Ok – first things first. If you’re one of those people who bases all of your first impressions on the quality and coolness of a group’s web site, you’re going to love Le Poisson Rouge. With a definite post-Monty Terry Gilliam feel you can cheat and use the quick menu or you can just click away on the spiral of Rorschach images and use the “surprise me” method to find whatever info you’re looking for.
By the way, for the non-Francophiles, Le Poisson Rouge means “the red fish”. We’re left to take that however we want – but I think most assume the reference is to a long-finned carp of the sort generally found in a goldfish pond. To carry the reference a bit further, the house ale on tap is called Red Fish as well. And it’s quite good (if you’ve read my virgin entry, you know that beer falls squarely in the purview of interests to be covered here, so indulge me). Red Fish Ale is a smooth, nutty ale without any bitter aftertaste or unpleasantness. I especially recommend it in light of the fact that the Guinness is served about 15 degrees too cold to be enjoyed properly. The rest of the tap list is typical and pedestrian. However the wine list looks nice (if a little pricey).
Ok, that’s the web site and the beer. The space is what has gotten most of the press. And it should. Le Poisson Rouge occupies what used to be the downstairs room of the Village Gate. For anyone who’s been around since it closed in 1993 (or since it opened in 1958), you might remember it as one of the truly legendary New York spaces where any number of luminaries could be seen. Or you might remember it for the state of disrepair and the kind of grunginess that kept you from using the handrail as you walked down the stairs in it’s final years.
In it’s current re-imagining the space is clean and lush, with appropriately dim lighting that makes it impossible to read the menu (we’re told they’ll begin serving food soon) or program (if there is one). But don’t let the dim lighting fool you. The space is packed with technology, ably choreographed by a team of earnest and motivated techies. The space features full-grid lighting, multiple projectors, beaucoup drool-inspiring sound equipment, flexible staging with two small, low “balcony” areas, a central, black round pseudo-dance floor (it’s not elevated), comfortable table seating (club style of course), a more-or-less permanent, risered stage at one end of the room and a beautiful long bar at the other end of the room. My only complaint with the space so far is it’s overly ambitious air-conditioning system which keeps the room at an Inuit-friendly temperature and often steamrolls (or at least blows) over the subtlety of the music. For this performance there was a large round stage set in the center of the dance floor, placing the performer in the center of the space.
The bar’s eerie resemblance to the one favored by Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” notwithstanding, I chose to sit there for the first performance of the Music Without Words Series, which doubled as CD release party for pianist Jenny Lin’s newest solo effort, InsoniMania. The performances for this series stick to a “get-em-in-and-out-in-90-minutes” format, so Jenny didn’t play everything from the CD, which left out at least some of the real meat in the form of Mayn Yingele by Frederick Rzewski (remember him? and how to pronounce his name? – it’s SHEV-ski in case you haven’t read all my past entries yet).
Jenny is simply a brilliant pianist with an impressive command of contemporary music. With this set, her gentle manner gave it a nostalgic, other-worldly feel that enhanced the night-time theme, but only touched on the "mania". Speaking as an expert, if we’re assuming that experience qualifies the insomniac as an expert, only two of the composers represented on this performance effectively captured the emotional experience of the insomniac episode. This isn’t to say that the rest of the pieces weren’t lovely – they were. John Cage, William Bolcom, John Musto and even Raymond Scott (of cartoon music fame) make for nicely balanced program. But these are not the emotions that drive the insomniac.
Danny Felsenfeld, in his Insomnia Redux – 4am made real the confusion, the blurring of reality and dream-state, the conundrum of the mania of the mind coupled with the unquenchable exhaustion of the body, the Kafkaesque loss of a sense of the forward motion of time, and the anticipation of the confirmation of opportunities lost, cruelly announced by the rising of the sun.
Ironically I found this to be the most coherent and effective work of Danny’s that I’ve heard to date.
The other of the two pieces was focused on the opposite shores of the insomniac experience. Michael Byron wrote a fabulously simple piece inspired by the perfectly simple, but overwhelmingly complicated act of watching his daughter sleep. The piece features a… yes – simple, slow and highly evocative theme which is repeated several times with slight variations in each repetition. Simple, right? Most notably, it makes brilliant use of increasingly elongated rests between phrases, like the calm, unhurried breathe of a peaceful sleep. I have to admit that in the midst of another program, or another space I may not have had patience for this piece of music. But it was well programmed here and it was played completely without affect [emphasis on the first syllable] by Jenny. I suspect many other pianists may not possess the discipline to pull this piece off so effectively, regardless of the program or setting.
I also have to note that everything I enjoyed about this performance was enhanced by my choice to sit at the bar. I was one of only a handful of folks sitting at the bar and the combination of subtle clinking of glasses, pouring of drinks, whispers of patrons and bartender, not to mention my separation and full view of the rest of the audience, very much gave me the sense of being “outside” of the performance. I was as much the audience’s audience as I was Jenny’s. And it is exactly this sense of unreality and voyeurism that eventually dominates the insomniac’s perception of their own space. Weird, huh?
The final factor in this whole scenario was the presence of Frank Oteri (new music maven and editor of everybody's favorite webzine, New Music Box), who graciously and expertly acted as master of ceremonies, interviewing the composers and illuminating their work. Frank, presumably to save time and allow for the maximum of music being heard, was seated on the stage for the entire performance right in the crook of the piano (a spectacular 8 foot Steinway grand, by the way). The scene brought to mind an extremely long-haired, large and erudite Italian priest in a velvet blazer presiding over a performance at the alter of his church (if you’ve been to church performances in Italy, and especially if you know Frank, maybe you can picture it).
Ok, so here’s the plug.
Buy the CD.
Support artists, whether they’re local or not.
Always choose live performance over a recording.
Always pay for the recordings you listen to.
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