The Ciompi Quartet

I have to say that, although it gives me joy to have performed and toured with the Quartet in many countries around the world, living among my students as a Faculty-in-Residence for the past ten years has been a most extraordinary experience that I would not have had anywhere else. During my time, Pegram dorm has fostered an arts community within the freshman class, where I have lived among 125 first-year students since 2005, all of them with an interest in one (or more) of the arts. Yesterday was the first day of classes at Duke for my new residents, Duke Class of 2019. As is our tradition, the Ciompi Quartet performed for Pegram Residents at the Common Room at 10:00pm. Yes, 10:00pm-  past bedtime for most people! I could tell the students were exhilarated, and everyone had fun. I hope these evenings will become treasured memories for years of Pegramites.  Not only do the students meet and hear performances from Duke faculty members, they are also able to engage in meaningful discussions after the performance, as they did last night.

—Hsiao-mei Ku, January 1, 2014

The Ciompi Quartet played two concerts at the Fougeres Music Festival in Brittany, France, in May of 2014. It was a lovely trip, made so by the two essential elements: good music and good people. Our program was American: works by Samuel Barber and Phillip Glass, a newly commissioned quartet by Melinda Wagner, and the “American” quartet by Dvorak (about as American as bratwurst, as Eric said in his introduction).

The first concert was at the medieval church in Fougeres, St. Suplice. The acoustic was exceptional: warm and reverberant, which made playing a pleasure. We happened to be playing on the same night as the most important soccer match of the season, between Rennes and their Breton rivals, Guingamp (Rennes lost), so the audience consisted only of the hard-core classical music fans. But they were enthusiastic, and we added our encore, Gershwin’s “Lullaby.”  The concert was preceded by a talk and film about Phillip Glass by the French film maker Éric Darmon. After wards there was a reception where we enjoyed being lionized by everyone from the Mayor on down (except for the soccer fans). We even had a nice review from Ouest France, the regional newspaper. Reviews are nice, and they look good on publicity, but the audience reaction and our own sensibilities are what matter.

The second concert was at the Franco-American Institute in Rennes, which was established after World War II, when the Bretons loved America for having liberated them from the Nazis.

We were at the festival for six nights, and we stayed in homes of the festival’s directors. Hsiao-mei and I were with Marcel and Collette (the parents, not coincidentally, of Anne-Gaëlle, who teaches French culture at Duke), while Eric and Jonathan stayed first with Daniel and Arlette and then with Nicole Rehault on the coast at St. Lunaire. Jonathan spent the last days of his trip with friends from New Hampshire, Peter and Francelle Bixby, who have a charming old house in Dinan. Normally, I prefer staying in hotels, but this was an exception, in part because we were not travelling every day. But it was the hospitality and generosity of our hosts that made the experience so enjoyable. Marcel and Colette, my hosts, made me feel truly at home. Their house was airy and full of light, with a beautiful garden. Colette was a fantastic cook, so meals at the house were a delight of food, wine, and conversation. The running joke was Marcel’s insistence on speaking English, and mine on speaking French. Anne-Gaëlle was often there to correct both of us.

In addition to the concerts, we were taken on several trips around Brittany. One was to the famous Mt. Saint Michel, where we climbed through the monastery/fortress and were awed by the skill and artistry of its medieval builders. Another memorable trip was to Cancale on the coast where we feasted on the local oysters.

After the festival I planned to spend a few days in Le Havre, Normandy to see the beaches where the D-day invasion took place. I took a train from Rennes to Paris where I was to transfer from Montparnsse to St. Lazare train station. I had a little extra time, so I went across the street for coffee. My wallet had both dollars and Euros, and my pocket had Euros and dimes, as I fumbled to pay for the coffee, I set my wallet on the table. The next thing I knew, the wallet had disappeared. Instant panic! I checked my pockets five times, even ones I never use. I asked the waiter if he had seen anything and got a negative response. At least I still had my cello and my passport, which alleviated my fear. It could be worse! But my return flight was four days away, and I had no money and nowhere to go.

I went back into the station and found a police office in the bowels of the building. Now I HAD to speak French. I remembered the word for lost, but didn’t know how to say wallet or stolen. The sharp-eyed cop knew a bit of English, and eventually he understood what I was trying to say. I had the thought to phone Marcel and Collette, and the police let me use their phone (I do not carry a cell…). No one was home, so I left a message, beginning with, “J’ai un grand problem.” I also phoned the American embassy, but there was no answer. I told the cop that I would come back in a few hours to try Marcel again.

I wandered around the grand station for a while. Strangely, I was not terribly worried. I had my cello and my passport. I was in the most civilized city in the world, not in Afghanistan or Ohio. And as a privileged American, I had nothing to compare this to: I’ve always felt safe because of the good fortune of my background and hadn’t experienced truly dangerous situations.

But I was getting hungry. I thought of George Orwell’s book, “Down and out in Paris and London.” Orwell scrounged food from behind restaurants. I am ashamed to say that I stole a piece of bread from a stand. I waited in the line for a minute, then when I reached the front I casually took a piece of pain au raisins and walked away. When I sat down to eat my prize, the propriator of the stand and an assistant confronted me. I conveniently lost most of my French, stood up, offered them the half-eaten crust and said, “J’ai faim.” They gave me looks of utter contempt and walked away.

I went back to the police station. This time I phoned both Marcel and Gabriel, the violinist who is artistic director of the festival. No-one home.

There was a piano in the station where French students played jazz. I listened with pleasure, and this gave me the obvious idea: why not play the cello to make a few Euros? I moved out of range of the piano and found what seemed to be a good place, on the level of the station where many passengers were waiting to board their trains. Then I got cold feet: I’d never played on the street before. The line from Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” came to me: “You’ve never had to live out on the street/And now you’re going have to get/ Used to it.” So I took out my cello, found a crack in the cement for my endpin, and began. My repertoire for the occasion was mostly solo Bach, but I alternated that with some French folk songs that I learned as a child (“Sur let pont D’Avignon,” “Au pres de ma blonde,” and “Il ete un petit bergere.” Pardonez mon francais!)

I was amazed when the woman sitting next to me got up to leave, and put a one Euro coin at my feet. Two or three other passengers contributed, some a few centimes, others as much as two Euros! Then a policewoman approached and politely told me that playing for money was not allowed in the station. I had put a hand-written note close to my seat on the bench, explaining that I was a poor, lost American, musician, and that I needed 40 Euros to buy a ticket. I started to pack up my cello, but encouraged by the exhileration of actually having people drop coins at my feet, and by the politeness of the policewoman, I reconsidered and started to play again. And again coins rained (or at least drizzled) down at my feet! But the policewoman came up again, and this time her suggestion that I quit playing was not so polite. When I packed up my cello, a man spoke to me, saying that he had no coins, but that he was disgusted by the cops for stopping such nice music. And then a young couple came up, and gave me forty Euros, two crisp 20-Euro notes! I had the presence of mind to ask for their names so I could return the money. M. Adrien Becard, a consultant from Limonest in the Southwest of France, will receive a nice surprise in the mail.

It was 11 PM when all the fun was over. The police station had closed for the night, so I retired to a small fast-food restaurant named “Quick.” I didn’t go there for the food but for the relatively comfortable chairs. I was enjoying the cushioned back when I heard a voice call, “Fred!” It was Gabriel, my savoir. He had gotten my voice message during the intermission of his concert with the Orchestre de Paris (Richard Strauss and Mahler!). Since he did not have a car, he phoned Anne-Gaelle and a friend, Simon, also a director of the Fougeres Festival, and they had rushed to the station. But it was a huge station! For how long had they been searching for me, I asked Gabriel. With perfect Gallic insouciance he replied, “Oh, not long. I knew that Quick had the only decent chairs in the place.”

I never got to Normandy. That will have to wait for another trip. Instead I stayed in Paris, first with Gabriel and Anne-Gaelle, then for the last two nights at my own apartment on Ave. Port Royal. Gabriel had arranged this with the owner of the apartment, who moved in with her partner on my behalf. I sum up the adventure this way: My wallet was stolen, but I made out like a bandbit.

—Fred Raimi May 19, 2014

The Quartet visited four cities in China in December, 2013. Each time the we travel there (this was our fourth), new and interesting developments are evident in the musical scene. Our trip included a stop at Duke’s new campus at Kunshan, near Shanghai, with a concert in the new hall in the center of the city. Old friendships were revived, such as with Andrew Huang, founder of the Sun Yat-Sen Cancer Center in Taiwan; and many new friendships were made, including with the dynamic faculty at Suzhou’s new Conservatory; the energetic staff at Duke Kunshan University; the distinguished faculties at Wuhan University and Wuhan Conservatory.

Quartet in D-major, D. 94 by Franz Schubert
Quartet in F-major, Op. 22 by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky

It would be hard to imagine two more dissimilar works than these within the realm of classical music’s period of common practice.  The Schubert is simple, perhaps somewhat naïve, while the Tchaikovsky is emotionally wrought.  It’s the difference, I suppose, between a teen beginning his career in a world when classic style is fresh and one of troubled middle age who has in his sight a century of the same style that has become complex beyond its means, which, indeed, has had its very principles under assault from several quarters.  Schubert had not yet attained maturity in sonata form; for Tchaikovsky it was a hindrance.  The openings of the works are prime examples of the difference: Schubert’s quartet begins with a unison “D” before breaking a lovely tune in D-major.  (Schubert surprises us by moving suddenly to B-minor for the next phrase, the exact same shift employed by the strict classicist Mendelssohn in his “Hebradies” overture.)  Tchaikovsky , by extreme contrast, begins his work with an anguished, dissonant chord far from the home key.  This turns out to be the start of a slow introductory section of unremitting pain and harmonic ambiguity.  Even at the arrival of the main section, the music is still searching for harmonic stability.

The Schubert quartet continues in much the same vein as it begins.  Its benign, sunny lyricism shines through all four movements, virtually without a cloud.  The first Allegro and following Andante suggest the deep well of melodic invention that would ultimately flow over with some six-hundred songs, while the Minuet and Finale bubble with dancing energy and good humor.  As mentioned earlier, Schubert had not yet fully mastered classical forms, so there is occasionally either too much repetition or an uncertainty of direction.  This reminds us that the quartets were intended for family entertainment in the first place, and hardly detract from the pleasure of watching a young genius in his first efforts.

Tchaikovsky, as we might guess, does not maintain a single dominant affect through his quartet.  While the first movement retains its dark, brooding aspect, the second is a bright ballet, a happy scherzo with a proper trio.  It also has a very different texture from the other movements: the first violin carries the tune almost all the way through, with only the second violin given a solo turn in the slightly slower dance of the trio.  It the other three movements, Tchaikovsky spreads the wealth generously, though the first violin is given numerous solo riffs.  The slow movement reverts to the romantic pathos of the Moderato.  We can hear the lament of the prima donna, answered by her paramour (otherwise known as first violin and cello).   Second violin and viola join in with their own thoughts to make the movement a full-scale operatic quartet of sorrow and loss. An extended middle section brightens the mood considerably; here the quartet impersonates a large chorus in its huge crescendo.  Tchaikovsky had not reached the depths of melancholy that produced the Symphonie Pathatique (SP?).  Proof of this is the finale in the major mode, full of vigor and strength.  Included  are two terrific Russian-style melodies, wonderful virtuoso writing for the group, a heroic conclusion….and a slightly less wonderful fugue as development.  The term “over the top” had not yet been minted.  That’s why we have our great Russian who deigned occasionally to write chamber music.

Fred Raimi

January, 2013

I went on an errand this afternoon.  I needed to get my endpin sharpened.

An endpin (called a spike in England) is the rod that protrudes from the bottom of a cello to stick in the floor so the cello doesn’t slide.  It’s a fairly recent innovation; prior to the 20^th century, cellists generally didn’t use an endpin (they supported the instrument between their knees, or used a pile of books for the purpose).  Interestingly, the end pin, made of high grade steel, weighs about as much as the instrument itself: cellos are very light, violins are only a few ounces.

Anyway, at a performance yesterday, my endpin slipped, and my cello went skittering across the floor.  I caught it, of course, but it was a disruption, one of those events that make chamber music such an exciting spectator sport.  This occurrence alerted me to the fact that I needed to have my spike sharpened.  Normally this is done by John Montgomery, the fine luthier in Raleigh, who does it during his annual inspection and cleaning of my instrument.  But this year, apparently, John had forgotten.  I didn’t want to drive all the way to Raleigh to get the job done, so I had the inspiration to check machine shops.  The Yellow Pages listed a couple of dozen in the area, and a few in Durham.  The first two shops I phoned laughed at me when I told them what I needed.  The third, in downtown Durham, also laughed, but said, “Bring it on.”

The listing for C and C Machine Shop showed their address on a street I knew, so I extracted the end pin from my cello (it slips right out), and drove downtown.  But when I arrived at what should have been 812 N. Mangum Street, there was nothing there.  There were buildings at both 810 and 814 N. Mangum, but nothing in between.  Flummoxed, I walked down the street, with the two-foot steel rod looking lethal in my hand (it was a rather rough neighborhood), until I came upon an old -fashioned hardware store.  Could this be the place?  I am quite capable of getting an address wrong.  But, no, they could not sharpen an endpin.  But to my enquiry about C and C, they lit up, and informed me that the shop had moved several years ago, and told me where to find it, and added that the guys at C and C were really good.

Thus reinvigorated, I drove to the new location, and found the shop.  I carried my rod in the door, and was greeted by the lady to whom I had spoken earlier.  She laughed at me (this was becoming thematic) and said that they hadn’t been on Mangum street for years.  The shop was wonderful: dingy and dusty, and full of machines which I had never seen and could never hope to be able to use.  An old man behind one of the machines took the endpin, and looked at me suspiciously.  “What do you do with this?” he asked.  “I’m a musician, I play the cello, and I stick this into floors so my cello won’t slip.”  He didn’t laugh.  But he didn’t like it.  “Do they let you stick this into their floors?” he asked.  “Well, usually they do, and what they don’t know won’t hurt them,” I answered.  It was a good question.  Cellists usually carry a device known as a rock-stop, usually a rubber disk which will adhere to most surfaces, into which the cellist puts the point of the endpin.  But whenever possible I try to avoid using a rock-stop: it rarely is completely secure, and it dulls the tip of the spike.  In this situation, I look for a doormat or some other strip of material, one end of which I’ll put under the front legs of my chair.

If you ever visit a stage on which an orchestra performs, look for the area where the cello section sits.  There you will find innumerable small marks in the floor where cellists have stuck their spikes.  I once performed in a beautiful small hall in Tel Aviv.  The stage manager there was a crusty old……..dare I say Jew?…….who knew all the ropes, and he wasn’t about to let me stick my spike into HIS beautifully burnished hardwood floor.  He gave me a rock-stop with explicit instructions: under no circumstances was I to make a mark in the floor.  And during our warm-up rehearsal he watched me like a hawk.  But I was up to the challenge.  Trusting that he was not such a fanatic that he would interrupt the concert, I put the rock-stop in position on the floor, but then stuck my spike discretely in the floor right next to it.  Perhaps the indelible mark I left caused the stage manager to change his policy, in which case all cellists who played in the hall afterwards owe me a debt of gratitude.  More likely, my friend in Tel Aviv is still battling it out with cellists who come to play music there, and who have the un-believeable temerity to want to stick……

Mission accomplished!  The old guy at C and C Machine Shop WAS really good.  My endpin will now stick in absolutely anything!  At least for a while.

 

Fred Raimi, June 11, 2012

We had a wonderful tour of China in December.  Here are a few memorable moments, musical and cultural. Our second concert, after Shanghai, was in Xuzhou, NOT to be confused with Suzhou, pronounced “SU-joux”) famous for its rock gardens.  We had played THERE on our last trip.  Xuzhou,  (pronounced “SHoo-zo”) a city of perhaps seven million souls, is built around a lake.  We were met at the train station, many miles out of town, by a representative of the local concert hall.  She came with a large van and a confident driver.  The young lady was very eager to introduce herself and her city.  She said that on the way to the hotel we would take a turn around the lake, which we simply HAD to see.  We assured her that extra driving was not a priority, but she brushed this aside by noting that the hotel and concert hall were part of the same itinerary.  It took a good thirty minutes to penetrate the outskirts of the city.  We were quickly learning that traffic is a bane around any Chinese city.  But once we reached the lake, the traffic cleared up, and we enjoyed the sights along the waterfront – parks, beaches, statuary, and many strollers.  And only a minute after rejoining city traffic, we were at our hotel.

Check-in went smoothly, and we were soon up on the eighth floor.  Our rooms were along the same hallway., so we each ducked into our sanctuary to freshen up and prepare to go to the hall for a rehearsal.  But suddenly, before any of us had unpacked so much as a toothbrush, we heard an unearthly laughter, emanating from Hsiao-mei’s room.  We all rushed over to investigate, and found that the laughter came from Hsiao-mei herself, though it was of a type and an intensity that we had never heard before.  There, spread-eagled on the window outside her room, dangling eight floors up, was a man, staring calmly and with professional disinterest into the room.   Although it took only a minute to figure out that the man was washing her window, Hsiao-mei’s laughter could not be checked.  It was the brazenness of the posture, the lack of any sense that he might look odd from within the room, and beyond that the symbolism of overlooking, nay looking so directly it hurt, at ordinary citizens in their private moments, that fueled her laughter.  We joined in the merriment, but lacking Hsiao-mei’s background, we couldn’t get the joke as fully as she did.

It was only a ten-minute walk to the concert hall, along a causeway that jutted into the lake.  The moment we turned onto the causeway our wonder began.  The concert hall resembled a bird that had just then landed and settled on the lake.  The closer we drew to it, the more fantastic and detailed the imagery grew.  And on the inside, the auditorium was all a stunning red with the most comfortable seating and marvelous acoustics.  We understood the pride of our hostess, and of all the subsequent citizens we met.  Their town had gained a fantastic symbol, outrageous in design, but a structure that would bring people together for decades to come.

We performed very well that evening.  The signature piece on the program was “The Mountain Driver’s Song,” a lively Chinese folk song.  At the song’s main cadences, the players put up our bows, and let loose with a triumphant “Yooooo – HO.” I think we had been a little tame with this expostulation in the past, but our good feeling about the town now made us throw ourselves into the refrain, and the audience responded in kind.

Following the concert was picture time.  Chinese people have embraced the cell phone in a single gulp, and are not at all shy about requesting a photo with a visiting musician.   On Hsiao mei-s initiative we first conducted a question and answer session at the front of the auditorium.  (In Suxiao, as in too many concert halls around the world, including at Duke, audience members are denied entrance backstage.)  The questions were mostly standard, but audience members had an unusual interest in music as a career.  How had we chosen this path, did it reward our love of music, were our children also musicians?  Also unusually, several young students found the Haydn quartet the most entrancing piece on the program.  I left the picture-taking ahead of my colleagues, and found my way outside to the enchanted island of the concert hall.  Many patrons had lingered, and quite a few thought a family photo with a western cellist would be a perfect capstone to the evening.  I dislike photo sessions, public or private, but could offer no objections to requests that I pose with singles or small groups of people who had liked my music.  In fact, it began to feel rather nice.

Fred Raimi

January 8, 2012