The Company is taking a break from writing new posts for the time being, but we'll keep Mixed Company available so you can read past entries and comments.

Best wishes, and enjoy the show!

-Julia Schrenkler
American Public Media
Interactive Producer, New Media

Since then, Jorja has worked with us on programs ranging from solo violin and piano, to an ad hoc nonet performing Stravinsky's "L'Histoire du Soldat." Probably one of the highlights of our shared experiences is the commission of Nicholas Maw's Solo Violin Sonata for her to play on this show. Each encounter with her has been a little like encountering the sun after a long stretch of grey days. You're always a little surprised by the warmth and light and you find your shoulders relaxing as you soak up the good energy that comes from that source.

This is my last blog for Saint Paul Sunday. In some ways, this program with Jorja and Karl is exemplary about what I've loved most about my involvement with the show. The two of them have a remarkable relationship that is immediately apparent in their performance together and I suspect that it is fueled by three of my favorite human characteristics: a sense of humor, curiosity and acknowledgement for how lucky we are to be able to participate in the world of music creation.

Thank you for your participation in the work that we've done all these years. Don't ever stop surrounding yourself with music. No matter what your day is like, it will always be better for hearing Brahms, Beethoven or Peter Mennin.

There's another little tid-bit of information about OPUS that I almost forgot to mention - Anne-Marie's cuddly white dog, Samantha. Throughout the session, Little Sammy sat with her ears perked up, appearing to enjoy the music just as much as the Saint Paul Sunday staff.

It's funny how observing that little dog's self-discipline as she sat still through the recording session made me realize what a dedicated group of musicians this is. There is no question that Samantha is Anne-Marie's pet, because she embodies the quiet grace and discipline of Anne-Marie and the rest of the group. Each piece OPUS ONE takes on, whether it's new music by Tsontkakis or a classic work by Mozart, is as full of character as OPUS ONE's members, and is executed with great attention and discipline that only they can give it.

In the right hands, there's something about the viola's directness that makes it hard to resist. It's an exceptionally faithful medium for human music-making, perhaps because of the timbre and range of its voice, perhaps its friendly size. It makes sense that Mozart, a supreme unifier of the human and the divine, prized the viola over other instruments, even picking it up from time to time to play with friends.

In this program, Helen's splendid way with the viola is what magnetizes us and reminds us of her instrument's knack for making connections. Perhaps the uncanniest of these is the one she shares with British composer Pamela Harrison, who happened to grow up in the same tiny Kent village she did and whom she's helping rescue from obscurity.

Most of the hour's connections, though, are under the radar, where they delight or move us without our quite knowing why. Occasionally throughout Helen's performances we hear textural and timbral shifts that seem to recall a singer mid-passaggio, or the slight catch in the voice of someone speaking with a lump in his throat. The moments are always natural and subtle and yet leave little doubt that this wonderful violist has us in the palm of her hand.

There are times when I listen to a great guitarist and think, if only I could play six measures like that, I'd gladly trade anything I've learned to do in music for the experience. But I don't play. Instead I listen to guitarists with a pleasure no less than Debussy's and never more than in the company of my favorite family of musicians, the Romeros.

Growing up in Malaga, in the heartland of Spanish guitar playing, listening from birth to their father, the celebrated guitarist, Celedonio Romero, breathing in the spirit of flamenco and classical guitar on the streets of Andalucia, Celin and Pepe Romero remind me of the origin of the word "inspire" to take in with the breath.

The Romero family, now happily playing, teaching and building guitars into the fourth generation have long been among my favorite visitors to Saint Paul Sunday and this program stands out as one of the most personal and inviting we've ever recorded.

When I asked Pepe what it is that makes the music he and his brother play so compelling, he simply said, "It's the perfume. The guitar has such magic in the sound and drama in its quietness."

From the jokey atmosphere at the start, the Guarneri moved straight into the dark, somber beginning of Mozart's Dissonant quartet. That's another impressive thing about them—their ability to be so comfortable, casual, even modest at times and then turn to their instruments and express such strong emotions. With each performance and each conversation I was drawn further in. At one moment, Bill and the quartet would be casually chatting with each other, and the next I heard music played with such varied dynamics that I swayed with sadness and, moments later, was carried away on a joyful romp (that was the Ravel quartet).

The Guarneri's playing carried me away and its memory will stay with me for a long time. I'm curious to hear how you respond to their visit. I hope you enjoy the ride. I know I did.

In this week's show, the English viol consort Phantasm resurrects Baroque and Renaissance music in performances of works that sound as fresh and new as contemporary masterpieces. That's the thing that strikes me most about Phantasm—its sound is both rhythmically and harmonically complex, more modern than medieval. So take a listen, and let Phantasm set the tone for your own autumn reverie.

Working with the Library of Congress' "Creativity in America" project, Hampson has poured himself into making sure that the Library's own phenomenal collection of songs is heard through live performances, including doing the research necessary to provide social context for the songs.

Tom is a big presence on stage and a big person in life. He walks into the studio and with that big beautiful voice says "hello" and you sort of say to yourself "wow—he's the real thing." When you hear him sing on Saint Paul Sunday you'll say the same: He's the real deal.

With Leif Ove, it's all about the music. The person is unassuming and kind, even humble, and the pianist doesn't get in the way of the masterpieces at hand. Yet he's very much there—hyper-present, in fact, to Schumann's or Beethoven's or Grieg's intentions and idiosyncrasies without for a moment letting them suspend the possibilities he hears and draws to the surface of our hearing. (Monster technique doesn't hurt.)

An oft-repeated criterion for greatness in music is the capacity to invite and sustain ever new readings with no loss of the beloved original essence. Even so, how can a pianist at once channel and self-express as holistically as Leif Ove Andsnes does? It's as though he takes us from two dimensions to three, or from three dimensions to who knows how many more.

For me, though, the debate over his agonized loyalties is increasingly beside the point. We know at least that he suffered terribly, in a kind of twilight of dread, throughout and long after the Stalinist nightmare. He may have been less a casualty and more a reluctant cog, but he can't possibly have come through the horrors undamaged. As the welcome reassessment of his life and art continues around this centennial, it's perhaps worth remembering too that for many survivors of authoritarianism, self-betrayal, which is always complicit in the betrayal of others, is perhaps the cruelest legacy of all.

And as my interest in Shostakovich the victim/collaborator/cipher dwindles, my astonishment over the composer and his music grows. On this program, the Emerson gives us a brilliant sampling of his range, from the exuberant, sometimes ecstatic, early quartets—works that meld restive drive with the composer's endlessly seizing ear—to the spectral thirteenth, whose deeply insular language the Emerson translates with unsettling sympathy (and nerve).

Shostakovich's music could seem alien to me as a younger person. These days, particularly in the late quartets, there's often little interference at all (at times too little). Under the spell of the Emersons, we just go where the music takes us. If the trip is at times a little harrowing, there's also the great comfort of knowing someone has been there before.

We recorded in the evening after the last mass and turned off all of the lights and air circulation so that the church was completely silent. It was also completely dark, which made finding your way around a bit of a trick, but the music stand lights left Anonymous 4 and Bill McGlaughlin in a small pool of light.

I'm not sure if it was the stark contrast of the dark church to the lighted altar or the ethereal sound produced by size of the church, however there was something spiritual, maybe even sobering, about the music. Anonymous 4 is well-known for their clean, pure and passionate sound and I found that they are also great image evokers. Their singing brought to my mind the hard-working, early pioneers, many of whom didn't have formal musical training, but whose determination and purity of intent resulted in rich hymns. What images come to your mind when you listen to Anonymous 4?

In our pitilessly generic culture, the singular sound and complexion of the Czech Nonet is, to me, sheer respite. Its history, now something of a legend in chamber music circles, began almost accidentally when in the years after World War I a group of students at the Prague Conservatory got together to perform a work by Louis Spohr, which called for its particular blend of instruments. In the 82 years since, the nonet has inspired numerous composers to write for them, in part because they needed music! Probably the most famous of these is Bohuslav Martinů, whose expansive and similarly individual music we hear on this program.

Yet it's not just the group's instrumentation that stirs such rare colors into life, it's also a tone of voice, the specifically Czech accent and approach of its individual players, who still largely hail from the Prague Conservatory. The effect isn't the same even when equally accomplished artists of other traditions join forces for the same music, wonderful as those collaborations themselves can be. When the Czech Nonet plays, it draws us into a time and a world still wholly its own.

Given the extra fizz of adrenaline these programs carry, though, we're never quite sure how they'll turn out. We're reflexively prepared for curve balls...

Invariably, the intimacy and warmth of the series' format—and the generosity of the guests, whether they're newly emerging or superstars—take over. At that point it's just a few people making wonderful music in a studio. It's a magic Sir James tuned into in a heartbeat, one he and his millions of fans know well.

Today's program is a truly impromptu sampling of some of Sir James's favorites, chosen on the spot and performed with the elan and celebrated sound that make him beloved the world over.

As time when on and I kept spotting Milan's name on recordings (especially those of Musicus Concentus Wien, under Harnoncourt), I resolved to make the acquaintance of this demon bassoon player. He was touring with Ensemble Wien-Berlin, the superstar wind quintet made of soloists from the Vienna and Berlin Philharmonics but we never seemed able to make the dates work.

Finally I just asked Milan's manager if he would consider coming to Eugene, Oregon to play with the orchestra I was leading there. He would, it turned out and delighted us all with his Vivaldi and Mozart and extraordinarily deft coaching and lovely story telling. Here was the complete package it seemed.

I had to leave Eugene on the morning after the concert but left my car keys and directions to Hobbit Beach, a favorite secluded spot on the coast. When I got back from L.A., there were my car keys and a snapshot of the beach signed "Viele Danken, Milan." We've been friends ever since and it has been a special pleasure to invite Milan Turkovic to play on Saint Paul Sunday.

We recorded this program, Hélène Grimaud's second for Saint Paul Sunday, at our favorite New York City space, the concert hall at the American Academy of Arts and Letters. It seemed especially fitting for her. The daughter of linguists, Hélène Grimaud's first artistic explorations were with writers and books (the German Romantic poet Novalis in particular); music came a little later.

I'll never forget a quiet few minutes she and I had after the recording. With her beautiful performances still ringing in my ears, a young assistant at the institute gave us an impromptu tour of some adjacent manuscript and meeting rooms. He showed us a sheaf of handwritten scores (one by Copland) as well as a high majestic library space where Academy fellows gather in the silent presence of countless first editions.

You can hear Novalis's searching poetry in Hélène's playing...there are no doubt many other writers and musicians humming with life there too. For me, there's a delicious paradox to her artistry. On the one hand, her vision is uncompromising—she seems to know exactly where she'll take us and does so with great daring. On the other hand, she?s remarkably free—liberated of preconceptions and faithful to her own voice. The combination is exhilarating.

One of the works she performs this week embraces this paradox wonderfully: John Corigliano's "Fantasia on an Ostinato," which uses the contours of Beethoven's seventh symphony as the outer structure for free-form candor within. In Hélène?s hands, it's spellbinding.