IN BETWEEN CAME THE FINAL EVENT IN the San Francisco Symphony's Stravinsky Festival, a program mostly of sacred works (plus the Symphonies of Wind Instruments) given in the echo-infested Grace Cathedral, whose booming, reflecting surfaces dulled the iridescent orchestration in the Canticum Sacrum and the vast, elegant spaciousness in the Symphony of Psalms (the evening's one masterpiece). San Francisco's idyll with its beloved MTT goes on unabated; I can't think of a better instance of the right conductor for the right town. He wooed the crowd (capacity, need I add) with saccharine "Stravinsky-'n'-Me" verbal pomposities; with his approximately 10-foot-long fingers he made you think he was conducting, personally and individually, every member of chorus, orchestra and audience. The music came out hard, clean and -- if such can be imagined for Stravinsky at his most dry-point -- sexy. I knew it was all wrong, and I tried hard to hate it, but I couldn't.
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