As with many things, this too started with Beethoven. It must have been a draining performance for both musicians and audience: the first three movements of the Missa Solemnis (Op. 123) and 9th Symphony (Op. 125) premiered all in one night on May 7th, 1824. These have both become monumental works that have revolutionized their genres. The Ninth Symphony is the more famous of the two because it was the first (or, at the very least, the most major) symphony to incorporate both choral and orchestral music into a symphony.

The Missa seems to have been shafted, potentially because of its religious connotations, but to do so is to miss its point completely: the notable part of the Missa Solemnis is that it was composed for a secular audience. Although Catholic in form, text and musical language, Beethoven’s piece is humanistic in its meaning and motive, occupying a strange duality between the concert hall and the church.

Johannes Brahms was certainly aware of his sources and influences (moments of the first movement might as well have been written by Beethoven himself), and it’s this fine interpolation between sacred and secular that Brahms toes in his monumental Deutsches Requiem (Op. 45) nearly forty years later in 1865. But what is central to Brahms’s placement in musical development is that he not only understands the historic context of his work, but in some fashion manages to augment the grand dialogue: Brahms’s work is grander in scale than Beethoven’s, further-reaching and more daring in the breaking tradition. It is more successful for precisely these reasons.

Maybe it’s best not to read too much into Brahms’s motives. Some sources say that the piece was written for the first suicide attempt of Brahms’s friend and mentor: the composer Robert Schumann. Others suggest it was written in response to his mother’s death, while still others say that it (like most of Brahms’s early opus) stems from early sketches of his first symphony. The truth probably lies in some complex convolution of all of these.

Regardless the motive, it is clear Brahms’s work is not religious. Certainly, the texts are taken from Luther’s translation of the Bible, the three-note theme of the entire piece is based off the Lutheran Chorale Wer nur den lieben Gott lässt walten (F, associated with comfort, A, with hope for reconciliation with a lost loved one, and B-flat, with loneliness — do, mi, fa) and the title of the piece is associated with the traditional Catholic mass for the dead. But there is much that is not patently religious about Brahms’s Deutsches Requiem; in fact, much of it is insistently secular: never does Brahms invoke the text of the traditional Catholic mass, never does he remind us of the apocalypse, the rapture and most importantly, never once is Christ mentioned throughout the entirety of the mass. This is a piece written for people, using the German language of the people instead of an elevated and academic Latin, associated, yet distinctly separate from religious influence. It is significant, therefore, that Brahms entitles his piece “Ein Deutsches Requiem” — ”A German Requiem”.

Levine’s performance on September 26th, 2008 with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus, prepared by John Oliver, made some interesting decisions about this performance. The TFC delivered a remarkably crisp performance that really highlighted the Brahms’s intricate choral writing; particularly notable was the final C major fugue in the sixth movement. Traditionally a musically dense moment in the piece, Oliver’s preparation of the TFC clarified and provided a clear motivation behind Brahms’s daedalian counterpoint. Overall, however, Levine’s performance provided a unique interpretation of the Requiem; tempos took some time to become settled (a more lively tempo in the first movement lolled into senescence in the second movement) but were used effectively to highlight moments in the text.

Of particular note, of course, was the fifth movement, “Ich habt nun in Traurigkeit” (“And ye now therefore have sorrows”), a stunning conversation between soprano solo (here, Christine Schaefer) and choir. While Levine expressed much of the despondent text of the soloist in a faster, recit-like tempo, a more stately tempo in the choral responses reflected their uplifting text. The complicated balance of soloist and choir, however, was not as successful with baritone Michael Volle. Although providing a lively performance in the third and sixth movements of the piece, Volle’s performance did not take the choir into consideration: high notes were uncomfortably punched and phrasing often did not reflect the musical line that Levine had in mind for the choral imitation. Although producing a thrilling performance, Volle’s solo work seemed disjoint from the choral and orchestral background.

Minutiae aside, however, Friday night’s performance was successful by standards that are not necessarily quantifiable. Perhaps it’s glib to say, but it’s worth saying either way: Brahms’s work is sad, more incredibly and profoundly sad than anything I can describe here. The Requiem is plagued with manic episodes: terrifying shifts between depression and ecstatic joy, between comfort and pain. Every moment of hope returns to its realization of sorrow: beautiful melodies echo their course through the choral and orchestral parts, augmenting and diminishing until they are barely recognizable; melodic lines fragment and devolve into bitter weeping — almost as if the composer himself became too overwhelmed in his grief to be able to finish the thought. And shouldn’t this be the thesis of a humanistic work on realizing death? Shouldn’t sorrow be the ultimate unifier and comfort for all who mourn? This is why Brahms’s work is so viscerally moving, enough to transcend creed and creation: who doesn’t know what it is to have lost irrevocably?

It’s difficult to state in precise terms, but Levine’s performance on Friday night was successful on this criteria: it understood Brahms’s discourse and was able to convey the music’s powerful message of comfort through sorrow.

A lot of single-instrument groups can be gimmicky — along the lines of, “How many tuba players does it take to make a coherent album?” Many of those efforts are well and good, even virtuosic, but the majority are relegated to narrowly devoted fan-bases — those who, no doubt, brake for vibraphones or are the proud parents of an oboe player — without much chance at breaking through to the larger musical scene.

All of which makes Saxophone Summit an anomaly. On the surface, having three identical melodic instruments in the group seems risky. Most groups strive for more instrumental variety, as it lends greater diversity of tone color, and ultimately more control over the music’s emotional message. It would be odd to make an all-baritone concert choir.

Which is all the more reason to go hear Sax Summit. Starting out in 1996 with legends Michael Brecker, Joe Lovano, and Dave Liebman, the summit has equal parts experiment and soul: a communion — at once connected and disjunct, with the independence of a jam session and the synchronicity of a sacred ritual. It is man yearning simultaneously to break free and to find union.

Their latest album — Seraphic Light — is all the best of that. Ravi Coltrane (son of tenor legend John, who joined the group after Brecker’s death in 2007) doesn’t replace the group’s cofounder, but certainly adds his own distinctive voice. Rhythm from Phil Markowitz on piano, Cecil McBee on bass, and Billy Hart on drums complements the horns well. Taking much from both late John Coltrane and the more modern fusion avant-garde, the album is both deeply spiritual and experimental. It’s a lot more minimalist than the early avant-garde — not too many of Trane’s “sheets of sound” — but it’s not easy-listening either. You can’t dance to this shit. You just have to sit down and try to keep your head above water as it washes over you.

That can be tough, as I found during their final set at the Regattabar last Thursday. On longer tunes like “Tricycle” (from the 2004 album Gathering of Spirits) and “Seraphic Light,” the group got pretty out, to the point where it was hard to remember where, or what the melody was (or if there was one). Starting off with a minimal bass solo, the group might careen into a twenty-minute jaunt, quoting everything from Mingus to Adeste Fidelis, and filling every harmony in between. Or maybe they’d start with a Latin groove and a driving riff in the horns, and whittle the whole thing down to a couple taps on a ride cymbal. This was particularly the case in the live performance, where the players tend to enjoy more space — a chart that runs for seven minutes on the album might run for twenty live. A lot of this time goes towards the less-heard parts of the group, like bass and drums on “Tricycle,” or different instruments, such as flute (Liebman, Lovano) on “Cosmos” (8th track, Seraphic Light) or aulochrome, a mutant double-sax played by Lovano, also on “Tricycle.”

At the same time, though, the group stays close to their spiritual roots. Both live and on the album, the mellow “All About You” is a good counterpoint to the experimental energy around it, with some solid work by Coltrane. “Message to Mike,” an elegy to Brecker and the opener for the live set had the same gutsy sensitivity, but did so without being somber — a musical “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” with a Horace Silver groove, Wayne Shorter harmonic looseness, and a defiantly Brecker-esque energy. Driving swing from Hart and mysterious voicings from Markowitz lay a good foundation for Liebman, Lovano, and Coltrane to tap into something greater than themselves, and leave a little knot in the listener’s stomach.

Other good tracks to listen for are “The Thirteenth Floor,” with its irresistibly driving seven-time reedy ostinato, and “Alpha and Omega,” with its kaleidoscopic harmonies.

So go out. Listen. Buy the album. Get lost in the untraceable harmonic patterns, and the untappable rhythms. It’ll feel weird at first, but after you come back to the melody, back to a riff you recognize, back to the world around you and the overpriced hors’douvres in front of you, you’ll be just a little better for it.

For the Boston jazz scene, Regattabar is about as classy as it gets. High-rollers in tailored suits like to mix and order $86 bottles of champagne, and mellow out after a day of tapping their blackberries. Its best asset is that it can entertain this crowd without losing sight of jazz’s groovy, down-home feel: those same high-rollers are sitting happily next to Berklee students in hoodies and ripped jeans. There’s no stage — only a wood floor in one corner of the room. Big names in jazz come and stand a yard in front of the audience, and no one pays it any mind. There aren’t any barriers here (save the $86 champagne tab for you and me) — this place is about the music.

Dave Holland is the same way. A big player in the avant-garde and jazz fusion movements, Holland and his sextet — consisting of Antonio Hart, Alex “Sasha” Sipiagin, Rob Eubanks, Eric Harland, and Steve Nelson (sitting in for pianist Mulgrew Miller) — moved seamlessly between styles, at once a smooth swing, then a defiant, Art Blakey-esque drive. There are no chapters in this book — the set goes by, and the whole room is still grooving, with Holland’s drive keeping on.

The first tune was “Ebb and Flow,” a true-to-its-name jaunt with both tight fanfares and mellow rubato feels, featuring a solid trombone solo from Eubanks. Dave Holland keeps a low profile in this one, helping keep a solid pulse while drummer Harland embellishes, using the whole set to help tell the story. It was a good opener that really showcased the tightness of the ensemble.

“Mr. B.,” a dedication to jazz bassist Ray Brown who died in 2002, came next. More swing than the last tune, the song was a solid, optimistic elegy. The sax solo came first: it used lots and space in the solo, slowly working up to gigantic flurries, catching ideas by the wing as they came. Once again, solid work by Harland in switching meters, and an entrancing solo on vibes by Nelson.

“Interception” followed, charging in with a hard bop feel, a good counterpoint to the more fusion-y cuts beforehand. Trumpet Player Sipiagin was all chops on this one, though the high point of his solo seemed early. It was definitely a high point to the set, though, warranting a fist pound from Hart. Holland and Harland then went into an extended conversation, trading bars at a time, playfully imitating each other and getting a few laughs. Harland followed with a Blakey-style extended solo with a sock-knocking ending, which rose into an ensemble climax, and then quickly died away leaving only a trombone note lingering.

Adrenaline still coursing, the group started up with the somber “Processional.” Nelson, on vibes, played a haunting solo — his best in the show. Sipiagin, playing the flugel, was killer — if you haven’t heard screech flugel before, check this guy out. Sax and trombone traveled in solid harmony on this one. Holland did one of his first big solos in “Processional”, and it was worth the wait; it was one of the most emotional tunes of the night.

Next was the best tune of the night, “Rivers Run” — a nearly fifteen-minute collage of styles, that was a dedication to Sam Rivers, Holland’s old bandmate and the coolest octogenarian alive today. Antonio Hart’s prayer-like screeching and belching produced a haunting, ornette-ish wailing, laid over an Arabian feel in the bass. Assured melodic lines in the bass — for which Holland is known — came out best in this tune. Harmon-muted, the trumpet developed a solid nocturnal feel.

I checked my watch, it had been over 90 minutes. Every second of the show felt like an eternity since the beginning, but when the group walked off, I wondered where the time went. The audience wasn’t quite done, though, so we all got a solid encore on “Pass It On,” a dedication to Ed Blackwell, and a entreaty to pass on the love of music to young people.

After the show, I chatted outside with some of the guys who’d been listening to the show. The general consensus was that it was a solid set, perhaps not as solid as Holland’s Extended Play: Live at Birdland that I’d been listening to earlier, but still strong. A few guys expressed understandable regret that some of Holland’s other mates, like Chris Potter or Mulgrew Miller, couldn’t be there.

I spoke to a dude with a leather jacket and a Frank Zappa mustache for a while — traded opinions, stories, waxed eloquent about the old cats, bitched about the weather. I had never met him, but I felt more of a connection with him than with a lot of the people I deal with daily. That’s a product of a good show: everyone in the place is so tuned into the music that they all walk out with something in common. I could have had a decent conversation with anybody in that joint — the exec in the wool suit, and the dude with bloodshot eyes and a hemp poncho. No barriers.

Things must have seemed bleak to the thirty-five year old Johann Sebastian Bach in the spring of 1721. He had composed six pieces, delivered for a commission to the Margrave of Brandenburg, Christian Ludwig, each one an exposition of the new and old instruments that were available to the young composer, each one a re-thinking of the concerto form — still relatively young in the early eighteenth century and certainly still very Italian in its conception and tradition. In short, each of these orchestral pieces were a thoughtful exposition of the musical world that Bach inhabited.

The results were not pleasant: Ludwig omitted these pieces from his personal collection of compositions and, after his death, the six concerti were sold for roughly one dollar apiece. It’s unclear exactly how much more Bach could have failed in his attempt.

To be sure, Ludwig’s indifference to Bach’s work is understandable. In some sense, the Brandenburg Concertos (BWV 1046-1051) are difficult pieces even to our ears, nearly three hundred years afterward. The grouping of six concerti are experiments, and how: Bach incorporates avant garde combinations of instruments — in one, two recorders and a violin, in another, two horns and a harpsichord (the other combinations are almost equally absurd) — producing novel and often mercurial forms and extended harmonies that must have been as shocking and impenetrable to the eighteenth-century baroque ear, as John Cage or Eliot Carter is for us.

It’s this sense of curiosity on Bach’s part, his exploration of what combinations are successful and — more importantly — how they manage it, that has kept audiences returning to hear this music and has made the Brandenburg Concertos a mainstay of Bach’s secular orchestral output.

Fitting, then, that Bach’s nearly three hundred year-old work should find its home under the direction of both John Harbison and Michael Beattie at the opening gala for Emmanuel Music’s 2008-2009 music season this past Thursday, 18 September at the Emmanuel Church in Boston. Emmanuel Music is unique in its ambitious move to perform one Bach cantata every Sunday morning during service, in the style that Bach was accustomed to at Emmanuel Church. The effect, of course is astonishing: to hear Bach’s cantatas in a space for which they were written, with instruments they were written for, gives a sense of the world Bach inhabited. This is not the veneered stereophonic chambers produced on recordings, but a spare world with shrill, whiny instruments where tonality is relative and even-temperament is a blessing. Bach’s cantatas find a unique home in the cavernous Gothic architecture of Emmanuel Church.

The six Brandenberg concertos, in contrast, were originally composed for a small saloon-type setting and modifications were necessary for Emmanuel Music’s concert to accommodate the significantly different tenor of the church. Indeed, space seems to have been the greatest impedance to Thursday night’s performance.

The first and second concerti, which feature trumpets, replaced the baroque trumpet with modern French horns (expertly performed by Richard Sebring, and Richard Menaul and Whitacre Hill, respectively). It was, of course, a wise decision; Emmanuel Church could not have tolerated the pungent timbre of the baroque horn to blend with the muted Baroque orchestra (one of the many concerns plaguing early orchestral composers attempting to incorporate brass instruments into their works) and the French horns were more accommodating in this respect.

The space of Emmanuel Church again colored the performance of the sixth concerto, a grosso concerto scored for two violas, one viola da gamba, one cello, a violone and harpsichord; it seemed to lose some of the grace and precision of the imitative coloratura of the violas amid this displacement. Of course, replacing the violone with a double bass afforded more stability to accommodate the live space of Emmanuel Church. However, it was disappointing not to hear Bach’s crisp counterpoint in the solo violas as clearly, as it is featured so prominently in this piece.

This was especially true for the fifth concerto, a ripieno concerto scored for flute, violin, viola, cello, violone and harpsichord. This performance utilized not only the double bass, as before, but replaced the harpsichord with a piano. This modification was particularly striking as the fifth concerto features an extended solo and fortspinnung on the harpsichord at the end of the first movement. Beattie, on the piano, was second to none in performing this portion of the piece. His expertise on the piano and familiarity with Bach’s intentions in this movement became obvious as the movement ended in a thrilling cadenza. But a piano is no harpsichord: the brashness of the modern piano disfavored and often overcame the subtler period instruments utilized in this performance and the virtuosic runs lost some of their crispness in the church (Bach himself famously denigrated the precursors to the modern piano, criticizing the instrument as too loud and difficult to play).

This is not to say, however, that the performance was not well-conceived and executed. The six pieces were performed in reverse order, starting with the smallest ensemble in the sixth, concluding with the largest and most grandly conceived of the pieces, the first concerto. Of particular note was the endearingly shaggy third concerto. Set in a particularly jovial portrayal of G major, Bach features three principal violin parts (elegantly rendered by Rose Drucker, Jodi Hagen and Lena Wong in Emmanuel Music’s performance) in engrossing dialogue throughout the first and third movements.

Particularly interesting was the second movement. Here, Bach scores only two chords, a Phrygian cadence, often interpreted to be a moment of pause between the exhausting first and third movements. It speaks to Harbison and Beattie’s understanding of the implicit motives in Bach’s music that they chose impose a successful break from tradition at this point. This moment was incredibly extended and explicated upon in a somber, yet poignantly beautiful, cannon based on this cadence, a deleted movement from the Bach Violin Sonata, BWV 1019.

Anywhere else, two hours of Bach would have appeared taxing; this is a lot of Bach, and not the Bach of the St. Matthew Passion, English Suites or b minor Mass. This is a weird and eccentric Bach, one that is experimenting, gleefully riffing on his newfound combinations and discoveries. The particular composition of academic integrity and virtuosic performance in Emmanuel Music’s opening gala was a moving reminder that Bach is not simply a great composer, but, foremost, an experimentalist and innovator. Certainly, this opening gala foretells an excellent season to come.

Two things to keep in mind before we get into a review of Weezer’s fall “Hootenanny” tour in support of this summer’s Red Album. First, Rivers Cuomo is closer to 40 than he is to 30 — he may actually need to put some Rogaine in his hair. Second, whether genuinely or ironically, Weezer has made YouTube culture the theme of their fall tour.

Fresh back from their Japan tour, their first American date at the Tsongas Arena in Lowell, MA found the band experimenting. In the spirit of the YouTube Mentos videos, they came out decked in white jumpsuits. Their opening band, Angels and Airwaves sounded like something ripped off an emo 15 year old’s MySpace page. During their show, they routinely switched instruments, lead vocalists and costumes between songs (Rivers finally settled on an Umbro soccer kit with matching knee pads). Each band member got nearly equal time in the spotlight. And as part of bringing You into Weezer, they invited about 20 or so aspiring local musicians on stage to help them out with “Island in the Sun” and “Beverly Hills.”

The net effect of their efforts produced a show that was at times disjointed but overall engaging and pretty hard rocking, though their antics may have been better suited for a smaller venue as we definitely felt the empty space in the arena. Weezer themselves may have been acutely aware that they aren’t suited for arena rock. Rivers chatted up the audience during song breaks and addressed his stage crew as if playing a small club gig. To start the encore, a roadie played a vinyl copy of the Red Album on stage for a good 3 minutes before the band came out — perhaps a slight dig to arena acts that lip sync their way through shows.

Musically, Weezer played a pretty diverse set. I only counted about 5 Red Album songs and thankfully only a few each from Maladroit and Make Believe. More than a decade removed from their first two albums, they still interspersed some fan favorites including “Sweater Song”, “Say It Ain’t So”, and “My Name Is Jonas.” They also added quite a few covers, including a haphazard rendition of “What’s The Story Morning Glory” to end their first set.

I’m not sure whether ending the set on an old Oasis cover was a stroke of genius or just flat out bizarre. It left most of the audience simply bewildered, but it did provide a quick litmus test to find the fans that actually remembered the mid 90s.

On that note, it seemed the audience was divided into two groups. Older fans from the Blue Album/Pinkerton days and younger fans brought in by “Pork and Beans.” This proved cumbersome for singalongs as neither group was familiar with the other’s Weezer repertoire. That being said, it is refreshing to see a whole new generation of Weezer fans, fans who don’t know about Pinkerton or Rivers getting writer’s block at Harvard or Rivers’ strange celibacy experiment or his subsequent Yellow Fever or …

Yeah, it was nice for an evening to simply rock out to Weezer. Just what the band wants.

Nicholas Hlobo’s exhibit at the ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art/Boston) opens with a sign blaring the words “Momentum 11” and a sculpture that seems to be emerging from a white wall. At first glance, it is as if a hole has been ripped into the wall, and the white peeled away to reveal black charred rubber, tethering off into multi-colored ravines winding their way across the white wall.

“What is it?” is not usually the first question asked but rather, “What is it made of?” For Hlobo, the materials he chooses to use in his sculptures lend meaning to the pieces themselves. An underlying pattern that runs throughout the exhibit’s five pieces is an intricate woven stitching, not unlike that commonly found on baseballs. This stitching finds its way into many of his pieces, twisting and twining across the structures. There is something beautifully primitive about the repetition of this stitching. Its delicacy also contrasts with the other materials that Hlobo uses. Everything from ribbons, car tire, soap, and zippers find their way into his pieces. Despite his incorporation of many unconventional and man-made objects, Hlobo’s art is both organic and living.

The room that houses the majority of the exhibit is roseate-lit, a soft pinkness that embraces the corners of the walls and produces a downwards gradation. The roseate glow is almost flesh-like, as if the viewers were inside a body. The first thing that catches one’s eye is an 18-foot black monstrosity that hangs, suspended in midair. Almost pod-like in shape, the structure appears to be made of wrinkled rubber with thick white lines running horizontally across the body. Stitchings of neon green, blue, and red sprawl across the form haphazardly. What is most intriguing about this sculpture, entitled Umphanda ongazaliyo is the way one end of it dwindles into a canal that attaches itself to a wall and emerges out the other side (which is also the first thing one sees before walking into the roseate room). Umphanda ongazaliyo translates as “a vessel that never fills up,” suggesting an insistent need and inability to be satiated. If one examines the sculpture carefully, there are carefully chosen gapes and open seams placed throughout that may partly explain the title of the piece. The shape of the sculpture easily brings to mind that of an organ, like the stomach. Its tenuous suspension in midair makes one ponder its placement in relation to the space around it. There is a quiet uncertainty in the way it floats towards the ceiling but doesn’t quite touch it. The way Umphanda ongazaliyo extends beyond and through the gallery walls seems to suggest the permeability of art beyond the confines of the museum.

The titles of Hlobo’s pieces are all in Xhosa, his native tongue, which lends to the hints at the social messages beyond the physical complexity and creative usage of materials. Many of his pieces seem to emphasize connection and growth. The explosion of colored tendrils across one of his tapestry-like pieces, Uzifake zatshon’ iinzipho, and the rips across the surface make one wonder if his view of connection is a nurturing one or a violent one. The sinewy stitchings are everywhere, snaking and splitting into even finer tendrils. Is Hlobo suggesting connection as a flourishing growth or a chokehold that threatens to result in eventual demise? His elegant combination of his own culture and his reflections on society result in intricate and thought provoking pieces that one could look at for hours on end. Where does one thing end and the other begin? His curling, flowing forms reverberate with life and — in the middle of the pink-lit room — provide an unforgettable experience.

Today’s photographer is often faced with the challenge of either maintaining the purity of black and white photography, or embracing the current culture of digital practices. Julio de Matos, in his exhibit entitled Fading Hutongs, at times seems to have inadvertently exempted himself from this rigid classification. While deep inspection of his digital color prints clearly reveals his medium, his subject matter lends a black and white feel to any casual observer.

A hutong is literally an alley, or narrow passage. In Beijing, hutongs preserve the only remains of traditional housing. As the city industrializes and modernizes around these cultural and historical pockets, they are increasingly threatened.

The exhibit, which opened this week in the Wolk Gallery at MIT, consists of three main categories of images: perspectives down the alleys, building facades, and portraits.

Matos successfully conveys the tight and narrow nature of a hutong by standing at one end and employing a focal length that captures even the smallest details of the far end of the alley. Each shot is slightly biased to one side, exaggerating the actual distance of a given alley. His images were taken during the winter, when a small layer of snow still lined the streets. What one notices immediately is the contrast between the white snow, and the somber grey houses lining the street.

A handful of the images could very well be black and white, but are actual representations of the true color. One such image is placed beside an aerial view of a row of hutongs. The image is framed such that the colorful high-rises of Beijing surround the periphery, and down below, the symmetric, black roofs of traditional Chinese houses crowd together.

Matos clearly defines the difference between his subject and the rest of Beijing in the first few pieces. His portraits, towards the end of the exhibit, do much more to convey the rhythm of life in an intimate hutong community.

A series of portraits along one wall demands the viewer to question the demographic makeup of Beijing, and its authenticity. Matos captured what might be considered a more honest representation of Beijing in his personal portraits: an old Chinese man smoking a cigarette as snow collects on his fur cap, an elderly woman posing against a backdrop of laundry hanging on a clothesline, and a young mother and her daughter relaxing on a bed while a television is on in the background. These traditional houses, while outwardly nostalgic, also harbor a modern personality and range of attitudes. The breadth of time contained within a hutong is apparent in one particular image: a mother pushes her child in a handmade wooden carousel, while three men gather around a motorcycle to gossip.

Various items recur as thematic elements, including bicycles and power lines. Due to the short stature of the houses, power lines tower over them. Some images are also cleverly (or maybe accidentally) framed by power lines that run down from particular poles. The thick, black lines tighten the image space even more, trapping the chosen figures into a small area. Bicycles are in almost every image, as they are the vehicle of choice for most hutong dwellers. Only a few times are they used as a juxtaposing element against a car or motorcycle.

Matos’s subject matter is in fact unique, but the majority of the images are not completely technically sound. Certain angles and framing decisions don’t deliver lasting impressions.

His one failed image is of the façade of what seems to be a religious building. This is the only image he actually converted to black and white using digital software. While the juxtaposition of the color photograph and the real black and white photograph is eloquent, Matos ruined the effect by selectively revealing the color of a door in the black and white image.

Though the individual images aren’t strong, together they actually do represent something greater, which is that these hutongs are fading away. Matos might argue that what’s fading with them is a vibrant subculture of modern individuals, who have adapted to live in history.

At the center of Claude Chabrol’s A Girl Cut in Two is the kind of pulpy love triangle that the tabloids dream of: a nymphet-like TV weather-girl is caught between a nationally revered literary figure (decades older) and a volatile, dashing heir to a pharmaceutical company fortune. The conflict ends very, very badly.

The sordid affair is then thrust into a vicious media frenzy — ready to devour it whole — but the most surprising thing about Chabrol’s film is that, despite a heavy publicized legal trial, it is impossible to pass conclusive judgments on the characters. We are unable to moralize because throughout A Girl Cut in Two we are constantly deceived, manipulated, and shocked by how the characters can alternate between being charming and detestable. You come out of all of it feeling kind of dirty.

The weather-girl, Gabrielle (Ludivine Sagnier), enters the film pristine and childlike; she is constantly referred to as “angel” by her countless male admirers. Her subsequent corruption at the hands of a famous writer, Charles Saint-Denis (François Berléand), is unsettling because, rather than expressing fear or discomfort, it is clear that Gabrielle enjoys it — a lot. It becomes difficult to form any conclusions about Gabrielle — she seems at once perverse and innocent — and watching her for too long makes it impossible to maintain any kind of rigid moral perspective.

Saint-Denis and his rival Paul Gaudens (Benoît Magimel) are similarly evasive characters; they also happen to be terrifically acted. Saint-Denis chilling ability to manipulate Gabrielle is quickly apparent, but because of Berléand’s performance, he comes off as disarmingly brilliant anyway. Paul is easier to hate at first, he’s whiny and self-involved, but by the end you find yourself defending his rather questionable choices as well.

Almost in direct contrast to the film’s vague moral anchors, Chabrol’s direction is tight, with a fluid narrative and sharp visual style. This, if anything, heightens our displacement and confusion by the end, because it is so easy to get tangled up in the narrative.

We are jolted back, however, by the film’s unexpected conclusion. As the film closes we find Gabrielle in an vulnerable and humiliating position; the camera closes in on her face as she seems to reflect on being manipulated by pretty much every character in the movie. Chabrol’s most distinct talent is his ability to extract pleasure from such rampant cynicism.

How well do you know the local jazz scene in Boston? If you’re under 21, chances are you have some difficulty getting into clubs. Have you ever attended Boston’s national festival of music? Well, given that Boston hosts no such event, I can say that you haven’t. Spending three months in the city of love, Paris, I’ve realized how closely music and culture are linked — and how much we might be missing out in lovely Beantown.

Before I delve into the vibrant live music culture of Paris, it’s important to note that the French capital is home to some of the world’s best street musicians. For several years, street musicians have had to audition in order to play in the Paris Metro. A typical busker is usually equipped with an accordion (some players as young as ten years old) or a guitar. While traditional French ballads are their forte, the Paris streets attract musicians from all genres and languages. American pop and folk songs could be heard throughout the Concorde area, while traveling just a few metro stops East brings a more African influence and sound. The crooked, irregular streets of the famous arrondissements (Parisian city districts) make a perfect intimate stage for guerilla performance: the narrow passages naturally amplify the sound of an instrument up to the top level of any apartment building. I myself tried to take my guitar out to the streets — I was most successful in populated squares near Centre Georges Pompidou, near the museum of contemporary art. There, I found myself among a whole circus of performers — in addition to musicians, I met dancers, jugglers, magicians, and mimes. One dancer in particular, an American, claimed that he came to Paris during summers just for the performance experience.

The music on the street, however, is unmatched by the music found on stage. The vast majority of restaurants include live music in the menu price, but it’s often traditional French music. The most typical restaurant musicians play Manouche, a style of jazz Django Reinhardt developed in France during the 1930s. If you’re looking for a real performance, though, Paris is blessed with countless jazz clubs. Unfortunately, in Boston, you must be 21 in order to see a show at a club like Wally’s, which is just South of MIT on Mass. Ave. In Paris, I found numerous jazz clubs in every district. Depending on the night, an entrance fee could range from 5 to 25 euros, usually depending on the quality of the group. Nevertheless, I was fortunate enough to find a few nights during the week, and even on the weekend, when entry was free. What’s most interesting about the French live jazz culture is the soirée boeuf, which is the equivalent to a jam session. While Wally’s in Boston has a blues jam every week, the soirée boeuf occurs more often and at more locations in Paris, and sometimes happens spontaneously (if the piano decides to ask an audience member to come up and play). Certain clubs hold regular jam nights, so avid young musicians come prepared with sheet music and their instruments. As you might imagine, some young players are better than others, but the overall feel of the soirée boeuf is informal, light-hearted, and exciting.

This summer, France held its National Festival of Music on June 21. All over the country, major cities held concerts and performances throughout the day. In Paris, the street corners and alleyways were filled with impromptu stages housing groups of almost every style. Most clubs and small concert venues allowed free entry for the day to showcase various rock, hip-hop, world music, and classical groups. A number of bars also held jam sessions throughout the day. I was lucky enough to play drums with a funk band in front of Sohil, a bar near Hôtel de Ville.

Coming back to the Boston area from Paris, as a lover of music, I was a little disappointed. I became habituated to a culture where it was easy to see great music for very little travel and cost. It also seemed that music was less intrusive in Paris, functioning instead as an aspect of daily life. While Sculler’s and the Regattabar, two Boston jazz clubs, have student discounts on weekends, Paris’ Sunside or Autour de Midi are friendlier to those of us on a budget. I long for the day when I can go out to Boston and head into a club to hear some music, buy a drink only if I really want one, and leave with a stronger connection to my surroundings. Until then, I guess all I can look forward to is chanting “Take me out to the ball game” with the Red Sox.

Mike Gordon is weird. He’s best known as the bassist from the now broken-up Phish, but also as the author of Mike’s Corner, a section of the band’s newsletter which served as a sort of psychedelic literary repository. Take for example a story he published in October, 1995 with the beginning: “As far as tikes go, Johnald was a wee bit irregular. For one thing, he had an Amrope coming out of his head. You may be wondering, ‘What is an Amrope?’ I won’t piss on you for wondering that. Actually, it’s like an antenna, but it’s got some mold on it. It’s not something you buy at a store, maybe you do buy it in a store.”

His first solo album, 2003’s Inside In, continued the weird and distorted realities usually found in Mike’s writings and handful of short films. However with his most recent effort, The Green Sparrow, Gordon evolves and takes the weird to strangely accessible levels. He toys with genres by releasing an overall rock record, with hints of folk, calypso, and funk. This is almost no surprise, given that Gordon’s tastes and influences range widely, and that in addition to the bass, he can play the piano, guitar, banjo, and harmonica. Lyrically, Gordon opens up to the listener. He’s increasingly self-reflecting and sometimes addresses his subject plainly and openly. In ‘Jaded’, a funky, Spin Doctors-esque tune, Gordon raps about his frustrations against his subject. He sings “Now I’m jaded!” during the choruses, in total pop splendor. At first it’s a little comical to hear him juxtapose melodic rapping with American Idol style one-line choruses, but it’s also incredibly fitting.

On ‘Morphing Again’ Gordon addresses a beloved flying-creature, evolving through life. Imagery such as “she floats through rain like a waterlogged butterfly” prove that we’re still in Gordon’s twisted world-view, but we can relate to his endearing tribute to his beloved. The weird is okay now — even when he sings that “she escapes the bird like an airborne scorpion.” The song, probably one of the best tracks of all ten, is clever lyrically and musically. It’s a folksy, Caribbean-themed track that alludes to the bouncy relationship he may have with his odd lover. We almost empathize with Gordon’s fears when he introspects: “she’s morphing again into something I can’t recognize, and just when I’m in, she might morph her way out.”

Truthfully, only a few other songs hold the same power as ‘Morphing’ and ‘Jaded.’ There are plenty of unique ideas and fantastic moments, but areas of the album that just meander and miss the opportunity to develop lyrical or musical motifs. At other times, Gordon just misses it completely, in his attempt to make this album more loose and accessible. In ‘Pretend,’ an acoustic ballad, Gordon sings to his girl suggesting “we can deja-vu backwards, baby.” The only problem is that he continues to append several other lines after that with “baby,” and it’s not clear whether he’s being wry or actually thinks that it fits.

Last weekend in Boston at the Paradise Rock Club, Gordon and his new band proved that The Green Sparrow translates much better in the live setting. Though the crowd was riddled with Phish fans who wake up every morning dreaming of a band reunion, it couldn’t be clearer that Gordon has moved on from Phish and was the leader of a new group. Though a quiet member on stage with Phish, Gordon played the new role of front-man with ease, occasionally joking around with the audience. The group opened with ‘Another Door,’ also the opener on The Green Sparrow. On stage Gordon successfully communicated with his band members, either by musical cues, facial signals or actually going up to them and speaking to them during songs. The actual songs played during the show differed drastically from the written setlist left on the stage, based on Gordon’s impulse decisions. While the majority of the album tracks clock in at less than five minutes, the band extended each song into the eight to twelve minute range. These extended jams showcased Gordon’s ability to lead as a bassist, but also the various strengths and weaknesses of his bandmates. Guitarist Scott Murawksi meandered at times, and keyboardist Tom Cleary relied too often on similar blues licks to fill out his solos. However, for a group trying to improvise on stage, they succeeded in fully developing each song into cohesive ideas that went beyond the abrupt nature of the studio versions.

Gordon rightfully included the obligatory Phish song, ‘Meat,’ in the first set. It was the only song for which the audience knew all the lyrics, with the exception of ‘She Said, She Said,’ an epic Beatles cover that lasted almost 14 minutes. Before ‘Radar Blip,’ Gordon asked the audience to decide which member of the band would lead the jam using communal hand signals. The ‘experiment’ more or less worked, and reached a comic peak when everyone had fists raised in the air while shimmying (the signal for the percussionist to lead the jam).

The crowd danced non-stop for the majority of the first set. Weaker album tracks such as ‘Voices’ couldn’t come alive in concert, but the addition of several songs not found on the album made the repertoire varied enough to forgive dull moments. The band was having a blast on stage, considering it was their last date on an exhaustive tour of North America. For now, Gordon is done touring. He mentioned in several interviews that he had recorded over 50 songs before narrowing down the 10 that made it onto The Green Sparrow. With all the songs he has left over, plus new ideas and songs that evolved from the tour, he could be in the midst of putting together a new solo effort. In order to hone his songwriting, he should take just a little more time with the next album. Hopefully, he’ll spend even more time touring it. Unless that other band he used to play in starts touring again.

While the age of fairy tales is all but a distant memory for most of us, the lure of the “happily ever-after” lands is all too strong to resist, irrespective of age. Add in some exquisitely crafted music and a few moralizing twists, and there is no wonder why Stephen Sondheim’s highly acclaimed musical “Into the Woods” never fails to deliver unforgettable experiences for audiences of all ages. After spending most of the summer working on this exciting yet challenging musical, MTG is ready bedazzle you with a journey “Into the Woods” that will surely meet all expectations.

“Into the Woods” is more than a collection of fairy tales. In fact, its plot will surely pique the interest of MIT folk, as it is essentially lifted off of a statistics problem set: how many fairy tales can you tell simultaneously using the minimum number of characters, so that each tale reaches its intended conclusion? The answer might vary, but the audience will surely recognize the well-known story lines of Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Rapunzel, all cleverly intertwined in such a way that no story would work without the others. Yet, since fairly tales are mostly for kids, “Into the Woods” goes a step further, or as it is the case here, a whole act further to explore what happens beyond the “ever after.” As the plot permeates with realism, it becomes darker, starting to mirror ordinary life and hence adding significant depth to the overall tale.

Although the clever plot is enough of a selling point, the true magic of “Into the Woods” lies in its music. Sondheim lives up to his status as one of the “greatest artists in the American musical theatre” (NY Times) by penning an exquisitely intricate and charming score paired up with deliciously funny lyrics. Although challenging to perform, the music feels very accessible to the audience, in great part due to Sondheim’s masterful songwriting skills and a very subtle orchestration.

MTG’s production of “Into the Woods,” aptly directed by Matthew Stern ’08, was delectable from start to finish. The singing was very good, the acting even better, and the overall comic element spectacular. Since the musical involves so many hilarious punch lines, the audience had a hard time refraining from laughter, which in turn had a catalytic effect on the singers, allowing them to act and sing more freely, becoming, as the parts required, even funnier. Contributing a great deal to the success of the production was the smooth stage work. Using a combination of cleverly engineered rotating sets, and a judicious use of space, MTG was able to both convey the depth of the woods and keep up with the blazingly fast pace of the story in the space-stingy Little Kresge. More over, the well chosen props and costumes enhanced significantly the humor of the scenes.

The cast did a wonderful job bringing this production to life. Featuring great vocal talents and natural stage presence, the singers continuously engaged the audience both in the comedic moments and in the more soulful solo or duet arias. The main characters, the baker (J. Michael Spencer) and his wife (Kerry Brooke Steere) were delightful as a couple, and especially moving when singing their duet “It takes two,” where they vow not to give up on their hopes of breaking the spell that keeps them infertile. Steere also showed tremendous acting skills portraying the inner struggle of the baker’s wife, who still dreams of Prince Charming, even though she is married and wishing for a child.

One of the funniest characters in the show, the Little Red Riding Hood was admirably portrayed by Karen Hart ’11. Hart does such a tremendous job, both singing and acting that it almost feels this part was written for her. Her nemesis, the wolf, is memorably portrayed by Edmund W. Golaski ’99, who also doubles as Prince Charming. In both roles, Golaski showcases an excellent voice full of nuance, either as the wolf dreaming of a copious meal (“Hello, little girl”) or joining his brother Prince Charming (Luis Loya ’06) in a silly, yet engaging duet “Agony.”

Jack (Timothy Wilfgong) is another notable part that is very well acted. Wilfgong perfectly captures the tormented world view of the somewhat slow lad who suddenly runs into fortune, highlighting his unusual affection for his old cow in the hearfelt aria “I guess this is goodbye.” Nicole O’Keeffe ’09 shines as Jack’s mother, delivering the part with a lot of energy.

Cinderella and her family are also amazingly entertaining. Carrie Lee ’10 does admirably impersonating the cleaning girl, especially through her remarkable vocal talents. Cinderella’s sisters are outright hilarious in every one of their scenes, owing to the exuberant performances of Yunji Wu ’09 and Megan Rexius, always energetically guided (even literally) by their snobbish mother (Amelia Thomas).

In another story, we hear the ensnaring humming of Rapunzel (Lauren Bakis) locked in the doorless tower by her overprotecting mother and witch (Mia Shandell ’10). While Bakis’ voice is delightful, Shandell outdoes herself in some spectacular arias. Handling superbly what is likely the most challenging part in the musical, as a witch in her quest for youth and beauty, Shandell does it all and very well: she raps, she dances, she curses, she screams and even soulfully laments her condition while trying to keep her daughter with her (“Stay with me”).

Finally, the show would not be complete without a story teller. Dave Berger takes on the part with great aplomb, while also doubling as the mysterious man — a character in charge of making sure the fairy tales follow their proper course. Berger is incredibly hilarious in his later role, while also displaying a natural ability to switch between the roles with great ease.

Overall, MTG tackled brilliantly Sondheim’s challenging masterpiece, delivering a very engaging, witty performance. “Into the Woods” is more than a story, it’s an adventure that will make you laugh very hard and then it’ll make you think. Go and watch it.

Mad Men is a show that thinks very highly of itself. Its creator and writer, Matthew Weiner, was a writer and executive producer of The Sopranos, and Mad Men totes a self-importance that could give some the impression that it’s powerful and innovative HBO drama, like The Sopranos or The Wire. It’s not, but judging by the hype its second season has gotten, a lot of people seem to be convinced it is.

While The Sopranos was piercing psychological exploration of crime and the American family, Mad Men is often content to be vaguely nostalgic, fixing almost all its energy on set pieces, costumes, and the glitzy consumerism of the early 1960s.

In its first season, Mad Men’s meditation on consumerism and excess usually amounted to little more than a straightforward display of the over-the-top lives of Manhattan advertising executives, except with the lines delivered very, very seriously. When the focus shifted to the advertising itself, the actors would discuss consumer culture with office banter that was rarely funny.

Once you look past the fact that the show rarely tackles its subject matter in an interesting way, it’s easy to appreciate that its characters are actually quite good. While its protagonist Don Draper (Jon Hamm) is generally content to be stone-faced and tortured, many of the characters surrounding Don — particularly his wife Betty (January Jones), secretary Peggy (Elisabeth Moss), and colleague Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser) — are enigmatic and complex. Again, the problems facing the characters aren’t entirely original — Betty is a housewife lost in suburbia, Peggy is a woman trying to enter an entirely male-dominated profession, and Pete is a painfully weak man trying to be a cutthroat executive — but they have surprising depth.

The second season of Mad Men deals with the mortality of the ad-executives: the transformation of their industry and the fatal trajectory of their lifestyle. As everything in the characters’ lives begins to crumble, the show keeps getting better. It was thoroughly underwhelming at first, but the second season is certainly heading in the right direction.

Ease the pain of back-to-school bitch work with music and punting, the tried-and-true best medicine for p-setting agony. Check out our picks for September’s best concerts; special interest shows denoted with stars.

Stereophonics with Le Loup, Monade

Paradise Rock Club, 18+, $25

Welsh rockers Stereophonics are joined by the very hip, very French Monade (side project of Stereolab’s Laetitia Sadier) and banjo-laptop hybrid of the new millenium Le Loup.

The Mars Volta*

The Orpheum, All Ages, $30

For a good time, try throwing urine at these funkadelic guys and see what happens. No, seriously, YouTube “Mars Volta” and “pee.” You’ll be totally inspired.

Bell X1

Paradise Rock Club, 18+, $15

This Irish band used to include Damien Rice as a member and later hit it big in the U.S. after inclusion on the ever-prestigious O.C. soundtrack. Radiohead-inspired chord changes and love-struck choir boy lyrics make this group passively enjoyable.

Takka Takka, Love As Laughter, Oxford Collapse

T.T. The Bear’s Place, 18+, $10

Looks like all the regular indie opening acts have banded together to headline their own tour; between the three of them, this should be a fun, low-key performance, and a perfect way to end this semester’s first Suicide Prevention day.

Built to Spill with Dinosaur Jr., Meat Puppets*

The Orpheum, All Ages, $25

If you can’t snag a ticket to All Tomorrow’s Parties New York (which features My Bloody Valentine, Autolux, Thurston Moore, and others) then check out these touring artists from the festival. Perfect for nineties aficionados that can’t stand reunion tours.

Ratatat

Paradise Rock Club, 18+, $20

Electronic duo produces equal parts heavy guitar and dance-inducing beats. Catch them one or both nights at Paradise for some end-of-weekend celebration.

Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson

T.T. The Bear’s Place, 18+, $10

Scoff all you want at his overly-indulgent name, but this acronym-ready artist has already grabbed the attention of TV On The Radio and Grizzly Bear. Catch him before he blows up too big and everyone else gets a second middle name just to be cool.

Say Hi*

The Middle East (Upstairs), 18+, $9

Formerly Say Hi To Your Mom, this group has truncated their name in order to fit with their more grown-up sound. Their last release, The Wishes and the Glitch, is filled with subdued tension but still comes out feel-good. Let’s hope that maturity carries over to the live show.