Aqui está encerrada el alma de .....

Yesterday was Elgar’s 160th birthday; and I was in need of a big dose of some of the big man’s big music. Fortunately (despite my friend Paolo – probably rightfully… – jokingly calling me a “traitor” for deserting the Orchestra of the Swan, serenading the so-called summer, at Armscote Manor…), the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra (CBSO) were at Malvern, celebrating, too!

Only his Violin Concerto had been listed originally; but the concert opened with a gem-like example of his ‘smaller’ music: the wonderfully enchanting Serenade for Strings. Just a tad uncertain, to begin with – despite a perfect opening entry from the violas – this soon gathered momentum, and the required relaxation, to become a rather lovely, and involving, performance. I had forgotten – despite experiencing the CSO’s magical renditions so frequently – how thick and rich symphonic strings can sound (on their own); and was momentarily flabbergasted. (To be honest, I prefer the sparseness and openness of the OOTS string sound – which I think is more suited to this work.) But the CBSO delivered the requisite amount of charm and affection – conductor Michael Seal gently and amiably swaying in time – to put a huge ear-troubling smile on my face! It also achieved its objective of immersing us flawlessly in an Elgarian soundscape and mood… – although nothing can really prepare you for the soul-plumbing depths of his most masterly masterpiece (see below).

When; and the art of existential transience…

For a relatively short time, I sobbed my heart out. But then, being the undoubtedly strange creature that I am – and, yet residing on its periphery, probably reasonably representative of my species… – I do seem to devote rather a lot of effort – as well as lend a disproportionate amount of significance to – mayfly moments such as this. It is as if – recognizing (whilst simultaneously attempting to avoid discussion of) our brittle mortality – we treasure the ephemeral above all else; venerate the transitory beyond rational measure. We see, reflected in such twinklings, I suppose, the entropy that must always prevail (until the only thing remaining is entropy itself); and therefore lend them as much love as we can, until they crumble to the sand by which, when captured in entwined glass globes, we would once (long ago) have measured their brief incidence; before mourning their finiteness. As I did.

All we can do, really, faced with such, is remember. Or, at the very least try to – however imperfectly filtered through our emotions and subjectivity. Surely, otherwise, these junctures lose the import that produced them; and – for a paltry while – that sustained them (and us). And, should our memories – the golden threads which fabricate the texture of our lives; the microscopic building blocks of the richness of our realities: ones we hand down, inadvertently, along with our atoms… – be fortunate, then perhaps they will survive, beyond our crumpled existence, as poor proxies. Thus, many lifetimes hence, those that follow (should they choose) can discern their value, gasp at their truths (again) – rather than simply, reflexively marvel at their endurance, the longevity of the poor surrogates themselves.

¶

I cannot – even were I freakishly nominated as literary ambassador for all humankind – speak, speak to… others’ thoughts (unless similarly committed to posterity: stochastic samples of the privileged and able, perhaps; and, yet, I would hope, as contradictory and wide-ranging as those who selected me… but especially those who did not). All I know is that, pick any part of this blog, and – whether of a walk; a play; a concert; an encounter with the weather, or another soul… – the evidence before you would go a long way to demonstrating that my sole purpose here is in making inefficient attempts at tanning the hide of time, pickling the ineffable, pressing the fading petals of awe between my ever-mounting pages. No better than those proud, possessive Victorians displaying pinned moths by the caseload.

Yes, there are strong hints of their quick beauty; but, once slowed by my dull hand, am I in fact merely robbing the life, the mystery, the essential ‘beingness’ from that which I witnessed? Or should I continue to believe that – in pleasing (only) myself; and providing enough clues with my monochrome words to reconjure the original technicolour majesty, momentarily in (only) my head (should I dare to; care to…) – this is all I should be expected to be able to achieve?

Stumble upon the tens of thousands of still images, archived with a similar objective, and you might begin to suspect that, surreptitiously, I was either stashing them with the aim of posthumous fame; or, more likely, concerned that my raddled brain will increasingly require such prompts. (It would be nothing but vanity to imagine that they hold value to anyone but their creator… – words or pictures.)

¶

And yet I persevere. And always will. Both in cherishing and recording. I feel I have no other option. If I only aim to do so to distract myself, though, then I fail. If all I achieve is to say “I was here”: then, again, there is no purpose. If, however, I write to proclaim my bewilderment at miracles frequently flashing by me – and that I managed to grasp a few of them, momentarily – then perhaps I am on to something. It may not be my “responsibility”, as such. But if I convey just to one other person just one fraction of that I experienced – so that the miracle is extended in time and space – then, maybe, maybe, I have a little justification.

For a short time, I sobbed my heart out. Not, this time, because of what I had seen or heard. But, for the third time in the same number of weeks, because the anticipation of such would lie unfulfilled. Yes, I can watch the DVD of the RSC’s production when it is eventually released; and I can also – as I did, over and over, on Monday evening – listen to the mesmerizing CD of the same performers playing one of the most intimately radiant pieces of music ever composed – instead of hearing it live. But, of course – some of it being down to that adoration of the temporal; most of it due to the ‘happeningness’ I seem to spend half my life waving a tattered butterfly net at… – it’s not the same. (It’s not that the digital domain is sterile – the passions are still utterly crystalline… – just that presence overloads every single one of your senses.)

All those months of drooling expectation; the prolonged crescendo of excitement; the knowledge that something so utterly exhilarating lurks over the horizon… – all dashed. Perhaps it is the anticipation – rather than the event – which renders it so special?

I am convinced that it is a combination of both. I am also convinced that not being able to realize the three-dimensional possibility so readily accrued distresses at least as much as the actualization would have comforted… – and carries with it all the poignancy (if not the force, the tragedy) of a life cut short. At this moment, it certainly feels as momentous – however inordinate I know that to be.

¶

After all, it was just another point in time, a potentiality. And there have been many such that I have chosen simply to pass by. But I selected the ones that would eventually pass me by because they possessed something significant. They were fleeting, rare, coveted creatures that I will now never hold, even temporarily; therefore never stumblingly attempt to memorialize for others (and, in doing so, secure for myself). Scattered amongst the infinite possibilities of my life, they will haunt me: carving yet another notch into the wall of the cell that holds and punishes me (one that is, in my case, simply labelled ‘disability’) – one whose volume seems to decrease, almost imperceptibly (were it not for those sad markers), trapping me tighter with each vanquished wish…. (I could, though, treat them as ‘friendly’ ghosts: letting them help me rationalize, and gain proportion and balance. More straightforward to write than to execute, though…?)

¶

So, I wonder – having tapped single-fingered at my iPhone for the best part of two hours – why do we cherish the transient so greedily? And then why do we – some of us – try to describe it; or at least cement its effects into our emotions? Surely the experience alone should be enough?

And, of course, for most, it is. And yet… we still purchase the CDs; replay the concerts on iPlayer; peruse the reviews; watch the DVDs until we know each line of dialogue, weep and laugh in the same places…. But then, I wonder – an epiphany prompted by an insomniac stroll… – if, “for most”, this is actually what suffices, even excites… – if only a minority of us genuinely crave the imperfections, the risks, the exponentially unwinding possibilities of failure – the spills – that are, of course, driven to insignificance by the thrills. Do the majority actually relish the reproducibility, the repetition, the safeness…?

 

During the hours of darkness – especially two hours after midnight – the village is mine. And, usually, only mine. But it is never the same. And that is as much an enticement as is the pretence of dominion. But, I suspect, many people would find the rich, velvety void of blackness quite scary – never mind lying back on a damp church bench for an hour, surrounded by graves and the rustle of tiny critters.

Very early Tuesday morning, I left home under a trillion pin-pricks of flickering, bright, distant suns: constellations spelled out with clarity and precision; and – beyond the blinding sodium – interspersed with clumps of dust: each speckle an individual. Given long enough, head resting on the arm of one of those benches, the Milky Way also emerges.

As I dragged myself away from the treacle-tenebrosity of Sandpits Road, I saw a canine hind leg skulk around the corner into Main Street. Too large for a fox; and no place for a fox, neither… – there is enough for them in the verdant nature and nurture that surrounds us. But my eyes were temporarily blinded. However, intrigued, I followed: expecting a distant ginger lolloping blur. But, it seems, my depression had momentarily become flesh: for there, a few footsteps away, was a timid black labrador (a shy old friend): dark as the shadows itself. Head hung low, it stood stock-still as I headed for the church; but was gone – home, I hope – when I later returned.

Yet with it came – or so it felt – a change. (And it was then that I remembered that such is our species’ bête noire – not the unpredictable delight I personally revel in.) And when I lowered myself into my customary seat (I can be a creature of habit sometimes…) I realized that my perfect sky had been replaced with an encroaching, enclosing mustard-coloured blur – as if the condensation which had earlier veiled the cars was now obscuring all of Tysoe.

Like the pain that had curtailed my day’s enjoyment, it seemed unlikely to disperse: and so I slouched home, again disappointed. There was nothing new to be discovered tonight; and even the owls had been quieted by this descending, dank wool.

Buddhists believe that “It is only by accepting the truth of impermanence that we can be free.” And the Japanese even have a word for that “impermanence” – wabi‑sabi – although this may be interpreted in many different ways: authenticity; simplicity; naturalness; intimacy; especially an acceptance of imperfection, whether that be of one’s life, an object, or the art we surround ourselves with [pdf]. (It’s probably why I love contemporary jazz so much; or struggle to remember the rare mistakes in a classical performance when there are so many moments of bliss.)

And, so, perhaps I should not really have sobbed my heart out? At the time – so swiftly passed, if not yet forgotten – it felt justified: a cathartic reaction to a spiritual cruelty piled atop never-waning physical ones (which it could, of course, have eased – temporarily). I have learned, over the years, though, to absorb those corporeal pains – they have become part of my material concept of self. Perhaps it is time to start learning, though… – accepting that sometimes the excitement I crave has a necessary bleaker dimension… – how to assimilate the incorporeal ones, too…? Not all unpredictability leads to happiness – although some of it may lead to release.

Let’s think the unthinkable, let’s do the undoable. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.

– Douglas Adams: Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

The jest I’ll show you here…

I walked in somewhere around figure 69 – molto allargando, con passione – the sound of a lone, warm cello singing one of the most beautiful portions of, to me, one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written – that is, the closing section of Elgar’s Cello Concerto, with its frequent tenuto emphases (the many markings are themselves pure Italian poetry); just before those devastating opening stopped chords return, and the work rushes, Allegro molto, to its astonishing fortissimo finish. This is music, nay artistry, of transfiguration – and, although I knew, really, I should not so rudely interpose myself, nor stay to listen to this private practice (just conductor and soloist, entranced together, in the atrium of Stratford ArtsHouse), I felt utterly compelled by such a siren call to do so.

Even without its transcendent orchestral accompaniment, my eyes glistened; my heart pumped more strongly; and the rest of the world instantly faded away. (I’m not sure those tears have completely dried, yet….)

¶

I wonder if this is how those who were fortunate enough to attend the Barbirolli/du Pré recording sessions felt: privileged to be at the birth of one of the greatest musical landmarks of all time. It is quite difficult not to draw such comparisons when Laura van der Heijden – the Orchestra of the Swan’s new Associate Artist; and from whom this astounding sound emanated… – is just a year younger than Jacqueline du Pré was then (in 1965); and demonstrates a similar, remarkable maturity. Although, thank goodness – unlike so many other performers… – and this was evident even during rehearsal – Laura’s interpretation of this masterpiece is definitely all her own. (As conductor David Curtis said, so perspicaciously, in his pre-concert talk: she has made it so by first, wisely, returning to the source material – interrogating and understanding Elgar’s clear, precise, multifarious directions – rather than simply aping what has gone before.)

Additionally, she seems to have realized that, just because a work is known for its emotion, not all of that needs to be of the negative variety. Undoubtedly, there are many passages of profound, sublime sadness. However, there is also a great deal of joy to be found – and to be expressed. And this Laura did with incredibly fresh, youthful vigour. For instance, during the second movement Allegro molto staccato semiquavers – initially marked pianissimo and leggierissimo (a difficult trick to pull off at such speed: and yet accomplished with apparent ease, here); then building with repeated brillante crescendos to sustained descending motifs – a moving picture of Elgar cycling gaily along the top of the Malvern Hills on Mr Phoebus popped into my head! [By the way, there is no need to talk about technique, here. Laura’s playing is way beyond such considerations: rendering it invisible; hidden underneath convincing sensibilities; deep intelligence; and an apparent desire to learn, to understand. (Such attributes are remarkable for a musician of any age.)]

This is ecstasy, then, of a different kind: and at variance with many people’s simplistic impression of this as a work of constant gloom. [What is it I said last week? Oh yes: “comedy isn’t funny without a continual thread of adversity; and tragedy isn’t sad without the stout opposition of humour.”] What melancholy there is, though, here, is as deep as the oceans; and that return to the slow movement I so rudely interrupted in rehearsal, in concert was yet more profound than anything I have encountered for quite some time (and caused me to add substantially to the volume of those seas with my salt tears…).

¶

The concerto may be the work of Elgar’s with the most universal appeal, but, paradoxically, it is the work of his that is most rooted in a specific moment in time.

     Elgar wrote the concerto in 1919, just after the Great War. Appalled and disillusioned by the suffering caused by the war, he realized that life in Europe would never be the same after such destruction. His first reaction had been to withdraw from composition, and he wrote very little music during the war’s first four years. Then, over a period of twelve months – from August of 1918 to the following August – Elgar poured his feelings into four works that rank among the finest he ever composed. [This is a statement I most heartily agree with!] The first three were chamber works in which he developed a new musical voice, more concise and subdued than his previous one. The fourth work was the Cello Concerto, Elgar’s lament for a lost world.

– Elgar – His Music: Cello Concerto – Introduction

Elgar said that he meant it to musically explore the image of a man contemplating the meaning of life. The music is rather melancholic, though it possesses moments of great grandeur.

– CelloHeaven.com: The Elgar Cello Concerto

Because of such history, and such descriptions (although neither is far from what I believe to be the truth), not only can one lose sight of the music’s moments of uplifting gladness, its delight; it is all too easy (and tempting; and habitual…) to then over-egg the emotion Elgar invested the score with. But, to do so – I believe – is to misunderstand its very essence.

Such passion, as Laura so beautifully demonstrated, is contained in the notes themselves (such is the wizardry of Elgar’s writing and orchestration). And, although I would never argue that any musician should not bring their own experiences and feeling with them when playing any work, I do believe that they should not then impose them on it (especially not to the music’s detriment). Performer and creator need to find a balance where both voices speak equally – and it is this quality so evident in Laura’s playing that is so utterly impressive (if not so utterly stupefying) for one of such tender age; and in such a complex work… (although I acknowledge that this is written from the perspective of a cynical old man with an Elgar fixation…).

Her thoughtful rendition showed such a keen understanding not only of this requisite harmony, but (again) of the composer’s expressed intentions – as well as how to convey them through the prisms of her own heart, mind and body. As a result, I was almost (only “almost”, mind…) left wordless.

¶

I think the most unexpected part of her performance, though – and I mean this in an extremely positive way… – was the Adagio. Every single bar of it.

For a work I know so well that, at a pinch, I could conduct it without a score, this third movement was shocking in its emotional honesty and freshness. I truly cannot remember ever hearing it played like this: performed with such simmering fervid devastation. All I can really say – in awe – is that, in modern parlance, Laura owned it.

¶

Of course, as beautiful as that solo voice resonates on its own, the power of the work is magnified manyfold by the orchestra. Here, David and OOTS were simply exceptional. There was space for the music to breathe (of course); for the cello to float above their rich tapestry of sound (and at its own pace); to be combative, when required, or gently (stunningly quietly) supportive. Such contrasts were almost heroic – a typically large Elgarian force mounted against this lonely, most human-sounding of instruments…. And yet, such is OOTS’ magic, that each instrumental line was crystal clear: even during the concerto’s soul-rending, plangent climaxes. This was a phenomenal performance – in every way.

After the interval, David craftily added in four short – intensely beautiful – related works: Walton’s Two Pieces for Strings from Henry V (the perfect Passacaglia: Death of Falstaff and Touch her soft lips and part…); and then the two interludes from my firm favourite of Elgar’s works: his fantastic Falstaff ‘symphonic study’. Both of these couplets are so wonderfully descriptive; and yet are not so programmatic that the listener’s imagination is rendered redundant. (Special mention, here, must go to leader David Le Page: conjuring up just the perfect amount of wistfulness as Falstaff dreams of his childhood service.)

These pieces were the pivot on which the evening revolved. Ravishing enough for us not to lose sight of what had gone before; but – especially in the second Elgarian interlude: where Falstaff is entertained by Justice Shallow in his Gloucestershire orchard (with some superb tambourine playing from the sadly uncredited percussionist) – hints of the (what I can only describe as) celebratory madness to come!

¶

Of course, there are other sides to Elgar (he is not just an introvert hick from the sticks…) – principally that of the starched collar; bushy moustache; and Edwardian, imperial bravado: mixed with that quaint English quality of restraint. Although, of course, he threw that last quality out of the window when composing the first four of his five Pomp and Circumstance Military Marches. After all, this is music that calls, incites men to “glorious” war – in fact, calls them to die… – and yet only the fifth (composed in 1930) actually captures the tangible regret (although originating from conflicting motives) of the speech which inspired their title:

                                             O now, forever

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!

Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars

That makes ambition virtue! O, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,

The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife,

The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

Th’ immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.

– Shakespeare: Othello (III.iii.348-358)

That these pieces so stir us is probably due to Elgar’s unflagging belief – before the war broke his soul… – in the establishment; the world he so aspired (yet never really belonged) to. The Cello Concerto shows us such confidence shattered into painful and desperately sorrowful shards. Yet both aspects have the great man wearing his heart blatantly on his sleeve (“for daws to peck at”). Just in different ways.

¶

As much as I love them – and for (quite possibly) all the wrong reasons – these marches are, realistically, simply, now, demonstration pieces (their sentiments outdated and almost certainly politically incorrect). “Look how brilliant my instrumentation is!” (And, of course, self-taught as he was, there is no greater, nor more original, contemporary orchestrator.)

“And look how brilliantly we play them!” (David letting OOTS off their leash of Elgarian introspection and control is a quite wonderful thing to behold: giving both the first and fourth of the marches equal, hunormous bucketfuls of necessary ‘umph’!)

What is actually downright extraordinary is that Elgar could use almost identical massed forces, in the concerto, to convey the subtle sound of his heart breaking.

The night opened – appropriately enough – with Otto Nicolai’s overture to The Merry Wives of Windsor. Although this begins with a most enthralling (what felt to me, at least like a) sunrise – which provoked some luscious playing from OOTS: particularly the strings… – from then on it is about as subtle as a brick (especially once Falstaff blusters his way in). Having said that (and you must make allowances for my dislike of nineteenth-century opera, of course), this was a wonderful, rousing, cheering way to begin this Last Night of the Shakespeare Proms…!

This being Stratford’s equivalent of the Albert Hall at its most festive, we just had to have Jerusalem – with some fantastic, spirited singing from the audience, of course…! – and then Henry Wood’s wonderfully witty Fantasia on British Sea Songs. I’m not quite sure how David kept control of some of this work’s cheekier moments – especially during the Jack’s the Lad hornpipe… (more of which in a moment…)

…but there was some tremendous musicianship from all quarters of the orchestra. Fantastic, precise brass – especially in See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes – magical string solos from leader David Le Page (again) and lead cellist Nick Stringfellow… – a gobsmacking, mesmerizing clarinet cadenza from Sally Harrop in Farewell and Adieu, Ye Spanish Ladies – followed by such a mournful oboe rendition of Home, Sweet Home from Louise Sprekelsen, that I may have just shed another tiny tear… – before the orchestra once more let rip in Rule, Britannia…!

Of course we clapped and stamped in that hornpipe. But David judged our attempts rhythmically-challenged, and far too noisome. So we ended the evening a tad more under control – …well, initially. Whatever bassists Stacey Watton and Claire Whitson had imbibed during the interval (they claimed it was only fresh air) propelled them to not only some great performances, but some fantastic grins and physical antics: which soon spread to not only the rest of the orchestra, but an incredibly energetic and rapturous conductor! [He had good reason to be cheerful: OOTS having been awarded funding from the Arts Council, this week, that will not only help secure their future, but will enable them to continue developing in all sorts of exciting ways!]

¶

This was a great night. Ignoring the Nicolai (sorry), it featured British music at its very best – both in its composition and in its performance. Admittedly, it wasn’t what you would call a consistent programme, really: but the fact that it cheered as well as perturbed, bringing (roughly) equal measures of joy and pathos – and that we were introduced to yet another talented young artist with an undoubtedly great future – made it very special indeed. Everyone involved should be very proud. They have certainly earned their summer break!

Note…

I was originally going to entitle this review ‘Pomp and Circumspect’: because of the many facets of Elgar the concert revealed. However, it could be said that Mrs Maestro Curtis’s description of the evening progressing “from the sublime to the ridiculous” was just as apposite!

In the end, though I felt the night belonged, figuratively, to Falstaff: who, it could be said, not only encapsulates many of the qualities inherent in both of the previous suggestions; but who seemed to be a constant presence haunting the musical stage. The following speech from Master Fenton also ties in very nicely with the contents of Nicolai’s overture. Hence, my final choice!

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page,

Who mutually hath answer’d my affection

(So far forth as herself might be her chooser)

Even to my wish. I have a letter from her

Of such contents as you will wonder at;

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,

That neither, singly, can be manifested

Without the show of both. Fat Falstaff

Hath a great scene; the image of the jest

I’ll show you here at large.

– Shakespeare: The Merry Wives of Windsor (IV.vi.6-16)

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.

For words divide and rend…

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

– Robert Frost: Acquainted with the Night

Often during this rusting, rustling, melancholy quarter of the year; or when enduring this archetype of autumn weather – a cold that penetrates my rheumaticky bones, lubricated cruelly by the insistent damp – or in a twisted combination of both time and type – my usual incessant aches transform into an imposition, an encumbrance, that I struggle to deal with: both physically and pharmaceutically. My well-honed response to this is to cake myself in layers of Thinsulate and Gore‑Tex, and “Lear-like, [head] out into the dark, the pelting rain, and howling winds, to try and gain some perspective”.

But, tonight – as the clouds began to shuffle clumsily apart, corralled by the gathering breeze: revealing tantalizing glimpses of the star-punctured colander of our distant firmament – I failed. A gentle slope to the church evolved into a brutal slog: sharply concentrating my riddled brain on the pain, rather than distracting from it.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, remembered gate

When the last of earth left to discover

Is that which was the beginning;

At the source of the longest river

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half heard, in the stillness

Between the two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always –

A condition of complete simplicity

(Costing not less than everything)

And all shall be well and

All manner of things shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded

Into the crowned knot of fire

And the fire and the rose are one.

– TS Eliot: Four Quartets: Little Gidding

Home. And on to Plan B, then. Music. Not just any old music, neither: but some of the greatest – and so familiar to me that its embrace is akin to that of a strong, comforting friend. And I know no better than Elgar’s stirring Introduction and Allegro “for Strings” (Op.47). Looking through my music collection, I discover I have over twenty recordings of this. (Indeed, it is rare for me to possess only one version of any Elgar work.) So you would think – as, indeed, did I – that no new interpretation could take me by surprise; or delight me more than those I already possess.

Until now, the version I tended to turn to – for sheer exuberance, obvious deep love and involvement; and bought because I had been wowed by a live performance at Malvern (where else) – was that of William Boughton conducting the English String Orchestra. (You can listen to A Portrait of Elgar – the wonderful collection from which this comes – on Apple Music, here.) But, as part of my burgeoning addiction to Stratford’s resident band, the Orchestra of the Swan – and having had my socks similarly blown off by their rendition, a couple of years ago – instead, I picked up the CD that fortuitously arrived in yesterday’s post: which begins with Tamsin Waley-Cohen blasting superbly (and thoughtfully – if that’s not a contradiction in terms) through Vaughan Williams’ oh-too-rarely-aired Violin Concerto in D minor. (You can also find this on Apple Music.)

This fantastic, rigorous presentation is followed by what I can only describe as the most muscular, cogent, potent and compelling reading of the Elgar that I have ever experienced. This was way beyond the distraction I required – and you may call me biased for my undoubted mission to promote our local artistic organizations: but there is a reason I count myself beyond blessed for living here… – this was an injection and exclamation of such guttural joy that I sat enraptured and still for its fourteen minutes; wiped my blurry eyes; and then immediately set it to repeat.

It is not just the urgency of the playing that hit me smack between the ears; or the spotless control of Elgar’s rapidly-varying tempi; or even the skilful dominant display of dynamics; but the transparency that threatened to utterly dismantle me… – not just between the lines, the instruments; but, as someone recently wisely wrote: “the silence between the notes is where the magic lies…”. (Thank you, Mr Curtis. For it is he….)

How to explain this? Well: there is a magical moment (one of many, many, many) in The Dream of Gerontius, at figure 120, where Elgar has positioned a pause mark over the bar-line – at the instant the soul is “Consumed, yet quicken’d, by the glance of God”; but before, as the composer writes, “‘for one moment’ must every instrument exert its fullest force” (as well as “If any extra Timpani Players are available, they must play the 3 bars…”); and then Gerontius begs, in his agony, to be taken away “and in the lowest deep There let me be”. I have heard this gut-wrenching climax ignored; rushed through; or marked simply by a slight hesitancy before the crashing weight of the orchestral universe pins you to your seat. To my mind, the world should vanish completely at this mark – but it is a brave conductor that will use his powers to make it do so.

However, at figure 30 in the Introduction and Allegro, there is a similar pause – this time over a semiquaver rest. (Perhaps the composer felt the need to be more explicit.) Again, the planet should cease rotating; the audience cease breathing. But it is again rare that this is truly, fully the case. Here, David Curtis, though, extends time with aplomb; grabs it with both hands; stops it dead; and there is – even with the beautiful resonance of St Augustine’s, Kilburn (and the skills of the recording engineer, Mike Hatch, and assistant, Robin Hawkins) – a momentous, awe-inspiring “stillness Between the two waves of the sea” before the orchestra continues, confidently, molto sostenuto, with a resurgence of one of the most beautiful, singing, melodies Elgar ever penned. (And that really is saying something….)

Modestly, in the sleeve notes, Curtis writes: “If we have revealed a little more of this aspect [music of an incredibly vitality, written by someone who enjoyed striding across the Malvern Hills] to the listener perhaps that is a useful contribution.” This is, I believe, the understatement of the century, Elgar-wise. He also worries “what can I add to the canon”. Well, here is his answer. He puts a ruddy big brass ball down its muzzle; and projects it heavenwards with such explosive force that this music will never be the same for me. It’s as if he has so thoroughly dissected and reassembled the music that it gains new Frankensteinian powers. “As with any iconic work many have their own favourite recording,” he states. Yup. This is now mine. And my heart has grown because of it.

It feels unfair not to dwell on the purity of the performance of Elgar’s accompanying Serenade for Strings, or Waley-Cohen’s transcendent soaring clarity throughout The Lark Ascending – immediately transporting me back to Chiselbury hill‑fort (from where all these photographs were taken); watching one flutter vertically into the air so memorably, delicately, strongly, insistently: with a song as plaintive as the curlew’s – fading to yet another of those remarkable silences. This is a wonderful CD: that is certain. But it is that point in time where the music stops that will always stay with me.