In 1996, a career-defining stint in the Broadway hit Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk established Newark-born Savion Glover as the true heir apparent to Gregory Hines and the so-called “Hooferz” tradition of tap. Fast forward to last Monday night, when Glover electrified Cornell’s Bailey Hall with his unstoppable feet, and one sees just how far he has come. One is hard pressed to name another dancer, tap or otherwise, alive today who has generated as much inspiration and appreciation. Rooted as he is in the solid surface beneath him, he paints pictures with body parts that normally get us from Point A to Point B, but which in his creative web take on an entirely new form of communicative power. Key to his sound is his sharp attack (what he calls “hitting”), and this he brought in full measure to a packed house for his latest project, “SoLo in TiME,” which draws upon the rhythms and emotional acuity of flamenco.

As one who continually engages with histories and modes, Glover is no stranger to the importance of an evocative moment. Flamenco, therefore, feels like a logical next “step” for one of his caliber and drive. With the group Flamenkina providing a fine mesh of tried-and-true sentiment and modern sensibility, not to mention a star turn from BARE SOUNDZ member Marshall Davis Jr., Glover was, to be sure, in intuitively minded company. His setup reflected the exacting nature of the hoofer’s craft: A raised square stage miked from within was surrounded by four speakers and flanked by the musicians. Of the latter, guitarist Gabriel Hermida was first to join in at stage left. Starting at the margins and working their way to the center, the percussive sounds of Hermida’s instrument provided a likely foil to the various snaps, slides, clicks, and cries from those loosed taps. With such a “vocal” range as Glover possesses, he spoke to his audience at every turn.

Flamenkina

Rather than start with a bang, he restrained himself at the back of the stage, as if warming to the spotlight he outshone. I could not help but compare the dexterity of his feet to that of fingers on castanets, as reflected in the superb dynamic control of his instrument. Beneath him, the stage was a taut drum, replete with tuned sections and a wide range of tones. Once bassist Francesco Beccaro and Carmen Estevez—who played the cajón (a Peruvian box drum that seems to be popping up everywhere these days) and graced us with her mellifluous voice—took to the stage, the musical elements of the show began to soar. With a smile of life-affirming joy, Glover negotiated a complex landscape of creative signatures with infectious passion for the material at hand. Like the sweat from his brow, it was a veritable shower of kinesis.

Estevez and Glover shared some of the concert’s most intimate exchanges, those tapping feet the metronomic tide to her sandy shores. Although the band was sometimes lost in the sound mix, if only because the hoofer’s sound rang with such conviction, things balanced out once he and Estevez closed the circle. Still, at its best, the band enacted a glorious unity.

Glover had some fun with the audience during a solo rendition of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” Feeding off our rhythmic clapping, he took the interaction as far as it would go before abandoning it in favor of a more complex unraveling, whereupon he was joined by Davis, whose synchronicity and more compact style made for some enthralling interactions. Both hoofers practically leaped from the raised stage whenever they were finished, as if the call of that resonant surface was too much to ignore.

Glover’s musical approach is anything but programmatic. Here is an artist who paints in feelings and not images, who dances with palms open, as if in supplication to the gifts with which he has been graced. Seeing him live, one experiences tap at its most essential. No matter how fast he gets, his feet ring through with clarity and immediacy. In this regard, the show’s title might as well have been flipped to read: “TiME in SoLo,” for no matter how far he abandoned himself to the spirit of the moment, he harbored a seemingly infinite inner peace, so that by the end most of us were sitting transfixed. It was the kind of show during which we almost dared not tap our feet, for we could add nothing to something so lushly realized.

St. Petersburg Philharmonic Shines at Bailey

Had gastronome Brillat-Savarin been a musician, he might have quipped, “Tell me what you play, I will tell you who you are,” which is to say that music is nothing without the instrument through which one expresses it. Therein lies the snag in Friday night’s performance by the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra, whose fabulous coruscations were tempered by a quiet shadow.

But first, the good. As Russia’s oldest symphonic ensemble, the SPPO exudes professionalism and the charisma to match. Before a sold-out Bailey Hall crowd, conductor Nikolai Alexeev led a hefty program comprising of two major works from his homeland.

Composed at the dawn the twentieth century, the Piano Concerto No. 2, Op. 18 of Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943) stands as one of the most enduring testaments to pianistic craft. It marked the end of a depression brought about by the derision with which the composer’s first symphony was met at its 1897 premier. Though among the more difficult concertos to master, at the hands of soloist Nikolai Lugansky the concerto’s complexities melted into a vibrant wash of sound. Lugansky’s poise was a joy to witness firsthand. Sadly, at least from where I was sitting, one was hard-pressed to say the same about the Steinway at his fingertips. A beautiful instrument in its own right, yet with such a watery middle range that it simply wasn’t up to the task of netting an entire orchestra, it seemed to get lost in itself. Similar issues marred the recent Leonidas Kavakos performance, which was otherwise technically first rate.

Lugansky

Rachmaninoff’s concerto is an epic, multilayered piece, but its vibrant colors seemed finger-painted in muddy passages with little separation. And while the piano’s lower and higher registers occasionally cut through the din with fortitude, for the most part Lugansky was lost in the orchestra’s massive sonic mazes. This was by no means the fault of the artists, who nevertheless wrenched out as visceral a performance as one could have hoped for. From the famous bell tolls that open the piece to the rapturous handsprings that close it, the music leapt from Lugansky’s hands almost as many times as he did from his seat when trying to wrench as much volume from the piano as he could. Along the way, he shared captivating little dialogues with winds, most clearly balanced in the second movement, where the quieter surroundings allowed the piano to breathe. As if from a deep slumber, its stepwise descent was awakened by the majestic runs of the final movement. The most heartfelt moments were to be found here, set off to captivating effect by Lugansky’s lithe trills and finger pedaling. And as the music’s Rhapsody in Blue-esque dramaturgy wound to a close, the crowd rose to its feet amid shouts of “Bravo!”

Rachmaninov

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908) composed his famed Scheherazade, Op. 35 in 1888. Based loosely on tales from The Arabian Nights, this symphonic suite depicts musically what the classic literary work does textually. The story, in the composer’s words: “The Sultan Schariar, convinced that all women are false and faithless, vowed to put to death each of his wives after the first nuptial night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by entertaining her lord with fascinating tales…for a thousand and one nights. The Sultan, consumed with curiosity, postponed from day to day the execution of his wife, and finally repudiated his bloody vow entirely.” And, surely, one can imagine the power of her storytelling in the music. Scheherazade herself makes frequent sonic cameos therein, represented by a leitmotif of violin and harp that runs like a golden thread. Thankfully, the piece has flourished beyond its Orientalist roots as a programmatic masterpiece that was a thrill to hear in such close quarters. Any acoustical issues were taken backstage with the piano, thereby allowing the SPPO to shine. Alexeev’s skillful direction was a pleasure and, at certain moments, brought the musicians to frenzied heights. Their strengths were found in what are often an orchestra’s most underappreciated sections: brass, winds and percussion. Like drummers or keyboardists in rock bands, their accents are the key to a seamless collective sound, and this they brought in full. Principal clarinetist Andrey Laukhin did a particularly fine job with his many rousing passages. Not to be outdone, however, were concertmaster Lev Klychkov and principal cellist Dmitry Khrychev, both of whom figured as leading voices. Klychkov’s bow made a few unintended noises, while Khrychev’s sound came off as flat at times, which perhaps explains the few boos they received during curtain call. Otherwise, they brought due passion and verve to the proceedings.

Rimsky-Korsakov

A humorous moment occurred when, as the audience was clapping after the first section, Alexeev took the opportunity to empty his nose into a handkerchief, encouraging further applause as he did so. This interaction was true to the free-spiritedness that pervaded the entire evening. These were performers who clearly enjoyed what they were doing and who invited us into that revelry at every turn, such that someone sitting in the audience sitting behind me couldn’t help but occasionally whistle along. The second standing ovation was met with a delectable finale in the form of the “Trepak,” or “Russian Dance,” from Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker — which, from the sound of it, they could have played in their sleep.

Quibbles aside, this was one of the finer of this season’s Bailey Concert Series performances here at Cornell, and left a satisfied house in its wake. The orchestra’s world-class reputation held its water, while Lugansky, who graciously signed CDs and programs after the show, brought a palpable inertia to the playing. All the more unfortunate, then, that the piano should have asserted an incongruent gravity of its own.

See this review in its original form here.