Friday July 13: Andy & Neal took the train up from New York. Bess took us all out for lunch at Café Nuovo. It was a gorgeous day and we sat outside on the river.
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This is just the best restaurant in Providence. We had crabmeat-avocado maki, vegetable lasagna, tuna tatare, seafood salad, obscure Hawaiian fish grilled on skewers, salad niçoise with fresh grilled tuna. The wine was a King Estate Oregon Pinot Gris Reserve. For dessert, crème brulée with gold leaf on top and a bowl of fresh fruits with sorbet. We dropped Bess off and headed south to Newport. We had a late afternoon concert at Marble House. It was another in the Dvorakiad. With the approach of the weekend, the house was oversold, with overflow into the reception hall of the Vanderbilt mansion. If I had paid money to sit outside the concert room, I would have been really pissed. As it was, the rows were arranged so close to each other that the legroom was reminiscent of an El Al flight. Alain Jacquon opened with some light piano pieces. Then Geoff Nuttall, formerly a wild man with the St. Lawrence Quartet, played some familiar Dvorak melodies—Slavonic Dances, Songs My Mother Taught Me, and Humoresque, all arranged for violin and piano by Fritz Kreisler. The long flowing melodic lines lend themselves to arrangements for solo instruments. Nuttall played with Kreislerian panâche, adding his own assortment of hyperkinetic twitches, tics, and stomps. Then a set of pieces for string quartet called Cypresses. I’ve never heard this work or even heard of it, but it was absolutely exquisite—dreamy and wistful.

After intermission, the Ecclesia consort, a small group of about thirty led by Pierre Massé sang some Slavonic folksongs. When they sang in Czech, their diction had a strong American accent, but when they sang English translation, the text was so banal that one wished for Czech. They were joined by Carl Halvorson for the Fac Me Vere from the Dvorak Stabat Mater, but the choral singing was poor, without a musicality to the line, punching out each word in a plodding rhythm, and the soloist was just awful in every respect. They returned to a capella singing to close the concert with some part songs that were really quite beautiful.

We stopped on the way back to buy some saffron for Andy to make his special arborio rice risotto with saffron, red peppers, celery, and portabella mushrooms.

We also cooked on the grill, with flank steaks, tempe, and portabella mushrooms. We lit Shabbat candles, blessed our children, wishing them well on their decision to have a commitment ceremony. This will be held next year, probably in November, at the Angel Orensanz museum, a rehabilitated old synagogue on the Lower East Side, now dedicated to the work of the sculptor. http://www.orensanz.org Ayshes hayil and kiddush and a wonderful supper.

The wines were a Chablis and an old Australian Shiraz from Penfolds.

Saturday morning I biked out for pastries from the Boulangerie and the newspapers. It was another beautiful day, and we had breakfast on the East Deck. In the afternoon, Andy and Neal went out for a bike ride around Ocean Drive, and Carol and I went to The Elms for another Dvorakiad. This was a great concert. It began with the first American performance of Dvorak’s Cello Concerto No. 1, scored for cello and piano reduction. It was unearthed by Jirí Bárta in the Prague Conservatory at the request of Mark Malkovich. This is one of the things that makes the Newport Music Festival so great. Sometimes great treasures see their first light of day here. The performance were the two coolest guys at the Festival, Jirí Bárta, the Hungarian cellist, who, with his medusa-like black curls and huge black eyes looks like a tall mysterious gypsy who will steal your money, your heart, and your baby. Accompanying him at the piano was Frederick Chiu, with his long black pony tail, glasses, chiseled face, and utter concentration. They played with fire and excitement and fervor. Everyone was on the edge of his seat, and we erupted in a standing O.
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After intermission, Bernadene Blaha played some piano pieces. Then her husband, Kevin Fitz-Gerald, took over the piano to accompany a series of gorgeous Evening Songs. The first set were sung by Peter Edelmann, an Austrian baritone, who has the most gorgeous voice, and cuts a stunning figure on the stage. I wanted to kill him.

Then, two songs by Carl Halvorson, who minced onto the stage with a coy smile, wearing a maroon and purple striped pajama top for a jacket. But, whereas yesterday he was just awful, today he sang out beautifully and richly. It must have been the pajama top.

The concert ended with the last few songs by Leslie Johnson, a mezzo, who has a gorgeous voice, an expressive manner, and is herself gorgeous. She is going to be a big star.

We returned the condo for drinks and supper (lasagna), and set out for The Breakers for a Connoisseur’s Concert. It began with a Paganini concerto for violin and guitar, played elegantly by Livia Sohn and Sandro Torlontano. The two made a wonderful mix of sound, and I must say I have never heard the guitar played so beautifully. Usually one hears the squeaks and slides of the guitarist’s fingers on the strings, a necessary intrusion, like the sound of a singer breathing in. Perhaps it was that I’ve never heard a guitar well-played in such a small room, perhaps it was the newness of his 1997 guitar, or perhaps he is just the best guitarist I ever heard. Then Göran Marcusson played a Fantaisie by Doppler for flute, accompanied by Hamish Milne. Marcusson is a consummate entertainer, a convivial showman, full of good humor, and also a brilliant flutist. Then Hamish Milne played a Piano Sonata by Anatoly Nikolayevich Alexandrov—no, he is not a Russian mathematician in a Tom Lehrer song, but a composer who followed shortly after Rachmaninoff, and wrote very much in the latter’s style. It was full of pleasant bombast, played brilliantly. After intermission, our least favorite performer, the arrogant young violist, Nicholas Wiedman (who bills himself as the second youngest person ever to climb Mount Kilamanjaro and a Yale graduate, played a Concertstück by Georges Enesco. This boy needs to go back to school or else play alone on the top of the mountain. Finally, the pièce de résistance that we were waiting for, Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs, sung by Wendy Waller, accompanied nicely by Tom Hrynkiv. She is a beautiful black woman, who has the stage presence of a diva, and a stunning bright red evening gown. But she is not really a soprano. She is a mezzo with a fine middle range. But she studied with Grace Bumbry, who was herself a mezzo who thought she could sing soprano, and she did Wendy Waller no favor, if she encouraged her to do the same. She has no top. Her German diction wasn’t great, either. But she did have the poise and drama to sing these songs. And when she came to that short 30-second phrase that climaxes the third song, that evanescent flash of lushness and glory that is one of the great moments of music, it was magical.

It was, in all, a very great concert.

Sunday, we hung around, went for various bike rides, and had lunch at the Marina Grille.

Carol and I went to Marble House at 5:00 PM for another Dvorakiad. It began with some short pieces for string trio with Nuttall, Sohn, and Wiedman. Then came some particularly lovely Malickosti (Bagatelles) played lovingly by Livia Sohn and  Laura Albers on violin, Julie Albers on cello, and Frederick Chiu on the harmonium (small organ). How could one man write so much sweet music in a folk idiom that is at once simple and subtle? Then came a Rondo and Polonaise played by the Boys in Black, Jirí Bárta and Frederick Chiu. It was intense, dynamic, full of fire. They got a standing O.

After intermission, Leslie Johnson and Scott Hendricks sang some short liturgical pieces, and the quartet of Wendy Waller, Johnson, Halvorson, and Hendricks sang the Recordare from the Dvorak Requiem quite beautifully. Tom Hrynkiv accompanied devotedly. The concert concluded with a hair-raising rendition of the Dvorak Piano Quartet with Nuttall (whose Ritalin had worn off by the end of the day and who flailed and stomped his way to glory), Laura Albers, Wiedman, Barta, and Hrynkiv. We arrived home to find Andy and Neal dashing from the house to greet us. They were to have taken the VW to the Kingston station for their train home, but the battery was dead. Carol dashed them to the train in the nick of time, and I drove home, where we finished Saturday night’s lasagna.

Monday, July 17: The Kaunfers came down for supper.

We had Willy Krauch smoked salmon as the sun set, beer-can chickens that were perfect, salad, risotto with red peppers, and blueberry pie and Tofutti for dessert. The wines were a Beringer Chenin Blanc and a fabulous plummy David Bruce Reserve Pinot Noir. No music. No music!!