Here's a pretty circuitous way to get onto the subject of the first two professional boxing champions from the former Soviet Union: the other day, I was making fun of one of my friends because he had too many of his shirt buttons undone, and his grossly hirsute chest was repugnantly exposed. He looked like a reject from the Tom Jones 1970's über-gay collection. Of course, that blatant display of mean-sweaterism merited a crack or two, and I went with, "Nice pelt! Who shot the bear?" and "Hey, Nikolai Valuev called... he wants his furry chest back!" All-too-predictably, our exchange of insults turned into a conversation about the preponderance of "Soviet" boxers, especially in the heavyweight division, and eventually evolved into a listing of our favourite fighters from the former Soviet bloc. Hey, we're guys in our late 30's / early 40's -- talking sports is pretty much all we have left at this point.
Aside from the obligatory Armenian Honour Roll (and who would have thought tiny Armenia was a hotbed of boxing bad-asses? Abraham, Darchinyan, Martirosyan, and the too-soon-forgotten Abelyan, to name but a few), my two faves happen to be the first two professional champs from the Soviet bloc: Yuri Arbachakov and Orzubek Nazarov. I first read about these guys while leafing through a boxing mag at the Convenient Food Mart on the corner of East 98th and Granger; Garfield Heights inna moddafukkin' hizzay !!! Anyhoo, the mag in question featured both fighters on its cover, posing with their backs to one another but facing the reader. Arbachakov, an orthodox flyweight from Russia, had a pseudo-mullet and a frighteningly intense glare. Nazarov, a southpaw lightweight from Kyrgyzstan (I had to look up the spelling -- buy a fucking vowel already!), had a very impressive fu-manchu, and one of the friendliest grins I've ever seen on a boxer.
Physical differences notwithstanding, both fighters exhibited features that would prove to be a constant among Soviet fighters, or at least those of the non-heavyweight variety: a thorough understanding of the boxing fundamentals. Their defense was unspectacular (no Pretty Bitch Floyd Gayweather bob & duck here) but very solid. Their combinations were crisp, varied, and well-leveraged. They ALWAYS remembered to throw body shots. Their footwork and balance were exceptional. Their preparation and conditioning were, invariably, top-notch. They both had rock-solid chins and redoubtable mental toughness. They were both signed by Japanese promoters, and as such would become ultimate road warriors -- neither fighter ever fought in the Soviet Union, and most of their championship fights took place in the opponents' backyards.
Arbachakov was a high-powered, sped-up version of the prototypical "Russian automaton." He was preternaturally composed and methodical, and was one of the slickest counter-punchers I've ever seen, having an uncanny knack for timing his punches so that his opponents' forward movement would supply much of the power. He won the bantamweight world championship in only his tenth or eleven pro fight, and defended it successfully over the next few years until being forced to give it up due to inactivity caused by a serious right-hand injury. He never fully recovered, but tried to regain his championship before retiring. He lost a close decision to Chatchai Sasakul, a terrific Thai brawler Arbachakov had easily defeated in one of his previous defenses. Arbachakov announced his retirement immediately after the fight, his only career loss.
Here's a clip of the last three rounds of Arbachakov's textbook demolition of tough-as-nails Thai challenger and ex-champ Muangchai Kittikasem. The fight was staged in Thailand, and it's pretty funny to hear the crowd ooh and aah at every gutsy lunge by Kitti, only to be immediately silenced by Arbachakov viciously snapping Kitti's head back with well-timed counters. Note, as well, that Arbachakov never really goes after Kitti until he decides Kitti's hurt enough that he won't continue to come forward. The second knockdown in the ninth round is a thing of beauty. Arbachakov nails Kitti with a right and sends him flying backwards into the ropes, follows up with a left hook that whistles past Kitti's head as Kitti's starting to bounce off the ropes, then hesitates for just a split second, measuring Kitti perfectly and absolutely crushing him with a devastating right cross as Kitti's forward inertia drives him into Arbachakov's fist. Again, just a methodical masterpiece of ass-kickery:
Nazarov was an aggressive, lanky, long-armed, heavy-handed fighter who was as ruthless in the ring as he, by all accounts, was affable outside it. He threw punches in bunches and overwhelmed his opponents by applying constant pressure -- sort of a swarthy, left-handed precursor to Antonio Margarito. He won the lightweight championship by beating up South African champion Dingaan Thobela over twelve one-sided rounds, then defended it over the next four years in venues ranging from Maine and Florida to Johannesburg and Paris. Alas, much like Arbachakov, his career was derailed by an injury: Nazarov developed serious eye problems, and by the time he lost his title to Jean-Baptiste Mendy by decision in a somewhat listless but close fight, he was legally blind in one eye. Like Arbachakov, Nazarov was forced to retire after the Mendy fight, his only career loss.
Here's a clip of Nazarov's destruction of then-unbeaten challenger and media darling Joey Gamache. The fight was staged in Gamache's hometown of Portland, Maine, and poor Gamache got every bit of help imaginable from the wicked re-tah-ded hometown ref, who allowed him to repeatedly hold and hit, throw rabbit punches, and shamelessly grab and hold when in trouble. Still, this was nowhere near enough to dissuade or even slow down Nazarov, who simply cut off the ring, cornered Gamache, and pummeled him into submission in less than two rounds. The final knockout sequence is a thing of beauty, and something every prospective fighter who wants to develop finishing skills should study religiously: Nazarov walks the rapidly fading Gamache into the ropes and starts to whale on him. Gamache grabs Nazarov and tries to hang on for dear life, but Nazarov frees his left arm and throws a half-dozen vicious left hooks to Gamache's ribcage. When Gamache tries to step back from the barrage and lowers his arm to protect his ribs, KA-BOOM!!! Nazarov lays him out with a brutal uppercut & left hook combo. In the immortal words of Smokin' Joe Frazier: "Kill the body, and the head will die."
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
The big 4-0 !!!!!!!!!
Funny, but I don't feel older / wiser / significantly enlightened. I guess once you get past 18, all subsequent birthdays lose their landmark feel. It's been a pretty crummy few years, though... let's hope years 40-49 aren't quite as taxing as the previous decade or two (or three).
A check on the to-do list:
Career -- just about ready to pick up my second college degree, still working a dead-end loser job, zero decent work prospects in sight, still haven't gotten over the f*cking over by the douche-bags @ F*ckGCU. Not good.
Finances -- still living paycheck to paycheck. See "Career" for further details.
Relationships -- still the biggest relationship train-wreck around. I'm nothing if not consistent.
Health -- I'm alive. I guess that's enough. CHECK!
Hmmmm... one out of four ain't bad, I guess. On the bright side, I at least have a job, can afford to pay my bills, am not stuck in some crummy loveless marriage, and can keep food down on a semi-regular basis. You've gotta be thankful for what you have!
A check on the to-do list:
Career -- just about ready to pick up my second college degree, still working a dead-end loser job, zero decent work prospects in sight, still haven't gotten over the f*cking over by the douche-bags @ F*ckGCU. Not good.
Finances -- still living paycheck to paycheck. See "Career" for further details.
Relationships -- still the biggest relationship train-wreck around. I'm nothing if not consistent.
Health -- I'm alive. I guess that's enough. CHECK!
Hmmmm... one out of four ain't bad, I guess. On the bright side, I at least have a job, can afford to pay my bills, am not stuck in some crummy loveless marriage, and can keep food down on a semi-regular basis. You've gotta be thankful for what you have!
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Mayhem Festival
The verdict is in: I'll never grow too old to attend a kick-ass metal concert. After last year's phenomenal Slayer / Marilyn Manson show, I vowed to try to see at least one rock concert per year. This year, the dubious honour of being the concert o'choice went to the Mayhem Festival. To tell the truth, I wasn't even aware of this terrific day-long event until my nephew Damian mentioned it a few weeks ago -- well done, my young metal apprentice!
Heavy metal crowds get a bad rap, at least in my opinion. Aside from the inexplicable stupidity of the mosh pit, we're a pretty mellow bunch. We scream a lot, and bang our heads along with the music (my neck's still sore from the concert even though it's been two days -- I guess I am too old for some aspects of metal mania), but other than that, we're harmless. Sure, there's always the obligatory stench of booze and weed, as well as a few schmucks that equate puking and/or passing out with having a good time, but that malaise is hardly limited to the heavy metal crowds.
This woman was unconscious for pretty much the entire show.
She should have just stayed home.
This Guido, on the other hand, was doing OK during most of the show (he was sitting two rows ahead of us), but lost it all of a sudden, and had to be dragged out to the lawn by his loyal trooper of a girlfriend.
That having been said, I can't stand the mosh pit. During the early part of the festival, I went to see a couple of the bands that were playing in the secondary stages. One of these bands, Suicide Silence, generated a ton of mosh pit lunacy by repeatedly yelling "Circle pit!" or some other unintelligible exhortation. I tried to stay away from the action, but since the secondary stages didn't have seats, the random chaos of the mosh pit continuously spilled over into the rest of the crowd, and I ended up having to push bare-chested, sweaty, drunk and/or stoned losers away numerous times. I'll live, but it was pretty fucking disgusting. A shame, because Suicide Silence were actually quite good.
The first band to play on the main stage was Mastodon. I had heard good things about these guys, but they were extremely disappointing. They were loud, played fast, and screamed their heads off, but somehow managed to be about as boring as boring can be. I actually almost nodded off during their set, and I wasn't the only one. Right after their set mercifully ended, we ran to one of the secondary stages to catch Machine Head, and they were awesome. Quite frankly, Mastodon should have been relegated to the second-fiddle section of the festival, and Machine Head should have been one of the headlining bands. The fact that this wasn't so sucked doubly because we had to leave right in the middle of Machine Head's terrific set so we could see DragonForce, the second headlining band.
Mastodon -- a huge disappointment.
DragonForce is a throwback to the golden days of metal, when bands played fast, sang without growling, and produced melodic, epic songs with soaring vocal lines, extended guitar solos, and ridiculously cheesy lyrics. It goes without saying that, being an old-school metal-dork, I adore these guys. Unfortunately, because their songs are so long, they were only able to play five numbers (five!!!) because of the short time allotted. Such are the hazards of playing a festival with numerous other acts. Be that as it may, DragonForce were phenomenal.
DragonForce -- a return to the glory days.
Disturbed followed, and they were also great. I have to admit that I had some reservations about their place in this festival, especially considering their enormous popularity and the fact that they were the only participating band that gets consistent radio play. Those stupid fears were proven to be unfounded drivel. I could have done without Disturbed's surprisingly lame remake of Genesis' "Land of confusion," but aside from that faux pas, they really put on a hell of a show.
Disturbed singer David Draiman enters the stage à la Hannibal Lecter.
Slipknot had the privilege of closing out this great event, and they were more than up to the task, displaying a sophisticated level of musicianship even I, a huge fan, had never expected. Something else I'd never expected: their appearance up-close and in person is kind of comical / buffoonish. It's hard to believe that this would be the case, as they look intensely creepy and threatening in photos. But the masks and jumpsuits lose all their macabre caché when you see it's just a group of metal nerds jumping around and acting silly. Still, Slipknot were nothing short of phenomenal. By the time they closed their set with "Duality" and "[SIC]," I had screamed along with Corey Taylor (#8) so much that I had no voice left.
Slipknot tears it up.
All in all, the first-ever Mayhem Festival was a resounding success. According to the official website, the festival is scheduled to be a yearly event. I can only hope the organizers continue to put together shows of this high caliber. I'll close by posting this out-of-focus but clear-sounding video of DragonForce closing their set with their seven-and-a-half minute masterpiece, "Through the fire and the flames."
Heavy metal crowds get a bad rap, at least in my opinion. Aside from the inexplicable stupidity of the mosh pit, we're a pretty mellow bunch. We scream a lot, and bang our heads along with the music (my neck's still sore from the concert even though it's been two days -- I guess I am too old for some aspects of metal mania), but other than that, we're harmless. Sure, there's always the obligatory stench of booze and weed, as well as a few schmucks that equate puking and/or passing out with having a good time, but that malaise is hardly limited to the heavy metal crowds.
This woman was unconscious for pretty much the entire show.She should have just stayed home.
This Guido, on the other hand, was doing OK during most of the show (he was sitting two rows ahead of us), but lost it all of a sudden, and had to be dragged out to the lawn by his loyal trooper of a girlfriend.That having been said, I can't stand the mosh pit. During the early part of the festival, I went to see a couple of the bands that were playing in the secondary stages. One of these bands, Suicide Silence, generated a ton of mosh pit lunacy by repeatedly yelling "Circle pit!" or some other unintelligible exhortation. I tried to stay away from the action, but since the secondary stages didn't have seats, the random chaos of the mosh pit continuously spilled over into the rest of the crowd, and I ended up having to push bare-chested, sweaty, drunk and/or stoned losers away numerous times. I'll live, but it was pretty fucking disgusting. A shame, because Suicide Silence were actually quite good.
The first band to play on the main stage was Mastodon. I had heard good things about these guys, but they were extremely disappointing. They were loud, played fast, and screamed their heads off, but somehow managed to be about as boring as boring can be. I actually almost nodded off during their set, and I wasn't the only one. Right after their set mercifully ended, we ran to one of the secondary stages to catch Machine Head, and they were awesome. Quite frankly, Mastodon should have been relegated to the second-fiddle section of the festival, and Machine Head should have been one of the headlining bands. The fact that this wasn't so sucked doubly because we had to leave right in the middle of Machine Head's terrific set so we could see DragonForce, the second headlining band.
Mastodon -- a huge disappointment.DragonForce is a throwback to the golden days of metal, when bands played fast, sang without growling, and produced melodic, epic songs with soaring vocal lines, extended guitar solos, and ridiculously cheesy lyrics. It goes without saying that, being an old-school metal-dork, I adore these guys. Unfortunately, because their songs are so long, they were only able to play five numbers (five!!!) because of the short time allotted. Such are the hazards of playing a festival with numerous other acts. Be that as it may, DragonForce were phenomenal.
DragonForce -- a return to the glory days.Disturbed followed, and they were also great. I have to admit that I had some reservations about their place in this festival, especially considering their enormous popularity and the fact that they were the only participating band that gets consistent radio play. Those stupid fears were proven to be unfounded drivel. I could have done without Disturbed's surprisingly lame remake of Genesis' "Land of confusion," but aside from that faux pas, they really put on a hell of a show.
Disturbed singer David Draiman enters the stage à la Hannibal Lecter.Slipknot had the privilege of closing out this great event, and they were more than up to the task, displaying a sophisticated level of musicianship even I, a huge fan, had never expected. Something else I'd never expected: their appearance up-close and in person is kind of comical / buffoonish. It's hard to believe that this would be the case, as they look intensely creepy and threatening in photos. But the masks and jumpsuits lose all their macabre caché when you see it's just a group of metal nerds jumping around and acting silly. Still, Slipknot were nothing short of phenomenal. By the time they closed their set with "Duality" and "[SIC]," I had screamed along with Corey Taylor (#8) so much that I had no voice left.
Slipknot tears it up.All in all, the first-ever Mayhem Festival was a resounding success. According to the official website, the festival is scheduled to be a yearly event. I can only hope the organizers continue to put together shows of this high caliber. I'll close by posting this out-of-focus but clear-sounding video of DragonForce closing their set with their seven-and-a-half minute masterpiece, "Through the fire and the flames."
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
You CAN go home again
Or, as I've been repeating throughout the week, almost to the point of attrition: Tom Wolfe was full of shite. Here are a few highlights from my wonderful week-and-a-half vacation trip to ye olde hometown.
The lush, rolling hills of Ohio... I still miss them.
I donated blood on Independence Day -- I thought it'd be a nice, patriotic gesture, and a useful one, since I'm type O-negative. Unfortunately, I not only went in on a completely empty stomach, but I also had the brilliant idea of squeezing my fist strenuously in an effort to accelerate the process so I could get to the 4th of July parade. I almost passed out, and I ended up having to wait an extra half-hour before the staff let me leave. I think I really scared the crap out of them.
Darrel and Lisa have been the highlight of the Hiram parade for the last few years, and this year was no exception. The theme:
Saluting Ohio's small farmers (yes, that's a rooster in a wheelbarrow!)...
... and breeders! As popular as the rooster-in-a-barrow was, Ella and Serena really scored the most oohs! and aahs! from the crowd, and rightly so. They're adorable.
Got a chance to see The Best Damn Band In The Land at Blossom, performing Carmina Burana, the Polovtsian Dances, and the 1812 Overture, complete with cannons and a killer fireworks show.
Glacial Grooves State Memorial in Kelleys Island. My friends know me well, we took a four-hour detour just so I could satisfy my geo-geekiness.
Reason no. 1469 why pothead douchebags should be executed on sight. Fucking asswipes!
On the ferry ride back from Kelleys Island, Ella struck up a conversation / candy-mooching mission with some random family. The nice gent wearing the baseball cap then asked me if I worked with troubled Polish kids, explaining that he, too, ran a volunteer parents camp for at-risk Polish kids. It took me roughly five seconds to catch on to the fact that he'd seen my T-shirt. Too bizarre to make up.
The centerpiece of the Sabathia trade, Matt LaPorta, was scheduled to make his Akron Aeros debut on Tuesday, July 8, but that game was rained out. As a result, we got to see his first games in the Indians organization when we attended the twinbill the following night. LaPorta (center) went a combined 3-6 on the night, showing pretty good plate discipline and a quick, powerful bat. Keep those fingers crossed!
We went to see the Tribe on Friday. Darrel shamefully and shamelessly snuck in his MD 20/20 fix in a double-layer of ziploc bags hidden in Baby Serena's diaper-changing mat. He even had the gall to claim that the rubber insulation in the mat preserved the wine's slightly chilled temperature perfectly. He's truly a monster.
Uncle Cliffy! I had never seen him pitch in person before, and was not disappointed: 6 IP, 0 runs, 7 SO. He laboured a bit, but was absolutely dominant when he needed to make pitches. The Tribe beat the Rays 5-0, and Uncle Cliffy picked up his 12th win of the season.
The beginning of a bizarre post-game fireworks and music celebration that included a gospel choir and a disconcerting hodge-podge of Motown, rock, pop, country, and Tibetan throat-singing music. (All right, I made that last one up.)
Considering what a miserable season the Tribe have put together this year, it's kind of remarkable that the town's still showing the team lots of love. The attendance was roughly 40,000, and quite a few people honked when this bus drove past.
This quick recap would not be complete without a heartfelt thanks to the best friends a guy could ever wish for. Darrel, Lisa, Baby Ella, Baby Serena... thanks a million!
The lush, rolling hills of Ohio... I still miss them.
I donated blood on Independence Day -- I thought it'd be a nice, patriotic gesture, and a useful one, since I'm type O-negative. Unfortunately, I not only went in on a completely empty stomach, but I also had the brilliant idea of squeezing my fist strenuously in an effort to accelerate the process so I could get to the 4th of July parade. I almost passed out, and I ended up having to wait an extra half-hour before the staff let me leave. I think I really scared the crap out of them. 
Darrel and Lisa have been the highlight of the Hiram parade for the last few years, and this year was no exception. The theme:
Saluting Ohio's small farmers (yes, that's a rooster in a wheelbarrow!)...
... and breeders! As popular as the rooster-in-a-barrow was, Ella and Serena really scored the most oohs! and aahs! from the crowd, and rightly so. They're adorable.
Got a chance to see The Best Damn Band In The Land at Blossom, performing Carmina Burana, the Polovtsian Dances, and the 1812 Overture, complete with cannons and a killer fireworks show.
Glacial Grooves State Memorial in Kelleys Island. My friends know me well, we took a four-hour detour just so I could satisfy my geo-geekiness.
Reason no. 1469 why pothead douchebags should be executed on sight. Fucking asswipes!
On the ferry ride back from Kelleys Island, Ella struck up a conversation / candy-mooching mission with some random family. The nice gent wearing the baseball cap then asked me if I worked with troubled Polish kids, explaining that he, too, ran a volunteer parents camp for at-risk Polish kids. It took me roughly five seconds to catch on to the fact that he'd seen my T-shirt. Too bizarre to make up.
The centerpiece of the Sabathia trade, Matt LaPorta, was scheduled to make his Akron Aeros debut on Tuesday, July 8, but that game was rained out. As a result, we got to see his first games in the Indians organization when we attended the twinbill the following night. LaPorta (center) went a combined 3-6 on the night, showing pretty good plate discipline and a quick, powerful bat. Keep those fingers crossed!
We went to see the Tribe on Friday. Darrel shamefully and shamelessly snuck in his MD 20/20 fix in a double-layer of ziploc bags hidden in Baby Serena's diaper-changing mat. He even had the gall to claim that the rubber insulation in the mat preserved the wine's slightly chilled temperature perfectly. He's truly a monster.
Uncle Cliffy! I had never seen him pitch in person before, and was not disappointed: 6 IP, 0 runs, 7 SO. He laboured a bit, but was absolutely dominant when he needed to make pitches. The Tribe beat the Rays 5-0, and Uncle Cliffy picked up his 12th win of the season.
The beginning of a bizarre post-game fireworks and music celebration that included a gospel choir and a disconcerting hodge-podge of Motown, rock, pop, country, and Tibetan throat-singing music. (All right, I made that last one up.)
Considering what a miserable season the Tribe have put together this year, it's kind of remarkable that the town's still showing the team lots of love. The attendance was roughly 40,000, and quite a few people honked when this bus drove past.
This quick recap would not be complete without a heartfelt thanks to the best friends a guy could ever wish for. Darrel, Lisa, Baby Ella, Baby Serena... thanks a million!Saturday, June 7, 2008
At this rate, I'm NEVER going to get anything done
On tap for this week-end:
- Laundry
- Work on loathsome thesis
- Update CV
- Write two cover letters
- Re-format Mac & re-install Creative Suite
- Euro Cup 2K8 -- Czech Republic vs. Switzerland and Portugal vs. Turkey (aka smelly murderous sodomites) today, Austria vs. Croatia and Germany vs. Poland (insert joke here) tomorrow
- Boxing -- Quintana vs. Williams and Forrest vs. Mora on Showtime, López vs. Ponce de León and Lockett vs. Pavlik on HBO
- Fat Land -- started this last night, don't know that I'll be able to put it down between sporting events
Thursday, May 29, 2008
An ugly admission
I'm prejudiced. I don't know if I'm a full-fledged bigot, but I'm definitely prejudiced. I often wonder how it's possible for people to instantly dislike me just because I'm dark-haired, dark-skinned, and swarthy. They should get to know me, THEN dislike me. At least that way, they'll have a legitimate reason! The truth is, I'm just as superficial when it comes to passing judgment on a group of people. Without so much as knowing even the slightest detail about the following individuals, I already hate their guts:
Redneck 'tards:
Stoner 'tards:
Desperate for your pot fix? Move to fucking Amsterdam.
Hippie 'tards:
Growing up and actually getting a job are GOOD things, people.
So are shampoo and soap. Ugh.
Guido 'tards:
And speaking of growing up...
Come on, I don't even have a snarky comment here.
Slutty 'tards:
Might as well just wear a sign that says,
"I'll fuck you. You don't even have to buy me a drink first."
Bra-burning 'tards:
"Sexism is a handicap," according to one of the signs.
So's being a whiny twat.
Check out the orange sign in the background...
I wonder if that guy got out of there alive!
Huntin' 'tards:
Absolutely sickening. Guys like these should be locked in a cage, naked and unarmed, to do battle with their "prey" on equal terms.
They're not even going to eat their kill, for crying out loud!
They're just killing for the fun. Cocksuckers.
Boston / New England 'tards:
Why does the entire sports universe loathe you?
It's because you're a bunch of douche-bags.
Redneck 'tards:The South lost. The Confederacy is dead. The slaves have been freed.
Deal with it, you inbred hillbillies.
Deal with it, you inbred hillbillies.
Stoner 'tards:Desperate for your pot fix? Move to fucking Amsterdam.
Hippie 'tards:Growing up and actually getting a job are GOOD things, people.
So are shampoo and soap. Ugh.
Guido 'tards:And speaking of growing up...
Come on, I don't even have a snarky comment here.
Slutty 'tards:Might as well just wear a sign that says,
"I'll fuck you. You don't even have to buy me a drink first."
Bra-burning 'tards:"Sexism is a handicap," according to one of the signs.
So's being a whiny twat.
Check out the orange sign in the background...
I wonder if that guy got out of there alive!
Huntin' 'tards:Absolutely sickening. Guys like these should be locked in a cage, naked and unarmed, to do battle with their "prey" on equal terms.
They're not even going to eat their kill, for crying out loud!
They're just killing for the fun. Cocksuckers.
Boston / New England 'tards:Why does the entire sports universe loathe you?
It's because you're a bunch of douche-bags.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Spring Classical: the good, the bad, and the ugly
The Bella Terra Mafia and I hit the season's last concert at the Naples Philharmonic on Friday night, for a performance of Tchaikovsky's polonnaise from "Eugene Onegin," Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto, and Dvorák's "New World" Symphony. The performance was a mixed bag, as always, hence the mini-tribute to one of my all-time favourite Westerns.
The Good: Pianist Joyce Yang, a twenty-two year old Korean waif, who tackled Tchaikovsky's demanding concerto with remarkable aplomb. Although the tempo tended to be rushed at times, unnecessarily raising the concerto's severe degree of difficulty, she never once botched the notation, and she attacked the loud tutti passages with more than enough ferocity to not get drowned out by the orchestra. She was also kind enough to pose for a few photos after the performance.
The Bad: The Philharmonic's brass section. Gotta give them points for being consistent, as they continue to earn their "bane of my existence" status by consistently sucking. I counted at least seven botched duck snorts, one of them so unfortunate that I thought for a second someone had farted. At least the Cor Anglais did a nice job during the second movement of the New World Symphony.
The Ugly: The crowd. Halted the piano concerto by idiotically applauding at the end of the first movement, and were up to their usual tricks of waiting until the performance started before noisily rooting through purses for tissue, glasses, candy, whatev, talking during the music, blowing their noses, snoring, and, in what was a first even for my jaded arse, audibly humming the lovely first theme of the piano concerto's second movement. No matter, I'm still thankful these ignorant dolts contribute heavily to the Philharmonic. Considering how small our little town is, having a pretty good orchestra with enough caché to present a full season's worth of performances and lure excellent soloists is a privilege.
Recommended performances: Dvorák's "New World" Symphony is a very popular work, so there are many excellent recordings of this masterpiece, including top-notch versions by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, and the grossly underrated performance by Rafael Kubelik and the Berlin Philharmonic... but none of these can touch Christoph von Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra's fiery rendition. I actually had the privilege of seeing Chrissy VD and the Clevelanders perform this at Severance Hall, and I still haven't caught my breath from the exhilaration.
Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto is also a staple of the classical repertoire, so, again, many outstanding versions of it are available. Some of my faves include Emil Gilels with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Zubin Mehta, Artur Rubinstein with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Erich Leinsdorf, and Sviatoslav Richter with the Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Herbert von Karajan. Perhaps the best recording, but definitely the most famous, is Van Cliburn's towering performance, accompanied by the RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Kiril Kondrashin. Be that as it may, Richter's rendition of Tchaikovsky's piano concerto is particularly noteworthy because it inspired one of the best-ever Monty Python skits:
The Good: Pianist Joyce Yang, a twenty-two year old Korean waif, who tackled Tchaikovsky's demanding concerto with remarkable aplomb. Although the tempo tended to be rushed at times, unnecessarily raising the concerto's severe degree of difficulty, she never once botched the notation, and she attacked the loud tutti passages with more than enough ferocity to not get drowned out by the orchestra. She was also kind enough to pose for a few photos after the performance.
The Bad: The Philharmonic's brass section. Gotta give them points for being consistent, as they continue to earn their "bane of my existence" status by consistently sucking. I counted at least seven botched duck snorts, one of them so unfortunate that I thought for a second someone had farted. At least the Cor Anglais did a nice job during the second movement of the New World Symphony.
The Ugly: The crowd. Halted the piano concerto by idiotically applauding at the end of the first movement, and were up to their usual tricks of waiting until the performance started before noisily rooting through purses for tissue, glasses, candy, whatev, talking during the music, blowing their noses, snoring, and, in what was a first even for my jaded arse, audibly humming the lovely first theme of the piano concerto's second movement. No matter, I'm still thankful these ignorant dolts contribute heavily to the Philharmonic. Considering how small our little town is, having a pretty good orchestra with enough caché to present a full season's worth of performances and lure excellent soloists is a privilege.
Recommended performances: Dvorák's "New World" Symphony is a very popular work, so there are many excellent recordings of this masterpiece, including top-notch versions by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, and the grossly underrated performance by Rafael Kubelik and the Berlin Philharmonic... but none of these can touch Christoph von Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra's fiery rendition. I actually had the privilege of seeing Chrissy VD and the Clevelanders perform this at Severance Hall, and I still haven't caught my breath from the exhilaration.
Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto is also a staple of the classical repertoire, so, again, many outstanding versions of it are available. Some of my faves include Emil Gilels with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Zubin Mehta, Artur Rubinstein with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Erich Leinsdorf, and Sviatoslav Richter with the Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Herbert von Karajan. Perhaps the best recording, but definitely the most famous, is Van Cliburn's towering performance, accompanied by the RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Kiril Kondrashin. Be that as it may, Richter's rendition of Tchaikovsky's piano concerto is particularly noteworthy because it inspired one of the best-ever Monty Python skits:
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