(++++) THE VIRTUES OF SIMPLICITY

Good Dog. By Cori Doerrfeld. Harper. $17.99.

Gorillas Go Bananas. By Patrick Wensink. Illustrated by Nate Wragg. Harper. $17.99.

For Cluck’s Sake! By Stacia Tolman. Andrews McMeel. $12.99.

     The famous simplicity of Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham, which contains only 50 different words, is scarcely the only instance of an author deliberately restricting verbiage in order to communicate effectively with very young readers (and pre-readers). In fact, an author may occasionally create a first-rate book using even fewer words than 50 – as Cori Doerrfeld has in Good Dog, whose unique-word count is a mere 27. But that is not all that is special about this book. It is a work with tremendous heart, and one that dog lovers of any age will find meaningful and pleasurable and emotionally satisfying. And it is so wonderfully illustrated that Doerrfeld puts across many of her points simply with the quality of her pictures, without using any words at all. The utterly adorable pup on the book’s front cover is shown on the inside front cover pages displaying many of the moods that will appear in the book: tentative, sad, downcast. Then, on the book’s dedication page, before the start of the story proper, he is seen looking hopefully toward a little girl who is about to get onto the back of her mom’s bike. And then comes the title page, with the mom pedaling on the street, the little girl waving to the dog, and the dog wagging his tail slightly, with a big heart in a thought balloon over his head. So far there has been not a single word, yet the basic story is already clear. And when the words do begin, the first two immediately make the situation clear: “Stray dog.” So this little pup is all alone, and is soon seen in typical city scenes being lost, scared and lonely. Then he sees the little girl again, in a bakery, but the baker chases him out and yells, “Bad dog!” The next page is “sad dog,” complete with broken heart in a thought balloon, but this pup is not giving up: Doerrfeld shows him among many other dogs, on city streets and eventually in the park, sniffing and obviously searching, then finding the little girl again – and getting a bakery cookie as a treat, which makes him a “happy dog.” But as he eats, the girl and her mom leave. Then the dog sees the girl’s stuffed bear, which she has been carrying all along and has left at the park – so he bravely (and tremendously endearingly) sets out on a quest to return it to the girl, eventually succeeding through a series of scenes that showcase his personality: “Patient dog” (as cats walk in front of him), “thoughtful dog” (as it rains and he finds a place to keep the bear dry), “careful dog” (as he goes through mud but keeps the bear clean), and so on. The girl is reunited with her much-loved bear, and it is inevitable that she says to her parents, “My dog?” And of course there is a happy ending in the girl’s bedroom: “Good dog.” And then, after this wonderful story arc, the inside back cover shows the dog, no longer alone and no longer downcast, happily interacting with his new human companion in a variety of ways that will warm any animal lover’s heart. Even 27 words are more than Doerrfeld needs at this point: Good Dog tells its after-the-happy-ending story perfectly with no words at all.

     The issue of simplicity vs. complexity is worked out in a very different way, and a very entertaining one, in Patrick Wensink’s Gorillas Go Bananas. This is a dinnertime-in-the-jungle story that starts when Papa Gorilla brings his son a delicious peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich on grilled bread – but: “That little gorilla pops out a pink tongue./ He seems pretty picky for someone so young.” Uh-oh. Well, Papa and Mama Gorilla – whose infectious enthusiasm comes through on every page in Nate Wragg’s highly amusing illustrations – set about finding something that their son will eat. They create a series of “piping-hot treats that smell quite tremendous,/ top-secret meals that taste simply stupendous.” Those meals get more and more complex, more and more elaborate, as Wensink lets his banana-fired imagination soar: banana chips with green guacamole, bananas tandoori, banana-roll sushi, banana Thai curry, a 17-layer banana Bundt cake, banana-nut fudge, and more. But nothing appeals to the baby gorilla. Eventually, Mama and Papa Gorilla simply collapse amid a heap of banana skins: they have thought of absolutely everything possible to make with bananas and their son still refuses to eat anything. All that creativity – for nothing! And then – well, the little gorilla solves his parents’ problem all by himself, because he notices one single unpeeled banana just sitting there, and he decides to grab it, peel it, and eat it. Yes, simplicity triumphs over complexity: “a plain old banana is all Baby wanted.” And the lesson is that sometimes the simple things are the best, and it is not always necessary to complicate (and over-complicate) matters in order to solve problems. Gorillas Go Bananas confines the lesson to the matter of food, but adults chuckling at the plot and illustrations with their children will certainly think of many other ways in which the same lesson is applicable.

     Take, for instance, the simple matter of chickens. Not much to know about them, right? They are a food source both as meat and as egg layers, and there you have it. But – not so fast. Here is a situation where simplicity is only apparently the reality. Stacia Tolman shows that there is a great deal more to chickens than most non-chicken-farmers know in her very informative For Cluck’s Sake! In one way, simplicity is the rule here after all: the book is written to be easy to understand, being divided into short “factoid” paragraphs and amply illustrated with photos of all kinds of chickens. But within that simplicity lies some considerably complex material – including, yes, “all kinds of chickens.” Scattered throughout the book are pages focusing on specific chicken breeds: Cochin, Rhode Island Red, Sebright, Leghorn, Naked Neck, and many others both familiar and unfamiliar. Some are very unfamiliar, such as the Indonesian Ayam Cemani, which is completely black and has black meat, but lays pale pink eggs; the Marans, whose eggs are considered the best-tasting in the world and were the favorite of famous fictional spy James Bond; and the rare Araucana, which flies well but has no tail feathers and actually does not look much like a chicken at all. Tolman scatters bits of intriguing information throughout the book, such as the fact that the egg definitely came before the chicken: reptiles were laying eggs long before chickens (and other birds) evolved. She also includes non-chicken-related quotations that she amusingly turns into chicken commentary by replacing words – for instance, she quotes Peanuts cartoonist Charles Schulz as saying, “All you need is love. But a little chicken now and then doesn’t hurt.” Schulz, however, originally said “chocolate.” Other quotations here are given correctly, and some are thoughtful, such as this from Albert Schweitzer: “Big nations are like chickens. They like to make big noises, but very often it is no more than squabbling.” And then there are the bits of information that are simply intriguing: chicken pox has nothing to do with chickens and is not associated with them in any language except English; in the Middle Ages, chicken soup was considered an aphrodisiac; double yolks show up in about one egg out of every thousand; chickens can run at speeds up to nine miles an hour; some farmers add dried, crushed marigold petals to chicken feed because that makes the yolks of chicken eggs a darker yellow. Add to all this some information on chicken-based dishes (for example, Chicken Picasso, named after and possibly invented by the great Spanish painter, is a casserole of chicken breasts cooked with bell peppers and lots of onion, and topped with cheese) and you have a delicious little book that is simple in some ways, complex in others, and fascinating in all of them – a description that, it turns out, fits chickens themselves pretty well.

(+++) SCHOOL DAYS

Cece Loves Science. By Kimberly Derting and Shelli R. Johannes. Illustrations by Vashti Harrison. Greenwillow/HarperCollins. $17.99.

Shark Dog and the School Trip Rescue! By Ged Adamson. Harper. $17.99.

On the First Day of First Grade. By Tish Rabe. Pictures by Sarah Jennings. Harper. $9.99.

     Over-simplification of what it means to go to school is normal in books for young readers and is frequently done in the name of encouraging them and being relentlessly upbeat. The technique is now being applied not only to school in general but also, specifically, to STEM – science, technology, engineering, and mathematics – and, even more specifically, to STEM as it relates to girls, who are under-represented in the STEM fields. It is generally accepted that it would be good to encourage more girls to study STEM, and books such as Cece Loves Science are intended to do just that. The question is whether the over-simplifying of the topic will make more girls want to engage in STEM studies or will quickly bring them frustration when they find out how far from reality a book like this proves to be. Certainly Kimberly Derting and Shelli R. Johannes are well-meaning in their presentation, and Vashti Harrison’s illustrations nicely complement their text, in which super-smart Cece (who is, unnecessarily but in accordance with current political correctness, biracial) constantly asks questions and is always encouraged by her teacher to do so. The teacher (unsurprisingly named Ms. Curie) tells Cece’s class about “famous scientists from history,” the first being Caroline Herschel – one deliberate over-simplification and girl-oriented element of the story involves making Herschel (1750-1848) the No. 1 scientist mentioned, so parents should make sure they know about her in case children ask who she was and what she did. The main theme of the book involves Cece and her best friend, Isaac, teaming up for a science project: “Science is all about possibilities,” write Derting and Johannes, which is not quite right but will do for young readers. Eventually Cece and Isaac decide to study whether dogs like vegetables, using Cece’s dog (named, inevitably, Einstein) as their subject. The book includes several “worksheets” as the study progresses through stages including observation (how Einstein usually behaves) and experimenting (offering different vegetables alone or disguised). Einstein will not eat vegetables, and Cece becomes frustrated because “our project was boring,” but then she notices that Einstein likes bananas – and she and Isaac make a banana smoothie that also includes vegetables. Einstein consumes it, and Cece and Isaac celebrate, and the conclusion is that “real scientists have fun finding answers.” Well, yes, but the authors of Cece Loves Science either do not understand or do not care how scientific studies really work. Cece and Isaac force their project to come out as they wish – scientists do not do that; it is a major ethical breach. Also, the project’s topic is whether dogs, plural, eat vegetables, and all Cece and Isaac actually discover is that one specific dog will eat vegetables under certain specific circumstances. In other words, the whole premise of Cece Loves Science is flawed – in the name of creating a sufficiently intriguing story to get girls interested in STEM studies. The book is to be commended for furthering a worthy cause and featuring attractive characters doing age-appropriate activities that may indeed get real-world children interested in learning about science. But it falls very far short of being an introduction, even a very simple introduction, to the way science and scientists really work – and may therefore open the STEM door to girls who will find, when they become involved, that reality is very different from its portrayal by Derting and Johannes.

     There is nothing realistic about Shark Dog – a playful puppy-bodied pet with a fin on top and huge sharklike front end and mouth – and certainly nothing realistic about the life of the “famous explorer” who discovered Shark Dog during a voyage with his daughter, to whom Shark Dog promptly attached his affection. The original Shark Dog book was simply a romp, and a very amusing one. Ged Adamson’s second story about the character is less successful, altgough there is still considerable fun in Shark Dog and the School Trip Rescue! Shark Dog is invited on a class trip and soon gets into the spirit of things – just as any dog would. Class members take photos of a bird perched on Shark Dog’s fin, watch as Shark Dog leaps into a frog-filled pond, and see Shark Dog roll around in mud when a sudden rainstorm blows in. Shark Dog makes amusing messes several times, flinging water and frogs about and shaking himself to get the mud off (and onto the kids). But nothing he does is particularly sharklike, and that is the problem here: substitute any ordinary dog for Shark Dog and this story would not change at all. In fact, when the class finds footprints and Shark Dog sniffs them and then tracks them to their origin – a bear cub trapped by a downed tree – there is no reason at all for this to be a Shark Dog book. Yes, Shark Dog helps the class lift the tree enough so the cub can get his leg out and head into the woods (apparently quite unhurt) – but a book about any dog on a school field trip would have exactly the same event and exactly the same outcome. Shark Dog then leads the class back to the school bus for the return trip, just as any dog would, and all ends happily. Kids who find Shark Dog engaging will enjoy seeing all the new pictures of him that Adamson draws, and all the new scenes in which he appears. But unlike the first Shark Dog book, this second one is really just a book about an unusual-looking dog: nothing at all is made of anything sharklike except for his appearance. So yes, there is fun to be had in Shark Dog and the School Trip Rescue! But it is generic fun, not anything specific to Shark Dog.

     On the First Day of First Grade is a generic-enjoyment book as well. Tish Rabe here becomes the latest author to adapt “The 12 Days of Christmas” into a different season, and here the emphasis – not really realistically – is on everything being fun all the time: “On the first day of first grade I had fun right away.” Of course, parents and teachers want first grade to be enjoyable, but the constant emphasis on fun is a bit over-the-top here in its repeated references to “laughing and learning all day,” which is the most-often-repeated line. Still, one should not be too Scrooge-like about this well-intentioned book, pleasantly illustrated by Sarah Jennings. The second day here involves helping in class, the third is “choosing books to read,” the fourth is about planting seeds, the fifth is “telling the time,” and so on – with each earlier experience repeated, just as in the well-known song. The gender-balanced, racially assorted class – the norm nowadays in books for young readers – plays music, throws a ball, puts on a play and more, all to the song’s cadence and always with kids having a wonderful time with whatever they are doing. The objective, of course, is to encourage first-graders (or, really, any young school-age children) to find the fun in all the things that happen in school, and that is certainly an unexceptionable desire even if it is less than realistic for all children. Kids who may be nervous or worried about school will probably not find anything encouraging here, since everyone shown has a constant great time and there is nothing in the book to show someone who is not having fun how to enjoy school more. So On the First Day of First Grade is really for upbeat kids who may have some slight trepidation about school and need reassurance that everything will be all right. The book does, however, have a very disappointing conclusion, with a final page that says, “First grade is so fun!” That is simply illiterate (and never mind that some consider it to be acceptable slang). “Fun” is a noun, and Rabe knows it: “I had fun right away.” So the conclusion should be, “First grade is so much fun!” Both Rabe and her editor could use a little remedial time having fun in school, in a grade where parts of speech are taught.

(+++) MAGICS

From the Films of Harry Potter: The Wand Chooses the Wizard. By Christina Pulles. Illustrations by Karen Viola. Scholastic. $19.99.

Estranged. By Ethan M. Aldridge. Harper. $21.99.

     A cleverly designed, well-packaged book that is thin on content but mostly makes up for it through style, The Wand Chooses the Wizard is a celebration of the technology of our world as a method of evoking the magic of J.K. Rowling’s in the Harry Potter books – or, more accurately, the movies made from those novels, since scenes from the films are the primary visual elements of this book. The text assumes reader familiarity with the overall story and with the specific films through which it is told: the book will be easy to follow for fans of the movies, but no more than a not-very-clear once-over-lightly for anyone else. However, it is unlikely that anyone but a solid fan of the films will be interested in the book, since its main attraction is the sturdy plastic wand bound into the back cover, and the clever electronics that make the wand interact with the book itself. The battery-powered wand is complemented by battery-powered symbols in the book. Each symbol shows the way the wand is supposed to be moved when invoking a specific spell – and readers who follow the instructions and then touch the wand to the indicated spell will hear the spell’s activating word spoken aloud through a speaker positioned next to the row of spell names. Each spell – Expelliarmus, Expecto Patronum, Accio, Ascendio, Stupefy, Lumos and Reducto – is explained within the book’s text, and the film stills show examples of scenes in which the spells appeared during the movies. The book’s title reflects one of the themes of the film and of Rowling’s books: wizards may decide how to use their wands and what choices to make about the alliances they form and at whose disposal their wands are placed, but they cannot choose the wands themselves. The Wand Chooses the Wizard means just what it says, in this book and in the Rowling universe: wands are alive and aware in their own way, and they select the wizards to whom they will attach themselves. This is in fact a plot point of the novels and films, since Harry’s wand and that of Lord Voldemort both contain at their core a feather from the same phoenix – an indication that the two antagonists are bound to each other at the deepest possible level. The book’s text does make this point, but does not dwell on it; indeed, the text is brief and explanatory and does not dwell on any topic at length. But it is effective at presenting information on the way magic is channeled through wands in the Harry Potter universe – and thus it invites readers of the book to enter that universe, however briefly and imperfectly, by making the spell-casting motions specified in the films and hearing the words of the spells spoken as they are in the movies. It is a clever book – scarcely profound, but well done as a blend of narrative and invitation to partake, however imperfectly, of the wonders of a world where magic is real.

     Magic is also real and foundational in the graphic novel Estranged. And here as in the Harry Potter books, it exists side-by-side with the everyday, nonmagical world. In Ethan M. Aldridge’s imagination, access to the World Below comes through New York City subway tunnels – a neat and slightly amusing notion that is, in fact, one of the few humorous elements of a book that is intended to be dark. But Estranged is not quite as dark as all that, largely because its superficial and somewhat incoherent narrative never matches its excellent illustrations. It starts as a modern prince-and-pauper story, or more precisely, since magic is involved, a changeling story, in which a baby from the World Below has been exchanged for a human child – and both babies, fae and human, have grown to be the age of the preteens for whom the book is intended. The complication comes when, out of nowhere, an evil fae named Hawthorne appears and turns the king and queen of the World Below into rats, then takes over the throne. The human child, who has never been given a name and is simply called the Childe, escapes but has nowhere to go – so he decides to venture into the World Above and hopefully get help from the fae child for whom he was exchanged. That child does have a name, Edmund, and the meeting of the two boys – who look identical when Edmund uses magic to disguise his appearance, as he usually does – leads to predictable complications of the where-do-I-belong variety. There is little that is unusual in the two boys’ uncertainties and their eventual decision to remain in the worlds where they were born rather than those in which they grew up: most of the excitement and intrigue in Estranged comes through other characters. Edmund’s older sister, Alexis, proves to be strong and adaptable – if a little too naïvely accepting of the bizarre – when she follows the boys to the World Below. Even better is Whick, a golem made for the Childe in the shape of a human-sized and human-appearing candle: he has surprising powers and insights and the endearing characteristic of being stopped in his tracks anytime the flame atop his head goes out. There is also a witch who is thoughtful and intelligent as well as malevolent, and an impressive dragon that proves important late in the book. But despite some attractive characters, the narrative often stumbles. For example, Aldridge makes much of the witch giving the boys something to help them defeat Hawthorne, but the object is lost before the final battle, rendering the buildup of its importance moot; and the item that does eventually make it possible to defeat Hawthorne comes into Edmund’s hands accidentally (fast readers will miss the panel in which this happens) – and how Edmund knows what it is and how to use it is never explained. Estranged is, however, beautiful to look at; and for many graphic-novel fans, that will be enough to make up for the clunkiness of its magic-laced storytelling.

(+++) SEX, IN CONTEXT

Beyond Birds & Bees: Bringing Home a New Message to Our Kids about Sex, Love, and Equality. By Bonnie J. Rough. Seal Press. $15.99.

     Seattle, one of the most liberal cities in the United States, is nowhere near progressive enough for one of its natives, Bonnie J. Rough, at least where matters of sexuality and gender equality are concerned. Rough, her husband and their daughters lived for a time in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and Rough suggests in Beyond Birds & Bees that the best possible thing for American families and the nation as a whole would be to emulate the Dutch model in matters of sex and relationships.

     The Netherlands has a population of 17 million, the U.S. one of 330 million. And more than 77% of people in the Netherlands are Dutch – a level of homogeneity far exceeding that of the United States, although the blend of cultures and ethnicities is considerable in Amsterdam (the city of 800,000 – a little bigger than Seattle, a little smaller than Indianapolis – where Rough and her family temporarily lived). The notion of transplanting something so culturally determined as sex education and sexual attitudes between two nations that are so extremely different is at best naïve, to an extent that Rough never really investigates despite her promise to “explore social context wherever I can.” The method of that minimal exploration is instructive: even when Rough says something slightly negative about the Netherlands, she puts a positive spin on it. For example, “The Netherlands may have been the world’s first nation to legalize same-sex marriage, and the city of Amsterdam may be a top LGBTQ+ friendly place to live and have 180 nationalities, half of whom identify as ethnic minorities, residing more or less peacefully in one place, but like Americans, the Dutch still do – and will probably always – deal with instances of discrimination.” The tremendously minimized negative (“instances,” no less) is presented only after trotting out a much longer list of characteristics that are highly positive (by Rough’s Seattle standards). So much for putting things in context.

     It is important to understand the very considerable limitations of Rough’s worldview and her attitudes toward society and family life to be able to absorb what value is to be found in Beyond Birds & Bees – and there is, in fact, quite a bit of usefulness here on the individual-family level. Much of the book is built on the longstanding knowledge that the United States, with its strong Puritan history, remains unhealthily repressed on many sexual matters and uncertain of how to communicate the basics about bodies and reproduction to children. Rough’s solution is one that has been offered many times before, in various guises, and it remains a valid idea despite the difficulties inherent in implementing it in a large, diverse country in which so much of the population is religious in orientation, whether the religion be Catholicism, Protestantism or Islam (in the Netherlands, 50% of people specifically say they have no religion, compared with about 18% in the U.S.). Rough says parents should talk with children early and often about body parts, using correct terminology, and should answer any questions that children may ask, no matter what a child’s age may be. For example, she says that with her own daughters, after her Amsterdam epiphany, she “made the shift from ‘wipe your bottom’ to ‘wipe your vulva, from your clitoris to your anus.’” Rough also bore her second child at home and had her first daughter (who had been born in a hospital) cut the umbilical cord. This is, if nothing else, an admirable practice-what-you-preach example.

     Rough does not feel that changing individual families’ methods of handling sexual matters is nearly sufficient, however. She points out that only 13 U.S. states require teachers to use medically accurate information when discussing sex, that only eight “require sexuality instruction to be culturally sensitive,” and that three – Alabama, South Carolina and Texas – have laws that say if sex education is offered, “being gay must be discussed, but only in a negative light.” This diversity of viewpoints and forms of teaching is abhorrent to Rough, who is at least as concerned with societal alteration as with family-focused sex talks. She objects, for example, to “sexual risk avoidance” as a focus for education because of its “lessons condemning nonmarital sex and focusing on cisgender heterosexuality while excluding other identities and leaving out medically accurate information that can improve health outcomes and potentially save lives.” This blend of unassailably intelligent ideas (to present information that is medically accurate) with ones using politically correct words of the day in the furtherance of a particular societal cause (“cisgender” as an adjective rather than just “heterosexuality”) pervades Beyond Birds & Bees.

     “Living in the Netherlands,” Rough writes, “I saw and took for granted that boys and girls sat together at school, played together in the park, walked together in middle school, and held mixed-gender birthday parties at any age.” That is true gender equality, Rough asserts, saying that she then realized that if she did not encourage mixed-gender playdates for her daughter, she would be “depriving her – and her prospective playmate – of chances to form the kinds of friendships that really do foster equality.” It is the notion of fostering equality, rather than that of altering and improving sex education, that is the most important thing to Rough in Beyond Birds & Bees. Better treatment of sexual matters – throughout society, at every level, among people of all religions or none, of all ages and in all states and cities – can be the basis, Rough thinks, of vast overall improvement in society as a whole. Sex ed is more a means to an end than an end in itself.

     For those who share Rough’s beliefs and her desire to move U.S. society in a particular direction, her prescriptions will be welcome. But not everyone in a very diverse society will agree with her. And her viewpoint comes with blinders of its own. For example, she makes passing and highly positive reference to “the #MeToo movement…to call out harassment, assault, and sexual misconduct,” without wondering for even a moment whether perhaps some of the septuagenarians and octogenarians whose lifelong careers and reputations were destroyed by often-anonymous accusations dating back 40 to 50 years might possibly have deserved a fair hearing (in public, if not a courtroom) before being anathematized. Rough sees only one way, essentially a more-progressive version of the Seattle way, for society to go, and sees improved sex education as a way to go there. For her own family, and for like-minded ones, her approach is sensible, smart and certainly better than the piecemeal and often inaccurate sex education that American children tend to get in schools. But insisting that her way, her family’s way, is the only way to teach children about human sexuality, and that the teaching must be done in such a way as to further a specific societal agenda, means that Beyond Birds & Bees will never reach people who are not already in Rough’s sociopolitical camp. The book is just another example of preaching to the choir.

(+++) BLENDS AND CONTRASTS

Alla Zingarese. Civitas Ensemble and Gipsy Way Ensemble. Cedille. $16 (2 CDs).

Kenneth Fuchs: Piano Concerto, “Spiritualist”; Poems of Life for Countertenor and Orchestra; Glacier—Concerto for Electric Guitar and Orchestra; Rush—Concerto for Alto Saxophone and Orchestra. Jeffrey Biegel, piano; Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen, countertenor; D.J. Sparr, electric guitar; Timothy McAllister, alto saxophone; London Symphony Orchestra conducted by JoAnn Falletta. Naxos. $12.99.

Jeff Beal: House of Cards Symphony; House of Cards Fantasy for Flute and Orchestra; Six Sixteen for Guitar and Chamber Orchestra; Canticle for String Orchestra; Concerto for Flute and Orchestra. Sharon Bezaly, flute; Jason Vieaux, guitar; Norrköping Symphony Orchestra conducted by Jeff Beal. BIS. $39.99 (2 SACDs).

FLARE: Society of Composers, Inc., Volume 32—Music by Vaibhav Mohanty, Robert Anton Strobel, Keith Kramer, Matthew J. Jaskot, Jonathan Graybill, Gabriel Mălăncioiu, Jacob Thiede, and Mark W. Phillips. Navona. $14.99.

     Infectious and relentlessly upbeat, the first CD of a two-disc Cedille release called Alla Zingarese pours forth pretty much everything a listener could want of what is traditionally considered “gypsy style.” There are fiddling and speed and attractive tunefulness and swooning melodies and more fiddling and so much enthusiasm in the playing that it is almost impossible not to smile and fight the urge to get up and dance (or, perhaps, not fight that urge). The dual ensembles on this disc – violin, clarinet, cello and piano from Civitas plus violin, viola, string bass and cimbalom from Gipsy Way – together comprise a chamber group unlike any other, with virtuosity to spare and joyfulness that is pervasive. The fact that three of the tracks on this CD are arrangements and reinterpretations of very-well-known classical pieces – Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 1 and Rondo alla Zingarese from the Piano Quartet in G minor, and Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen – only makes the boldness of the combined groups stand out further. This is an experiment in musical merger that is as delightful as it is bold. True, the material overstays its welcome a bit: there is only so much fire and explosive ardor that most listeners will be able to take before aural exhaustion sets in. And not all the works are equally interesting – for example, the piano becomes almost an afterthought in this Rondo alla Zingarese. Still, every piece on this disc offers its own set of pleasures, from Georges Boulanger’s Sérénade Tzigane to Jenő Hubay’s Hullámzó Balaton, Lukáš Sommer’s Gipsy Odyssey and Pavel Šporcl’s Gipsy Fire (Šporcl is the virtuoso violinist who heads the Gipsy Way Ensemble). There is little to choose from stylistically among several of the works, but every one of them offers a good time in its own way. The second Alla Zingarese disc, on which only the Civitas Ensemble is heard, is not quite as effervescent. It includes a nice version of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 12, an effective enough handling of David Popper’s imitative Hungarian Rhapsody for Cello and Piano, and a rather disappointingly thin arrangement of Enescu’s Romanian Rhapsody No. 1. These are intermingled with Dža More for Solo Violin by Sylvie Borodová, which is quite well played but not very substantial; Sommer’s Cigi-Civi, which is rather ill-fitting with the rest of the release in terms of its approach and impact; and Leó Weiner’s Peregi Verbunk for Clarinet and Piano, which uses the instruments well but is not especially memorable. The totality of the two-CD set, however, is memorable, and even if not every element gels, enough of them do so that listeners – especially ones willing to pick and choose among the works instead of listening to either disc straight through – will have a grand time with the material and will end up pleasantly breathless at the sheer audacity of all the hyper-virtuosity on display.

     There is also a blend of forms and sounds on a new Naxos release featuring music by Kenneth Fuchs (born 1956), led by JoAnn Falletta with her usual conductorial sensitivity and panache. All four works here are substantial ones. The “Spiritualist” concerto from 2016 is subtitled “After Three Paintings by Helen Frankenthaler” and is intended to reflect those works’ effects on the composer. Pianist Jeffrey Biegel, who requested the concerto, performs it admirably, but listeners unfamiliar with the specific Frankenthaler works underlying the music, or at least with Frankenthaler’s overall oeuvre, will not get the full effect of the piece. It is cast in the traditional three movements, but without clear connections among the three – those are intended to come from knowledge of the inspirational paintings. Poems of Life (2017) makes its points somewhat more clearly, simply because its five sections include 12 short poems by Judith G. Wolf that are sung with considerable beauty by countertenor Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen. Just listening to Cohen’s voice, even without paying significant attention to the words, provides a meaningful listening experience. Also here are a five-movement concerto for electric guitar (2015) and a two-movement one for alto saxophone (2012). Glacier, intended to represent the feelings generated by the sight of gigantic masses of ice, is the more-interesting work, if only because many of the electric-guitar sounds are so unexpected in an orchestral context – especially when, somewhat surprisingly, they blend in instead of standing out. Rush is pleasant enough and offers an enjoyable sonic contrast to Glacier, but is more ordinary thematically and aurally and at times seems more extended even though in fact it lasts only two-thirds as long as Glacier. Falletta’s enthusiasm for all the music is evident throughout, and the London Symphony Orchestra’s first-rate playing gives all the pieces a sheen that serves them well.

     The blending is one of media and venue when it comes to a new two-SACD set of music written and conducted by Jeff Beal – music that, as it happens, also makes considerable use of electric guitar (as well as bass guitar, drum kit and flugelhorn). Although the overt presentation of the material is symphonic, this is really made-for-TV music, specifically composed for the Netflix series House of Cards. The well-regarded series about the deviousness of the corridors of power in Washington, D.C. – scarcely an underexplored topic – is attractive to its audience in part because Beal’s music so effectively sets some scenes and underlines others. Thus, this release is directed almost exclusively at House of Cards fans, who will be able to attach specific scenes and plot points, or at least a general aura of the show, to the various works. The entire first disc of the release holds the House of Cards Symphony, which is an astonishingly bold arrangement of the series’ material: at 83-plus minutes, it is the length of some of Mahler’s works without an iota of Mahler’s organizational skill, emotional intensity or structural brilliance. More an extended suite than a dramatically cohesive symphony, the piece sprawls and propels and insists on its many themes and moments of drama, and it goes on and on to such a degree that anyone who is not deeply enamored of House of Cards will quickly start to wonder what all the fuss is about. Even some devoted viewers may find this piece a bit much to take. The works on the second disc, especially the two featuring the flute, are much more congenial. The better of the flute works is the concerto, which gives Sharon Bezaly – an excellent flautist – plenty of opportunities to explore the instrument’s emotional range, which Beal correctly perceives to be far wider than it is often thought to be. The concerto’s finale, in particular, uses the flute in virtuoso ways that almost seem to go against the grain of the instrument – but in Bezaly’s hands, they come across as simply an extension of its usual sound and of typical flute technique. House of Cards Fantasy is less gripping than the concerto, perhaps because of its close ties to the music of the TV show, but it is simply an encore-length piece (although not placed at the end of the disc) that comes across nicely, if rather forgettably. Canticle, for string orchestra, is not much longer, and it too is nicely composed, but without having any especially distinctive or distinguished content. Six Sixteen is more interesting in its setting of guitar against a chamber orchestra: it is not quite a concerto but not quite an obbligato piece, either, lying somewhere in the middle and containing elements that even people who are not fans of House of Cards will be able to enjoy. On balance, the self-limited works here – the ones tied most strongly to the TV program and thus aimed almost entirely at the show’s fans – take up more time but are less interesting than the rest of the material.

     There are contrasts aplenty in the latest Navona anthology release featuring music by members of the Society of Composers, Inc. And several of the pieces on the CD called FLARE contain contrasts within themselves, along with blends of traditional Western music with music from elsewhere – a typical style among many contemporary composers. Vaibhav Mohanty, for example, mixes jazz and Indian music with Western material in his Rhapsody No.1 for alto saxophone and piano; Jonathan Graybill tries to translate Cherokee mysticism into music in the solo-piano work Tsigili'I: Black-Capped Chickadee; Gabriel Mălăncioiu uses soprano and violin to try to communicate mysticism of a different sort in Song of the Avadhut; Mark W. Phillips incorporates jazz and blues into classical elements in the five short movements of Dreams Interrupted; and Jacob Thiede's When All Else Fails (Take Your Time) offers a very unusual blending and contrast by mixing a tuba with computer-generated tones. All these works deserve to be classified as experimental, and it is hard to imagine any of them, much less all of them, being of interest to a wide audience. Like the many earlier volumes in this series, this CD is primarily a showcase for the composers themselves and those who know them – and an opportunity for diehard fans of the latest contemporary trends and fads in music to hear some methods of implementing those approaches. The experimentation appears in every work on the disc, which also includes Refugees for solo piano by Robert Anton Strobel, L’etere del Tempo for oboe and piano by Keith Kramer, and Rejuvenated (Variations on a Youthful Theme), for solo piano, by Matthew J. Jaskot. Whether written for a single instrument or as many as Phillips’ work needs (13 performers, two of them on percussion, plus a conductor), every piece here seeks to make its musical mark by combining and contrasting instruments and musical materials in unusual ways. The techniques of the composers vary widely: for example, Kramer’s piece is “based on the second order all-combinatorial hexachord 6-7 [012678], which is the same set demonstrated by Messiaen’s fifth mode of limited transposition,” while Jaskot’s is a comparatively traditional work of theme and variations (although the theme does not appear until after the fourth variation). The overriding question for all the works, though, is what they seek to communicate and how effectively they do so. In that respect, this 32^nd SCI compilation, like the ones before it, is very much a mixed bag, intended primarily, it seems, to showcase techniques rather than to attempt any significant joining of sensibilities between the composers and any but the most-limited audience.

(++++) FROM PRE-READING TO KINDERGARTEN

Hi-Five Animals! By Ross Burach. Scholastic. $6.99.

I Love The Nutcracker: My First Sound Book. By Marion Billet. Cartwheel Books/Scholastic. $9.99.

Pete the Cat’s Groovy Bake Sale. By James Dean. Harper. $4.99.

Pete the Kitty and the Groovy Playdate. By Kimberly and James Dean. Illustrations by James Dean. Harper. $17.99.

Ready or Not, Woolbur Goes to School! By Leslie Helakoski. Illustrated by Lee Harper. Harper. $17.99.

     Animals of all sorts enthusiastically guide young children through various stages of life in books that become increasingly complex while trying to remain relatable and endearing. A basic element of board books for the youngest children is participation – showing that books are fun by getting kids directly involved in them. This is done, for example, in Ross Burach’s Hi-Five Animals! Simply drawn, big-eyed and smiling animals in all poses and colors invite the youngest kids to “hi-five wild style.” From a not-very-toothy crocodile to a not-scary-at-all lion, and on to more and more cartoon animals, the book is about nothing but giving hi-five greetings to creatures of all sorts. Burach keeps things extra-amusing by telling kids to give the high-fives to different animal parts – and making those parts the most-prominent portions of his drawings. An elephant, for instance, says to “hi-five a trunk,” and a shark that is “just hangin’ loose” (and is toothy, but is shown riding a surfboard and sporting a big and happy smile) offers a fin for a high-five. A moose presents both antlers and a penguin a flipper, and then there is this: “Hi-five an octopus, I say./ But only if you have ALL day!” And yes, all eight octopus arms are presented by a broadly smiling critter that not only has big eyes but also shows some teeth (a real octopus would not have them, but this is scarcely a realistic book). The happy and playful animals and the many repeats of the “hi-five” notion make the book easy to follow and understand, fun for pre-readers to hear, and enjoyably participatory.

     Board-book participation with animals comes in many forms. Marion Billet offers a different type in an all-animal tribute to Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker ballet. The written material here is short even by board-book standards – but it has to be, because the entire back of the book, the equivalent of at least half the book’s total page count, is joined together into a box that contains a music-generating computer chip and an on/off switch. When an adult enables the chip by moving the switch to the “on” position, small circular touchpoints on each of the six narrative pages become active – and music from the ballet plays whenever a child (or adult) touches one of the points. In this book, Clara is a rabbit; at the start, she receives the Nutcracker toy as the March plays. Then two pandas do the Chinese Dance. Next is a bit of the Russian Dance (all the musical offerings are short excerpts, not the complete pieces). Then comes Dance of the Mirlitons, with flute sounds and four animals: pig, mouse, kitten and puppy. The Waltz of the Flowers features animals as winged flower fairies, dancing on blooms and leaves. And finally there is the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, with the unique sounds of the celesta. Kids can touch the activation spots again and again to hear the music as often as they like, and adults can read the simple text and, if they wish, explain what happens in the ballet, which is a perennial favorite for all ages. Even children much too young to start reading will enjoy hearing the music – which they will associate with the pictures and the story, thus beginning to develop a sense of the way in which books tell enjoyable and interesting tales.

     When kids are ready to start doing a bit of reading on their own, they themselves can use board books – or they can turn to story books in a guided-reading series, such as “I Can Read!” This series has five levels and usually features characters who come from somewhat more-advanced books that kids can enjoy later, after making their acquaintance in these very simple and short offerings. There are, for example, plenty of Pete the Cat books around, including Pete the Cat’s Groovy Bake Sale, which is at the very first guided-reading level, called “My First” and described as “ideal for sharing with emergent readers.” This is a book that parents can read to and with young children – and that kids who are just learning about reading will soon be able to follow on their own. The story, told in very simple, short sentences, is that Pete wants to make something for his school bake sale, and has to choose among the many sweet treats that he loves. James Dean mentions and also shows the options: cookies, brownies, cakes and more. Pete tries to make several different things – with his mother’s help when baking is required, of course – but nothing comes out well. Eventually, “the kitchen is a big mess” and Pete “has no treats for the bake sale.” But then he has an idea, and he combines little bits of the various failed or incomplete projects into “berry cups” that include pudding, cookie pieces and more. They are a hit at the bake sale, and everything ends happily – including the experience of a child who is just learning to read by using this book.

     Pete the Cat provides a particularly clear example of the way in which guided reading turns into standard, non-guided reading with the same characters. Even the word “groovy” connects the two forms, as in Pete the Kitty and the Groovy Playdate. True, this Pete is the “kitty” rather than the cat, but there is very little difference in appearance, concerns or behavior between the two forms of Pete. The biggest narrative difference between this book and the one in the “I Can Read!” series is that this one is intended to teach as well as entertain. Both stories re quite simple, but the one in Pete the Kitty and the Groovy Playdate carries a message about sharing. Pete and Grumpy Toad (a younger but almost identical-looking version of the character of the same name seen in books featuring Pete the Cat) get together for a playdate at Grumpy Toad’s house; but every time Pete starts to play with a different toy, Grumpy Toad “starts to whine. ‘That truck [or other item] is MINE! MINE! MINE!’” The always-laid-back Pete accepts this and simply says he will find something else to play with, but the scenario is repeated until Pete has nothing to do and Grumpy Toad has all the toys – and is not enjoying them, because “it’s no fun playing alone.” So the two start to share things, have a great time, and conclude that “sharing ROCKS!” The lesson is simple, but it is a lesson, and these become increasingly common as board books and guided-reading materials give way to picture books that focus both on characters and on behavioral information that adults consider it important for children to have.

     The messages are often more subtle than in Pete the Kitty and the Groovy Playdate, which is for ages 4-8 but seems to be written primarily for kids at the younger end of that age range. Leslie Helakoski writes for slightly older readers in the same range – or slightly more adept ones – in Ready or Not, Woolbur Goes to School! This is a school-focused story, which means it targets kids of kindergarten age or even some first-graders (although the story does indicate that this is a first-time-ever-at-school scenario). The message here, which is quite clear even though never stated explicitly, is twofold: being different is perfectly fine, and doing new things is perfectly wonderful. Woolbur, a sheep who walks on his hind legs (as all the anthropomorphic animals do in this book and many others), has wool strange enough to be called bizarre: it sticks straight up from the top of his head in multiple horn-shaped points, each encircled by a red ribbon. Even his parents, endearingly called “Maa” and “Paa,” comment, “Your wool is a little unusual.” Woolbur’s response, and a repeated refrain in the book, is the key to the implicit double message here – he says, again and again, “Isn’t it great?” His unusual wool is great; his multi-shaped, multicolored way of writing his name is great; his outside-the-lines painting that may be right side up or upside down is great; the unfamiliar tastes of cafeteria food are great; and so on. Lee Harper makes sure that Woolbur is adorable no matter what he is doing, and she includes some amusement in the book’s pictures whenever possible: the cafeteria scene, for example, shows a table in the foreground that is a major mess, and features trays of very different foods for different students, such as a pile of bone-shaped treats for a dog and a messily dripping mixture for a pig. Woolbur’s eternal optimism bounces around throughout the school day and reassures the other students – for instance, when Donkey, on the playground, comments that it is noisy and he has never played these games before, Woolbur is right there to say, “Isn’t it great?” Every single possibly disconcerting element of school gets the same Woolbur response, and his parents make the same “Isn’t it great?” comment at the book’s end after noting that Woolbur is growing up. The point of the book – and it will not be lost on the now-experienced readers for whom the book is intended – is to enjoy being whoever and whatever you are, take new experiences in stride, and always maintain a positive attitude. Nothing here ever makes any part of that statement directly, but by the time they are ready to read this book, kids will be able to pick up all the messages packed into Ready or Not, Woolbur Goes to School!

(++++) NIGHT AND DAY

Good Night, Mr. Panda. By Steve Antony. Scholastic. $16.99.

Good Night, My Love. By Sandra Magsamen. Cartwheel Books/Scholastic. $7.99.

Monster Academy. By Jane Yolen & Heidi E.Y. Stemple. Illustrated by John McKinley. Blue Sky Press/Scholastic. $17.99.

     The underlying gentleness of Steve Antony’s Mr. Panda makes him just the right sort of character to remind young children of everything they need to do before going to sleep – he is never pushy about anything. In Good Night, Mr. Panda, the title character’s friends come by one at a time to say good night to him – but there is a little something missing each time. First, Hippo comes to Mr. Panda, who is taking a bath, to say good night – but the wavy lines coming from Hippo’s hugely opened mouth indicate that not everything is quite right: “You’ve forgotten to brush your teeth,” says Mr. Panda. Hippo says he will just brush them twice in the morning – and Lemur chimes in, from the very top of the page, “My mouth is minty fresh.” Then Skunk heads for bed, as Mr. Panda holds his nose and says Skunk has forgotten to take a bath – but Skunk says he’s fine, since he takes one every month. And again, Lemur is at the tip-top of the page saying, “I’m squeaky clean.” Sloth is too tired to go to bed, he says, and Mr. Panda says that all the sheep have forgotten their pajamas – but they point out to him that they do not wear them. “But lemurs do,” says Lemur, now seen wearing red-striped pajamas to go with his black-striped tail. Then Mr. Panda himself heads for bed, but Lemur reminds him that he has forgotten something: to give Lemur a hug. And by the time he does that, Mr. Panda is so tired that he falls asleep in Lemur’s bed – leaving Lemur to sleep in Mr. Panda’s. The gentle reminders of nighttime rituals mix well with the endearing portraits of the various animals to produce a bedtime book that will serve as an amusing and enjoyable way to help kids ages 4-8 find their way to dreamland.

     For even younger children, Sandra Magsamen’s lift-the-flap board book, Good Night, My Love, will provide plenty of reassurance and lots of attractive, simple drawings with which to interact as bedtime approaches. The front cover sports a pleasant, plush, silver almost-crescent moon – quite suitable for poking and cuddling – on which a baby bear is sleeping. Then the text starts with Magsamen’s “Good night, my little buttercup,” showing a smiling flower in a flower pot – and pulling down the flap shows the flower leaning to one side, still smiling but with eyes closed, apparently fast asleep. There is a “precious baby bear” seen sleeping on the moon – an in-book version of the cover scene. “My little monkey” is seen hanging upside-down from a branch, clutching a bunch of bananas – and then, under the flap, is in bed and holding a yellow star. “My little sunshine” has an endearing sun going to sleep on some clouds – wearing a night cap. And finally there is the little bear again, now under a blanket showing pictures of the characters and objects from earlier in the book, being told, “Sweet dreams, sleep tight,” and then having eyes comfortably closed underneath the book’s final flap. Like all the Magsamen board books, this one combines mild interactivity, suitable for the youngest pre-readers, with a sweetly reassuring message that, in this case, should make for an easy and pleasant transition from the day’s activities to the night’s rest.

     Waking up and getting on with life, on the other hand, can bring tremendous exuberance – as it does in Monster Academy, written by Jane Yolen and her daughter, Heidi E.Y. Stemple. From the bizarre-but-not-scary opening picture of the school itself, to Principal Frank N. Stein’s invitation to enter the classroom, to the introduction of the various monster-ish (but not really monstrous) students, Yolen and Stemple – abetted by John McKinley’s deliberately overdone illustrations – take school-age or almost-school-age human kids through a typical day at a far-from-typical place of learning. The teacher is Miss Mummy, who has one eye within her bandages and one bulging out of them – and her very own curse: “Mine is that I speak in verse./ But it could be worse!” One student is Serpentina, who is green and toothy and has hair made of snakes; and is Spec, whose one gigantic eyeball is half the size of his head; and there are several others. And today there is a new student, Tornado Jo – who bangs and knocks into everything and everyone while yelling, “No! No! No! No!” She is quickly proclaimed “the worst monster ever!” But Miss Mummy says she will soon learn manners, and the class settles down to activities such as counting their missing teeth (a problem for Vampire Vic, who has one loose fang that has not quite come out yet) and building a Creepy Castle in the lab. Tornado Jo refuses to cooperate with anything or anyone, however, and eventually spins all the others off their feet – at which point she is revealed to be a disguise-wearing HUMAN. That terrifies the monsters, who flee back to the school – where Miss Mummy calms them down and points out that Jo may be human, but she is a monster, too. This satisfies everybody, including Principal Frank N. Stein, and the book ends in happiness and monstrous solidarity, with Miss Mummy’s suitable-for-human-children message, “Sometimes it’s hard when you begin./ But now I think she’ll fit right in.” Parents can reinforce those words with their own little monsters – but may have some difficulty when their human kids insist that they, like Jo, want to go to Monster Academy. Yolen, Stemple and McKinley leave that particular quandary for human parents to handle on their own.

(++++) PICARESQUE SCIENTIFANTASMAGORIA

Temper. By Nicky Drayden. Harper Voyager. $15.99.

     In her second genre-bending and not-neatly-classifiable novel of an Africa that never was, Nicky Drayden takes the same approach as in her first, The Prey of Gods: throw an enormous number of details, characters and plot strands at the reader, from all sorts of angles, and see which ones stick together and which stick to the reader’s consciousness (they are not necessarily the same ones). Sprawling and pervaded with dark humor (saying “black humor” in this context would be an uncalled-for pun), Temper piles so many imaginative elements into what is essentially the teenager-coming-of-age trope that readers will almost lose the thread of the story while immersing themselves in the worldbuilding.

     “Almost” is the key. Unlike The Prey of Gods, in which matters did not quite coalesce and the novel ultimately felt too jury-rigged to hang together with anything approaching narrative elegance, Temper entices precisely because it so often comes so close to veering off the tracks but then gets out of its own way just in time to spring another surprising twist that, it eventually turns out, is as germane as it initially seems not to be.

     Posit an Africa in which European colonialism never occurred and is relegated to a Shakespearian/Faulknerian tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing, “about ‘death traders’ skimming around the ocean in their sailing ships, and their ‘skin the color of sun-bleached bone.’” True, the character who says this is not an idiot – more of an idiot savant, although indeed once relegated to a “whackhouse” – but this pass at the past is typical of Drayden’s approach to revealing background by offering just the slightest of bows to the real world while driving a deep wedge between it and the world of the novel.

     So yes, there are men and women in Temper, but perhaps half the people are kigens, either feminized males (fem kigens) or masculinized females (andy kigens), subjected in the old days to bigoted labels such as “finemister” and “laddie” and still marginalized. Kigens are twins – but that is decidedly not unusual, since in this world (in the nation of Mzansi, which is more or less South Africa), twins are the norm. Why? The idiot savant, Uncle Pabio, says the rationalists known as Rashtra “could talk all day about the scientific reasons behind the prevalence of twinning in our lands, pointing to our diets or anomalies within our genes. But they don’t twin like we do, so they can never know what their eyes and minds do not tell them. Two halves are not the same as one.” There are occasional singletons in society, to be sure: singletons used to be drowned at birth and are still sometimes killed to “be reunited with our unborn twin,” but now they, like kigen, are generally more-or-less tolerated even though it is believed that they neither see nor think the “right” way.

     So there is one major plot element of Temper: finding out what eyes and minds alone do not tell you, and accepting that even in closely bound twins, two halves are not the same as one whole. And oh yes, the twins in Temper are closely bound: one is greater, one lesser, according to religious/mystical circumstances that result, at a time called Discernment, in the division between the two of the seven virtues and seven vices – which are then permanently branded into their skin. Virtually everyone is more-or-less balanced, with three vices and four virtues or the other way around. Rarely, the balance is five-and-two. Only the land’s gods, Grace and Icy Blue, have seven virtues (Grace) or seven vices (Icy Blue). But very, very rarely, a pair of twins will have a six-and-one division, as is the case with 17-year-olds Kasim (one vice, six virtues) and Auben (one virtue, six vices). Temper is their story, specifically Auben’s story – he is the narrator – but of necessity Kasim’s as well, since twins cannot be separated by significant distances or physical discomfort becomes significant, then intolerable, and eventually horrendous (in ways that Drayden does not hesitate to explore). The book’s seven sections are named for and closely correlated with the marks that Auben bears, building to “Temper” (overweening anger) at the end after passing through “Vainglory,” “Envy,” “Duplicity,” “Doubt” and “Lechery” – with “Charity,” Auben’s sole virtue, as the penultimate section (“Greed” is Kasim’s one vice). Even in the choice of verbiage for the vices and virtues, Drayden’s worldbuilding shows its cleverness, since the concept of seven virtues and seven deadly sins is a longstanding and well-known one in our reality – but the sins do not have these names in our world, and do not work themselves through into life in quite the same way or with quite the same consequences.

     Drayden’s world is foundationally consistent, which is what makes it convincing as well as enthralling. The inability of twins to be separated by significant geographical distance, for example, results in city planning that creates nicer neighborhoods for the twins with more virtues and downtrodden slums known as “comfies” for the more-vice-ridden people. The literal barrier between a comfy and the rest of the community represents class distinction but also closeness: no one can live too far from his, her or eir (the kigen pronoun) “evil twin.” But the vice-heavy twins are not evil, and this is one of the many subtleties here. In fact, after working through some themes that she first explored in The Prey of Gods – about science, religion, the belief structures underlying both, and the likelihood that we get pretty much the gods we deserve – Drayden eventually comes down firmly on the side of asserting the importance of both virtue and vice, a conclusion that readers may find arguable but one that will certainly get them thinking. Actually, pretty much everything in Temper will get readers thinking, and ultimately that is what sets the novel well above most entries in the many genres whose boundaries it crosses.

(+++) ADULTS, AS USUAL, ARE IDIOTS

Max Tilt #2: 80 Days or Die. By Peter Lerangis. Harper. $17.99.

You Go First. By Erin Entrada Kelly. Greenwillow/HarperCollins. $16.99.

Margot and Mateo Save the World. By Darcy Miller. Harper. $16.99.

     An important part of the formula for preteen and young-teen novels, in addition to the intelligence and all-around worthiness of the young protagonists, is the ineptness and often downright stupidity of all the grown-ups – parents and otherwise. The foundational idea of these genre novels is that only preteens are smart enough, clever enough, aware enough, adept enough and committed enough to do whatever needs to be done. The central characters exist in a world where, apparently, people grow to a certain age and then systematically lose the ability to think, calculate, figure out, and act – and certainly the ability to be heroic. Take the second book in Peter Lerangis’ Max Tilt series, which is built on one of those intriguing and vaguely silly historical premises that Lerangis favors – and handles with aplomb. The idea here is that Max’s mom is seriously ill and at the Mayo Clinic, taken there by Max’s dad, so Max (age 13) is in the care of Alexandra (Alex), his college-age cousin, who is conveniently taking time off from school to write a novel. And the two young people discover a chest once owned by Jules Verne, who happens to be the protagonists’ mutual ancestor. The chest is in Max’s parents’ attic, but of course they have no idea what it is or what it contains. Only the young people manage to figure out that it includes clues to a lost Verne manuscript that shows that his stories really happened. And, conveniently, anyone following Verne’s clues will discover a treasure that may solve Max’s parents’ serious financial problems. Oh, and there will also be information showing how Verne recovered from a serious gunshot wound – information that will be usable to cure Max’s mother. Somehow, every adult for multiple generations has missed all of this. And the ridiculousness of adults shows up in other ways as 80 Days or Die moves along. Max and Alex were forced in the first Max Tilt book into an uneasy alliance with the usual nefarious-businessman type. In the second novel, they suddenly discover that the car being used by a woman named Bitsy, who has been helping them, has a Niemand Enterprises logo on the trunk, since obviously adults doing evil things advertise them clearly through automotive decoration. This leads Max to comment, “She’s working for – him. He who must not be named! Even though I just did.” The reference to Voldemort having been inserted with suitable subtlety (or lack thereof), Lerangis soon unravels the tangle when Bitsy explains that the logo was “one of the perks of working for old Stinky,” to whom Bitsy’s mum was married, even though Bitsy is not the daughter of “old Stinky,” since “Mummy had been married before,” so everything is all right after all. Except, of course, it is not, since the quest for Verne’s magical healing elements requires considerably more time and effort. Lerangis is expert at pacing adventure stories, however absurd their underlying elements, and fans of the first Max Tilt book will not be disappointed in this second one. They will also be reminded, at least in passing, that Lerangis here indulges in the now-politically-correct formula of having his protagonists be of mixed race: Max has a white mother and Dominican father, while Alex has an African-American mother and white father. These attributes are entirely irrelevant to the tale. Of greater importance is the fact that Max has and is largely defined by autism spectrum disorder, which means, first, that he tends to take everything literally (leading to a series of misunderstandings, some of them humorous); and, second, that he has a certain degree of synesthesia, which means that to him, emotions have odors. Notably, fear = fish. So when Max tells Bitsy, during the misunderstanding about the car, “You make me smell fish,” that refers not to the tuna sandwich that Bitsy had for lunch but to Max experiencing fear regarding “old Stinky” and Niemand Enterprises. Anyway, 80 Days or Die offers Lerangis’ usual skilled plotting and pacing and the usual requirement in his books of being even more willing than usual to suspend one’s understandable disbelief in, among other things, the tremendous capabilities of the young protagonists and the total incompetence of the adults around them.

     A much quieter and more thoughtful book, in which the inability of adults to understand preteens’ thoughts and concerns is a constant undercurrent as a kind of sad backdrop, Erin Estrada Kelly’s You Go First is essentially about loneliness – a recurring theme in her books for this age group. The protagonists are two TAG (talented and gifted) kids from different geographical areas: 12-year-old Charlotte Lockard from Pennsylvania and 11-year-old Ben Boxer from Louisiana. They have an online connection – they play Scrabble against each other – and this becomes a lifeline of sorts as the two spend a hyper-difficult week trying to work through family issues with which, of course, their parents (the source of much of the angst here) are unable to help. Charlotte’s dad has a heart attack, sending the family into an understandable tailspin; and during the same week, Ben’s parents tell him they are getting divorced. While trying to negotiate these turbulent waters, both kids have to deal with the standard trials of middle school, including bullying and socialization issues: notably, Charlotte’s lifelong best friend is now running with a cooler clique and describing Charlotte as a “parasite,” and introverted and brainy Ben decides to step out of character and run for student council (being unable to comprehend the ridicule he faces as a result). Kelly structures the book in alternating chapters that reflect each central character’s thoughts and feelings. However, Charlotte and Ben are defined more by external description than by any highly distinctive voice. Charlotte, for example, collects rocks and constantly does anagrams, while Ben has a Ravenclaw blanket and extensive “factoid” knowledge about U.S. presidents. Parental absence/helplessness pervades the book: “Her mom didn’t need to hear her problems, and Charlotte wouldn’t know where to start anyway,” appears in one chapter and is a pretty good summation. Another is, “Ben simultaneously wanted to hug his mother and tape her mouth shut.” The book is ultimately about friendship and about middle-schoolers needing to be responsible for their own choices and their own actions – in the absence of any significant guidance from their parents. You Go First is one of those novels that practically scream “sensitive” through their very quietness. Kelly is as skilled in her approach as Lerangis is in his, but their styles are very different – except for the essential uselessness of the adults in their protagonists’ world.

     However, neither Lerangis nor Kelly treats grown-ups with as much offhand contempt as does Darcy Miller in Margot and Mateo Save the World. Of course, this book’s title points to a novel that is intended to be an amusing adventure rather than a deeply serious one, so some overstating of the case – any case – is sure to be in order. The extent of it, where adults are concerned, is nevertheless surprising. The middle-school protagonists here, Margot Blumenthal and Mateo Flores, have been cast as Juliet and Romeo in a middle-school version of Shakespeare’s play; this is what gives them an initial reason to know and interact with each other. Then Margot discovers a weird, slimy something-or-other attached to Mateo’s back, yanks it off, and thereby learns that there has been an alien invasion of Earth. So the kids go to their parents and the authorities and – just kidding! Of course they don’t! They do try to find Mateo’s father, a city worker for the town of West Cove, but he has gone missing, and the town’s mayor, for whom he works, has gone berserk after being taken over by one of the alien thingies. None of this really speaks to the uselessness of adults in the book, though. What does speak to it is one Dr. Smalls, who is 487 days pre-retirement and lamentably forced to eat a bran muffin when his research assistant, Calvin Biggs, cannot get him any other type. Smalls is so far beyond incompetent that a new word would have to be invented for him if he played a significant role in the book. But he does not. Calvin, however, does. Margot and Mateo Save the World does require the occasional adult, for example to drive a car (Calvin proves completely incompetent with a stick shift) and to put some alien bits under a microscope (Calvin decides they are unlike anything he has ever seen, but is too incompetent to explain that to the even-more-incompetent Dr. Smalls). Calvin also gets repeatedly punched by alien-controlled characters, and just to make the point about his uselessness abundantly clear, when Margot and Mateo successfully tie up the possessed town mayor, Calvin waits until they are out of the room, unties her for no particular reason, then gets beaten up and also loses all samples that would prove there are aliens about. A real winner, that Calvin. Later in the book, other adults appear, such as incompetent Army types who have been aware of the aliens for longer than Margot and Mateo have been alive but have been unable to find them, much less destroy them – two things the preteens accomplish messily but very quickly. And to be sure word of the aliens does not get out, the Army gets the kids to sign confidentiality agreements (not legally binding, by the way, since Margot and Mateo are both under 18). The litany of dumbness among adults eventually seems to infect Margot and Mateo, too, because when they discover a cache of evil-alien eggs after the aliens have supposedly been destroyed, they do not tell anyone, take any pictures, livestream the event, or otherwise reveal anything whatsoever about what is and has been going on. Actually, the best thing about Margot and Mateo Save the World could be that it hints at something that readers of preteen novels may wonder about from time to time: just how do the super-capable preteen protagonists eventually morph into those useless adults? This book seems to catch them just as the transition to fecklessness is beginning.

(+++) BEYOND BRAHMS

Anton Urspruch: Piano Concerto, Op. 9; Symphony, Op. 14. Oliver Triendl, piano; Nordwestdeutsche Philharmonie conducted by Georg Fritzsch (Concerto) and Marcus Bosch (Symphony). CPO. $16.99 (2 CDs).

Ignaz Brüll: Macbeth Overture; Violin Concerto, Op. 41; Symphony, Op. 31; Serenades Nos. 1, Op. 29, and 2, Op. 36. Ilya Hoffmann, violin; Malta Philharmonic Orchestra and Belarusian State Symphony Orchestra conducted by Michael Laus and Marius Stravinsky. Cameo Classics. $18.99 (2 CDs).

     The adjective “Brahmsian” has come to have a distinctive meaning in classical music: it is usually applied to works of grand scale, with soaring themes, dense (and sometimes cloying) orchestration, with influences of Beethoven and Schumann but a style that adapts and ultimately transcends both. The one other great composer of Brahms’ time whose work is in fact distinctly Brahmsian is Antonin Dvořák, whose friendship with Brahms was deep and long-lasting and led to fascinating cross-pollination (e.g., Brahms’ Hungarian Dances and Dvořák’s Slavonic Dances, and an opening of the finale to Dvořák’s Sixth Symphony that sounds almost uncannily like Brahms’ Second). But Brahms’ influence, which extended in somewhat indirect fashion as far as Mahler and Schoenberg, was quite pronounced in Brahms’ own productive years on a whole group of composers whose works fell rapidly into obscurity, sometimes during their own lifetimes and that of Brahms, sometimes shortly afterwards. Some of those composers are now receiving belated reconsideration, and if their music is scarcely the product of genius, it is often exceptionally well-crafted and deserving of greater attention than it has received for more than a century.

     Thus, the single piano concerto by Anton Urspruch (1850-1907) shows distinctly Brahmsian elements on a two-CD release from CPO, where it is splendidly played by Oliver Triendl and nicely accompanied by the Nordwestdeutsche Philharmonie under Georg Fritzsch. Actually, “accompanied” falls a bit short of what the orchestra does here: as in Brahms’ piano concertos, especially No. 1, the orchestra takes on the primary role through much of the work, turning the piano into more of an obbligato instrument than a front-and-center soloist. If Brahms does this more successfully, through more-elegant balance and more-attractive themes, that does not take away from Urspruch the pleasantly pastoral character of his concerto’s first movement and the fine treatment of woodwinds in the second. As with Brahms’ first concerto, the first movement of Urspruch’s bears a great deal of the weight of the work – although, again, Brahms uses this movement to construct a grand edifice, while Urspruch meanders and offers themes that are more pretty than consequential. Urspruch does give the pianist opportunities for virtuosity in his finale, whose principal subject is the most memorable tune in the whole work. The oddity here is that the emotional heart of the work is its second movement, but its pianistic heart is its third; the concerto as a whole does not quite coalesce, but it is filled with distinctive elements as well as Brahmsian ones and ones reminiscent of the works of Joachim Raff, who was Urspruch’s teacher. Less successful is Urspruch’s only symphony, in which Marcus Bosch leads the orchestra. One critic actually commented at the work’s première in 1881 that Brahms was the only other composer who could have written the piece, and while that is true to an extent thematically and in orchestration, this is not a work that Brahms would have written. Even as heard on CPO, in what appears to be an edited and shortened version, the symphony runs 50 minutes and seems longer. The third movement, its shortest and most compressed, is its most attractive by far – the rest sounds bloated and, like the first movement of the piano concerto, rather uncertain of its direction. There are certainly enjoyable elements here, including some pleasant lyricism and attractive woodwind passages, and the finale is an interesting almost-blend of approaches reminiscent of those of Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Schumann. But the symphony is not a particularly convincing work, and its neglect is more understandable than that of Urspruch’s piano concerto. In fact, this release itself shows an element of neglect: the concerto’s performance dates to 2009 and the symphony’s to 2006, but the recording is only now becoming available.

     Delayed release is also a factor in a Cameo Classics two-CD set featuring music by Ignaz Brüll (1846-1907). Here, the performances of the Macbeth Overture and violin concerto date to 2011, that of Serenade No. 2 comes from 2010, and those of the symphony and Serenade No. 1 are from 2007. Perhaps it is only now that there seems to be sufficient interest in some less-known composers of the Romantic era for companies to be interested in producing these CDs. In any case, there is an even stronger connection between Brahms and Brüll than between Brahms and Urspruch. Brüll, a fine pianist who wrote two concertos and three concertante pieces for his instrument, was a close friend of Brahms and often had Brahms as a guest at his, Brüll’s, home. The initial two-piano versions of Brahms’ symphonies were performed for friends and publishers by Brahms and Brüll as duo pianists, and Brüll played Brahms’ piano music in concert as well. Brahms thought highly of Brüll’s compositional skill – a rarity for Brahms, who tended to be harsh in judging the works of composers other than Dvořák. The new release of Brüll’s music shows reasons for Brahms’ praise, even though it omits any of Brüll’s piano works. The Macbeth Overture is a compressed and moody piece reflecting the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s play rather than the specific events in it. The two serenades (there is also a third, Op. 67) are quite different in character, the first (in six movements) having a fleet and pleasant delicacy and modest orchestration, the second (in three movements) being for larger orchestra and subsuming some pleasantly Mendelssohnian elements within a nicely varied set of themes and overall sense of playfulness. Then there are the two most-serious works here. The symphony, Brüll’s only one, is far more modest than that of Urspruch or any of those by Brahms, and proffers a good deal of gentleness and numerous pleasantries despite its dark E minor home key and the dramatic elements that permeate the work and eventually bring it to an insistent close. And the violin concerto, also Brüll’s only foray into this form, is something of a find: its lovely central slow movement, which is its emotional heart, is sandwiched between an extended and symphonic opening movement with a distinctly Brahmsian main theme, and a finale that is considerably lighter than anything that has come before and that presents the soloist with plenty of virtuoso opportunities. Brüll was a skilled craftsman and a fine melodist, and even though his main compositional interest was stage music – he wrote eight operas – his instrumental productions show a high level of skill, befitting someone who entertained and sat side by side with Brahms and who, if scarcely at Brahms’ level as a composer, certainly deserves better than the near-universal neglect to which his compositions have been relegated.