Denn die Gloria Gottes des Herrn…

The first words I wrote upon getting home were “I feel truly blessed”. Hopefully, what follows will explain why.

Just over a year ago, I encountered Eboracum Baroque for the first time; and – if it is possible to do so, with a whole ensemble of musicians… – fell madly in love with them: for their youth; their talent (individual and combined); their sublime technique; the transparency of their sound; their communicativeness; their collegiateness… but mainly because I had never heard music – ever – produced with such consistent beauty, passion, belief, and (for want of another better word) obvious (and almost infinite) potential. Here was something that, at the time, I couldn’t put my finger on. Couldn’t understand why it so resonated; lined my heart for so long. I just knew it was unlike anything I had ever encountered. But, my goodness, it felt good!

However, after thirteen months of listening to some truly great musicians play some truly great music; after having my heart and soul repeatedly shattered and rebuilt; after thirteen months of gestating a realization that music really could be central to my life again; meld with my very corpuscles; stream at the speed of light, continuously, through my neurons, building everlasting, concrete connnections… – after thirteen months, it dawned on me what it was that so inspired me. This – whatever it is that Eboracum Baroque actually do… – is to fulfil my ideal way of making music. They literally have made my harmonious dreams, my ambitions, come true. In other words, the Eboracum Baroque ‘way’ is how – had deafness, and only a mediocre talent for music, not gotten in the way – I myself would have liked to, loved to, make music…. Hearing and seeing it performed this way proves not only that it is possible; but is a consummate realization, which, probably, is also a greater reward.

It is also incredibly brave – and in so many ways. But because these youngsters are also themselves individually and corporately courageous (even though they probably neither realize it, nor would accept such a descriptor); because they share a belief, an ideal… it is one that succeeds like nothing else. And, should you require proof: the extended, spontaneous standing ovation that lasted until every single one of them had left the stage at Great Malvern Priory, on Saturday night – after a performance of Messiah that I described at the time as “Astonishingly, ravishingly gorgeous and refreshing [with] contrasts, technique and talent to die for!” – should be enough.

Between the ages of about six and twenty-six I grew to loathe Handel’s Messiah. I had sung many excerpts as a cathedral and grammar school chorister (when my voice was more dove, less bittern); accompanied many others doing the same; I had sold programmes for my mum’s annual music society performances – before joining myself, as a baritone – I had also accompanied them for rehearsals; I had even conducted the darned thing at short notice; as well as play timpani for it. Basically there wasn’t a note of the thing I didn’t have committed to memory (hence the state of my rather ancient score, above): and thus abominate. [Of course, a parallel, Christmas-based whirlwind of multiple church services – as chorister, choirmaster, or organist – in rapid succession towards the end of every single year didn’t help soften my growing Scrooge-like attitude to this December ritual, and all its trappings. So, for nearly thirty years, I have avoided them – both Christmas and Messiah – like the plague (or Justin Bieber).]

But if familiarity (or rather brainwashing) had originally bred contempt; then the long absence of this music from my life had at least tempted me (with a gentle nudge from The Good Lady Bard) to discover if my heart really could grow fond again of music that I had once found utterly bewitching. Of course, as Eboracum Baroque were performing it, at least – even if the music still left me cold – the rendition of it would at least reel me in, and make it all worthwhile.

And, of course, having read the first four paragraphs, you’ll have a pretty good idea how it turned out. But what you won’t know is why, or how. And that, of course, is what I shall endeavour to explain, in the review that follows.

¶

Not only does distance help, when shaking hands, and begging forgiveness from what had once been an old friend; but a willingness to see things from a fresh perspective can also be a great facilitator. And, in this case, that “fresh perspective” wasn’t discretionary.

Handel wrote Messiah for modest vocal and instrumental forces, with optional settings for many of the individual numbers. In the years after his death, the work was adapted for performance on a much larger scale, with giant orchestras and choirs. In other efforts to update it, its orchestration was revised and amplified by (among others) Mozart. In the late 20th and early 21st centuries the trend has been towards reproducing a greater fidelity to Handel’s original intentions, although “big Messiah” productions continue to be mounted.

– Wikipedia

After increasingly suffering twenty years of those “big productions”, to turn up, and find an orchestra of five string players (plus harpischord continuo), and a chorus of twelve, was more than refreshing – especially given my (and my hearing aids’) predilection for “the purity and strength of a small ensemble”.

As the programme note states:

Tonight we offer a Messiah that has been assembled by the studying of Handel’s different versions. For example, we will be performing Rejoice Greatly in the original 12/8 format….

     You will notice the lack of oboes in this performance. This again is in answer to Handel’s original performance where in Dublin he performed with just strings, trumpets and timpani. We are performing at Baroque Pitch this evening which is a semi-tone down from modern pitch that orchestras play at today [allowing] for an even more exciting sound world in terms of keys and also the use of period instruments….

     Messiah is an ever changing masterpiece that should not be unbending in its performance. With the huge amounts of material available it offers performers an exciting opportunity to really make such a wonderful piece their own.

And this they did with aplomb.

¶

From the opening Sinfonia, it was apparent that the instrumentation would be crystal-clear and with a direct line to one’s heart: one player per part leaves no room for error; but it does make space for the sound to float beautifully – especially when so perfectly suited to the ringing acoustic of Great Malvern Priory. But it was the opening of Comfort ye my people that really set the tone: tenor Gareth Edmunds’ perfect enunciation, control of dynamics, and communication of emotion… – pleading for salvation so perfectly (setting the incredibly high benchmark that not one singer deviated from…) that, of course, the Bardic floodgates opened (and would not close until well after the very last “Amen”).

It seems unfair to only list a few of the twelve singers: especially when nearly every member of the choir performed at least one solo – and all so stunningly. (That each chorister is capable of delivering such to an incredibly high, and consistent, standard, and then yet blend transparently back into the chorus, is beyond remarkable….) But I fear I would end up listing every single one of the fifty-three constituent pieces were I just to use perfection as my selection criterion. So, here – with apologies to the truly magnificent, angel-voiced Tamsin Raitt, Naomi Sturges, Alexandra Rogers, and William Gimson… – are a few of my many, many highlights. (It goes without saying that the instrumental accompaniment was glorious throughout: with astonishing contrasts and dynamics. Thanks, therefore – and equal praise – to violinists Anna Waszak, Simone Pirri; viola player Heather Bourne; cellist Hetti Price; bassist Frances Emery – all proving that Baroque bows and a lack of vibrato produce atmosphere by the bucketload – and harpischordist Tom Nichol.)

The opening chorus – And the glory of the Lord – was also an archetype for everything that followed: every syllable perfectly audible; rhythms as crisp as the cold air creeping under the priory’s doors; and variations in volume that were instant, but gentle, rather than contrived.

Last year I wrote…

One of the key attributes (for me) of any directed group of musicians (even when small in number) is the attention everyone pays (or should) to the conductor (although I could be biased). It may not always be readily apparent from observing the performers’ faces: but it was obvious on Saturday evening that the members of Eboracum Baroque – and especially when the choir came on stage after the overture – are incredibly cohesive and attentive: to each other, as well as to engaging director Chris Parsons…. There was an instant and perfect control-and-response in dynamics and tempi of both instrument and voice. Truly astounding – a quality that reflected an innate flexibility; as well as collegiate respect, engagement and enjoyment.

…and nothing has changed. If anything, a growing, subtle confidence has just made things – not that I would have believed such possible – even more astounding (which is why I wrote, above, that, regardless of the existing high levels of achievement, their potential seems so limitless).

When bass Jamie Woollard proclaimed that “darkness shall cover the earth”, my spine crumbled. This was a prophecy that seemed steeped in veracity. Another pair of high points were the duets between soprano Lottie Bowden and alto Laura Baldwin – He shall feed his flock – and alto George Haynes and tenor Jonathan Hanley – O death, where is thy sting? Not only were the voices perfectly blended – complementing and harmonizing superbly – but so were the emotions, the clarity of utterance.

The crème de la crème, though, for me – as far as the soloists were concerned; and only by the tiniest of slivers – was Laura’s remarkable rendition of He was despised. Simply incredible amounts of passion, and expressed to perfection. At this point, my vertebrae simply evaporated….

¶

The climax of the evening, of course, was the Hallelujah chorus! Not only because the audience rose to their feet as one before it even started (after a wonderful rendition of Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron from tenor Nils Greenhow); but because of the sudden appearance of two natural trumpets (astounding control of pitch from Sam Lewis and Kaitlin Wild) and a timpani player (Jude Carlton). If we had been amazed before by the ability of so few musicians to fill so large a space with so much sound, this was the moment when, if you had closed your eyes, you would have imagined the Berlin Phil had been dropped into the priory (all playing on original instruments, of course…) – not five string players, a harpsichord, two trumpets, a timpanist, and a chorus of twelve (proof again that you do not need huge ensembles to make huge musical or emotional impact). And yet their rendition of Since by Man Came Death, a few minutes later, was so hushed, it seemed impossible that these could be the same forces.

By the way, I raved about bass John Holland-Avery in my previous review – and his voice still more than impresses. His duet with trumpeter Sam – The trumpet shall sound (which it did, gloriously) – was magnificent: especially as it came immediately after the subtle wonders of Behold, I tell you a mystery.

¶

I really didn’t want the evening to end (despite the monastic draughts): but end it did – and that standing ovation was utterly well-deserved. We had been treated to a performance of (what I must now admit, again, is) a true masterpiece – one that never lulled for interest and beauty, or passion and skill – one that had taken us back to the sound of that first performance in Dublin in April 1742; and one that filled one’s heart and soul. This was a contemporary Messiah like no other: more talent squeezed into and out of every note than should have been physically possible.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without Chris Parsons’ phenomenal vision, and utterly perfect control: all performers’ eyes seemingly glued to his expressive command – each movement beginning with his hands clasped together in prayer, or as if gathering the magic he would then disperse across choir and orchestra.

I don’t know if there are any tickets left, but they are repeating their performance in St John’s College Chapel, Cambridge, this Saturday (17 December 2016). It may just be the best Christmas present you could buy… – especially for yourself…!

Down a winding cobbled street from the church trips the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, the most evocative and strangely dramatic of all morris dances, performed for perhaps hundreds of years, conceivably for thousands. They are led by a single fiddler, dressed in a rag coat, playing a tune that is childlike and simple, but also full of sadness and an ethereal, mordant power, like the soundtrack of a dream. Behind him come men carrying antlered fallow deer heads in front of their faces. Behind them, a man-woman, a hunter and a hobbyhorse. They dance in silence, slowly. The hunt turns and turns, casting patterns in the moonlight. You feel its mossy, shadowed meaning beyond understanding. A ghost dance, a silently keening sadness. The things we misplace always bear a heavier loss than the things we choose to grasp with white knuckles. And in the darkness, quite unexpectedly, I feel tears of mourning on my cheek.

– AA Gill: AA Gill is Further Away: Helping with Enquiries

Roll Over Beethoven…

Note: originally written for – and published on – The Cross-Eyed Pianist blog: 8 February 2016.

I inherited my musicianship and my love of music from my mum. Many of her first musical memories are religious – as are mine. Hers include pumping the bellows for the organist at the Methodist church in Yorkshire where my grandad was a lay-preacher. Mine, sitting astonished in the congregation of Blackburn Cathedral – then still a building site – waiting for my audition for the choir: wondering if this amazing noise was also what filled heaven. (I was never religious, in any sense: but the compositions and architecture inspired by all faiths will never cease to amaze and inspire me.) I was four.

Forty years later, I also inherited my mum’s deafness – although mine has been accelerated, and deepened, by other medical issues. After a lifetime of singing, playing, composing, conducting, listening… in some ways the loss of music was worse than the main disability which accompanied it. I felt bereft, and grieved for a very long time. Even the familiar works on my music server (which has over 20,000 tracks on it – ranging from plainchant to punk; serialism to soul) could not console me. For several years, music was something I accidentally bumped into; never actively sought out; and always came away from more disappointed than before.

When I obtained my first hearing aids (properly called hearing instruments), a very talented and patient audiologist spent an afternoon with me at home cycling through some of those many pieces, in many different genres, adjusting these little life-savers over and over again until one of their four programmes was specifically set up for listening to music. However, not all harmonies are born equal – there is a reason iPods come with so many equalizer settings, I discovered – and, eventually, I realized that I needed to know the music note for note (often helped by a score resting on my lap) for it to make ‘sense’ to me. It also helped if the composition was sparsely scored. (Thank goodness for chamber music – especially Bartók’s magnificent six string quartets – which I now have so many different recordings of, I have lost count!)

As my hearing rapidly worsened, the technology could not keep pace. Concerts were always painful – and listening to the piano (my own instrument) always sounded especially dissonant: the clash of harmonics confusing the processing of both my digital hearing aids and my analogue brain.

¶

However, I kept reading about improvements to hearing technology; and, as my first set of ‘instruments’ were no longer powerful enough, late last year I was granted a new pair. Initial technical and customer care problems rendered them almost useless. However, thanks to another thoughtful audiologist, I am now progressing well on my return to the musical world, with a much wider and deeper soundscape. (It takes a while to get the fine-tuning right with these things: but I feel that I am more than halfway back to the best the sound can be for me. And what we have achieved is already a massive leap forward.)

It is so long since I played (the family Bechstein upright now resides with my son: another keen musician – those genes are obviously dominant); composed (my Mac, with all my part-finished digital manuscripts, is in storage – along with multiple backups, of course); and I am no longer fit enough (physically or aurally) to conduct: so I simply assumed that any future I had with music would be passive – although immensely enjoyable – as a ‘mere’ listener.

¶

I had, though, started writing reviews of the plays I regularly attended at the RSC – aided enormously by the access provision there: including captioned performances. These were posted on my blog: which had initially been about life in my remote Warwickshire village, both scenic and politic; but which had expanded eclectically to cover more wider culture; as well as life from my slightly warped point of view. And, although I was writing mainly for myself, and happy just to be occupied in some sort of creative act, it really had not occurred to me at all that my previous experience as an amateur musician could similarly be applied.

However, ever since we moved to this area of the world, we have been on the mailing list of the inspirational Orchestra of the Swan (OOTS), also based in Stratford-upon-Avon. And, encouraged by my partner, over the last few months, I have attended quite a few of their concerts. This was an extremely tentative – and somewhat daunting – exercise, at first: but, as I have grown accustomed to my new instruments (which, at first, were bass-heavy and treble-light: my hearing loss has a large neurological component, which is not easily adjusted for), I felt compelled to write about my experience, dubbing it “this journey (nay, this pilgrimage) back to live music that I am on”. This was something I needed to do, it seemed – especially as it brought together the things I loved. And it was helped by the fact that OOTS is a small ensemble – as is Eboracum Baroque: who I accidentally discovered on my trek – both of whose sound is tremendously transparent.

Of course, as with the plays’ scripts, re-reading, re-learning the scores, has helped tremendously – although I have not yet had the temerity to experiment with referring to them during a concert: despite never meeting with resistance to this as a student; nor, nearly four years ago, when I followed The Dream of Gerontius – a work I know better than most; but at a time when my hearing had failed badly – on my iPad in the grand tier of Birmingham’s wondrous Symphony Hall. (In fact, many other enthusiastic Elgarians told me that it gave them the courage to try something similar: so I probably will return to this practice in the future – although I worry that it may detract from my usual somewhat immediate, emotional response.) Such familiarity also helps; and I am fortunate that, once absorbed, the musical notation often floats through my head whilst listening: bringing me improved clarity.

¶

As with the listening, though, so with the resultant writing. Much professional music – and drama – criticism leaves me cold; does not give me what I crave from not being there (basically, regret…); does not enlighten the mind nor accelerate the heart. But, as I was – I believed – writing for myself, I hesitantly attempted to rectify these faults by producing the sort of review I would like to read myself – not yet aware that there were those in the wider world who had similar feelings (principal amongst them, of course, this blog’s generous host, Frances).

I was therefore surprised by the reception: not just from other concert-goers – but from musicians (and others) who I admired. (Special mention must go here to David Curtis, artistic director of OOTS: who not only welcomed my different approach, but embraced it with his habitual enthusiasm; and who continues to encourage and help me re-immerse myself in this refreshed world of constant magic.)

After writing a very thorough (i.e. customarily lengthy, detailed and discursive) critique of one of David’s concerts with the (non-professional-but-most-awesome) Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra – not a small ensemble, at all: not for Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto (and with my hero, Peter Donohoe), and Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony… – I was still gobsmacked to find the number of hits on the review increasing almost before my eyes: rapidly gaining more viewings and feedback than any other post I had authored. It seemed that I had, unwittingly, serendipitously, hit some sort of target, some sort of nerve: fulfilling a similar need to my own, but, moreover, for many others.

This took a while to sink in – and, me being me, the only way I could deal with it was to write about it. I therefore penned an article on my motivations: what music criticism means to me; what I think it should be; but, principally, what drives me to write in the way I do – and why it is so different to what others (might) produce.

To be honest, I published it assuming I would be condemned (not that I truly minded) for my amateurishness; for treading on the toes of those more ‘qualified’ to produce such writings (although I do have a background in professional journalism – albeit covering technology…). But, again, the positive feedback opened my eyes: and I feel not only have I found some sort of vocation (and one that I enjoy); but that music – as it frequently does – has started to connect me with those who, with much more expertise and experience than me, too wish to promote it in their own inclusive, collegiate, enthusiastic way.

¶

This is only the beginning, though. Not only do I believe that there is a wider audience to be reached by writing with my own, peculiar brand of passion – as do others – additionally, I hope that my experience can encourage and help those who may have also ‘lost the music’ in their lives (for whatever reason) to try and find a way back in for themselves. Without making light of it, my deafness now helps me appreciate music so much more. I therefore hope that I have also inherited my mum’s longevity.

Restoring my faith…

I wrote the other day that “Music used to be my drug. Now, it is words….” This doesn’t mean that I am not still addicted to the “moody food Of us that trade in love” – just that, as my hearing slithers down the audiological scarp, I have to find different ways to satisfy my craving.

At home, I increasingly listen to works that have sparse orchestration – especially chamber music: and particularly string quartets (my favourites being Bartók’s: which I can easily listen to, straight through, over and over again, for hours, discovering something new every time; and which is why I have so many different recordings…). And it is becoming readily apparent that, from such experiences, something wicked this way can come. (Sorry, Will.)

This was made clear (ahem) to me, at the recent Orchestra of the Swan Battle of Agincourt ‘entertainment’: where the instrumentation demonstrated “the purity and strength of a small ensemble” – which was bright music to my dull ears. I could discern every instrument, every line of the score: especially, when, in the second half, of OOTS’ usual string section, only the cellos remained. (The harmonics – a subset of overtones – which even a medium-sized group of stringed instruments produce – and especially at the ‘top end’ of what is left of my range – can easily confuse both my hearing aids and what’s left of my brain’s interpretative ability.)

One of the other ways I can experience music fully is through a learned familiarity with it; or a reading of the score. So, hoping to prove that my enjoyment of a single concert wasn’t just a fluke – but with a mixed, pessimistic strain of esperance (and fingers crossed, whilst touching wood; but not wearing my clothes inside out…) – I booked tickets for the final concert of the Stratford on Avon Music Festival: Eboracum Baroque (above, in rehearsal) presenting a lovely selection of Handel, Purcell, and Vivaldi.

Apart from the overture – to Atalanta, “the most festive and idyllic of Handel’s operas” – I had either sung, played in, or conducted, all of the programmed pieces. However, I have to be honest, and stress that none of my interpretations could even have reached base camp of the towering peak – revealing new aspects and associations with almost every bar – generated by “some of the most promising young singers and musicians around today”. (If an absolute measure of the greatness of a performance is how motionless I remain during it – and the consequent increased pain and stiffness, the following day – then, on Sunday morning, I was sorely in need of the services of Aphrodite. As well as a new book of superlatives….)

I could spend as much time as the length of the concert itself trying to describe just how wonderful it was… – but, instead, here are a few of the highlights….

One of the key attributes (for me) of any directed group of musicians (even when small in number) is the attention everyone pays (or should) to the conductor (although I could be biased). It may not always be readily apparent from observing the performers’ faces: but it was obvious on Saturday evening that the members of Eboracum Baroque – and especially when the choir came on stage after the overture – are incredibly cohesive and attentive: to each other, as well as to engaging director Chris Parsons (below). There was an instant and perfect control-and-response in dynamics and tempi of both instrument and voice. Truly astounding – a quality that reflected an innate flexibility; as well as collegiate respect, engagement and enjoyment.

The maturity of the voices – for an ensemble only formed three years ago at the University of York – was particularly glorious: but I was especially taken with the richness of bass John Holland-Avery (and I don’t think a comparison with Samuel Ramey is out of order, here) and countertenor Mark Williams – whose astonishing knee-weakening purity and heart-stopping range in Purcell’s Sound the trumpet caught me completely off-guard. (The obvious analogue would probably be Andreas Scholl – but, to me, here is another James Bowman in the (already almost fully-fledged) making.) The female soloists – Lottie Bowden, Amber Rutterford, and Naomi Sturges, sopranos; and Alexandra Osborne, contralto – also seem to have been born with voices and technique perfectly-honed. It’s just a shame we didn’t have a tenor solo, as well: as their paired voices also sounded keen and flawless, just like their colleagues’ – especially during Vivaldi’s Gloria (“his most popular choral work”), which ended the evening.

It may have helped that the group had the perfect setting in Holy Trinity – although I was sat near the front; and I know from experience that the acoustics can suffer, becoming a little woolly, further down the aisle. It was just a shame the audience was so, erm, exclusive. (“But we in it shall be rememberéd – We few, we happy few….”)

At the Agincourt concert, The Good Lady Bard had expressed concerns about the average age of the audience (a familiar shared lament arising from regular attendances at Wigmore Hall): asking who will come to such events in the future? But, after seeing Eboracum Baroque, I do not think we need worry: these youngsters (and this is a laudatory description that reflects more on my age than theirs…) “at the start of their professional careers” prove that there is an excellent, guaranteed future for classical music – not only in their mature voices, but through their well-developed, well-informed attitude to its performance and presentation.

I think it also bodes well that, like David Curtis, artistic director of the Orchestra of the Swan, Parsons takes time to talk informally to the audience. This added to the involvement – especially when we had a quick and light-hearted impromptu tour around the instruments being played: explaining their rôles, as well as introducing the performers (“And, tonight, on chamber organ…!”) – and demonstrated how much fun there is to be had, even when performing serious, intensely religious works (although Christopher Hogwood proved long ago that, as with this concert, music performed on such ‘original instruments’ can be utterly emotionally engaging, for both performers and audience).

In conclusion, I would therefore recommend that you order their new CD – hopefully the first of many – as soon as you can: and experience Eboracum Baroque’s enveloping warmth and utter professionalism for yourself – revelling in music that engages the heart and the brain with perfect beauty and spotless accuracy. Utterly, utterly irresistible.