(+++) THE MODERN PIANO – AND MORE

Michael Matthews: 14 Preludes; Bagatelles Nos. 1, 2, 3, 6, 7 and 10; Postlude. Daan Vandewalle, piano. Ravello. $12.99.

Allen Bonde: Fantasia for Piano and Orchestra; Three Elizabethan Songs; Three Elizabethan Songs Revisited; Symphony No. 1; Rose Window; Sonus; Four Shakespeare Songs; You Were the One; Encore Blues. Allen Bonde, piano; Mara Bonde, soprano; Maria Bonde, piano; Moravian Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Toshiyuki Shimada. Navona. $16.99.

The Oscuro Quintet: Music for Tango Ensemble. Alban Bailly, guitar; Thomas Lee, piano; Shinjoo Cho, accordion; June Bender, violin; Ben Blazer, bass. Big Round Records. $12.99.

Benjamin Yusupov: Viola Tango Rock Concerto. Anibal Dos Santos, viola and electric viola; Venanzio Cipolliti, accordion; Carlos Posada, guitar; Orquesta Filarmónica de Bogotá. Navona DVD. $18.99.

     A piano need not be “prepared” (as pianos famously were by John Cage and less famously by many others) to accommodate the needs of today’s composers – certainly not the needs of Canada’s Michael Matthews (born 1950), whose output extends into tape and other forms beloved of moderns but also includes a number of pieces written for traditional ensembles and expressing comparatively traditional feelings and emotions. Under the hands of Belgian pianist Daan Vandewalle, Matthews’ 14 Preludes come across as an impressive set of varied emotions and techniques, not in the more typically flashy way of etudes but with greater expressiveness – although still requiring considerable virtuosity. Ranging in length from one minute to almost eight and written between 1994 and 2006, the pieces explore emotional nooks and crannies and also give the pianist a workout in terms of both versatility and musicality. Vandewalle also includes half a dozen of Matthews’ Bagatelles, which date from 1997 to 2006 and on the whole are lighter and somewhat more readily accessible than the Preludes. The final work on this CD, Postlude, was originally going to be one of the Bagatelles, but outgrew that role and turned into a standalone piece. Vague, unsettling and without definitive opening or closing, it makes an interesting conclusion to a well-played CD that shows both Matthews’ skill in piano composition and Vandewalle’s interpretative ability.

     The piano is also a major presence on a new CD featuring music of Allen Bonde – in fact, the composer is the primary pianist here, although in one piece, the impressionistic Rose Window, he shares pianistic duties with his wife, Maria. Actually, this whole CD is a family affair, since the vocal portions are sung by the composer’s daughter, soprano Mara Bonde. It would be impossible not to consider this disc definitive – but what does it actually define? This is a better overview of Bonde’s music than is the Matthews CD, which focuses on only one element of that composer’s oeuvre. Bonde tries on and discards styles as some people try on and discard clothes – the well-wrought Fantasia for Piano and Orchestra is a short and harmonically quite traditional work, for example, while Bonde’s Symphony No. 1 (which is also short, for a symphony) is more coloristic than concerned with structural niceties. The remaining pieces here are more intimate. The most interesting are Three Elizabethan Songs and Three Elizabethan Songs Revisited, which are settings of the same three songs in two intriguingly different ways. Four Shakespeare Songs is cut from much the same cloth, although with a 1920s overlay; but You Were the One (which sets poetry by Mary Jo Salter) has a more modern feeling and one of greater intimacy. The solo piano works interspersed among the vocal ones provide effective contrasts for music whose many styles are all, in their own ways, stylish.

     The piano is but one of the five instruments played by members of the Oscuro Quintet on their first, eponymous CD. Promoted as “Philadelphia’s First Tango Ensemble,” which sounds a bit like damning with faint praise, the quintet offers instrumental skill and passionate involvement in music that is not always worthy of this level of intensity. It seems that no CD focusing on the modern tango can be without works by Astor Piazzolla; but the ones here, Rio Sena and Escualo, last only three and two-and-a-half minutes, respectively – more Piazzolla would have served the overall CD better. The longest and most recent work here, Five Procrastinations (2010) by Alban Bailly, is less interesting, but several other pieces have some snap, rhythmic bite or good flow to them – notably A fuego lento by Horacio Salgán, which opens the disc, and Recuerdo by Osvaldo Pugliese, which closes it. Only listeners who enjoy the unusual instrumental combination offered by the Oscuro Quintet – and also enjoy the tango as an art form – will likely find this CD congenial: however well-played it may be, this is scarcely a mass-market product.

     The tango is front and center in Benjamin Yusupov’s Viola Tango Rock Concerto, too; and although this work has been issued as a DVD that runs just 52 minutes rather than as a CD, it is a rare example of a piece that really gains by being presented in video form. Yusupov’s concerto is very much a matter of taste; indeed, the combination of viola and electric viola will scarcely be to all listeners’ liking, and the multiple rock passages that continually appear in the concerto may well come across as intrusive rather than integral. The video elements here are a major point of interest, though, not so much because of the chance to watch Anibal Dos Santos (although his performance is certainly impressive) but because of Gina Medina, a fine tango dancer whose performance – which includes dancing with Dos Santos – is at least as engrossing as Yusupov’s music. It has become commonplace for modern composers to mix rock, heavy metal and other musical forms with recognizably classical structure and instrumentation, as Yusupov does here. Whether the combination works or not will be very much a matter of individual opinion: it is easy to appreciate what Yusupov, Dos Santos, Medina and the others involved in this production are doing without necessarily being captivated by the whole thing. Interesting and unusual this work certainly is, but memorable it really is not – except for Medina’s involvement, which creates visual vibrancy that outdistances the purely musical parts of the overall performance.

(+++) ALMOST WHOLLY HOLY

Noël. Westminster Choir conducted by Joe Miller. Westminster Choir College. $16.99.

Honegger: Une Cantate de Noël; Symphony No. 4, “Deliciae Basilienses”; Pastorale d’été. Christopher Maltman, baritone; New London Children’s Choir and London Philharmonic Choir and Orchestra conducted by Vladimir Jurowski. LPO. $16.99.

Chanticleer: Our Heart’s Joy; The Boy Whose Father Was God; Ludus Paschalis—The Resurrection Play of Tours; Out of This World!; Between Two Wars—The Art of the Comedian Harmonists. Chanticleer conducted by Matthew Oltman. Chanticleer Records. $16.99 each.

Mahler: Symphony No. 2. Dorothea Röschmann, soprano; Michelle DeYoung, mezzo-soprano; New York Choral Artists and New York Philharmonic conducted by Alan Gilbert. Accentus DVD. $24.99.

     Although Christmas was taken over from the Roman Saturnalia, which in turn grew out of a long history of death-and-rebirth myths involving gods or their works dying off in winter and returning or being reincarnated in spring, the holiday became over the centuries the doctrinal birthday of Jesus and therefore, for Christians, one of the two holiest days of the year (the other being Easter, taken over from earlier spring festivals). Each year, the Christmas season produces an outpouring of well-intentioned, generally reverent and usually well-performed seasonal recordings of music written for the season or related to it in some way. The lovely Westminster Choir CD entitled simply Noël is a perfect example: 14 tracks, five of them traditional and the balance by such composers as Charpentier, Poulenc, Fauré and Gounod, all sung with beauty and heartfelt involvement and released on the choir’s own label. Latin and French are the languages here, with – among the highlights – lovely renditions of Josquin’s Ave Maria, Poulenc’s O Magnum Mysterium and the Sanctus from Fauré’s Requiem. This is a beautifully sung disc that, because of its focus, may not be played very often in other seasons; but it should bring a sense of warmth and comfort whenever it is heard.

     There is music for and also beyond the Christmas season on a new LPO recording of works by Arthur Honegger (1892-1955). Honegger’s final composition was a contemplative one, entirely worthy of its seasonal theme: Une Cantate de Noël. From its opening De profundis clamavi to its concluding Laudate Dominum, this is a work that speaks directly and movingly to the religious underpinnings of the modern Christmas holiday. Yet it is interestingly non-modern in several ways, not only in language but also in expressiveness – a characteristic sometimes thought to have been given short shrift by Honegger and other members of the Parisian “Les Six” of the 1920s. Heartfelt and warm, this Christmas contemplation shows a lyrical side of Honegger that may surprise, and delight, listeners who know only some of his more experimental and acerbic music. Indeed, this entire CD, recorded live at London Philharmonic concerts in 2007 and 2009, shows a rather unfamiliar side of Honegger. The Symphony No. 4, “Delights of Basel,” is nostalgic and warm, a tribute to the sanctuary that the Swiss-born Honegger found Basel to be during World War I. And the best-known piece here, Pastorale d’été (“Summer Pastoral”), takes the wintertime Christmas spirit to the opposite time of year with lyricism and dreamlike expression. Vladimir Jurowski conducts with clarity and understanding, the choruses and baritone Christopher Maltman sing with sensitivity and fine expressiveness, and the disc as a whole is attractive both for its seasonal elements and for those that transcend the time of year and show a less-known side of a significant 20^th-century composer.

     Five new CDs from the highly versatile Chanticleer “orchestra of voices” (as the group sometimes calls itself) go even further into seasonal depth – and beyond it. Our Heart’s Joy is close to the Westminster Choir CD in approach and sensibility. Its 21 tracks include anonymous Basque, Spanish and English songs, plus works by Praetorius, Britten, and Andrea Gabrieli – as well as a medley of Christmas spirituals, and a final, very moving version of Silent Night. Chanticleer’s voices always blend beautifully, and the soloists are equally good no matter who they are. The group is smooth, accomplished and elegant in its presentation, even if the structure of this CD is nothing very special. The Boy Whose Father Was God, though, is special, being presented as “a musical re-telling of the life of one of the most influential figures in history, Jesus of Nazareth.” That is an interesting description for an unusually intriguing disc, which does not simply assume that listeners are the Christian faithful, seeking familiar and reassuringly uplifting music. In fact, all the works on this CD are relatively modern: the oldest composer heard here is Kodály, while other pieces are by Henryk Górecki and Arvo Pärt and still others – three of them – were commissioned by Chanticleer as recently as 2010. The story moves, both in narrative and in music, from “The boy is born” to “A faith is created,” with intermediate sections called “The man calls his followers,” “The Jew rebels,” “Beliefs collide,” and “The followers mourn.” These are scarcely standard biblical titles or typical references to the life of Jesus and the founding of the Catholic Church. Chanticleer’s sweet singing and effective emoting are here placed at the service of storytelling, and the unfamiliarity of the music helps pulls listeners into an often-told tale in a new and attractive way. The disc may be too untraditional for institutionally committed Christians and too traditional in Christian outlook for others, but it is a most interesting experiment in telling the story of Jesus in a way that has not been attempted before.

     A much, much older version of the story of Jesus, dating to the 10^th century, Ludus Paschalis: The Resurrection Play of Tours is an Easter story rather than a Christmas one, but Christmas and Easter, like the winter and spring festivals on which they are based, are two parts of a single whole, and it is actually fascinating to hear this CD immediately after listening to The Boy Whose Father Was God. Chanticleer brings the same devotion and intensity to both CDs, and is as much at home in the thousand-year-old work as in the contemporary one – testimony to the amazing versatility of this group. Ludus Paschalis is truly a play, using non-biblical texts as well as music to tell its story. The work is incomplete – this version was put together by Frederick Renz, who is Chanticleer’s guest director for the occasion. The music drama will be of greatest interest to committed Christians and listeners who enjoy very early music indeed; certainly it helps put Christmas celebrations in a larger context. The context expands in a different way in a disc called Out of This World! Here Chanticleer starts with strictly Christian music by Palestrina, Andrea Gabrieli, Monteverdi and Britten, then moves into works that combine a more secular attitude with a certain otherworldly bent – including the title song, which is by Harold Arlen, Observer in the Magellanic Cloud by Mason Bates, and Mahler’s Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen. This is an odd agglomeration of material, the juxtapositions somewhat on the weird side, the overall purpose or approach of the CD not entirely clear. Everything, though, is sung with Chanticleer’s usual clarity, poise and style – as indeed is the much lighter CD (for Christmas season or any season) called Between Two Wars. This too is something of an oddball collection of music, and not everything here dates to the era between World War I and World War II: there is a setting of the Barcarolle from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann, for example, and even versions of Boccherini’s famous Menuett and Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 5. This CD is mostly a celebration of vocalizing for its own sake, with a kind of devil-may-care willingness to toss out Tea for Two, Cole Porter’s Night and Day, Duke Ellington’s Creole Love Call and Harold Arlen’s Stormy Weather amid tracks sung in German. The CD is something of a romp and, as such, far more upbeat than most Christmas releases; indeed, despite its appearance at this time of year, it is not a Christmas disc at all, having been recorded live in August 2002. For those looking for something less serious this season – but still very well sung and celebratory of the quality of Chanticleer’s skilled vocalists – Between Two Wars may be just the thing.

     There are, of course, wars going on right now; and Christmas can be a time to wish for peace and remember the many barriers to it. It can therefore be an especially appropriate time to listen, or re-listen, to the New York Philharmonic’s performance of Mahler’s “Resurrection” symphony, performed for the 10^th anniversary of the terrorist murders of September 2001 and now available on DVD. Recorded live at Avery Fisher Hall on the evening of September 10, with visuals sensitively directed by Michael Beyer, the DVD is a monument to remembrance and to the difficult and still-in-progress resurrection of the area where the World Trade Center towers once stood. The DVD includes interviews with conductor Alan Gilbert, New York Philharmonic President Zarin Mehta, and members of the audience, making the whole thing a communal experience. This is one of those performances whose occasion clearly lent grandeur and intensity to the musicians: the famously fractious New York Philharmonic plays glowingly, and the soloists and chorus sing with warmth and intensity in a reading that perhaps places overmuch emphasis on the choral portions of the finale but that does so in a very worthy cause. Mahler had unconventional views of resurrection, altering the Friedrich Klopstock text he selected for this symphony and writing quite a few of the words himself; and somehow that makes the work all the more appropriate for a 10^th-anniversary memorial concert, whether heard at the time of the performance or during the Christmas season’s promise, at least for some, of resurrection on a different basis. Scarcely a Christmas recording, yet oddly right for the season, Gilbert’s performance of Mahler’s Second is quite worthy in itself, and even more so in the context of a season that bears within it…as winter always does with relation to spring…the promise of new life to come.

(++++) SPREADING CHRISTMAS CHEER

Fancy Nancy: Splendiferous Christmas. By Jane O’Connor. Illustrated by Robin Preiss Glasser. Harper. $17.99.

The Happy Elf. By Harry Connick, Jr. Illustrated by Dan Andreasen. Harper. $17.99.

A Christmas Goodnight. By Nola Buck. Illustrated by Sarah Jane Wright. Katherine Tegen/HarperCollins. $12.99.

Pinkalicious: The Princess of Pink Treasury. By Victoria Kann. Harper. $19.99.

     Old or new, secular or religious, books that bask in the spirit of Christmas – which is to say, the spirit of good will, whether within or outside religious traditions – are always welcome. And they can be a genuine delight, as is Fancy Nancy: Splendiferous Christmas, originally published in 2009 and now available in a new, fancier-than-ever edition. Jane O’Connor’s Christmastime story of the perky little girl who loves big words, French phrases and tremendously overdone clothing and decorations is just wonderful, and Robin Preiss Glasser’s illustrations are as near-perfect as any illustrations can be. From the opening contrast between the ordinary, non-fancy everyday house and the overdone-but-wonderful Christmas-decorated house, through the story of waiting for Grandpa in order to decorate the tree, to the book’s crisis of a broken tree-topper and its solution through creation of a handmade someday-to-be-heirloom, this is a book brimming with Christmas spirit and, equally important, with Fancy Nancy’s spirit – which, in any season, is indomitable (that’s fancy for “can’t keep her down”).

     There are warmth and humor of a different sort in The Happy Elf, a brand-new book based on a holiday song that is included, sung by Harry Connick, Jr., on a CD. For those who don’t know the song, it is about Eubie, the happiest of all elves, who finds when checking the naughty-or-nice list that there is an entire town where not a single person has been nice. Determined to find out what is wrong and fix it, Eubie breaks “the most important rule” by using magic away from the North Pole. He discovers the problem, but is caught by Santa – who takes away his magic hat. But thanks to his friend Gilda, Eubie is able to return to the town of Bluesville, bringing a hearty dose of Christmas cheer, and this time when he is caught, he finds out that “there is one rule…that is even more important than the most important rule” – the result being a happy ending for all. Yes, this is a somewhat soupily sentimental story, maybe even a bit overdone, but being overly sentimental is one part of what Christmas is all about.

     Another part – the biggest one for some families – is celebrating the holiday through the Nativity, and that is what A Christmas Goodnight does. Simple, mildly poetic text by Nola Buck is combined with sensitive and tender illustrations by Sarah Jane Wright to produce a story that starts with the biblical tale of Mary, Joseph and the infant Jesus, with angels above and “weary Wise Men” visiting the manger – then switches midway to a modern country scene, with a bright and starry night and a full moon illuminating a farm as a mother and little boy look through the window at gently falling snow. The repeated “goodnight” lines of the first half of the book (to “the tired donkey,” “the smallest sparrow” and so on) now return in the context of the family’s crèche, as the little boy puts baby Jesus to sleep on the dresser by the window, then falls quietly and peacefully asleep himself. The result is a sweet bedtime story for Christmas Eve, or anytime in the Christmas season.

     Now, pink is not a Christmas color – it is, if anything, more closely associated with Easter – but Pinkalicious is a colorful delight in any season, and if The Princess of Pink Treasury is not about Christmas, it would certainly make a wonderful Christmas gift for pink-loving girls. Intended for “ages 1-Pinkfinity,” the book includes five complete Pinkalicious stories by Victoria Kann, a CD in which all the tales are read by Eliana Shaskan, and a whole slew of bonuses and special activities. There are jump-rope rhymes, tips on making new friends, find-the-differences pages, indoor winter activities, “jokes to tickle you pink” (with hints on how to tell them), rebuses and more. The full-length stories, originally published between 2006 and 2010, are School Rules, Pinkalicious and the Pink Drink, Pink around the Rink, Tickled Pink and Pinkie Promise, and it is certainly possible that families containing a Pinkalicious fan already have all of them. But Christmas can be, among other things, a time to splurge a bit, and since the CD and bonus items here are completely new, The Princess of Pink Treasury could be just the thing for a bright and happy Christmas morning – especially if the original books have become a bit worn through many enthusiastic readings. Christmas may be more about the colors red and green, but this is one book that is sure to have fans of Kann’s charming character in the pink.

(++++) A GENUINE CLASSIC AND A PRETENDER

The Phantom Tollbooth: The 50^th Anniversary Edition. By Norton Juster. Illustrations by Jules Feiffer. Knopf. $24.

The Annotated Phantom Tollbooth. By Norton Juster. Illustrations by Jules Feiffer. Annotations by Leonard S. Marcus. Knopf. $29.99.

Inheritance, Book IV: Inheritance. By Christopher Paolini. Knopf. $27.99.

     Anyone looking for a last-minute Christmas gift that has the potential to keep giving pleasure for years, even decades, to come, has a real treat in store this year. For 2011 is the 50^th anniversary of The Phantom Tollbooth, an elegant and charming allegorical story – and how many allegories have ever, in any age, been both elegant and charming? Norton Juster’s scrumptious tale of young Milo’s quest for Rhyme and Reason, filled with wonderful wordplay and packed to the gills with some of the best and most appropriate illustrations ever created by the ever-creative Jules Feiffer, does not just wear well. It wears better as time goes on, showing that even in a thoroughly digitized age, in which abbreviations stand in for words and tweets stand in for communication, real words and real thoughts and real searches for meaning still have power – and are, if anything, more necessary than ever. The wonders here are unending: Tock, the watchdog, who ticks (and whose picture adorns the book’s cover); Faintly Macabre, the not-so-wicked Which; the car without a motor that “goes without saying” (“and, sure enough, as soon as they were all quite still, it began to move quickly through the streets”); the Island of Conclusions, which you get to by jumping – there is so much absolutely logical illogical absurdity here that The Phantom Tollbooth is a complete joy to discover, or rediscover, five decades after its debut. The 50^th Anniversary Edition boats a wraparound plastic cover and a series of back-of-the-book “Celebrations” by nine authors, including Philip Pullman, Jeanne Birdsall, Mo Willems and others – each of whom has something to say about the book that everyday readers will likely think they would have said if they were equally talented wordsmiths. The Phantom Tollbooth is one of those books whose superficial oddities conceal (barely) some genuinely deep thinking – it is more like Through the Looking Glass, with its complex plot based on chess, than like Alice in Wonderland. The Juster/Feiffer collaboration continues to delight not only through plot, playfulness and a thoroughly marvelous use (or misuse, or abuse) of literalism in language, but also through observations that seem far too up-to-date to have been penned half a century ago, such as this one from the Soundkeeper: “‘Why, did you know that there are almost as many kinds of stillness as there are sounds? But, sadly enough, no one pays any attention to them these days.’”

     Fans of the book who want to do more than read and reread it – who want to dig and delve and probe its foundations and the meanings behind and beyond its meanings – will have a great time with The Annotated Phantom Tollbooth, in which Leonard S. Marcus presents the book’s entire text in the center of each two-page spread, with annotations at far left and far right. Like delightfully annotated editions produced in the past – The Annotated Mother Goose, The Annotated Alice and The Annotated Flatland come immediately to mind – The Annotated Phantom Tollbooth adds a lot of explanatory and analytical material without in any way endangering the delights of the original story. It is perhaps not quite as successful as those other annotated volumes, which dealt with works of earlier times that were in greater need of elucidation for modern readers. This book is more of a delight for nitpickers and trivia lovers. For example, Juster’s use of the expression “visible to the naked eye” comes with a footnote explaining that the phrase dates to 1664, when it was used in the book Experimental Philosophy by Henry Power. Interesting, but not really of much importance to The Phantom Tollbooth, there being no indication that Juster knew this bit of history. Juster’s section about “an enormous symphony orchestra” comes with a long footnote whose first half is about real-world orchestras (not really a germane discussion) and whose second explains why the “symphony” section differs from the rest of the book and “functions…as an interlude during which the hero gains a larger perspective” (very germane indeed). The Annotated Phantom Tollbooth is fun for fanciers of the original book, even when the annotations are a bit beside the point. But if you are looking for a gift for the sort of person who likes this sort of thing, you certainly won’t go wrong with Marcus’ meanderings.

     But you will, alas, invite disappointment if you choose to make someone a gift of Inheritance, the fourth and final book in the Inheritance cycle by Christopher Paolini. Coming in at more than 850 pages, this is a tome that pretends to weightiness but ends up, in its final hundred-or-so pages, feeling rushed, scattered and altogether lightweight. Destined from before its conception to be a bestseller, the book is the only way for fans of the first three volumes – Eragon, Eldest and Brisingr – to learn what eventually happens to Eragon and his dragon, Saphira. But giving it to anyone who has not already gotten it on his own would be a mistake. It is not really a bad book, but it is one that could have used much tighter editing of its first 700-or-so pages in order to allow more space at the end to tie things up more satisfactorily and without so great a feeling of anticlimax. Paolini’s writing style has matured somewhat through the four books, although Eragon had a certain immature power that made it endearing despite its extremely derivative plotting and use of Tolkien-derived language. Eldest was too talky until its stirring climax, the Battle of Burning Plains (another of many, many elements in this series lifted from Tolkien). Brisingr felt like a buildup to Inheritance, with many effective elements (and some less-effective ones) being slowly assembled as if a grand climax were just ahead. And in Inheritance, readers get – well, what? A fascinating unnamed character from Brisingr reappears here and says all of four words, then walks off. Huh? The intriguing Angela shows up again, far more powerful than readers could have suspected and perhaps (it seems) with abilities even beyond Eragon’s, but just who she is and what she is doing in the story is never made clear. A romantic element that seemed to have real emotional-connection possibilities evaporates. A deus ex machina weapon appears to save the day. And so on, and on, and on (more than 850 pages, remember). Inheritance is simply sloppy, losing track of multiple plots and subplots and bringing the main story of Eragon to a conclusion that is as unsatisfactory as it is expected. In his acknowledgments at the end, Paolini promises to return to Alagaësia (which still sounds like “analgesia”) in the future; and perhaps he will revisit the various loose ends then and knit them together, separately or as part of a larger tapestry. All well and good if he does so. But readers who have stuck with this cycle for the nine years since Eragon was published were entitled to a wrapup that would not require them to look into the future and hope that the deficiencies of the final volume would be corrected by the author at a later time. What Inheritance delivers is great promise of a rousing conclusion for 700 pages or so – and then a tremendous letdown for all Paolini’s fans. This book earnestly wants to become a classic, but it gets a (++) rating, even though it is quite obviously a must-read for anyone who wants to know how Eragon’s story turns out. Or tries to turn out.

(++++) FOOD FOR THOUGHT AND VEGANS

Eat, Cry, Poop: “Baby Blues” Scrapbook 28. By Rick Kirkman & Jerry Scott. Andrews McMeel. $12.99.

How’s That Underling Thing Working Out for You? A “Dilbert” Book. By Scott Adams. Andrews McMeel. $12.99.

The Tipsy Vegan: 75 Boozy Recipes to Turn Every Bite into Happy Hour. By John Schlimm. Da Capo. $17.

Vegan Pie in the Sky: 75 Out-of-This-World Recipes for Pies, Tarts, Cobblers, and More. By Isa Chandra Moskowitz & Terry Hope Romero. Da Capo. $17.

     Let’s get almost-real, OK? Baby Blues remains so close to real life that readers can be forgiven for believing that Rick Kirkman (art) and Jerry Scott (words) have cameras hidden in homes throughout the country. Actually, they have their own experiences to draw upon – and if that isn’t enough, they have an apparently inexhaustible supply of not-quite-true-but-almost stories about raising kids. Take the Sunday strip in which bleary-eyed parents Darryl and Wanda shuffle into the kitchen where bright-and-perky Zoe, Hammie and Wren are waiting for breakfast…Wanda pours cereal onto the counter…Darryl dumps unpeeled bananas on top…and Wanda sloshes milk over everything…and then the parents collapse. “I think they were up late finishing our Halloween costumes,” opines Zoe. Now, did this really happen to Kirkman or Scott – or anyone? Who knows? It could happen; or something a lot like it could. This is the great thing about Baby Blues: even when you know it is exaggerated, you can look back at the strips a second time and think maybe they’re not as far beyond the pale as you thought in the first place. In Eat, Cry, Poop, for example, Hammie splashes like crazy while trying to swim, but fails to move forward, because, he says, “This must be really thick water.” He also asks Zoe to read his essay – and she tells him “you can’t do better than this,” explaining to him that it isn’t good, but he can’t do better. Wren is so fussy that Wanda barely gets any sleep, and when Darryl tries to sympathize while dressing for the office, saying “at least you don’t have to go to work,” Wanda answers, “Yeah. Raising kids is just my hobby.” Darryl shops for a gift for Wanda, knowing that what she really wants is “to be appreciated for being the good woman, wife and mother she is,” but when the saleslady says “we don’t carry that,” he opts for a push-up bra. None of these almost-reality scenes need ever have happened exactly the way Kirkman and Scott portrays it, especially in light of Kirkman’s skill with the characters’ expressions and his own artistic license: a Sunday “apologies to Milton Glaser” strip is simply wonderful, as is one in which Hammie pulls Wanda’s arm so much while his mom talks to a friend that the arm stretches halfway along the sidewalk by the time Wanda and Hammie continue walking. But even if these scenes have never happened quite this way, they could, more or less, and thinking about that provides a huge part of their charm. The Thanksgiving panel in which Darryl, Wanda, Zoe and (in her own way) Wren are all bowing their heads in thanks for their family, while Hammie is wondering if a cranberry would fit in his nose, is an absolute classic. One of many.

     No one puts cranberries in anyone’s nose in the latest Dilbert collection (the 37^th, but who’s counting?). But it’s a fair bet that Dilbert and his cohorts fantasize about such insertions – probably of a somewhat more scurrilous type – as they navigate the pointless but, alas, almost-real world they inhabit. There may not really be giant slugs in any offices – well, in most offices – but when Dilbert sits next to one and notes that “my success depends on you doing your role in a timely and energetic manner,” white-collar workers will know exactly what he means. When a traveling Dilbert says it is “refreshingly honest” to be told at the car-rental counter that the company does not care about his reservation because “we’re in the business of selling insurance and overpriced gas,” business travelers everywhere will nod their heads in understanding. When “Dogbert the Empire Builder Consultant” advises the Pointy-Haired Boss that he should always “be in the general vicinity when something good happens,” far too many employees are likely to remember bosses with just that habit. When the PHB pulls rank to evict Dilbert and his co-workers from a conference room even though Dilbert has spent months setting up a meeting, then announces at his meeting that he and the other bosses need “to figure out why nothing ever gets done around here,” employees will not know whether to laugh or cry. And so it goes throughout How’s That Underling Thing Working Out for You? – too much that is offbeat and amusing to regard the collection as serious commentary, but too strong a foundation in reality to consider it merely funny. Dilbert continues its consistent walk along the tightrope between the real and the unreal.

     Like parents and corporate workers, vegans tend to take themselves very seriously most of the time, so it is nice to encounter the occasional vegan-focused book that handles things from a lighter-than-usual perspective. Two new (+++) books, The Tipsy Vegan and Vegan Pie in the Sky, do just that, especially so in the case of John Schlimm’s work. Schlimm, whose author photo shows him drinking beer while cooking, has developed such recipes as “sweet-and-sour Oktoberfest cabbage” (which includes light beer), “lentils in the fast lane” (made with vermouth or dry white wine), “sunburst salad” (with Cointreau), “hotta frittata” (with dark rum), and “hot toddy tofu with shiitakes” (made with rice wine or dry sherry). He even includes a “hangover tofu omelet” that contains a tablespoon of Marsala. All right, these recipes are not for everyone (even more “not for everyone” than is usually the case with food for vegans); and in truth, even if you enjoy cooking with alcoholic beverages, some of these may be a bit much – that omelet, for example, requires use of a blender and two separate skillets. Still, Schlimm’s recipes are off the beaten vegan-cooking track, and his amusing comments on them make reading this small-size book enjoyable. Vegan Pie in the Sky is the same size (6½ inches wide, 7 inches high) and has amusing writing of its own: “We understand the siren song of frozen premade pie crusts: no rolling pin, no flour all over the kitchen (and the cat), no need to pinch dough edges into little shapes.” And the focus of Isa Chandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero is in many ways like Schlimm’s: coming up with interesting recipes that vegans will enjoy and maybe even be able to serve to non-vegans without getting deprecating or overly polite comments. Among the attractions here are ginger peach pandowdy (“pandowdy isn’t dowdy at all!”), banana toffee pudding pie, figgy apple hand pies (“reminiscent of a big old Fig Newton!”), curried macaroon pie and sweet potato Brazil nut crunch pie. Most of the recipes are for cooks who have some time to prepare the foods: these are not, by and large, quick-and-easy desserts. But vegans who love the taste of unusual pies and also want recipes for vegan versions of some old standards (coconut cream pie, pumpkin cheesecake, chocolate mousse tart and others) will enjoy trying out Vegan Pie in the Sky, coming up with their own favorites, and maybe, just maybe, showing some non-vegan friends that vegan desserts can be just as delicious as traditional non-vegan ones.

(++++) STANDARD REPERTOIRE AND BEYOND

Sibelius: Symphony No. 5; Pohjola’s Daughter; Lutosławski: Concerto for Orchestra. London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Jukka-Pekka Saraste. LPO. $16.99.

Dvořák: Symphony No.9; Czech Suite; Slavonic Dances Op. 46, No. 1 and Op. 72, No. 2. Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra conducted by José Serebrier. Warner. $18.99.

Bruckner: Symphony No. 4. Orchestre Métropolitain conducted by Yannick Nézet-Séguin. ATMA Classique. $16.99.

Ireland: Piano Concerto; Legend for Piano and Orchestra; First Rhapsody; Pastoral; Indian Summer; A Sea Idyll; Three Dances. John Lenehan, piano; Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by John Wilson. Naxos. $9.99.

Liszt: A Faust Symphony; Wagner: A Faust Overture. Endrik Wottrich, tenor; Sächsischer Staatsopernchor Dresden and Staatskapelle Dresden conducted by Christian Thielemann. Unitel Classica DVD. $24.99.

     Some conductors and recording producers have recently been coming up with very creative ways to present very familiar music. The live recording from October 2008 of Sibelius’ Symphony No. 5 and Pohjola’s Daughter is impressive enough: Jukka-Pekka Saraste leads the works with fine pacing, a sure hand, good attention to rhythm and orchestration, and overall attentiveness to what Sibelius is trying to accomplish in the symphony and tone poem. The beautiful horn sections in the symphony’s finale are perhaps a little less magisterial than they could be, but all in all, these are very worthy performances that showcase the skill of both the conductor and the orchestra. What makes the CD really special, though, is the pairing of the Sibelius works with Witold Lutosławski’s Concerto for Orchestra (1950-54), recorded live in February 2008. This work is not particularly representative of Lutosławski’s style, being more conventional in both harmony and orchestral texture; and it does not benefit from the inevitable comparison with Bartók’s identically titled and far more brilliant work. Nevertheless, the Lutosławski is an interesting and well-constructed piece that deserves to be heard more often, and the inclusion of it on a CD that will most likely attract listeners because of the more-conventional repertoire is a fine way to bring it to the attention of people who might well be less interested in picking up, say, an all-Lutosławski recording.

     There is no unconventional music at all on the first CD of a planned Dvořák cycle by José Serebrier and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra – but the method of presentation is interesting here, too. The ever-familiar “New World” symphony is the centerpiece of the disc, of course, and Serebrier handles it with tremendous feeling and warmth – although a touch too much rubato here and there, especially in the first movement, where the broadening of the pace is subtle, but still interferes with the work’s forward momentum. Serebrier is a particularly thoughtful conductor – he is even careful here to minimize the pauses between the first and second movements, and between the third and fourth, as part of the emotional effect he is seeking. And the arrangement of the CD shows equal thought. The symphony is preceded by the ebullient Slavonic Dance, Op. 46, No. 1, which makes a very fine curtain-raiser indeed. It is followed by the Czech Suite, whose five short and unconnected movements, which Serebrier handles with poise and delicacy, stand in pleasant contrast to the carefully integrated whole of the symphony. And then the disc concludes with the warm, slow-paced Slavonic Dance, Op. 72, No. 1, which turns the CD as a whole into an exploration of multiple facets of Dvořák, not just those shown in his Symphony No. 9.

     Bruckner’s symphonies tend to show all the aspects of the composer within the individual works, nothing additional being needed – and Yannick Nézet-Séguin again shows his understanding of and sensitivity to the nuances of Bruckner in a new recording of the “Romantic” symphony. Nézet-Séguin’s approach here is as thoughtful as Serebrier’s on his CD: Nézet-Séguin shapes the music lovingly and urges Orchestre Métropolitain (which he has directed since 2000) to explore all the subtleties of Bruckner’s design and all the emotion of his themes. The pacing here is careful without being cautious, with the first movement and finale growing to very substantial stature, the Andante (quasi Allegretto) paced particularly well (that is, not too slowly), and the scherzo bursting forth brightly and producing an effect mixing peasant dance with hunting scene. For those interested in which conductors choose which of the many available editions of the Bruckner symphonies, it is interesting to note that Nézet-Séguin uses the 1936 Haas edition, not the 1953 Nowak version that is nowadays more often performed and is considered by many musicologists – although not all – to be superior. Nézet-Séguin’s fine and sensitive performance certainly makes a strong case for the Haas version, and for the symphony itself – whose title “Romantic,” it should be noted, was given by Bruckner himself not to refer to syrupy romances but to recall the romances of Medieval times, such as Wagner’s Tannhäuser and Lohengrin.

     There is Romanticism of the emotional kind in John Ireland’s Piano Concerto, even though it was written long after the Romantic era, in 1930. Expressive and filled with passages of longing that contrast well with high-spirited ones, it is the major work on a new Ireland CD on which pianist John Lenehan offers very well-played performances of both solo piano works and ones with orchestra. The other pieces here are not at the level of the concerto, so the CD as a whole gets a (+++) rating; but those who enjoy the music of Ireland (1879-1962) will find the CD fascinating, not least because it contains the world première recordings of the short solo pieces Pastoral (1896) and Indian Summer (1932), both of them charming and portraying rural character. The rest of the disc is a bit of a hodgepodge. Legend for Piano and Orchestra (1933) is a dark work, intended to evoke the feeling of the ancient landscape of a hill on the Sussex Downs. A Sea Idyll (1900) is expressive, if not highly original, while Three Dances (1913) offers well-orchestrated treatment of short folk dances – “Gipsy Dance,” “Country Dance” and “Reapers’ Dance.” Both those works are for piano solo. So is First Rhapsody (1906), which Lenehan plays with particular fire and which comes across very effectively in a Lisztian mode – not wholly original, perhaps, but quite well done nevertheless.

     But no one does Liszt better than Liszt, and Christian Thielemann delivers a dramatic and impassioned performance of A Faust Symphony that goes beyond the ordinary through a pairing with Wagner’s A Faust Overture, written at almost the same time (Wagner: 1855; Liszt: 1857 – although both works exist in other versions as well). Tenor Endrik Wottrich does a fine job with the vocal solos in the Liszt, and the Sächsischer Staatsopernchor Dresden gives the sort of intense and idiomatic performance that it seems to deliver all the time. Staatskapelle Dresden plays with brilliance and sensitivity, with the result that even the Wagner overture – which is not generally reckoned among his most effective works – comes through with striking power. Thielemann clearly has strong feelings for this music, and his conducting is carefully controlled with an eye toward eliciting just the right expressive and monumental effects. This is a very impressive DVD – but it is a DVD, with all the pluses and minuses that implies. Those who want to see the conductor and musicians performing – as interpreted by the director, who may or may not choose the most effective camera angles and shot durations – will find this a (++++) production. Others will find it worth a (+++) rating for the high quality of the music-making, but could perhaps do without the visual elements, which can be intriguing at times but are just as often distractions from involvement in the music.

(++++) FROM RUSSIA AND ENVIRONS

Rachmaninoff: Piano Concerto No. 3; Symphonic Dances. Garrick Ohlsson, piano; Atlanta Symphony Orchestra conducted by Robert Spano. ASO Media. $18.99.

Azerbaijani Piano Concertos: Works by Fikret Amirov and Elmira Nazirova, Vasif Adigezalov, Tofig Guliyev, and Farhad Badalbeyli. Farhad Badalbeyli and Murad Adigezalzade, piano; Joan Rodgers, soprano; Royal Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Dmitry Yablonsky. Naxos. $9.99.

Sofia Gubaidulina: Fachwerk for Bayan, Percussion and String Orchestra; Silenzio for Bayan, Violin and Cello. Geir Draugsvoll, bayan; Anders Loguin, percussion; Geir Inge Lotsberg, violin; Øyvind Gimse, cello; Trondheim Symphony Orchestra Strings conducted by Øyvind Gimse. Naxos. $9.99.

Baltic Portraits: Music by Erkki-Sven Tüür, Aulis Sallinen, Esa-Pekka Salonen, Arvo Pärt and Lepo Sumera. Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra conducted by Paavo Järvi. CSO Media. $16.99.

     The Soviet Union has been gone for 20 years now, but it is still possible to hear its influence – that is, the influence of Russia, which lay at its center – on the music of composers who live or lived in the USSR’s so-called “sphere of influence.” That notably includes Sergei Rachmaninoff, who had long since left the Soviet Union behind when he composed his Piano Concerto No. 3 but who never abandoned the essential Russian Romanticism of his musical sensibility. Garrick Ohlsson gives a tremendously exciting and beautifully balanced performance of this concerto, moving without seeming effort from its grand and sometimes overdone gestures to its elements of tenderness and even delicacy. A prodigiously difficult work to play, this concerto sounds understated, if scarcely easy, under Ohlsson’s fingers: he manages to subsume the needed technical prowess within a wholly appropriate degree of expressiveness that stops short of the swooning that far too many pianists believe is necessary in Rachmaninoff. Robert Spano and the Atlanta Symphony provide excellent support for Spano: like him, they offer a big sound that fits the gestures of the music without overdoing them or making them seem merely vulgar. Spano is, however, less successful in the Symphonic Dances, Rachmaninoff’s last work. The issue here is the first movement, in which the dancing is, or should be, ungainly and even grotesque. Spano makes it too smooth, never bringing out the full snarls of the brass and rhythmic intensity of the movement. The second movement, Andante con moto, is considerably more effective, though, and the final one has all the verve and spirit that a listener could wish – a conclusion that is significantly more persuasive than the piece’s beginning.

     The effectiveness of the piano works on a new CD called Azerbaijani Piano Concertos is mixed as well. None of these composers will be a household name for most listeners; and their compositions are somewhat difficult to distinguish from each other, sharing similar-sounding thematic material (often derived from Azerbaijani tradition) presented within Western musical forms that generally exhibit significant Soviet or Russian influence. This is by no means a bad thing: the result is colorful and frequently interesting music. But it does make it a little hard to know whether one is enjoying the specific style of Fikret Amirov (1922-1984) and Elmira Nazirova (born 1928), whose Concerto for Piano and Orchestra after Arabian Themes (1957) opens the CD, or that of their influences. This concerto is in the traditional three movements and proportioned like a traditional piano concerto, with some exoticism to its themes. In contrast, Piano Concerto No. 4 by Vasif Adigezalov (1935-2006), written in 1994 and also in three movements, has a more symphonic and broader stature, and is conceived on a larger scale – and pays some attention to more-modern compositional techniques as well. Both these concertos are impressive in parts and would be interesting to hear occasionally, but neither is highly distinctive stylistically. The remaining works on this (+++) CD are considerably shorter. Gaytagi—Dance for Piano and Orchestra by Tofig Guliyev (1917-2000) originally dates to 1958 and was revised in 1980; it is jazzy, bouncy and brief. The Sea (1977, for piano and orchestra) and Shusha (a 2003 vocalise) are by Farhad Badalbeyli (born 1947), and each is atmospheric in its own way, the former being expansive and the latter mournful: Shusha, a popular mountain resort in Soviet times, is now officially part of Azerbaijan but remains under dispute because it is in the South Caucasian region of Nagorno-Karabakh. In this way the geopolitics of Soviet times persists today just as some of its musical influences do.

     Sofia Gubaidulina (born 1931), half Russian and half Tatar by birth, has spent years forging her own musical esthetic and sound. She especially enjoys using unusual instruments or unexpected instrumental combinations, and one of her favored instruments is the bayan, an accordion-like instrument whose design and keyboard are sufficiently distinct from those of the standard accordion to give it a very different sound and different virtuosic capabilities. Its sound may well not be to all tastes – it can be grating and persistent – but there is no doubt that in the hands of a masterful player such as Geir Draugsvoll, the bayan holds its own as an impressive solo instrument. It was Draugsvoll for whom Gubaidulina wrote Fachwerk, which was composed from 2009 to 2011 and receives its world première recording on a new Naxos CD. This is a complex and rather long work (well over half an hour), in which the extensive use of percussion is as typical of Gubaidulina as is the writing for the bayan. The intermingling of bayan, percussion and strings is well handled, and the piece is certainly impressive, although not immediately or consistently gripping. It is well paced and conducted by Øyvind Gimse, who assumes the role of cellist for Silenzio, the other work on the CD and a significantly earlier one (1991). This five-movement piece requires balance among three instruments that do not naturally have it, with the bayan all too easily overshadowing the strings; but the performers here have figured out how to be sure everyone has a say in the conversation, and the result is an impressive performance of a work whose sound is somewhat more interesting than its musical ideas. The CD gets a (+++) rating for most listeners, but those who already know and love Gubaidulina’s music will surely want to have it.

     Which listeners would want to have the Cincinnati Symphony’s (+++) Baltic Portals is more of an open question. The five works here, all by composers from regions strongly influenced by Russian or Soviet hegemony, are very well-played and conducted with sensitivity by Paavo Järvi. All the pieces have some sort of connection with the Cincinnati Symphony, which explains why they appear on the orchestra’s own label; but their musical connections are thin at best. There are two symphonies here: No. 8 (“Autumnal Fragments”) by Aulis Sallinen (born 1935), written in 2001 and being most interesting for a scherzo-like section of running scales; and No. 6 by Lepo Sumera (1950-2000), which dates to the last year of the composer’s life and has some intriguingly handled (if rather conventional) tone-painting of an eerie atmosphere, with some intense segments and occasional hints of Mahler as leavening. The other pieces on the CD are shorter. Fireflower (2011) by Erkki-Sven Tüür (born 1959) is a curtain-raiser of sorts, although it takes a while to turn into anything approaching a fanfare. Gambit (2005) by composer/conductor Esa-Pekka Salonen (born 1958) is a slow-building, rather static piece with some well-proportioned if not highly original rhythmic and shimmering effects. And Cantus in Memory of Benjamin Britten (1977) by Arvo Pärt (born 1935) is a simply designed, slow-building work that is deliberately rather repetitious but wears out its welcome a bit sooner than the composer may have intended. Each of these pieces has worthwhile elements, and the Russian or Soviet influence even peeks through here and there in the two symphonies; but the CD is one of those offerings that seems more like a souvenir of a concert (or several concerts) than a thoughtfully considered program of works that relate to each other in any integral way.

(+++) MUSIC, PICTURED

Kinshasa Symphony: A Film by Claus Wischmann and Martin Baer. C Major DVD. $24.99.

Luciano Pavarotti: A Film by Esther Schapira. EuroArts DVD. $24.99.

George London: Between Gods and Demons – A Film by Marita Stocker. Arthaus Musik DVD. $24.99.

     It is arguable – always has been – whether it makes much sense to release concerts on DVD rather than CD or SACD. The sound is no better; the director of the filming or taping decides what viewers will see, which may or may not be what they would like to look at; and the focus tends to be more on the performers and less than on the music than in an audio recording. However, we live in a highly visual age, where many people are accustomed to pictorial views of just about everything; and there is no doubt that a well-produced, well-shot concert DVD can have considerable dynamism. Still, DVDs of standard concerts remain mostly a niche item, their value uncertain. Not so the value of DVDs about musical subjects. These use music as a jumping-off point for biography, social commentary or analysis, and even though they too are niche products (classical music itself is not of infinite appeal; films about classical-music issues are of even narrower interest), they can be quite worthwhile for people looking for something pictorial that is more than a recording of an ordinary concert.

     Certainly there is nothing ordinary about the concerts in Kinshasa Symphony. This is a fascinating film about attempts to establish and maintain the only symphony orchestra in the Congo – a group that has had to endure war, political repression and an apparently unending series of crises. A 95-minute documentary with 10 minutes of bonus material, Kinshasa Symphony has at its heart an event so emblematic that it is hard to believe it actually happened: just before the final, choral movement of Beethoven’s Ninth, the power goes out. This quickly becomes a metaphor for the power of music and the staying power of the musicians, who are determined to perform despite long, long odds. Claus Wischmann and Martin Baer balance the musical lives of the orchestra’s players with their worse-than-humdrum everyday existence, which is often a struggle nearly unimaginable to concertgoers and to musicians elsewhere in the world. Watching these musicians (some of whom are quite good) practice outdoors amid slums, play on street corners while indifferent pedestrians pass them by, and attempt to assemble a semblance of elegance for a full-scale performance, viewers will be rooting for them all the way. And what better music to stand for joy and uplift in human existence than Beethoven’s Ninth? The filmmakers actually lay on the appropriateness of Beethoven a bit thickly at times, but the film as a whole works wonderfully well, showing how a combination of hope and musical focus is allowing these hard-pressed musicians to survive, if not exactly thrive, in a remarkably harsh and unforgiving social and political environment.

     Two films about better-known musicians are more straightforward, although they will be quite appealing to fans of the singers on whom they focus. Luciano Pavarotti is a well-done if fairly straightforward one-hour documentary (with 35 minutes of bonus material) on the life and art of the famed Italian tenor (1935-2007). Esther Schapira sees Pavarotti as a popularizer, a man whose enthusiasm for his art communicated itself to audiences worldwide. The proposition is arguable – Pavarotti, both individually and as one of the “Three Tenors,” certainly appealed to people beyond standard opera audiences, but whether this in some way brought more people into contact with and enjoyment of the great classical repertoire is by no means certain. Still, Pavarotti was one of those larger-than-life Italian tenors whose life, both personal and in the world’s opera houses, seems to invite a big, splashy display. That is most of what it gets in this film, which is not entirely hagiographic but which certainly does nothing to dispel the Pavarotti mystique or suggest anything significantly negative in his personality or art. In fact, the bonus interviews – with Bono, José Carreras, Herbert Breslin and Joseph Volpe – serve to make the singer an even bigger and more emphatic presence on the opera scene.

     Fewer people today are fans of George London, partly because he was not a tenor (bass-baritones tend to be less popular) and partly because his vocal career was ended in 1967 by a paralyzed vocal cord. London (1920-1985) was an important singer from the late 1940s until his forced retirement, but today does not retain the aura of fascination of some of those with whom he sang, such as Maria Callas and Renata Tebaldi. Marita Stocker’s one-hour film will not likely bring London many new fans – but, interestingly enough, the bonus material, which runs a generous 95 minutes, may. It contains previously unreleased archival footage from concerts and opera performances, showing just how versatile London was: he not only sang Figaro, Don Giovanni, Scarpia and Wotan but also performed in musicals and sang spirituals. His voice is rich, his stage presence large – he had considerable charisma, whether as hero or villain – and the range of his interests impressive. Stocker’s film includes informative interviews with London’s widow, Nora London, and with several former colleagues and current opera stars influenced by him – showing that his legacy endures. But that is de rigueur in a visual biography like this one. There is nothing especially surprising in George London: Between Gods and Demons, but there are many appealing elements for fans of the singer and those who would like to learn more about a fine, if somewhat under-appreciated, voice of the middle of the last century.

(++++) TEACHING AND PLAYING

Coral Reefs. By Jason Chin. Neal Porter Books/Roaring Brook Press. $16.99.

Jane & Mizmow. By Matthew S. Armstrong. Harper. $16.99.

If You Give a Dog a Donut. By Laura Numeroff. Illustrated by Felicia Bond. Balzer+Bray/HarperCollins. $16.99.

     Visual instruction can be a remarkably effective way of giving information to young readers, and Jason Chin is a master of it. The author of Redwoods has now turned his attention to Coral Reefs, a book whose factual content is unassailable but would be rather, ahem, dry – if it were not for the remarkable illustrative way Chin presents it. The text alone would require young readers (the book is intended for ages 5-9) to wade through straightforward verbiage: “Hard corals are able to build their skeletons because of a remarkable partnership that they have with a type of algae. The algae live inside the polyp and, working together, the polyp and algae build the coral’s skeleton.” But there is nothing straightforward about the context in which Chin places this information. He shows a young girl at a library, reading a book – the very book Coral Reefs, in fact – and as she reads, elements of a reef begin to grow throughout the library and surround her. Library tables, bookshelves and walls become covered with brightly colored coral, and then water comes through in a rush, along with sea creatures, carrying the girl along on the flood. Chin’s drawings make it clear that there is nothing scary about any of this – every picture conveys the sense of wonder that the girl feels as she continues her reading, floating under water while getting close views of a sea turtle, parrot fish, sharks, squirrelfish, moray eels and many other reef dwellers. The book – both Coral Reefs and the version of Coral Reefs in the girl’s hands – becomes a true voyage of discovery, taking the girl and real-world readers alike through a complex ecosystem filled with such amazing creatures as the well-camouflaged scorpion fish, the color-changing frogfish, the enormous whale shark, and many more. There is humor in the illustrations, too, when Chin explains that reefs are like cities and then shows the girl floating along and looking at reef scenes with a cityscape behind her – including such signage as “Bubbles Car Wash” and “Kiku Sushi.” Eventually the girl gets to the end of the book and emerges, dripping, from the library, to the fascination of three other children – who pick up the book to start their own adventure. Back-of-the-book information on threats to coral reefs and on Chin’s research nicely complement and enhance a fascinating story that is remarkably well told.

     Even younger readers, ages 3-5, will learn from Matthew Armstrong’s Jane & Mizmow while being entertained by it. Jane is a little girl; Mizmow, a big something-or-other – a sort of plush monster with a leathery face. After a nonverbal series of pages in which Mizmow licks Jane and then tries to swallow her – deciding that she doesn’t taste good at all – the two become best friends, and the book shows how they are the same (sharing books and the seesaw) and how they differ (Jane rakes fallen leaves and runs toward the pile, but Mizmow eats them before she can land in it). Then the two quarrel and stop being friends – only to discover that they miss each other (Jane’s feet are cold without Mizmow lying on them at night, and Mizmow doesn’t enjoy eating books as much without Jane around). So the two try to think of ways to rekindle their friendship, which they eventually manage to do, and everything ends happily. The lessons here are just right for the target age range: the value of friendship even when you and your friend are very, very different in some ways; the possibility of having an argument; the importance of finding a way to be friends again. A simple, charming story, simply charmingly told, Jane & Mizmow is a treat from start to finish.

     The latest “If You Give…” book is all about a treat, too, and if it is not quite at the level of the best books in this series, it is still a (+++) work that Laura Numeroff’s numerous fans will enjoy. If You Give a Dog a Donut follows the now-well-established sequence used in If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, If You Give a Moose a Muffin, and their successors: the dog gets the donut and wants apple juice; gets the juice and drinks it; asks for more, but there isn’t any, so he decides to make his own; goes outside to pick apples; and one thing leads to another and another and another until, at the end, the dog gets apple juice and asks for a donut to go with it. Felicia Bond contributes her usual attractive and upbeat illustrations, but the book is not quite as funny as some earlier entries in the series – although the dog’s “happy dance,” which covers two pages, is a delight. The boy who is at the dog’s beck and call seems more bemused than amused by everything that is going on, and some of the connections (or non-connections) between events seem a little more forced and a little less entertainingly absurd here than in earlier books. Those are adult perceptions, though – kids who love this series, which is created for ages 3-7, will surely have fun with the latest entry in it…and look forward to the next.

(++++) SAD BUT UPLIFTING

Charles Dickens and the Street Children of London. By Andrea Warren. Houghton Mifflin. $18.99.

A Month of Sundays. By Ruth White. Farrar Straus Giroux. $16.99.

The Birthmark Trilogy, Book Two: Prized. By Caragh M. O’Brien. Roaring Brook Press. $16.99.

     Unhappy and even unpleasant stories, whether real or fictional, are often used to provide young readers with positive feelings – and perhaps make them think. Charles Dickens and the Street Children of London is about as sad a tale as will be found anywhere. It is far more meaningful for those who already know Dickens’ work, which may not be the case for all readers of this book; but Andrea Warren explains enough about Dickens’ writing to help even those unfamiliar with it understand what he did. And because she eventually works around to A Christmas Carol, the Dickens work that young readers are most likely to know, she makes a strong connection with her intended audience. By telling Dickens’ story in modern language, quoting from him judiciously but not including long passages of his rather overworked (by modern standards) prose, Warren shows that Dickens was a crusader with a pen – someone who suffered severe privation in his own youth, never forgot it, and used his early connections with the poor of London to produce a series of novels that not only told stories but also shone a bright light into the dim recesses of Victorian England, where hunger and abuse were rampant. It will be very difficult for readers, at least in the beginning, to accept just how awful conditions were for so many children in Dickens’ time, but as Warren piles example upon example, story upon story, it will quickly become clear that the undoubted splendor of the Victorian age was built in part on the backs and bodies of Britain’s youngest and most vulnerable people. The pictures in Warren’s book do a great deal to bring the story home, showing the poor trying to earn a living or simply stay alive, Dickens’ involvement with them, the occasional major benefactor (such as composer George Frideric Handel and Foundling Hospital founder Captain Thomas Coram), and some of the works that slowly, slowly improved the plight of the poverty-stricken – such as William Hogarth’s painting Gin Lane, a depiction of drunkenness that helped lead to laws to limit alcohol sales. Dickens’ personal connection with those he championed is emphasized and re-emphasized: “He had painful memories of his mother being faced with the choice of moving herself and the younger children into the workhouse or into John Dickens’ small prison cell – and choosing prison because the workhouses were so much worse.” “As a schoolboy Dickens had seen plenty of mistreatment of students. …He wrote that his own headmaster at the last school he attended ‘was by far the most ignorant man I have ever had the pleasure to encounter and one of the worst-tempered men perhaps who ever lived.’” This is a book about Dickens as crusader – and his method of crusading, through writing, would have given him the title of “muckraker” at a later time. In his own time, though, there was no author quite like him: immensely popular, attuned to what masses of readers (and non-readers, to whom others read Dickens’ books) would enjoy and appreciate, and having a laser-like focus on the ills of his time and possible methods of correcting them. Dickens did not believe later ages would read his books, which dealt so closely with contemporary issues; but his work survives – despite its frequently overdone prose and a strong tendency to repetitiveness, caused by the fact that much of it was published in serialized form. It is the underlying humanity of Dickens’ writing that has kept people reading it – a fact that comes clearly through in Warren’s well-researched and well-written book.

     A Month of Sundays is fiction, but here too the intention is for lessons to be learned through considerable sadness. Ruth White’s book is about 14-year-old April Garnet Rose (always called Garnet), who lives with her mother (her father has left them) and is left with her Aunt June in Black Rock, Virginia, while her mom goes to Florida to look for work. The time is the late 1950s, and a great deal of the focus is on religion: Aunt June believes everything happens for a reason, so Sunday after Sunday, she takes Garnet to different religious services. There is a highly personal reason for Aunt June’s quest: she has cancer. For her part, Garnet does not like being dragged along, but accepts the necessity, and soon encounters true believers of various sorts – and a miraculous healing. But then things get complicated, as Garnet learns that the story of her father’s abandonment of her mother may not be true after all; and Garnet also finds herself with strong feelings for a boy named Silver. Complexity leads inexorably to tragedy, and Garnet finds herself questioning all she has heard and been told about religion and God. At the end, she has no definitive answers, and realizes that there aren’t any. Garnet is left in the same state as Coleridge’s “a sadder and a wiser man” in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: she has learned how much she does not know, how much is not knowable, and how important it is to make human connections with the full understanding that they may not last and that God’s ways may never be clear to human beings. A Month of Sundays is filled with heavy subject matter and is, in truth, somewhat heavy-handed in presenting it. Its sensitivity and willingness to tackle difficult subjects earn it a (+++) rating, but this is less a book to enjoy than one from which to absorb lessons.

     Prized, which follows Birthmarked in Caragh O’Brien’s dystopian trilogy, does less overt teaching and preaching and offers more adventure – but it too makes an attempt to handle difficult material, in this case by placing moral and ethical quandaries in an alternative-world setting. Sixteen-year-old midwife Gaia Stone, on the run with her baby sister from the Enclave, is captured in this novel by the people of Sylum (think “asylum,” with irony) – a society in which men outnumber women, but women rule; and the leader, Matrarc Olivia, sets down and enforces very strict laws (a kiss is a crime, for example). As often happens in trilogies, this second book complicates the story without really advancing it very much. Perhaps the most significant happening here is the reappearance of Leon from the Enclave, whose “expression was openly hostile” when Gaia has a chance to talk with him. “‘You’re a girl in a place where the girls rule,’” he tells her, adding that he is “‘sure you’ll find it very convenient.’” And at that point, “Their positions were reversed, she realized, as neatly and completely as a flip of a card. In the Enclave, he’d been a person of privilege and power, while she’d been a poor midwife from outside the wall, entering it only to become a prisoner of Q cell, and finally a fugitive.” Even readers who do not understand all those references to the first book – and really, Prized is not highly understandable except as a sequel to Birthmarked – will note from this passage that the role reversal is a lot of what is going on here, with Gaia trading one sort of dystopian society for another. That is one major issue explored in the novel. Another is violence and its justification, if any, as in the case of Malachai, who has killed his wife but whose situation is not as straightforward as Gaia originally thinks: “‘She’d abused him for years, and then he found her hurting their nine-year-old son. He couldn’t let that start.’” Later, when Gaia (likely to the surprise of few readers) is kissed, many things begin to come to a head: “‘Whether you agree with it or not, it’s the law here that a man can’t touch you until you’ve made a choice to marry him.’” The unfairness of the societal structures, highly evident from the start of the book, becomes clearer and clearer to Gaia as the story progresses, and as Gaia’s situation becomes more contorted, she has to face a frightening decision involving the Matrarc herself. The book is about choices, law, obedience, rules: “Her relationship with the Matrarc had been a labyrinth of submission and rebellion, coercion and pleading.” By the end of Prized, Gaia has learned what she prizes and who prizes her, has grown in some new ways, and is ready to face the next stage of life. The outcome is scarcely surprising, and there is enough conventional plotting and dialogue in the book to keep it at a (+++) rating. But readers who enjoyed Birthmarked will certainly want to read Prized to find out where things have gone, and where they are likely to go in the upcoming conclusion of O’Brien’s trilogy.