Bang on a Can All-Stars Rock on the Classics

Neither uptown nor downtown, aligned with neither the stuffy conservatory nor the often mindless rock world, Bang on a Can is what happens when a generation of virtuosos raised on rock wants to have it both ways--kicking out the jams with classical rigor.

Indeed, their touring unit, dubbed the Bang on a Can All-Stars, did so fearlessly and exuberantly at USC’s Bovard Auditorium on Monday night before a small, largely young, eager throng. Guitarist Mark Stewart, bassist Robert Black, percussionist Steven Schick, keyboardist Lisa Moore, clarinetist Evan Ziporyn and newly arrived cellist Wendy Sutter handle everything thrown at them with breathtaking precision and zest. And sound engineer Andrew Cotton likes to turn it up loud, so loud during several crescendos that hearing protectors were a godsend to those who remembered to bring them.

The fusion of tight structure and rock energy really took hold in Julia Wolfe’s “Believing,” with thrumming ostinatos and the right balance for this collection of instruments. The piece was reportedly written under the powerful spell of the Beatles’ avant-garde “Tomorrow Never Knows,” a fine model, although it left no direct sonic imprints. Arnold Dreyblatt’s “Escalator” burned on basically the same fuel as Wolfe’s piece, but this time with overt rock ‘n’ roll drums underpinning what sounded like a jangling jam session for simulated hammer dulcimers.

Steve Reich’s wonderfully jazzy “New York Counterpoint” was the sole repertory classic on tap, with Ziporyn playing his live clarinet part over previously recorded tapes with a bit more swing than he did on his recent Nonesuch recording. This piece shows you why Reich’s music endures (he has great musical ideas), whereas Marc Mellits’ “5 Machines,” consisting of five movements of about 31/2 minutes apiece, mimicked Reich’s repetitions but without anything memorable driving them.

Tan Dun’s “Concert for Six” tried to be playful and weird, with lots of slithering around, using unorthodox avant-garde techniques on every instrument--and Dan Plonsey’s “The Plonsey Episodes 1-9” was a reputedly semiautobiographical “Enigma Variations” of sorts, an antic mishmash whose goofiness soon grew wearying. Interestingly, these two works--the ones that tried hardest to be irreverent and far-out--were the least satisfying of the batch.