I knew our music would allure him…

Sometime during last weekend, I came downstairs to find The Good Lady Bard transfixed by a recording of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue on Classic FM – a piece much discussed (and played) in this household (as on this blog): especially the difference (on the soloist’s part, at least) between good and bad performances.

This was neither. In a nutshell, it was astonishing – the composure and control of the pianist far excelling any previous experience of this work (and with orchestral accompanists of the same impressive calibre). As TGLB said: even amongst all the virtuoso passages, and the swagger, the performer “sounds like they have all the time in the world”; adding that “they seem so relaxed: as if this is well within their capabilities; that they’re not being stretched, at all…” – and I had to agree. All those dense notes; and what could have been a struggle (or a muddle) rendered crisp, and yet remarkably heartfelt. Whoever was playing was at the top of their superlative game… – but this was not a version either of us had encountered before. I laughingly remarked that, in the more lyrical sections, it reminded me of either Martin Roscoe or Peter Donohoe playing Mozart; however, I was not aware – having listened to many (extremely different) recordings, whilst carrying out research (for the two concerts linked to, above) – of either of them having recorded this.

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

This above all: to thine own self be three…

The unabashed melodiousness of Brahms is without apology.

– Steve Spice

I like to imagine Brahms wandering around Europe – or even just the Red Hedgehog Tavern – almost permanently singing. Strangely enough, his gruff baritone sounds exactly like mine! (Probably because his figure is not dissimilar.) Seriously, though: I can think of no other composer who wrote such gorgeous, memorable, all-encompassing melodies – not even my beloved Elgar (who, it could be argued, is Brahms’ natural successor).

All week, therefore, in anticipation of last night’s Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra concert in the Town Hall, the opening horn call (delicately wafted into the air by Laura Morris – and subsequently recapitulated perfectly by Kelly Haines) of his Second Piano Concerto – and all its ensuing high-contrast, explosive variations and developments – has been echoing through my head (as well as bouncing off the walls of the Bardic halls). This tune is, essentially, a short, simple thing (appearing as a rising tilde in the score) – which is where its power indubitably lies. But what the aging (‘mature’) composer does with it is nothing short of miraculous: not least the initial arpeggiated, ascending response from the piano (played warmly by the inimitable Peter Donohoe).

However easily lulled you may be by that gentle beginning, you are soon awoken by a cadenza (already! at bar 11!) manufactured from some of the most turbulent, breathtaking Sturm und Drang I can think of. (All those octaves in the right hand I think explain Donohoe’s comment, below.) Although this detonation soon recapitulates the main theme as a short-lived ground bass – and the orchestra then takes over – it is not long before the thumb-bashing returns: albeit after a few fortunate pages’ rest!

So – believe me: I tried and failed to learn to play it; and it nearly killed my hands (and the rest of me) – even though the work has been described as “really a symphony with principal piano” – this is, I think, one of the most outrageously challenging pieces in the solo pianist’s repertoire: “the perfect fusion of inspirational fire with… encompassing technique” – which, thankfully, of course, Donohoe, genial genius, has in abundance. He makes it look (relatively) easy – even those infernal, eternal trills. (Although I suspect he is actually the owner of an extra pair of hands – which may well really belong to Martin Roscoe – such is his wizardry.)

It was the last work Brahms added to his repertory as a pianist, and for someone who had long given up regular practicing to get through it at all is amazing.

– Michael Steinberg

Some of the orchestral tutti chord sequences in this first movement even foreshadow those of Shostakovich (see below) with their impudent might – although this may just be a trick of consistent orchestra-scape and canny programming – and yet this is truly beautiful music: albeit with a heart of sharpest diamond. And there is nothing playful at all, either, about the second movement (which tonight featured a breathtaking stop-on-a-sixpence moment from the violins…). “It is a tiny, tiny little concerto with a tiny, tiny little scherzo” wrote Brahms. (Ha‑ha.)

But the work never stops punching you in the guts with its emotional impact, aided by Donohoe’s majestic, ringing, virtuousic keyboard playing. His partnership (which it truly was) with conductor David Curtis and the CSO rendered it a monumental spiritual assault. And, like the Shostakovich that followed – after the well-needed interval – it features a killer third movement: “the slow movement that Rachmaninoff tried all his life to write” – where, temporarily, the cello (beautifully, hauntingly bowed by Andrea Harries: who received rapt, delighted attention from the generous Donohoe) takes the limelight: with what would later become the song Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer (‘Ever gentler grows my slumber’). Personally, I think Brahms constructed this movement so that the pianist would at least have a few moments in which to plunge their hands into a bucket of ice; or for the trainer to come on to the pitch with a magic spray and a few plasters. (Donohoe is too noble and gifted to require such things.)

[By the way, if you want to know just what a “challenge” this work really is (and not just for my clumsy paws): then I would suggest that you read this tremendous account by Stephen Hough – one of the greatest (and most modest) performers I have been lucky to witness – as well as this marvellous interview with French pianist Philippe Bianconi.]

The last movement – regardless of what anyone-else may tell you; and despite the hint of Hungarian dance rhythm and final march (again heading towards Shostakovich territory) – superbly controlled by maestro Curtis – completes the concerto perfectly. It is what the preceding three movements insistently lead to – it is what is needed… – a romantic, rhapsodic meditation on all that has gone before. It may not contain quite the huge number of previous fireworks: but there are moments where the piano’s bass pulses through the soles of your feet, before the treble gives your heart and head a damn’ good work-out. You have to cheer – especially with a performer as subtle and powerful as Donohoe… – as you really, really wanted to do at the end of the Allegro non troppo and Allegro appassionato, of course. You simply have no option.

And here he rewarded our enthusiasm – demonstrating his finely-tuned prowess once more – with a highly intelligent, but deeply soulful, engrossing encore: exhibiting what I know to be a rare (and valuable) combination of insight and fluid technique. [For the life of me, although I recognized it, I cannot dig deep enough into my fading brain to retrieve its composer or title. If you know, please get in touch! Thank you. (I have now been informed – by a certain Peter Donohoe… – that “The encore was Mozart's Fantasia in D Minor K397”. Many thanks! This was genuinely beautiful playing….)] He also crept into the audience after the interval – a rare and thoughtful act….

The B-flat Concerto dates from the start of Brahms’ ripest maturity, the period when his fame had reached a peak throughout Europe and his physical image as we know it best was fixed: bearded and corpulent.

– The Los Angeles Philharmonic

Whilst the Brahms – one of the greatest Late Romantic ‘symphonies’, by last night’s reckoning – can prove hazardous for the piano soloist; Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony provokes and questions the abilities of each and every member of any orchestra that dares confront it. Here, though, these readily-tarnishing challenges were transformed into golden opportunities – and the CSO explored the very heights of proficiency, authority and exultancy – giving rise to one of the greatest orchestral performances I have experienced. (And I write this – humblebrag alert… – having been around the world; and having witnessed many of the greatest musicians of the last fifty years….)

This is no extravagance; no overstatement. The music breathed. And therefore every single person who contributed to tonight’s astonishing achievement should be immensely proud of themselves. This was musicianship of the very highest order – from the conductor to the clarinets; the brass to the bass drum; the piccolo to the piano. (It is just so sad that the hall was only half-full. I am pretty sure we all knew how utterly blessed we were, though….)

From the symphony’s opening battle between the lower and the upper strings and its soaring melodies, to the sounds of hopeless oppression and finally to the triumph of the human spirit, Shostakovich brilliantly captures the conflicting moods of a time, place and people.

– Marin Alsop: Power And Struggle In A Soviet Symphony

It would be all too easy, at least on the surface – especially considering the (parodic) startling re-entry of the triumphal (but threatening) brass in the last movement (with a rising three-note motif that echoes Brahms’ welcoming call – although this time in the minor: depressing that final note…) – to believe that, in writing his Fifth Symphony, Shostakovich had capitulated to Stalin’s directives in producing grandiose music to support his evil dictatorship: demonstrating the supposed superiority of the mighty Russian Bear during the godawful ‘Great Terror’. However, there is – right from the warlike get-go; its call to arms – and at its deep, deep, lyrical, tortured heart – what Peter Gutmann describes as “the clash between stifling ideology and irrepressible creative impulse”:

According to Stalin, music had to inspire and unite the Soviet people with uplifting messages. His taste was simplistic, but his power absolute. The Pravda party newspaper… branded Shostakovich an enemy of the people and condemned his work as chaotic, vulgar and perverted…. He was snubbed, performances of his works were cancelled and his career seemed over. Yet, he soon found a constructive cure for his pain…. He plunged into work on a new, more traditional symphony. There would be no mistaking its purpose. Shostakovich titled it “An Artist’s Creative Response to Just Criticism” and announced its program as “the stabilization of a personality of a man with all his experiences”. He proclaimed: “There can be no greater joy for a composer than… having assisted by his works in the elevation of Soviet musical culture… to contribute to the growth of our country”. When presented in celebration of the 20th anniversary of the Revolution, it was acclaimed a masterpiece, embracing the soul of the Russian people.

The composer initially described the finale as “resolving the tragically tense impulses of the earlier movements into optimism and the joy of living”. But, later, he rechristened it “a false optimism created under a threat” – akin to the “sadistic torture of being forced to smile while being beaten” – and implied that Stalin was “too dense to see through [his] parody and satire”: not realizing the “deeper and sardonic musical truth” (which, surely, to modern audiences – with the symphony’s industrial, weaponized brass section; satirical marches; and pleading, lyrical melodies – is so blatant that it cannot be ignored…).

I think it is clear to everyone what happens in the Fifth. The rejoicing is forced, created under threat, as in [Modest Mussorgsky’s opera] Boris Godunov. It’s as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, “Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing”, and you rise, shaky and go marching off, muttering, “Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing”. What kind of apotheosis is that? You have to be a complete oaf not to hear that. People who came to the premiere of the Fifth in the best of moods wept.

– Solomon Volkov: Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich

The crux of that weeping, for me (and, I suspect, for many others), is the brass-less Largo, which “is the work’s emotional core” – “one of the most despairing pieces of music ever written, a memorial for Mother Russia and all those sent to the labour camps”. And, although this exquisitely-scored lament uses themes from the preceding two movements, I think it is as close to the surface, and as close as you can get, to reading Shostakovich’s true intent: his fear and agonized despondency – even his hatred.

I agree: “there are no words” for last night’s rendering of this. All I need write is that I closed my eyes; and let the music immerse me in the inevitable purity of sorrow; the inescapable sobs gently washing and wracking my face…. The pace was perfect; as were the dynamics. I will jump to the end, therefore, and just say that those concluding ethereal harmonics from the harp are tough enough – for both audience and orchestra – without the following building Blitzkrieg chord from the full forces of the brass, woodwind and timpani which set off that last, knife-twisting lurch toward death. Thankfully, Curtis paused.

Here, in the coda, he then once more showed his shrewdness – and fulfilled his desire to “always tell a story” with the music – in finding a middle way between the ‘traditional’ fast and triumphal European dash to glory; and the more Russian, slow, tragic and disintegrating weariness. What we experienced was therefore no victory parade – hollow or otherwise. On the weekend of the Stop the War protests and the Climate Change March, these hammered, screaming, repeated chords felt like a forced procession to the scaffold for the whole of humanity.

Like the Brahms concerto that preceded it, this confrontational, testing symphony could be by no other composer. (The works share an expertise in orchestral technique and exploitation – for want of a better word – that is almost unsurpassable. And yet they are Germanic chalk and Soviet cheese in their differences: despite their parallel, emotive appearances and similar dynamic oscillations.)

Pardon my Cyrillic: but Shostakovich’s Fifth, with its gradual, initially deceptive, relentless urge – especially in this performance – builds to such a ball-kicking climax that it is sometimes hard to breathe. (The Brahms achieves such damage in a markedly discreet and more riverlike way.) As it progresses, the symphony swings from gentle massage to such exquisitely-timed assault that you may also find yourself – as I did – almost panting with the inflicted pain. It is tragedy of the most heart-piercing kind – a “long arc… of a bittersweet, aching intensity” – and I do not envy those who have to perform it – although the CSO, under the tight helmsmanship of an obviously emotionally-wrought Curtis – were sensational in their pure and sure commitment.

At least we in the audience had the release of tears, and the comfort of our handkerchiefs. All these poor musicians could do was play on through the terrifying, harrowing, inferno. (Even when Shostakovich appears to be lightening up a little – or even taking the mickey – he is nothing less than intensely serious in his aims and methods. And it shows. (I think the same can be said of Curtis, below, by the way.))

Earlier in the week, Curtis had said to me that “after the Shostakovich, I’ll need a stiff drink”. (Only one…?!) And so did I. This was music that really, really hurt – but in a good, masochistic, cleansing sort of way. (Oh, the power of a good tune…!) But, although he headed homeward for “a stiff gin and tonic” (there must be a musician’s punchline in there, somewhere…!), a thick, dark coffee had to suffice for me (albeit tinged with brandy) – otherwise this review would simply have been one very sharp, climactic expletive.

By the way (just to lighten things up a little): the concert began with a warm-up overture – again, as the programme notes told us, “Three arresting brass chords open the piece… they symbolize a vow of vengeance” – by some obscure ‘Joe Green’ bloke. (Thank you, Dad!) I’ve never really liked Verdi – apart from the heavenly Requiem (it’s great to sing; and features some muscular timpani and bass drum parts…) – but this was entertaining enough!

What it did achieve – seriously and melodiously – was to set the stage for the themes of agonizing tragedy and false triumphalism – the magnificent and dramatic “forces of destiny” – which followed. If Brahms paints paradise, Shostakovich hollows out for us the horrors of hell on earth. Both of which have left me utterly wrecked. Wow.

The moon emerged from behind the earlier storm-clouds to guide me home. I did not want the glow of my iPhone to compete; nor the sound of anything to disturb the now-Russian melodies entangling themselves in my overwhelmed brain. This music of “thought-provoking programming” and formidable skill will stay with me for a very long time. And yet I still must luxuriate in its vigorous freshness. For as long as I possibly can. Thank you; and good night….