Waiting for Michael Tsalka in the Auditorium of the First Church Boston. Photo © 2011 Michael Miller.
1. Ensemble Lucidarium directed by Avery Gosfield & Francis Biggi: Ninfale—Ovid, poetry, and music in Italy at the end of the Middle Ages,
2. Fringe: Concert-symposium on Schubert and the piano: Stephen Porter, piano
3. Organ Mini-Festival, William Porter plays Bach’s Leipzig Chorales
4. Jordi Savall, The Celtic Viol
5. BEMF Orchestra, Robert Mealy, leader, "The Orchestra at Play."
6. Paul O’Dette plays Marco dall'Aquila
7. Fortepiano section of the Keyboard Mini-Festival: Christoph Hammer and Kristian Bezuidenhout
8. Clavichord section: Michael Tsalka
9. Fringe: Christoph Hammer Trio at the Church of the Covenant in 18th and 19th century music
10. Trio Settecento: The Alchemical Violin
11. Tallis Scholars: Choral Music of Victoria
12. Kristian Bezuidenhout and soloists from Freiburg Chamber Orchestra: Mozart Fantasie and Piano Quartets
13. Tragicomedia: Steffani, Handel, etc.
14. Mezzaluna and Paul O’Dette: Ottaviano Petrucci: music for Recorder ensemble and lute
A contemporary art dealer I know once exclaimed, as I was taking him around an old master drawings show I had organized, "this stuff has a lot of history. There's a lot of history here..." as if history were a tangible quality that was somehow imparted to an object, whether by the artist, or by the physical touch of time, or by the many people who had successively owned it, or perhaps by something else...history! Every two years in June, history pours into the already deeply historical city of Boston in the form of historically-informed instrumentalists and singers, musicologists, historical instruments, historical instrument builders, historical editions, and manuscripts. Only a few of the historical folk—locals, most likely—knew that history was being made all around them, while some were immersed in the Roman de Fauvel and others were enraptured by Steffani's Niobe, Regina di Tebe, as I was. As I sat down for the performance, I noticed a few more empty seat than I might have expected, and during the first intermission, I ventured out on Tremont Street for a few minutes. The Niobe audience crowded along the pavement, as if it were a riverbank, some absorbed in lively conversation about what they had just seen and heard, others, mostly neatly suited males, who were perhaps there because of their position in the business or philanthropic worlds, or accompanying their wives, gazed longingly across the street at the Irish bars, where the flat screens blazed and roars of excitement escaped into the street. Some almost began to make a move, but they were stopped, either by the public gaze or a wifely hand, and contented themselves with a furtive look at their smartphones. "I think we're winning," one distinguished gentleman said under his breath. Not a soul was ready to indulge in the traditional—unquotable—hockey cheer. While Queen Niobe's mental condition deteriorated so shockingly on stage, the Boston Bruins won the Stanley Cup from the Vancouver Canucks, the first time they have possessed it since 1971-72.