, it's pretty,'' Westcott told her. ``And it's perfect for Portland.''

Choban changed her sound. It's now deep and sensuous. It can also sound turbo-charged. ``Maria's the loudest pianist I've ever heard,'' says Jerry Bobbe, who plays cello in her group, the St. Elvis Trio.

Choban is set to play at 3 p.m. Oct. 26 on the First Presbyterian Church - Celebration Works! Concert Series. Here are her program notes:


MARIA CHOBAN WRITES:
I hate writing program notes. I don't particularly like reading program notes. I am like Nasreddin Hodja in one of his stories - trying to escape preparing for a sermon:

He walked to the Mosque one week, stood in front of the people and asked - "How many know what I am about to say?" All was quiet. So the Hodja pretended at exasperation, "Then I am sharing my wisdom with ignoramuses" and he turned around, walked out and back to his abode, happy to have gotten off so easy. The following week he walked to the Mosque, stood in front of the people and asked - "How many here know what I am about to say?" And the people, remembering the previous week, shouted "We All Know!" To which the Hodja replied, "Then I won't waste my precious words" and turned around, walked out and back to his abode, happy to have gotten off so easy. The third week Nasreddin Hodja shuffled to the Mosque, stood in front of the people and asked - "Do you know what I will say to you today?" And the people, divided and confused - some recalling the previous week, others recalling the week before that - say "YES!" or "NO!" And in the cacophony of mixed answers the Hodja replied, "Then, will all those who know please inform those who don't" and once more he turned around, walked out and back to his abode, happy to have made such a narrow escape.

I am at the fourth week. So I will tell you a story...

We begin with a Tango written by Igor Stravinsky. For those who want to know more about Igor, read any of the books written by Robert Craft or go to Wikipedia. This Tango was written in Hollywood in 1941 where Stravinsky was living at the time. Therefore, I deem it an American work. One of Stravinsky's fabulous gifts was his ability to morph convincingly into his milieu: He could adopt and write in any style - and truly, this Tango is as dramatic and over the top as American Ballroom Tango gets.

An aside - I am zealous in my mission to promote American works, preferably those of the mid 20th Century through today. I also am zealous about promoting the works of Greek Composers (I am a Greek-American), and particularly the Greek Composition following the Ottoman Occupation (1800 to the present). And I also have a soft spot for undiscovered works or composers. Sometimes, as with the Chopin Ballade, I'll pick up a work already interpreted and performed many times - but ONLY if I am really moved to say something different about it. Like any zealot, I truly believe and am moved by my missions. I totally get Svoboda and Bowmann; I can't escape (nor do I want to) the Byzantine aspects of Theodorakis or Kalomiris - they are in my gene pool.

From the Tango we meander on to three pieces written by Jeff Bowmann in 1992: "Thumb Prints on the Page", "I'm No Fun", and "Charcoal". This is a bittersweet vignette in my story. I never met Jeff Bowmann, although I spoke to him by phone once. Once upon a time I taught piano at Reed College. During that time I taught a student named Bruce. Bruce was very accomplished and was preparing to give a solo piano recital. At one lesson he asked whether it would be alright to play one of his friends' works. I answered "of course!" The next week he brought in this set of three pieces by Jeff Bowmann. I expected student level composition. I expected average or slightly above average inspiration and quality. It takes A LOT to blow me away and these pieces did. The whole time Jeff was at Reed I never made the attempt to contact him. Years later when I thought about recording a disc of current Americans I tracked down Jeff. I recall it was a tedious process. I found him finally in law school somewhere in New York. He was extremely gracious and deferential. (I asked permission to record his works.) In the conversation he acknowledged that there is NO money in classical composition and when he finally accepted this he decided to go into law. In a world of current classical composition that quite frankly leaves me so bored I want to die, having Jeff bow out (for very legitimate reasons) was a huge blow. I have a small hope, a wish, maybe just a fantasy, that Jeff might be lured back into composing even if just half-time.

The first palette cleanser - the first Prelude by Mikis Theodorakis, from his set of 11 Preludes written in 1947. I believe Andreas Brandes (translated by Tatiana Papageorgiou) gives a brilliant synopsis of The Preludes:

"The eleven Preludes were composed in 1947, whilst he (Theodorakis) was at the Athens Conservatoire. Before he completed a score of the work, however, he was arrested and sent into exile on the Aegean Islands (Ikaria - Makronisos). He returned after three years and then sat his final exams in Composition. In the Preludes, the composer achieves the effect of crystallising (sic) particular musical moments within the shortest possible time-scale. Moments reflecting impressions and experiences from Greek folk song with its distinctive instrument (the clarinet of Epirus), the counterpoint of J.S. Bach, the western church choral tradition, jazz music, etc. What strikes us in the Preludes is the great economy of means of expression, the more advanced harmonic language being characteristic of that particular period of the composer, as well as the individual piano writing which makes the work more demanding and at the same time more attractive to the performer." For information about Mikis Theodorakis and his works, go to http://en.mikis-theodorakis.net/

Another aside: While playing a run through of this program for a trial audience I had just finished playing this Prelude #1. One of the folks in the audience, a person who listens only to cutting edge industrial, alternative, and classic rock, said "This piece reminds me of the Elvira Madigan." I agree, it does me too. But I loved that this comment came from someone who does NOT routinely listen to classical music yet knows some lynch pins of the repertoire. (The Elvira Madigan is the second movement of a Mozart Piano Concerto in C Major, No. 21 k.467). I am mystified that my friends who are steeped in rock and roll and metal and alternative and on and on and on know more about classical music than my friends who are steeped in classical music and can name only The Beatles or Radiohead.

The Second Sonata, op. 121 of Tomas Svoboda, completed in 1985. I am in love with this work. The second movement in particular is the epitomal description of complete desolation and dissolution and unraveling. Structurally, this Sonata is probably one of the most difficult works in the piano repertoire in terms of contrapuntal playing. Not only is it written melodically contrapuntally, but the articulations and phrasings are also individuated and woven among each other. AND WAIT, there's more. The pedaling - it is not intuitive but it makes sense, yet it too is contrapuntally woven in this entire mess of linear writing that somehow comes together and sounds like a right-brained creation. It's a brilliant work of math and logic - so brilliant that we are aware only of the Americana in the first movement, the suicide in the second, and the magical, joyful resurrection in the third. For more information about Tomas Svoboda and his works, go to http://www.tomassvoboda.com/

Another palette cleanser - the fifth Prelude by Mikis Theodorakis, from his set of 11 Preludes written in 1947. I think this is the loveliest piece on the program. But you don't have to think that.

And we end the first half with Five Huge Fluffy Persian Cats: Lots of hair, lots of drama, lots of lots. The Five Preludes of Manolis Kalomiris, written in 1939. I have recorded these and they are available on my disc, Greek Rapture. For more information about these preludes and about Manolis Kalomiris, visit my website - Alitisa.com


INTERMISSION

I wrote a racy version of this story. This is the shortened PG-13 version describing Chopin's Ballade no.1 (of 4) in G minor, op. 23:

Where do we come in? Seven measures of murky darkness. We can't see a thing. Not a thing. But we can feel the portent. We know two people are somewhere in here and that they are hunting each other. First. First it's her turn. She is measured. We can hear her heart beat or her breathing. She is intimate and intense. She is not romantic. She watches his every move. She smells him when he moves and she turns her head to follow the scent...somewhere across this murky darkness where we can't see a thing. We can hear her breathing, ragged, not at all romantic. We can hear her blood flow quicken. We can sense that she is starting to lose her grip. We know when she finds him by her growl and her senseless throwing of her body and mouth and teeth on him. And we know he's caught her and allows her to feed. And then it's his theme, his turn. He is the E-flat Major theme. He is the romantic. And while she feeds she unobstructs him. His loveliness, his gentle strength shine. He captivates us. We wonder why he can't find someone closer to his ethereal, sublimely ethereal yearning. And then he becomes human, weak. He slides into her darkness, her tearing, and she takes her theme back. The beautiful melding of Major tonics and Dominant sevenths is replaced by her raspy breath. She is primitive. She needs to pull away and assess the feeding, the feeder. And the one who provides loves the wild psychopath that she is. He watches her spin herself into these frenzies and is terrified (because he's not sure who's going to die) and he grabs her and breaks her body on his. In a gesture so romantic and so brutal he crushes her and kisses her and listens to her scream, no, roar with the pain and the ecstasy. When she recovers, she is calmer, playful even. She teases. He responds. You can hear him moving in the octaves under her. You can hear him driving her. You can hear her response in the sharp acid f-sharp melodic minor ascension and plummet into the f-sharp diminished arpeggiated passage that cadances in HIS key -- E-flat Major. God he loves her. For two pages he thinks only of this need he has to devour her, to envelop her, to make her understand - but he can't. He can't without her participation. She knows this. And as he winds down and feels the impending rejection, she breaks his reverie with her totally self-absorbed theme which never ever varies. She is strictly sensual - of the senses. Her breathing is ragged and raspy. She is reason and insanity. She knows this man. The thought of unbounded hedonism isn't (a thought). It's the thing she most tries to hold in check. But not now. Once more she's spun herself undone. She slaps him very, very hard across the face. Every time it comes to this. Every time we wonder why this romantic mythic god of a man mates with this demon bitch. It's because she moves him. She will loose his boundaries. She will throw invectives at him, humiliating him, in a voice lower than the devil's and only barely animal and certainly not human. He yells, no - sobs "NO". But she knows this means yes - or maybe she doesn't care. He's crying. He begs, whispers "please". She smiles - no, only half her mouth smiles. It's a Halloween ending. There is blood everywhere. You decide who lives and who dies. For more information about Chopin, read his Complete Letters (Dover edition) or go to Wikipedia.

Radar (1981), by Mikis Theodorakis is a song cycle beautifully arranged for piano solo by Alkis Kakaliangos.

And finally, Storm Session, op. 126 (1987) by Tomas Svoboda. My friend and role model, John Tamburello, commissioned this work in 1987. It is written for electric guitar and electric bass. John is an electric guitarist who grew up playing in bands. Sometime in his 20's he had the epiphany that the electric guitar should have its own non-pop literature, so John set out and commissioned works from composers he adored. John is responsible for much of the interest in generating literature for this instrument. I had the privilege of playing the electric bass part in the initial performances of this piece. I confess, I coveted this piece from the day of its inception. It was actually written in two stages: The e minor section was the original work and at some point John thought he wanted a prelude so he went back to Tomas who wrote the d minor prelude. I yammered at John and Tomas for 20 years about playing this piece on piano as a modern invention (like a Bach invention). Finally, with John's permission, but NOT with Tomas', I went into the studio and cut a recording of it. I marched it over to Tomas, told him I'd recorded it with a very dirty and over processed sound. The uglier I described it the more Tomas giggled and the wider and shinier his eyes got. I played it for him and he was hooked. I think this is the coolest piece in classical literature since Lalo Schifrin's "Mission Impossible" theme. Dig it.

Maria Choban



See the original post here:

http://blog.oregonlive.com/classicalmusic/2008/10/the_future_of_program_notes.html#more