A Capella

I’ve never understood a capella. In college I went to a few concerts and bought two CDs from one of the myriad groups on campus. Even though I enjoyed it, the need to render Radiohead and Weezer into a compressed arrangement of voices always puzzled me. It was like reading the novelization of a movie, or, perhaps more precisely, watching a low-quality pirated copy of a movie instead of going to the theater. But I thought that probably it was just me, that I didn’t understand the art form.

So when I sat down to watch Voces8, an acclaimed English octet, at the National Center for the Performing Arts, I expected insight. I thought that a capella performed by professionals would be qualitatively different from those Friday nights on the quad. And it was, in terms of quality and song choice (less pop, more English ballads), but in the end it was just eight people singing, making sounds, and occasionally snapping to the beat. But if I thought I was confused, it seemed that most of the audience was worse off.

Tanks in the Streets of Beijing

I popped out just a few minutes ago to the convenience store to get a bottle of water, and saw a convoy of tanks roll by right beside the second ring road.

Security Checkup

Last fall, when the days began cool, I stopped going through security checks. I still carried my messenger bag with me, but now I could hide it under a peacoat and pass unmolested into the subway. It was great, until I realized that someone with a bomb could probably do the same thing.

Rosemary’s Q&A

Tickled as I was to see that old rascal Roman Polanski at the Beijing Film Academy Q&A on Monday, October 27th, the event quickly devolved into a study on how not to stage a Q&A. The sprightly 75-years-young director, looking not a day over 60, appeared onstage to resounding applause, only to discover that the Q&A was inanely planned and transparently bureaucratic, with audience members barred from asking but a single question at the end. Forget it Roman, it’s Chinatown.

The Art of Translation

Translation is a lose-lose situation. If a translation is well-received, praises are lauded upon its author and the translator is all but forgotten. However, if the book is not well-received, many times reviewers, absolving the author of culpability, will blame the translator, claiming that many things were, as trite as it sounds, “lost in translation.” Ironically, most reviewers and readers never read the translated book in its original language which makes comments like “a faithful translation” or “the author’s voice shines through the translation” specious and presumptive. Translation is thankless, tiring, and ultimately a series of losses. Umberto Eco called it “the art of failure.”