Asking a shadow to dance…

Whatever you may think, or whatever others may tell you, being a classical music critic is an immensely tough gig – one that I have only taken the first few steps of an infinite journey in mastering. It presupposes a huge wealth of musical knowledge: repertoire; orchestration; history; theory; and, amongst a long list (that probably also has no conclusion), an empathy with – an understanding (and, hopefully, multi-dimensional experience) of what it means to stand in the varied shoes of – those who perform it. Should these people become your friends, then perhaps the hardest part is being critical (in the way most people would understand that word) in a less-than-positive – although desirably constructive – way.

I have touched before on some of these issues – and it may be worth your while to click on that link, before reading what follows… – but two tenets, above all, govern my attitude to such writing:

Cardus gave me two tips… One was: don’t write anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face, and the second was: never write out of a bad mood. I’ve tried to stick to those principles.
– Michael Kennedy

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave…

You have to have a lot of faith in an orchestra to open proceedings with something as challenging as Copland’s Appalachian Spring suite. This is no warm-up for what follows; there is nowhere to hide; and you therefore need an ensemble at the very top of its form from opening bar to last. So… perfect for the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra, then! And they were perfect for it, too: special praise going to the athletic percussion section (who would not be allowed to even think about relaxing until the interval) and flautist Catherine Billington… – and, of course, one of the greatest brass sections this side of Brighouse. But every single player deserves as much commendation – if only for the number of tears shed throughout. (Yes, I know I am a soppy bugger: but the instant creation of such matchless atmosphere would surely have softened the sternest heart. This really was that remarkable.)

David Curtis’ whole modus operandi stands atop a steadfast foundation of trust and such faith: the attention paid to his every gesture – however subtle – shaming more complacent orchestras (and conductors). But it is from this unassailable bedrock that all the other magic grows: including the uncanny ability to transport an audience as one in space and time. Early 19th-century Pennsylvania has never sounded – or felt – so appealing.

Copland’s ballet is, for me, one of the man’s (and the American century’s) greatest accomplishments: a masterpiece of subtle portrait and landscape painting that I don’t think he ever really surpassed (although Rodeo – to be played by the CSO in July – comes close for wit and bravado; but not, I think, quite the tenderness, the poignancy, found here…). And, no matter how many times I hear it, it maintains its freshness; its inventiveness. But it has to come from the heart (meaning courage and boldness; as well as emotion and compassion). Like this did….

Now is the night one blue dew…

As Louisa May Alcott once said – or words to that effect – you should never meet your heroes; although, mostly, I have found her adage to be quite incorrect. And yesterday evening, in Cheltenham, offered up yet more glorious proof. Ever since chancing upon her divine voice, and exchanging thoughts with her keen intellect and considerate personality – all across the digital divide – April Fredrick has long been someone I have wanted to encounter in the flesh – even if only to hear that voice…

But it is that voice we must pay attention to – I want to say Heather Harper, such is the almost-mezzo evenness (even creaminess…): but this is Janet Baker as soprano… – painting pictures with each word, each note, each pertinent melisma. (April’s microscopic rubato and expression simply on the duplet of “quiet” is transcendent… – and captures in one word her persuasive, apparently guileless rendition: the enunciation of a rich sincerity. The technique is imperceptible.

…unhindered by anything but my own deficient ears.

“That voice”, is so, so pure, though, that the very molecules of air it cuts through seem proud, seem glorified by their elemental excision. It floats, too, when required (and effortlessly, too); but even its most reserved confidences have the power to carry to the Pump Room’s furthest corners (where your weeping correspondent silently sheds a private tear or twelve).

The angels forget to pray for us…

It’s time that we began to laugh and cry
And cry and laugh about it all again
– Leonard Cohen: So Long, Marianne

A few days ago, I started drafting a review of what was then the current year: but didn’t really get very far (somewhere around the end of February…). And, now that my deadline has passed (because of a parallel lack of mental momentum and physical health), I was on the verge of conveying those few musty paragraphs to the overflowing dustbin that is my output’s virtual, but permanent, companion. Waking up to a dark, dank day – which quickly infused my weakened joints (and thus my resolve) – did not help. However, after too many semi-comatose, quilt-hidden, guilt-ridden hours, I awoke again to realize that this was just the sort of challenge I needed to face down if I were to survive the next twelve months: a period where tough personal decisions must be made; and where the consequences of last year’s tragic body-political ones would start to make themselves evident – neither of which I could ever justify shying away from: however painful the outcome.

Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill…

Once he hears to his heart’s content, sails on, a wiser man.

We know all the pains that the Greeks and Trojans once endured

on the spreading plain of Troy when the gods willed it so—

all that comes to pass on the fertile earth, we know it all!

– Homer: Odyssey (12.188‑91; Fagles’ translation)

I know of no better (water)colourist than Claude Debussy – the master of innovative impressionism: with brushstrokes that range from the deft pointillisme of Georges Seurat, to the manic ‘action painting’ of Jackson Pollock – but with the pigment applied to staves rather than canvas or board. Apart (maybe) from Benjamin Britten’s superb evocations, which so infuse Peter Grimes – or Peter Maxwell Davies: who lived much of his life surrounded by it – there is no greater depicter of the sea, in all its primordial moods.

His Nocturnes are not music that I know particularly well, however. But after hearing Sirènes – the final of the three – last night: launching a concert entitled From the Seas to the Skies, at Cheltenham Town Hall – I now want to know more! (Which is why I am sat here, reading the score.)

Directly inspired by a series of impressionist paintings of the same name – pictured throughout this review – by James Abbott McNeill Whistler – sans mère – this movement could, I suppose, be seen as preparation for (more a wet than a dry run), or even a prelude to, his masterpiece, La Mer (which was cleverly programmed to follow…) – although this earlier work is much more programmatic in nature (especially with its links to Greek mythology):

‘Sirènes’ depicts the sea and its countless rhythms and presently, amongst the waves silvered by the moonlight, is heard the mysterious song of the Sirens as they laugh and pass on.

– Debussy: Nocturnes – Introductory note

Whether consciously or not, the concert consisted of works that all relied on the creation of new musical languages and forms – works that have had an overwhelming influence on later composers (especially for the cinema…) – and all of which required huge orchestral forces. Such luscious programming could easily give the impression that the evening was spent gilding a large bunch of lilies. But the presence of the ladies of the Cheltenham Bach Choir, for this opener, actually demonstrated a cunning symmetry: mirroring the stupendous piece that was to conclude the evening (and send us off into the night: as conductor David Curtis said, “lured unto the furthest reaches of space”). It should also be noted that, sometimes – but as was definitely the case here – the larger the orchestra, the more subtle and transparent the sound.

Like its more famous oceanic successor, Sirènes begins quietly, Modérément animé, over harp and lower strings. But, unlike the later piece, it is not just the wind and brass that add colour, but the wordless voices of mezzo-sopranos then sopranos. It almost felt as if we were rising to the surface from some great depth… – both of the sea, and of consciousness. I closed my eyes.

I could sense the billows breaking on the rocks; feel the lure of those fatal calls peaking in harmony with the striking surges. Debussy warns us of these ominous undercurrents with a short, voiceless passage of unrest in the strings and higher woodwind. The horns then join the two harps (both groups on momentous form) in a build to what I could only discern as desperation: the Sirens pleading more strongly (but only momentarily) as the swell grows yet more forceful. (If this is laughter, then the humour that provokes it is as dark as Erebus.)

This soon recedes – David’s control of tempi and dynamics absolutely flawless… – yet it was the lull which followed that called to me: heavenly, slow, gentle, peaceful, magnetic music seeking to embrace. But it cannot last; and the surge foams more strongly; the strings soaring higher: calling us to an irresistible paradise.

Momentarily, the horns (again) – and then a gorgeous two-bar solo from trumpeter Paul Broekman – take up the temptresses’ duties. Magic envelops us: the supernatural music overwhelming our senses; our boat gently bobbing beneath us. Are those horns beckoning or admonishing?

It no longer matters. Eerie chimes from them and the harps imply that we have passed well beyond any warning buoy; that escape is no longer possible; resistance futile. Now it is rare beauty that we breathe; that whispers to us; and the breakers pound upon the rocks as our hearts sound within us. The horns call again: and we are – somehow – back where we started: a safe distance from those heavenly-voiced seductresses… – and yet they call, call, call to us; the sea almost placid, echoing their pleading song. Under a mournful wail from the cor anglais, the previously-plangent Sirènes can only hum – bouche fermée – as their power fades away: the waves also ebbing and flowing more slowly. Hushed harmonics in the harps are there to lead us home….

This was gorgeous, ravishing music – more atmospheric than the CSO’s more typical fare, perhaps: but played with real heart and deep skill. (Captain Curtis and the CSO seem to specialize in such complex musical challenges, it has to be said: whatever form they take. And yet the orchestra never appear stretched or stressed by them in performance. This was no exception.) If a concert embarks with such resolute magnificence, though, what magnificent destination awaits…?

And let me say (that never wept before)

My tears are now prevailing orators.

– Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus (III.i.25‑26)

Typically, during a concert, I will focus on members of the orchestra, soloists, or the conductor; but Debussy’s La Mer [pdf] is a tone poem – although designated as “trois esquisses”: three sketches, however consummate… – for the memory and imagination: conjuring, in my mind, many happy hours sat alone on the Scottish coastline between Elgin and Fraserburgh, feet dangling over the harbour walls of Pennan and Portsoy, camera or sketchbook untouched upon my knee.)

So I closed my eyes again…. And yet I could still glimpse the sun breaking through during the first movement, De l’aube à midi sur la mer (it doesn’t always rain, there, y’know…) – although hints of a cloudburst were never far from the surface calm. There was a swelling of light, wind and sea; ebbing and flowing; but growing relentlessly, in parallel with the morning, as nature’s moods vacillated around us. (In comparison with Britten, at least, Debussy’s musical language emerges here as more abstract; less literal and programmatic… – and yet it requires no translation. He created something so revolutionary that is has now become the lingua franca of those craving to conjure up their own oceanic storms.)

The seafarers of the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra were superb: their seemingly infinite palette daubed with every colour, every tint, every sonic shade necessary… – from the transparent, subtle, near-inaudibility of pre-dawn (and the shimmering harps of Cathy White and Charlotte Swayne), to the final overwhelming psychedelic clash of elemental might. The glorious solo violin of leader Caroline Broekman, and the stunning passage of four-part cellos, followed by the horns – Un peu plus mouvementé… Très rythmé – leading to a quasi-climax… – additional early highlights. Not every “ensemble of committed and experienced amateur, student and professional musicians” could muster such major musicianship (nor conjure up two harpists…). This was rhythmically and technically challenging stuff.

The cor anglais and flute playing of John Wright and Catherine Billington also deserve attention: parting the clouds for the sun to break through in all its brilliance. No orchestral light has ever shone so brightly. Streaming with tears, my eyes were dazzled (as were my ears); my skin rendered gooseflesh; my blood pumping with upsurges of pure emotion.

¶

The second movement – Jeux de vagues – is a symphonic scherzo by any other name: its key changes as playful as the music itself! Here, the woodwind and brass were on splendid, delicate form – especially the horns (Laura Morris, Kelly Haines, Charlotte Montgomery, Christopher Sturdy and Sophie Ellis: surely the players of the night – and we haven’t even made it to the interval…). So lustrous and harmonious in the first movement, here their mellifluous tones were almost tangible, graspable: warming, tuneful, but occasionally impish – a trait soon developed by the whole orchestra; and then taken close to extremes. This was not simply the Play of the waves, but of the spirits which cause them to twinkle and sparkle; who cause their crests to whiten and shudder onto golden sands. [Having just seen The Tempest, I could only think of Prospero – in an uncommon jolly mood – conducting his “Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact My present fancies”. All David lacked was a cloak, and a head and chin full of wise, white, spiky hair! (All Prospero lacks is a natty pair of socks.)]

As with the first movement, though, seriousness, darkness, is never far away – those continual changes of mood; of light; of weather… – clouds passing in front of the afternoon sun momentarily chilling the atmosphere; but soon warmed, here, by lyrical string playing of the highest order. But then the wind gathers; the swell rises; the trumpets inject splashes of colour – cheeky, yet foreboding.

A sequence of full orchestral punches (at figure 32, and following) are supplanted by a quieter, more animé interplay of strings and wind (percussion hovering, like Ariel, always ready to stir up mischief). And then we find ourselves swept up in the middle of an almost celebratory waltz: the waves dancing, now; the cellos, again, singing with all their hearts; the violins and violas (divided into seven parts) – supported by the rest of the orchestra – singing higher and more emphatically, repeating the same rhythm – dance-like, still; but not in a way anyone other than Ravel would recognize. Horns and trumpets burst through… – and, suddenly, disquiet reigns: the lower strings chuntering, fading away; the harps’ glorious glissandos perhaps two last wavelets, gently pluming ashore.

But all is not done. Those horns again! And an ethereal pause from more divided strings; the harps gentler, now. The waves are weary: and drift serenely, rockingly, to sleep. (It almost feels as if we are once more submerged beneath them: lulled ourselves to dream.)

¶

If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky it seems would pour down stinking pitch,

But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek,

Dashes the fire out.

– Shakespeare: The Tempest (I.i.1‑5)

It would have been natural for Debussy to assign particular (groups of) instruments to each of the two antagonists of the Dialogue du vent et de la mer – perhaps, literally, woodwind and brass for “le vent”; and strings and harps for “la mer”. But he was such a subtle artist – despite the leviathan instrumental requirements of this last movement: including almost a bandstand’s-worth of brass and percussion (all of them on the form of their lives) – that he could (and would) never fall into such a trap. And here he is at his Animé et tumultueux, Turneresque best: with a stunning pinnacle of the orchestrator’s art. I could feel the current ebbing and flowing – tide falling but especially rising – in the opening string motifs – almost expecting the great white shark from Jaws to appear! Something is astir: a storm brewing in the percussion, wind and brass.

These are possibly Debussy’s greatest brush-strokes: using mutes and string techniques to colour and shape tonality and dynamics. This is more a dispute than an equable “dialogue”, however – a lover’s tiff, perhaps? – and, yes, the waves are whipped up by the wind; and yet it feels it feels like neither elemental force has the upper hand. (Maybe they are working in tandem, after all: plotting to vanquish anything concrete that obstructs them?)

Eerie fanfares and listless murmurings; menacing horn-calls and thuds from the bass drum (knocking on our seaward-facing windows); all presaging the music that would end the evening – but they are also the sound of a crashing, crushing roller of orchestral might as strong as any storm: alerting us; warning of the unrest to come. This builds slowly, accumulating momentum, then ferocity – the bassoons scowling and scaring, joined by the horns, cellos and basses (“Grimes is at his exercise”) – amplifying, intensifying….

A momentous crash: a gargantuan breaker sweeps over the harbour walls, shaking the shutters we have now closed in fear. All we can do is huddle behind centuries-old stone walls, waiting for the battle – if it ever will – to cease.

Then, just as unexpectedly, calmness. The horns now seek to reassure us, but the unease rumbles on: even as flecks of sunlight spot the restless waves with silver. The harps return; flute and oboe (Tessa Pemberton) soaring – as ghostly albatrosses all aglide – over whispering strings. But, again, something stirs….

The entry of all other members of the orchestra, forte – perfectly coordinated by David – seems to signify that the foes have finally reached agreement. Like the violins and violas, the wind and the sea are in unison. But this, too, soon fades: and scurrying trumpets alert us to another change of mood. The main theme – a rise and fall in the flute and oboe again – brings hope: but we have heard it dashed and scattered to the four corners of the earth before. The first violins repeat it, though, with growing confidence. Then pause – gathering huge lungfuls of air (David in no need of a “magic garment” for such control). Is the storm breaking? There is certainly peace – albeit of a kind which disconcerts. The atmosphere remains restless: dark clouds on the horizon, growing, looming, threatening, scudding towards us with all their might. And yet the massed brass are steady (as she goes): a firm foundation of dry land; a comfort, even… – but an empty one.

Again, the white horses gallop toward us; huge marbles of rain pelting land and sea. A cornet cries out – a solitary voice, lost in the gale; or is this the sound of self-belief? And then we see the tsunami – a wall of air, water and reverberation – towering over us: fundamental forces overwhelming all. There is no greater power than this; no creator more powerful. We stand in awe, transfixed: blown away by the preternatural exhalation.

The rest is silence. And I open my eyes: a tidal wave of tears surging down my wind-blasted cheeks… – more in need of fresh air than I have been for a very long time.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

     — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

     Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

     Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

     And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

     Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

     The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

– Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth

When you think of war-inspired music, perhaps Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony comes to mind; or Nielsen’s fourth and fifth; and probably Britten’s War Requiem – but I can think of no more harrowing work than Holst’s The Planets. However joyous it might sometimes seem: to me, every note is suffused with wasted blood – Holst once telling the conductor Adrian Boult “that he wanted the stupidity of war to stand out” in performance. Mars, the Bringer of War is of course an obvious reference – goodness knows what the original audience made of this aggressive soul-curdling music in September 1918… – and it still shocks today. But the other movements all contain such references: whether to military pastiche, or contemplative sadness, weariness, and regret. Wilfred Owen, had he been sat next to me at last night’s concert, would have wept, as I did, with instant recognition.

This is truly great music; the very best of the best – and, as David said to me after the concert, it is truly unique. (I could easily make a case for it being one of the greatest pieces of classical music ever written – it is so utterly inspired in both its construction and instrumentation: ranging from the wonderful melody at the heart of Jupiter to the desolation of Saturn. But this is probably not the place or time….)

It is therefore not really about those shiny things we see in the night sky. As I wrote earlier in the week: “the constituent pieces have as much astrological inspiration as astronomical… mirroring Shakespeare’s ‘seven ages of man’”. They are principally about the human spirit: in all its various forms and stages – but especially when in, or after, conflict.

It seems strange, in many ways, that such dark music should become so popular – something the composer himself truly hated. But such imposing music will out: even if people see and hear only the surface gloss. It helps, of course, that – one hundred years after its composition; and its development of a new linguistic mode of musical expression… – it has become so readily accessible. But I wonder what others take away from its performance? [If they were in Cheltenham, last night, my guess is bruises: both physical and mental; awe, from the bombardment of timpani (Roger Clift and Sam Gerard) and percussion (Ros Fletcher, Ian Evans, and Elizabeth Alford); astonishment (especially the celeste playing of John Stillman) and the ‘solo’ of the three, lyrical double-basses (Simon Cox, Rob Tallis and Jenny Taylor); and a broken heart (especially from the singing cello of Stephen Pett).]

¶

I have been fortunate to hear some truly amazing performances this year: but this was “the very best of the best” – every single musician working their socks off, giving it their all… until those ethereal, pure voices faded beyond hearing. The silence was unbearable. But so was the thought of applause.

I had wept from start to finish. I could not have done otherwise: my mind in tatters; my heart riven; my soul shattered to smithereens. Good music will do this, of course. But only if played this well. (I was tempted to list every single player and singer – they all deserve my thanks; and a bloody big hug.) Go home to your beds with pride, you great musicians of Cheltenham! Wake up with a smile; and the confidence that comes from a job better done than you would have dreamt possible…. The planets truly had aligned.

Music of the Spheres: an Earth-dweller’s guide to The Planets…

On Saturday, 26 November 2016, Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra – joined by the ladies of the Cheltenham Bach Choir – will perform a quite magical programme entitled From the Seas to the Skies at Cheltenham Town Hall. The final work of the evening has become one of the most famous and popular compositions of the last century – but, although it is so familiar, there is always someone (I hope) for whom it is not; and – as I discovered, doing a little preliminary research to inform my review (as is my wont) – there is always something new to be learned about it.

Approaching the work in this way, with an open mind, I trust the following brief preamble will rub off on those who consider themselves ‘afraid’ of, or unsuited to, such ‘classical’ music (especially the more ‘modern’ sort) – who may judge it is not to their taste… – and convince them that this entrancing composition can be their gateway to a new universe of sound. I truly believe that, in giving it a chance, they will not be disappointed!

A new musical language…

Although the score still sounds incredibly thrilling, fresh, and modern, Cheltenham-born Gustav Holst’s “Suite for Large Orchestra”, The Planets, was completed one hundred years ago, at the height – or, in reality, the darkest depths – of World War I.

In some ways – especially as the constituent pieces have as much astrological inspiration as astronomical – they can be heard as individual orchestral tone poems (or, as Holst himself described them, “a series of mood pictures”) mirroring Shakespeare’s ‘seven ages of man’. This is why the movements are not ordered musically as the celestial bodies are physically – and why they have titles encapsulating philosophical theories about how the planets govern our lives: for example, Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity – which, incidentally, has at its core a tune that will be rousingly familiar to all!

As well as the enduring relevance of such spiritual concepts, I think these pieces continue to influence – and have meaning for – us in three principal ways. Firstly (remembering that Pluto was only discovered in 1930, four years before Holst’s death), as we develop ever more sophisticated technologies – enabling us to learn ever more about our solar system and beyond, and to locate worlds that may harbour other sentient beings – we grow increasingly fascinated with that expanding universe. Additionally, as children, mesmerized by the night sky (as our ancestors were), we dream of exploring the space around us – hence the enduring attraction of film series such as Star Trek and Star Wars. Then, as adults – or just bigger kids! – we seek to understand our relevance, our importance, to the cosmos itself; to discover our place within it (just as Holst did). And finally – as ‘universal’ music in more ways than one – The Planets [pdf] provides us with a key to understanding the ideas at the heart of such science-fiction: meaning that it is no coincidence that the entry of Darth Vader to the strains of John Williams’ The Imperial March is not a million light-years away from the appearance of Mars, the Bringer of War…!

This is not to accuse Williams of any form of ‘borrowing’: merely to demonstrate Holst’s uncanny genius in producing seven uniformly impressive and inspirational pieces of music that not only fit together perfectly; but, individually, in all their contrasts of speed, volume and emotion, clearly convey their meaning – from the terrors of mechanized bloodshed to the mysteries of silence – evoking similar responses, similar passions, in all of those who listen: thereby creating a new musical language fit for our technological age, whether at war or at peace.

I would suggest, therefore, that if you already admire such soundtracks – and I would argue that Williams has created some of the very greatest – then you will adore Holst’s! And you won’t even need George Lucas or Steven Spielberg to provide the visuals – this is music that explodes with its very own special effects. Close your eyes, and lose yourself in your own private planetarium; or picture yourself as Han Solo making the Kessel Run!

Like Williams, Holst understood that to create such impact, he required as large an orchestra as he could muster: with not only enough brass to pin you back in your seat, but percussion that you will feel pounding through the soles of the thickest boots! He also appreciated that space is mostly empty – and, although other composers before him had tried, this is the first ‘classical’ work that truly fades out, rather than ends: an offstage ladies choir drifting slowly to the most beauteous, heart-stopping silence.

Postscript: a good omen…?

On Friday, 25 November 2016, low in the eastern pre-dawn sky, the thin, waning crescent moon will come extremely close to “the king of all planets”, Jupiter. Although this may not bring “jollity”, as such, it should still be spectacular to witness (should our autumnal weather behave itself). Hopefully, it will also prove to be a blessing – a harbinger of success – for the following day’s performance!

From Cheltenham…, the pair will be visible in the dawn sky, [the moon] rising at 03:10 (GMT) – 4 hours and 34 minutes before the Sun – and reaching an altitude of 29° above the south-eastern horizon before fading from view as dawn breaks at around 07:17…. The pair will be too widely separated to fit within the field of view of a telescope, but will be visible to the naked eye or through a pair of binoculars.

– Dominic Ford: Close approach of the Moon and Jupiter

Abbey hour (or two)…

I don’t remember ever being inside Pershore Abbey before: probably because, my parents tell me, I was only a few years old, the first – and last – time I was there. I therefore spent the first fifteen minutes – before the concert began – with my jaw on the floor, and my head in the clouds. Reminiscent, in many ways, of Cartmel Priory, or even the much larger Cirencester Parish Church, this is an incredibly beautiful building – drenched in history and atmosphere – and therefore one I must return to, soon.

I did wonder, though, staring upwards – because of the abbey’s truncated proportions; and after spending half a lifetime performing in such high-roofed sacred spaces – how the rare ploughshare vaulting [pdf] would ‘contribute’ to the acoustic. It certainly seemed more suited to the archetypical chanting of plainsong by cowled monks….

And, perhaps, the opener did generate ‘too much sound’ for such a space? But this does not mean either its overall effect, or its subtleties, were lost – David Curtis and the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra obviously having spent the afternoon’s rehearsal acclimatizing themselves to the echoes and baffles such complex architecture presents.

Reliving more of my youth, Wagner’s Prelude to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg was one of the first pieces I recollect playing the timpani for – hidden away at the back of the huge amassed forces that this composer always seems to require… – although I was a little older than when I first visited Pershore! As if competing with the storm raging outside, as it built towards its close, this delivered cascades of ever-expanding lush, swelling avalanches of sound: generating overwhelming waves of emotion that were the perfect accompaniment to such ravishing music. And yet the woodwind – on astonishing form – sang through clearly (my player of the night being oboist Tessa Pemberton); as did one of the best triangle parts ever written.

I recall, so vividly, wanting to be the percussionist, rather than the timpanist, for this! It’s not often that such few notes command such attention: and therefore full credit to Andrew Pemberton for playing them with such aplomb. The moment he stood, shivers ran up and down my spine. This is when those “avalanches” are unleashed – each one incomprehensibly more powerful than the last: David’s left hand held flat, palm downwards: signalling restraint. Not too long, though, before a swish of the tails, a clenched fist, and the Mastersingers’ march launched into the night with impressive precision and almighty ‘oomph’!

It’s difficult remembering the details of a concert that you basically cried your way through – but I think it’s good for the soul to experience such catharsis (frequently, if possible, please). And there are some nights when immersing yourself in the music and its emotive affect, without concentrating on the minutiae, is just what you need. This was such.

I had known that the last work of the evening would hollow out my soul – a great symphony by one of the very greatest (and one of my favourite) symphonic composers – but had not expected the Wagner, or Bruch’s first violin concerto, which followed, to work their magic, too, quite so thoroughly. But I am glad they did. Musically, and spiritually, this was thus the perfect programme. Three stunning – but contrasting – examples of gritty late nineteenth-century Romanticism. What more can you ask for? And in such aesthetically-moving surroundings, too? Gosh.

The Bruch was, simply put, tremendous. And much of the credit for this must be given to Lisa Ueda (above) – her technique and tone so mesmerizingly sensitive and enthralling. After having the scales removed from my eyes during Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, earlier in the year, again, here was a familiar work rendered fresh and utterly enticing. There was exceptional communication between soloist, conductor and orchestra. And the acoustic furnished the violin’s sound with a perfect richness – suited both to the music and the venue. And yet Lisa always cut clearly through: the balance with the orchestra exemplary.

One of the greatest slow movements ever written (I now realize…), the Adagio was courageously, impeccably paced; and both violinist and orchestra sang their hearts (as I cried mine) out to perfection. Stunning stuff. Balm for the soul. (And one can only dream of the heights Lisa would reach with the Andante of the Elgar concerto….) And that ‘gypsyesque’ finale? Captivating. Never has it sounded quite so invigorating. The extended applause, and the delight on all the performers’ faces, were so well-deserved.

Time, therefore, for the traditional Bardic deep breath of fresh air; and the discovery that the radiance of the music had caused the clouds to part: revealing a similarly vibrant full moon, creeping over the roof of the abbey.

¶

There could never be enough Brahms in the world – and certainly not performed to this gilt-edged standard. All sections of the orchestra – particularly the woodwind and horns – seemed to understand perfectly the various levels of subtlety and sovereignty needed to demonstrate just what an amazingly cohesive work the man’s first symphony is. Long in gestation it may have been, but I struggle to think of another example from that era that has such a perfect narrative arc from startling (indeed gobsmacking) pained opening to its tumultuous, final, joyous chorale. (That pounding launch still has the power to amaze – and I wonder how the first audiences reacted to its startling, imploding intimation of heart-break.)

Here, the genius of Brahms’ orchestration pushed easily through the slightly echoey, treble-muffling ambience: and some of the greatest melodies ever written sang through the building – particularly the long violin solo in the second movement (leader Caroline Broekman on beautifully lyrical form), and the trombones and bassoons in the finale. (And, yes, Brahms’ response to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy is a wonderful, wonderful creation; but I always think the falling ‘alphorn theme’ – the horns echoing the opening notes of Blow the Wind Southerly… – that is intermeshed with it, is the composer at his most inspired.)

Performer of the night has to be David. His already supremely thoughtful and observant conducting appears to have shifted up yet another gear, recently – and, although I get the feeling that he is more at home with smaller forces, it does not show one jot. He invites – nay, challenges – each member of every section to be at their very best, throughout; and there is a level of communication, of mutual trust, that ensures that this happens – and consistently. He may claim that the instrumentalists do “all the hard work” – and, my goodness, they played their socks off, several times over, last night…! – and that all he does is “smile, and wave my arms around”: but he has developed a strong, lasting connection with this orchestra; as well as a great deal of respect and admiration – and it shows. What a fabulous season this is going to be!

Unified arrangements of atoms and particles…

I don’t really know what I was expecting, sat in Pittville Pump Room, contemplating the Steinway a few rows in front of me, forty minutes before kick-off. All I know – now I sit down to write – was that it wasn’t this. For any orchestra to give two such immense demonstrations of prowess within a week is remarkable enough; but when the latter concert features, firstly, challenging works they have never performed before (one of them foisted on them by Yours Truly – and at relatively short notice (sorry)); and, secondly, two exacting pieces with a soloist who they have never worked with before (and who is basically – until now, of course – an unknown quantity on this side of the Pond); then you have to praise their dauntlessness, as well as their skill and sheer verve. Yes, the tension was palpable – that I could feel (and probably could have carved with a blunt chisel), sitting there… – but, two-and-a-half hours later, in the same chair, all I could sense was soaring success: and for everyone involved.

This is going to take a lot of writing, I suspect: my heart and mind are bursting with thoughts, emotions, snapshots and cinematic reels of visual and aural detail – whilst pure amazement surges through my veins… – so I think I must simply try to document things in the order in which they occurred. Therefore, as Julie Andrews once wisely suggested: “Let’s start at the very beginning”. To me, it seems like quite a good place to start.

¶

If music were architecture, Bach’s big organ works would be cathedrals, fortresses, Baronial manors. More than any of his other compositions, these works give the inescapable feeling that one is viewing a physical structure. Every part is linked together, so that the whole thing stands immensely upright. Yet there is the distinct feeling that every single line must be there – if something were missing, the structure would fall apart. If this Fantasia and Fugue were truly physical architecture, it might be the country estate of a gentleman. It would be a place where enjoyment and pageantry were as important as nobility and seriousness of purpose, where elegance and wealth stood side-by-side with the natural beauty of the forest.

C Michael Kelly: Fantasy and Fugue in C-Minor, BWV 537 (Orchestrated by Sir Edward Elgar)

This is where I ’fess up. Yup, it was my idea to open this concert with the Elgar: and, now, having disclosed my interest (or perhaps over-enthusiasm), I hope you won’t be surprised if the following few paragraphs sound a tad biased (despite my best efforts, I promise, not to get too carried away…). Let’s rewind just a little bit further, though….

I was having a coffee with conductor David Curtis, and he mentioned that he was looking for a companion piece – preferably an arrangement of Bach – to integrate with the rest of last night’s programme: i.e. it must be ‘true’ to Bach’s original composition; but reflect the grandeur of the Liszt pieces that followed (see below). The Fantasia and Fugue in C Minor, Op.86, immediately came to mind – not only because of my deep, lifelong love of Elgar (and admiration for his genius at both instrumentation and conveying boundless emotion); but also because I believed it would substantiate the irrefutably high capabilities of each section, each member, of the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra.

Elgar wrote on 5 June 1921 to his friend, the organist Ivor Atkins, “I have orchestrated a Bach fugue in modern way – largish orchestra – you may not approve. …many arrgts have been made of Bach on the ‘pretty’ scale & I wanted to shew how gorgeous & great & brilliant he would have made himself sound if he had had our means.” Far from disapproving, Atkins listened with Elgar to the work being rehearsed by Eugène Goossens at the Queen’s Hall, London, on 26 October 1921 prior to its première the following day where “It sounded magnificent”.

– All About Elgar: Elgar – His Music: Orchestral Arrangements and Transcriptions

Initially, Richard Strauss – at a meeting with Elgar “in 1920, eager to heal the rift caused by the First World War” – agreed to adapt the Fantasia: but, regrettably, for me (well, in some ways), this other emperor of instrumentation “never kept his part of the agreement”. Also sadly: the Elgar-completed pairing doesn’t appear to receive as many performances as it should; and is therefore not as well-known, as, say, Leopold Stokowski’s scintillating arrangements of Bach – especially the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor which opens Disney’s incredible, ground-breaking Fantasia. But I believe that it shows Elgar at his most inventive (and humorous; well, apart from his Smoking Cantata…) – and it rises from the most subtle, gentle of beginnings, through eloquence and majesty, to an almost jazz-like, swinging culmination of percussive, full-orchestral domination. In other words, it is a master-class in scoring and transcribing – especially in its consummate transformation of the “dense and involved [original] in which a very un-flashy and serious-minded approach to prelude and fugue-type composition can be heard and seen” to a piece of music that is utterly joyous in affect (and yet which loses none of the technical adroitness of its source). From clever architecture, to sublime major cityscape… – or as Curtis joked: “It’s Bach – but not as we know it!”

The last time I heard this performed was in Salisbury Cathedral, ten or eleven years ago; and we were treated to the original organ work before the orchestral version. In some ways – although this highlighted Elgar’s stupendous accomplishment – for me, it slightly reduced the overall impact. Last night, though, the accumulated forces of the CSO launched this momentous concert with just the requisite amount of fanfaronade – perfectly book-ending an evening that was to finish (as scheduled) with Lizst’s “shockingly modernistic” Totentanz (in effect, his third piano concerto) – indeed, one of his “strongest works” – but yet, again, sadly, not as frequently performed as it blummin’ well ought to be. (Humbug.)

Once more, though, with all the excitement, I am getting ahead of myself….

¶

The Fantasia opens – underlined with a mysterious heartbeat in the timpani, bass drum, and lower strings – with plaintive solos from the oboe and clarinet from (I hope) Tessa Pemberton and Janet McKechnie. [You must forgive me here: I do not have a cast-list of the usual artistic suspects; and my view was obscured by a rather nice shiny piano.] These sirens are eventually joined by the rest of the orchestra: but the build is so gradual, the gradient so gentle, as to be almost unnoticeable – at first. If you didn’t know the principal theme was Bach’s, you could well imagine it was Elgar’s (or even Warlock’s) – hints of the slow movement of the spine-tingling Violin Concerto; the opening of the haunted Piano Quintet; even glorious ‘Nimrod’… – and he develops it with gentle gossamer touches: perfectly, sustainedly, longingly drawn by Curtis. It was as if we were slowly emerging from a fog, magicked by Puck; or having the dreams lifted from our eyes with one of Oberon’s potions. Almost out of nowhere (nowhere quite definable, at least), we reached a largamente climax (followed by a thrilling, gorgeous glissando from the harp); enough held back in reserve, though, for an even more magisterial ascent – just before the mist vanishes for good. Our vision is now clear. But the orchestra fades, plangently, to another incredibly beautiful oboe solo (orchestral player of the night…) – espressivo and ad libitum (and very high on the Bard Handkerchief Scale (BHS: measured in megadrops)) – in response…

…and, urgently, shockingly, we are attacked by a marauding, confident fugal army of burly infantry. Everyone gets a piece of the action – but this is Bach as rendered by Gerontius’ demons. Of course (this is Elgar, remember – he of that cello concerto…) there is great subtlety, too: the music ebbs and flows – the waves growing as the storm approaches (it seems Beethoven never left the building) – gentle interjections from the brass over rolling strings; hushed conversations between the woodwind; and then a cascade to poco allargando – all followed by an intense, concise explosion in the bassoons (wow!) and tambourine…. And the tsunami starts to roll, to gather power.

Gently at first… – stunning tempi, beautiful dynamics: the partnership between Curtis and the CSO so utterly cohesive… – but a rising, dark bass-line that Shostakovich would have been proud of; and a final, total unleashing of the rather large percussion section (their faces glowing with syncopated confidence and glee); and we are almost – almost – overwhelmed. But, as always, Curtis held just enough in reserve – the canniness of the long-distance runner, I suppose – despite the bombardment of fortississimo markings in the score – that, when we reached the sustained, final-two-bar crescendo molto (and from all-bar-one of the orchestra), I suspect that most of the audience were almost shocked out of their seats… – that last, startling tutti chord almost a cheer of purest joy! (And an extremely well-deserved one, too!)

This was a wish come true – a midsummer night’s dream rendered tangible – for me. (I may need to extend the range of that BHS.) One of the very greatest composers (IMHO) – even so soon after the death of his beloved wife and muse – arousing astounding enchantment, spells, wonders, fireworks; launching glistening spheres into orbit… – all from the seminal sparks of one of his peers. The evening could have ended there; and I would have been in heaven for weeks! But this was only the overture to an evening of even grander (geddit) wizardry.

There was a reason for the presence of that shimmering Steinway: the main purpose of the evening being to launch the UK career of seventeen-year-old pianist, Thomas Nickell – who has been dubbed “The American Mozart” (and who I was fortunate to interview, recently, for the Orchestra of the Swan’s blog). And, based solely on last night’s evidence – although he is also performing twice with OOTS over the next week (including this evening, in Stratford-upon-Avon) – his future looks not only as bright as Elgar’s whizz-bang rockets, but just as stratospheric.

The first piece he played was a wonderful contrast to the Elgar transcription: Bach’s own Piano Concerto in D minor, BWV 1052; accompanied by just the CSO’s warm and astute string section. This is probably an arrangement of an earlier work – but, as Nickell rightfully says (originally referencing the Elgar transcription):

I can only imagine that Bach would have been pleased with seeing his work rearranged for so many different sorts of ensembles, because he often rearranged his own music. The keyboard concertos are a perfect example of that because they come from earlier violin concertos, which even started out in different keys in their original violin versions. I think that re-imaginings of Bach’s works can be marvelous, and are contextually appropriate.

In our dialogue, we also discussed our shared hero, Glenn Gould – and, shortly before the concert, Nickell posted a picture of this troubled, eccentric (again, all-too-short-lived) genius, accompanied by the following quotation:

One does not play piano with one’s fingers, one plays the piano with one’s mind.

To be honest, it wasn’t those words which grabbed me – however richly true. It was the reminder of Gould’s unusual posture: hands almost flat to the keyboard; his shoulders bent so low that his nose was almost buried in-between the keys; his wrists seeming to hover just above his knees. This is how I too play from memory (despite years of chastisement from my saintly piano teacher, Arthur Bury) – although with about one-zillionth of the quality…. But the only professional pianist I have ever witnessed live (until today) who performed in an uncannily similar manner, was the late demigod Esbjörn Svensson (whose loss, for so many, is still red-raw – just typing his name brings tears…). [If you are not a fan of modern jazz, you may not have heard of him, I admit. Yet, even amongst the likes of Donohoe, Roscoe, Hough, Pollini, Uchida, I still rank Svensson as the greatest, most creative, articulate, inventive pianist of my lifetime. That he was a nice bloke, too, just makes the loss of such awesome talent so much more painful.] I therefore have an immense soft spot – a weakness, indeed – for those who crouch likewise: melding, seemingly becoming one with their instrument.

¶

So… on to the stage walks a tall, gangly youth, with glasses and slightly floppy hair, and a self-effacing, winning smile. I would have thought him slightly older than seventeen, I think, had I not known (an impression reinforced during a later, brief conversation). Any nervousness is only visible in the occasional running of a hand through his hair, when observing the orchestra, waiting for an entry; or an almost imperceptible tug at the thin charm of a band beneath his treble-clef cuff link. Curtis raises his baton; and, for the next few minutes my eyes are focused, in wonder, to a tight beam. All I see (I chose my seating position with great care) are beautiful hands and their reflections, caressing the notes almost imperceptibly. This is a technique of minimal fuss; of economy; of grace. (I would have been metaphorically rapped over the knuckles by Mr Bury for keeping them so low.) But, my goodness, it works… – the sound that emanates from those elegant fingers is anything but economic: a huge range of reverberation – one moment, perfectly blending into the orchestral exposition; the next, shining a light on Bach’s energetic melodies and translucent structures.

I can see why Gould is an idol. If Elgar demonstrated what Bach could have done with a modern symphony orchestra to play with; then Gould showed how Bach can still be meaningful, brought up-to-date, made contemporary, with modern keyboard (and pedalling) techniques – all without lessening his impact (usually amplifying it, for me). In fact, my (strongly-held) opinion is that Gould led the way (compare, for instance, the evolution demonstrated by his two contrasting recordings of the Goldberg Variations…). Fortunately (for both us and him), Nickell neither hums loudly, nor fidgets when he plays! Neither does the confidence that flows from his fingers morph into any form of exclusive arrogance. It is obvious he is still learning, still (always will be) willing to learn; that he has absorbed a great deal from Curtis’ expertise in recent days. Nevertheless, this was a performance of both exquisite precision; and – in the central, sombre slow movement, demonstrating his real love, his profession of Bach as his favourite composer – mature romanticism.

The introduction to (and also its closure of, therefore) this Adagio was described by Curtis as “desolate”; and the strings, in Vivaldian unison, pulled hard at my heart. Again, precision with emotion. In such sparse moments, any error (of fingering, of tuning) would be as vivid as Elgar’s Roman candles; but this was exquisite, intense – and yet almost whispered. The balance between orchestra and piano was impeccable. (I accept that, at such an early point in his career, Nickell may need more immersion in such collegiate performances: but, as far as I could see – bar one single cue – his head was always raised from the keyboard in readiness for Curtis’ beat; or to indicate, with a nod of his young – but sage – head, that this was the point for the orchestra to rejoin him in creating harmonious radiance.)

The final movement went by in a blur. I was still awestruck by that fluid technique. This was not an exhibition piece – as I may have initially supposed – this was a demonstration of respect, of love, for music that sang to him – as it did, now, so beautifully, so cogently, to us.

It took me a while to get my breath back, I admit, at the interval… – but a bracing wind through the Pump Room’s doors helped tremendously!

¶

Once we returned to our seats, then lashings of virtuosity were really unleashed. But by the orchestra. Rejoined by many of the forces necessary for the Elgar, we were treated to a sumptuous interpretation of Liszt’s Les Préludes.

This is a work new to me; and, had I had to guess at its creator, I would probably have plumped for early Wagner (who it obviously influenced) – although there were some wonderful Mendelssohnian subtleties in there, as well as some fantastic brass writing. [Tip: if you’re ever asked to choose a work for the CSO to perform, go for something that stretches the percussion and brass sections. They seem to revel in being asked to play the impossible: making it look and sound powerfully easy. (This is not to denigrate either the strings or the woodwind. Just that I know of no other “non-professional” – horrible term – orchestra who can rival the Berlin Phil for sheer oomph from the back row!)]

Although it can claim to be “the first symphonic poem”, in title; in essence, I believe Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (influenced by recent events, no doubt) beat Liszt to the draw. And not only had the earlier composer not “left the building”, neither had his storm; or, it seems, his flock of birds.

This is a gorgeous figurative work; and, having just added it to my current iPad playlist, I will be revisiting it many times. [I was going to take a saunter through the bright lights and deep shadows of the score: but I have already passed the 2,500-word, 02:00 mark; and there is a lot, lot more, still to come! (Eek.)] I tend to think (ignoramus that I am) of Liszt as solely a pianist and creator of fiendish music for that instrument – although both of his concertos feature some stunning orchestral writing… – but, on this evidence, here is the equal of Brahms, Bruckner, Schumann, even Mahler. Wonderful stuff; and if proof were needed of how magnificently the CSO delivered on its promise, then Curtis’ permanent gaze of deep, contented joy, throughout, delivered it with (extremely positive) attitude.

¶

Then that Steinway is wheeled back into view; its lids are lifted with reverence; the orchestra goes through a tiny rearrangement of positions; and Curtis and Nickell re-enter, stage left – to huge applause.

I have only to look at the first few bars of the piano part of Lizst’s Totentanz for my fingers to start bleeding. Pneumatic hammers might be more appropriate for the percussive shocks this requires. But, my goodness, did Nickell deliver! If the Bach was a gentle – but emotional – walk in a rather luscious woodland park; this was a snicker-snacking duel with scythe-wielding Death himself. Every single person on-stage gave it their very all. But, again, there was no showmanship, no conceit – just crystalline communication built on technique and mastery (and this applies to the orchestra and conductor, as much as the soloist).

I don’t know how to describe the experience as audience member on the receiving end of such glory as anything other than being immersed in the very definition of profundity… – somehow combined with transcendence….

The work begins with a darkly colored “dance of death,” with diminished harmonies underlying the first phrase of the plainsong melody sounded forth heavily in the bass instruments, like the most somber of funeral processions. An electrifying splash of piano cadenza announces that this work will be a showpiece of virtuosity despite its serious framework. Soon the full theme has been stated and we are off on a series of character variations in different tempi and moods, with striking touches of orchestration, fugal sections, and pianistic fireworks. Though some of Totentanz shows Liszt in his most diabolist mood, there are romantic touches as well, and the canny range of moods contributes to making this brief, concerto-like piece one of its creator’s most dramatic works.

– Steven Ledbetter: “Totentanz,” Paraphrase on “Dies irae,” for piano and orchestra

This was obviously (to my mind) intended as that “exhibition piece”. Nickell’s mastery of the keyboard – however effortless and limpid in appearance – is not in doubt; and this was the perfect vehicle to demonstrate it. But his performance – aided and abetted by Curtis and his band of deft familiars – went far beyond this. His solos were immensely thoughtful; and had that wondrous quality – which I so admire – of appearing almost improvisational. Full use was made of the Steinway’s abilities, too: sparkling high notes; those explosive bass “percussive shocks”; and everything in-between – including some awesome forceful glissandi. This was mightily impressive; and the lady in front of me kept gently shaking her head in astonishment and awe. But, for me, the best demonstration of Nickell’s abilities came in the first of the two generous encores.

¶

Curtis had inscrutably informed me that I would recognize the first one (assuming there only would be that one… – but we weren’t quite ready to let him go, even then…). And he was right! (Of course!) One of my very favourite piano pieces (to listen to; not to mangle): Gershwin’s own solo version of Rhapsody in Blue. Instantly, we were whisked across the Atlantic to Nickell’s very own New York.

I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America, of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our metropolitan madness.

– George Gershwin

Here – even after the Bach concerto – was music that emanated from Nickell’s heart. The freedoms elicited from such syncopated splendour were given full rein. Here was a young man exploring his heritage, revelling in it, showing us how much it means to him. My stretched heartstrings burst with the truthfulness of it all – a conjunction of sorts. The right man for the job, you could say. Skill; a belief in digging deep into a score, researching its composer, its origin… before even setting it on the piano; a rugged determination “to bring something new to the piano… I don’t know yet what that might be”; a willingness to listen to everyone around him – all combined with something special that may take years to be defined.

But he is incredibly self-aware, it seems to me; and understands with conviction that this is just the beginning… – and yet demonstrates great patience and fortitude in facing what lies ahead. He is in it for the long game. That he is also a lovely guy, generous with his time – although he must have wondered just who this gushing, gibbering idiot stood in front of him was, at the end of the night – almost goes without saying. [I promise to be (a little) calmer, this evening…. (By the way, if you haven’t got tickets for this OOTS concert, in Stratford-upon-Avon, there are a few left, I am told: so grab them now – to witness not just great musicianship, but a tiny, exquisite moment of history.)]

To see all these qualities combined into someone so young is definitely to be treasured. It is extremely rare; and I know Nickell has the potential – with the support and care of those who recognize his unique abilities – to go very far indeed. At the moment, perhaps, he is a little better as a soloist than in a group: but this – with his obvious openness – will come. He is definitely not afraid of the hard effort and practice this will take. But he has foundations to build on that we mere mortals can only dream of – they are so very high, so very far beyond our reach.

And if you required yet further proof: the Rachmaninoff he played with such charm and wit, to bring us all back down to earth – and the wonderful, knowing grin as he gently tickled that last staccato note – for his second encore, said it all.

It was a privilege, a joy, a wonderment, to be there. Tonight, I feel, though, may be more special yet.

He marched them up to the top of the hill…

Although billed simply as a concert of “Family Classics”, Sunday afternoon’s performance by the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra at Pittville Pump Room was really about painting pictures; crystallizing moments and places in time – each in a different country; a different climate; a different medium. And even though every piece was familiar (“classics” in both senses), this did not mean any subsequent dimming of the CSO’s habitual – one might say trademark – passion: either in effort or emotion. As always, their sound was spine-tingling and resonant; full of precision and love (of communication; of music; of involvement). I may have left Cheltenham with the closing ascents of the cellos and double-basses pulsing through the soles of my feet; but I was still somehow hovering a few millimetres above the ground (as I always am after their concerts); my soul raised ever so slightly further heavenwards; my heart light as air – both filled with intoxicating and inspiring joy.

This was an artistic Grand Tour – not of forgotten fusty museums or dusky, dusty long-galleries – but one that ensured our minds and lungs were filled with freshness and vitality: as canvases, boards and reams of fine paper were coloured before us en plein air, under some fascinating skies.

¶

First, sultry southern Spain: and a wonderful, perfectly-targeted introductory chat from cellist Stephen Pett – who then went on to conduct a selection of pieces from Bizet’s second Carmen suite in a beautifully crisp, energetic and flawlessly communicative fashion: eliciting some magically responsive playing from all sections of the CSO (with especial awe for their as-always stunning brass section – especially lead trumpeter Paul Broekman: who was on sizzling form). The percussionists – more of which, later – were also spectacular in their commitment to transport us to the baking esplanadas, plazas de toros, and that famed fábrica de cigarillos.

Yes, this was the top four of Bizet’s greatest hits; but familiarity, here, bred admiration. Thrilling, persuasive and ardent; and with fresh insights galore (subtle changes of tempo and dynamics; and no giving in to the urge to rush or to gloat). A lack of bombast, and a constant glow of sublimity, thus helped produce a powerful, detailed rendering of all those (in)famous operatic characters – more a skilfully-crafted, insightful, mesmerisingly three-dimensional bright, sun-baked pastel, though, than a coarse, broad-brushstroke oil-painting. Vivid, yes; but not crude; impressively considered and charismatically intelligent. The deeper the gaze, the more transcendent minutiae emerged. Simply put, a beautiful combination of zeal and skill. What a great way to start our tour of mainland Europe!

¶

Then, suddenly, we were whisked away to the cooler, more crystalline meadows and forests of fairytale Russia for Prokofiev’s enticing Peter and the Wolf. This is where the woodwind worked their magic – especially grumpy grandad Peter Kerr, beautifully overacting his infirmity on bassoon! Special mention should also be made of the three nasty Reservoir Wolves (“It’s the wool-uff!”) on French horns: hiding with ferocious intent behind intimidating sunglasses. (Grrr.) The whole Orchestra was knowingly in character – those thunderous drummers particularly shocking and scary (one small child in front of me instantly sticking his fingers in his assaulted ears – although with a cheeky grin that stretched between them…): emitting barrages of explosive power as the boastful hunters – and proving, after the Bizet, that they weren’t just one-hit wonders (boom-boom).

This was all wonderfully overseen and guided (with a little help from David Curtis, now back on the podium) by narrator Miranda Krestovnikoff: who not only spoke the words clearly, but gave them great weight and power with a superb range of expressive gestures and facial expressions. Altogether, a series of etchings of the highest quality; an illuminated storyboard of intense, thrilling delight.

¶

After the interval, a sublime watercolour rendering of Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ symphony. As much as I love the piano sonatas (to play and to listen to); the string quartets; especially the Drei Equali for trombones… – and although I am one of those awkward types who much prefers the even-numbered symphonies… – yet I have never been particularly moved by the orchestral works (not even by my favourite, the Eighth).

And yet, yesterday, I didn’t need the brook or storm: this performance provoked not only intense feelings; but more than enough resultant drops of water simply trickling down my frabjous face. In fact, the whole symphony flowed from beginning to end: gathering force (as torrents in summer) as it widened and deepened. (As Curtis said, afterwards, you need to keep the pages turning… – and he did: with marvellous, expressive, almost beautiful, control; and heaps of that proprietary trust.) Not that there was any rush….

[If I ever do lose the little that is left of my hearing, by the way, I shall still attend the man’s concerts. Just observing him ‘at work’ is a delight in itself. He communicates the music, and his wishes, with simple, graceful gestures and gazes. There is an economy of showmanship, mixed with an intelligence of expression. Genial magic flows from that baton. (Wizard!)]

This performance felt almost Straussian in its programmatic, extended tone-poem journey; never losing momentum: even in the second movement Scene am Bach – which Curtis told me Yehudi Menuhin once beautifully suggested should be performed as if a leaf, feather-like, is slowly descending, floating on and down that perfectly-painted stream: which the first movement – Erwachen heiterer Empfindungen bei der Ankunft auf dem Lande – had delivered us to. (It almost takes longer to say than it does to perform.) But I am getting ahead of myself….

¶

We started in sunshine: with that feeling you get at the end of a long journey, reaching the beautiful destination you have chosen for a day’s hike; emerging, breathing in that wonderful clean air, the evocative aroma of freshly-cut grass (and often, it has to be said, of the occasional flocks or herds of animals – although, having worked on a farm, I may be biased in finding such smells pleasant…). You stretch your arms and legs; and your whole body beams with expressed joyousness and celebration. Why, asks Beethoven, would you possibly want to be anywhere else but immersed in this paradise?

There was some beautiful delicacy, a few gentle pauses – as if, looking around, Curtis was taking stock of all this glory – before setting off. This is Beethoven as walker, wanderer, in touch with nature; his heart exposed to the raw elements – a musical Wordsworth roaming the foothills. (Was there more confidence – yet, somehow, contemplation – in the opening repeat; or was I already dreaming of blue-remembered mountains and valleys?!) Triplets in the cellos and violas, under sustained, Mozartian wind chords, presaged a change of atmosphere. What is coming? Is there a hint of rain in the air, cooling your face? A premonition of the storm to come?

And then we’re singing like the birds, momentarily soaring into the sky as the countermelody emerges; and the horns are now no longer wicked as wolves, but delicate as a wisp of cirrus. Such contrasts were rendered beautifully – painted, even – by Curtis and the orchestra. Somehow, all those repeats of the main motif just increased the happiness – never did this music sound in any way mundane: even though Beethoven never ever lets go of that key rhythm. I think it must be those contrasts, the light and shade….

If this movement ‘says’ anything – and, for me, it speaks volumes – it is of the gentle climb at the beginning of your day: following a friendly, familiar route, with the sun hiding-and-seeking behind fleeting puffs of cloud, as the views and landscape broaden gloriously. All this supported by some wonderful writing for the cellos and basses – including not only thematic material; but some superb, suspenseful pedal-points.

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Some beautiful, immensely clever string writing also opens that tremulous Scene am Bach – a very polite stream to begin with: tumbling gently over rocks between grassy banks; and forming almost-still pools. It ebbs and flows as we walk alongside it – or float leaflike along its surface – gradually changing its character. Are those birds we hear, high in the blazing sky?

Then the brook swells, momentarily, and the leaf continues its journey downstream, wafted slowly, cradled almost. The delicate orchestration here was sumptuously rendered: a conversation between wind and strings; the sky and the water. But hush! Another pool; a moment for reflection… – then onwards again. Is that us singing, or the stream humming to itself with hints of Schubert? No, it’s a nightingale, tempted out of its hiding place by the darkening skies. The quail and cuckoo return its call with a hint of alarm – such gorgeous gossamer woodwind playing; the strings now responding in kind: embracing them….

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The storm brews: dark and invigorating as my favourite espresso – but it is too far way, hovering on the distant horizon, for us to worry about. Yet. Time for a quick pint in the local hostelry; whilst the resident Morris troupe (who may already have imbibed a little) entertain us on the green outside! Those birds still hover above us, though, as sentinels; and there is still that hint of rain. You lift your dampened finger to the breeze: just as an alpine horn wafts across the valley. Yes – a final warning. Here comes the rain again, falling on your head like a memory. Better dash for cover. Quickly, now! But we’ve got to finish our round, say the Morris dancers… – before joining the sheltering huddle!

And, finally, those black clouds have arrived – yet so soon! Thunder and lightning (very, very frightening); large hailstones; huge dollops of rain….

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As the storm drew in – eyes closed at the back of the hall – I was reminded of an ascent of the Helvellyn range, forty or so years ago: trapped on the summit by weather summoned as if by Lear:

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world!

Crack nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once

That makes ingrateful man!

We had hoped to descend by Striding Edge; but were convinced that the squalls and cloud cover, never mind the pelting, hard drops of rain, would render this impossibly dangerous. But as with Beethoven – here lifting us, weightlessly above clearing, cushioning clouds into rich blue skies; soaring, eagle-like above the Austrian alps – so the ever-changeable and surprising Lakeland microclimate. And so we worked our way down, as planned, our sodden clothes steaming in the welcoming sun; any breeze devoted only to caretaking the remaining clouds; shepherding them like reluctant Herdwicks to distant corners of the glistening sky.

No wonder that final chorale – Frohe und dankbare Gefühle nach dem Sturm – is so joyous. The storm has been weathered; the terrain conquered; joy is unconfined and reaffirmed. But again, I am getting ahead of myself….

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A little light does break through, tantalisingly – but not for long. A piercing piccolo cuts the air sharply – the shrieks of those stranded; or nature’s vehemence? Oh, to be the conductor of such a storm! Prospero conjuring up revenge from the podium!

But, yes, it clears. A fresh horn call, and the reappearing birds welcome the returning sun… – and what warmth it brings! Tentatively, at first, as the rain begins to depart (wonderful string playing; and a stupendous control of dynamics, holding back the floods of joy). But they cannot be restrained for long. Those feelings grow in speed and volume, despite recurrent hesitancy (underlined by the cellos and basses soaring from the depths of their grateful hearts).

Thanks be to God! (Albeit this is an ode to joy with reservations… perhaps?) Curtis takes deep breaths, as Beethoven piles on the tension (as no-one else can) – knowing the exact moment to break free. And, when it does… phew. Two chords. That’s all it takes: heralded by a muted trumpet, growing rapidly in confidence.

Now all we have to do, is climb downwards, back to our starting point. All is well. All is blessed.

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I was tempted to reference Caspar David Friedrich, here; but the brushes involved in creating this landscape hinted more – to my mind – at Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruckner, even Mahler. I find it utterly astonishing that this rolling, unsurpassable Pastoral Symphony was written in parallel with the spiky, punchy Fifth – but both symphonies demonstrate Beethoven’s indefinable genius at experimentation: with standard musical forms, structures, motifs and repeated rhythm. On paper, so much duplication looks staid and almost tedious. But there are subtle differences: waxing and waning, accumulating a profundity and emotional depth. Keep the pages turning, and they illuminate and cross-fertilize our imaginations.

It’s good to have your preconceptions (and preoccupations) smoothed away; and driving home, under blue skies, and heaped pillows of sculpted glowing cloud, I could not help but sing that final shepherds’ hymn – and with great gladness in my heart. Our local hills may not be mountains; nor our weather as tumultuous and threatening as an alpine storm – but I imagine Beethoven would have fallen in love with the Cotswolds: painting Constable-type pictures, Wordsworthian poems in music, as he strolled along.

Stand atop Leckhampton Hill and tell me I’m wrong.