Beethoven – from page to stage (and beyond…)

Introduction
As the title of this post indicates, it chronicles a journey through and around one piece of living, breathing music – in this case, the virtuosic, Mozart- and Haydn-influenced (but, nevertheless, recognizably) Beethoven’s own Second Piano Concerto. The reason for doing so is to not only study the work on paper (invaluable as that definition of its potential can be); but also to observe the involved musicians – Orchestra of the Swan, conductor David Curtis, and especially pianist Thomas Nickell (right) – as they prepare, firstly, for its performance; then, secondly, deliver the resulting collaborative interpretation live; and, finally, record it.

I know that I am extremely fortunate in having been able to follow this process. That it takes place – as catalogued here – over only a few days is, on one hand, some sort of miracle; but, on the other, completely misleading: as I obviously cannot keep up with each individual, equally-important, contributing member in their own private preparations: for example, the orchestral oboe player repeating a gritty phrase at home, over and over, until satisfied; David’s intense study of the score, analyzing structure, form, and line in minute detail; or even Thomas, setting himself the challenge of ‘conquering’ this challenging work, spending hundreds of hours at the keyboard until the notes flow willingly from his fingertips. Please remember, therefore, that what follows – still a huge amount of hard work for all of those accomplished people now gathered together; and all of it invested in making sure that what you hear and see is as startlingly great (subjectively; emotionally; objectively; technically) as it can be – really is only the tip of a very deep iceberg: one formed from talent, effort, and love.

In equal scale weighing delight…

Sometimes, rehearsals are even (or certainly seem, at the time, to be) more exciting than the actual subsequent concert: especially when they begin with a run-through of a new work you have become rather attached to – for its occasionally quirky, but heartfelt beauty; its extremely perceptive use of the chosen source material (and thus inspiration); and its composer’s utter belief in the almost supernatural talents of its commissioners – the transcendent Orchestra of the Swan – for whom no challenge seems insurmountable: no matter how complex it appears (at first, second, and third, glance) on paper. Not only do your not-quite-set ideas about the piece quickly gel; but unsuspected textures and emphases, themes and rhythmic conjunctions, emerge – especially with the insightful oversight of David Curtis: conjuring clarity and structure from what could easily be imagined as overwhelming and difficult. (You can hear all the extended time and major hard work he has spent in preparation emerging in the thoughtful instructions and discussions; can observe his willingness to listen and assimilate others’ needs and wants and ideas; you can almost grasp his ability to comfort and reassure.)

If there had been any disquiet or nerves beforehand, not only were they (almost) invisible, they must have soon evaporated, such was the apparent aplomb – and audible wonderment – building from the first bars, rapidly, into that trademark transparency and crispness (not to mention the resulting deeply-affecting emotions). As a result, queries were resolved in an instant; enthusiasm was piled upon contagious enthusiasm; balance was sought, and then quickly found; and (for lack of better words) the music caught fire!

Once More, with Feeling…!

Before you is something of a duality: firstly, it is one of the greatest chamber orchestras in existence; secondly, it is a group of twenty-odd people with centuries of musical experience, megatons of knowledge, and infinite willingness… all with the ability to help you achieve greatness. Trust them, respect them, communicate with them – kiss their feet, if necessary: because only rarely in your career will you be handed such wonders – and work with them. Involve them; ask them for their thoughts – and take them seriously; put their ideas into action. Let them see your shared belief in the ability to turn all those dots and lines into something capable of ripping open souls (if not vortices in the space-time continuum). Listen and learn – for if you do not, bad things will come to pass (which they did – by my standards, anyway).

Arrive on your mighty steed of arrogance, and tell them what to do… – well, being professionals of the highest calibre, that is exactly what they will do. Nothing more, nothing less. However – to them… – stupid or ridiculous, or just plain wrong, they will obey your instructions to a T. But you might – because you thought you knew best: that conductors must lay down the law, as well as the beat… rather than be an equal and collaborate… – as well have programmed a bunch of robots. You will not have access to their hearts and brains; nor will you be able to share in their bountiful wonders.

Of course, treat them like a musical instrument, with fixed gradations of volume, and lashed to a metronome… – yes, you will make music; but it will in no way be musical. (Yes, it was technically brilliant, but….) Love them as a living organism; treat them as such – not as some starved dancing bear with mange – but as human beings with emotions and flaws (just like you) – if you open yourself up to them: and only then will you be rewarded.

This serious moonlight…

This review is dedicated to Paolo Pezzangora – without whom there would be much less musical magic in the world.

Whoever writes the Orchestra of the Swan’s programme notes is either a genius (doubtful); has a crystal ball – in which case: can I borrow it, please…? – or understands Artistic Director David Curtis’ winsome whimsies far too well – for they had written at the end of the (supposedly) final work of yesterday’s concert at Town Hall, Birmingham: Haydn’s 59th symphony…

Watch David closely, though, the concert – unless he rejigs the programme (again) – may not quite end when you think it does!

…and, of course, he opened with it, didn’t he?!

Mind you: I got absolutely soaked on my short hobble from Snow Hill station – ‘weather bomb’ Doris already making her bad temper known – so the ‘Feuer’ was just what was needed to drive out the damp: especially the rude interruption, in the slow movement coda, from the horns – who then excelled in the final, galloping movement! Even a member of the orchestra said he’d never enjoyed playing a Haydn symphony quite so much! And it was not just invigorating; but truly, musically, thrilling. OOTS excel at many things: but they do seem to have a special affinity with the wit and wisdom of the Father of the Symphony.

From the sublime to the cuniculus (and back again…)

Ten days ago, I wrote…

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.

…but I was wrong. Not wrong in my summation. (The echoes of that night still resonate my very being as an MRI scan will your very atoms.) But wrong in believing such a glorious evening of music couldn’t be surpassed. I probably should have known better. But I didn’t. And I don’t care one fig(gy pudding). Every concert – every experience of art – is a new opportunity for astonishment (a blank canvas, if you will). To enter the arena loaded with expectations and beliefs is, of course, unavoidable. But I try, each time, to wipe the slate clean. All I bring is my prior life; my ability (and willingness) to wonder; my desire (my greed) to be naïve… – in essence, to be Gerontius stood naked before his maker: known; but unknowing.

Like Gerontius, I was rewarded with the deep cleansing pain of perfect beauty. Unlike Gerontius, this was more than momentary (and the better for it). But then – if you consider my worship of music an equivalent religion… – my experience was not dependent on blind trust. My faith was in the substantial. My holy writ, a mere mortal’s manuscript. Blobs of black ink suspended from infinite staves….

¶

Poring over the score for Paul Moravec’s most recent commission for the Orchestra of the Swan: Nocturne for “Solo Violin, Solo Vioncello, Oboe/English Horn, Bassoon & Strings” – a “companion piece” to Haydn’s Sinfonia Concertante for the same forces, plus a smattering of brass, wind and timpani – it occurred to me that the earlier composer (having had a polite word or two with HG Wells’ Time Traveller) wouldn’t have too many problems understanding his successor’s work. He might be astonished at the freedoms that we now take for granted – sudden, frequent changes of key and time signatures, etc. – but I think, overall, he would be delighted – particularly with the creative freedom that comes from expressing directions to your players in your native language: for example, Moravec’s usage of “Stately”, “Playful, quick” and “Expressive” tempi; and comments such as “evanescing”, “passionate”, and “ethereal”; not to mention the absence (or ‘elastication’) of many of the ‘classical’ rules he felt – mostly – obliged to adhere to.

That the music would be so comprehensible stems, I think, from two causes: first, our reliance, still – mostly – for the composition of classical orchestral music (or whatever term you wish to ascribe to this medium/genre…) on those signs and symbols (those “blobs of black ink”), as well as the ruled lines, of our prededecessors: a melodic language that has continued to evolve – extremely rapidly, in some quarters – but whose core is set firm. Secondly, Moravec’s output is – mostly – located in the same geographic plane of tonality as Haydn’s – although the latter may, initially, be somewhat taken aback at the harmonies, chromaticism, and occasional atonality. This is not to say that the two composers therefore sound in any way obviously alike – although, go hunting, and there are what David Curtis, tonight’s incomprehensibly astounding conductor, called Moravec’s “Haydnesque… use of small motifs appearing throughout the work”; as well as occasional (confessed) hints/traits of neoclassicism – there are 224 years separating their composition, after all… – but rather to demonstrate that you can easily trace a direct line between one and t’other. (I also believe that – because of its structure; that cross-pollination of motifs across movements, etc. – Haydn would agree that this later work also readily falls into the category described by the words ‘Sinfonia Concertante’.)

To be honest, I think Haydn would be as thrilled and moved as I am, hearing any of Moravec’s music – and would thus happily see him as a direct descendant; however many generations of evolution (and revolution) separate their output. [You only have to bring to mind the slow introductions to some of Haydn’s later symphonies – and especially the staggering Representation of Chaos which opens The Creation – to realize that here was a composer who was already pushing hard at the boundaries of assonance and form(ality): one who would listen long and hard to this “melancholy beauty” (as one wise audience member described it), to understand it, and to appreciate it.]

¶

Whatever music it is, however difficult it is, any worthwhile music will speak to any audience if the intention is right. It is all about a mindset of sharing, not showing. Music is communication, an act of love, not a display.

– Charles Hazlewood: Facing the music

Moravec’s previous works made an instant emotional connection with my heart, mind and soul: a connection which has led to a great deal of further investigation. The reason I describe Haydn listening “long and hard”, though, is that – below the apparent surface beauty – there is a whole lot more going on than may initially appear. [I do wonder, though, if his apparent ‘accessibility’ (especially his absence of ‘fear’ with respect to the use of tonality) can actually stop people digging deeper? If so, I am sure they are ‘satisfied’ – this is great music, after all: it ‘succeeds’ in many ways… – but I do worry that they are missing out on the more significant proportion of the harmonic iceberg.]

¶

When we think of nocturnes, we may think of Field or Chopin: music, perhaps, that is to be played at night, rather than of it. However, Moravec says that the title of his new work is “rather to suggest a kind of night music” – that it is “evocative of the nocturnal”.

– Programme note

His Nocturne begins with a tangible air of mystery – one that never really, truly dissipates; order always beyond our fingers’ and our eyes’ reach… – the four stupendous soloists (David Le Page, violin; Nick Stringfellow, cello; Victoria Brawn, oboe and cor anglais; and Philip Brookes, bassoon) initially emerging as magical, majestical creatures of the night: their truncated conversations creeping over susurrating strings (that could be Vaughan Williams’ – albeit a little more atonal). Those opening sustained notes of the orchestral violins and violas almost feel like an extended theme in themselves: contributing to a first movement which seems to be always building… – pulsing like the slowest, transfigured heartbeat… – until, rapidly, it must fade away.

Throughout, though, there is interest in every player’s part; cascades of thickly-woven textures, ever opening and closing. But this being the Orchestra of the Swan – so few musicians on stage; but so much power at hand… – every thread is audible; and the soloists serve to interlace extra detail – often in unison – new colours created with each new pairing. Such wonderful transparency results… – but one that strangely obscures… – and yet each line is in balance, each filament traceable.

For a wanderer of the night, an habitual insomniac, such as myself, this feels intensely personal. It seems that Moravec has inveigled his way into my deepest thoughts; my nocturnal experiences: examining them gently, yet thoroughly, as I ponder the strangeness that darkness brings, surrounded by the comfort of a known, yet invisible, environment; but immersed within an unknown, dimly-imagined, future. Out of them he has created astonishing beauty – at once rich and sparse.

The bassoon solo’s utterance of the simple, climbing theme (a third, then a fifth) – Philip more hushed than one would believe practicable… – creates a backbone from which everything else is suspended: those three notes, their repetitions, extensions and overlaps obfuscating… until what we thought was mist solidifies, crystallizes into shadow. A closing violin ascent – David Le Page as intensely heedful as ever – taking us back to the opening bars. But where is this “creature of the night” really leading us: when, below, a wide, spread unison brings a feeling of enlightenment, of fragile calm, so momentary; and we are so soon enveloped by silence?

¶

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in

– Leonard Cohen: Anthem

All four soloists were utterly enthralling, extremely moving – together and apart – each shining and translucent. And there was no better example of such quality than the opening of the second movement: angelic wings expanding from one solitary note. It was as if they were praying, or intoning some incantation; searching, searching; sighing… – forming a foundation for the almost religious feeling that arose. Initially, the strings were low, foundational: but expanding, growing; now overlapping with the soloists. And yet one cannot help feel that they are breaking free from what has gone before; even from the earth itself – the solo violin always soaring above, always taking the highest line; and sometimes with Victoria’s plangent oboe alongside – more shadowing than shadow.

Clarity begins to make itself known: allowing the soloists to expand their original orisons. Then a slight retardation – immense in affect; heartrending; a huge emptiness opening between high and low, treble and bass. There is something almost psalmodic about this movement – that “religious feeling” ever more apparent… – I feel as if I have wandered by (but cannot rightly recollect) a monastery of ghostly monks turned vapour. So soul-stoppingly beautiful (there is no other word). But it pierces to the very quick.

Such restlessness, too – unrest, even – always reaching, yearning, seeking… – but increasing simplicity (decreasing complexity) tugs, pulls us backward. And yet the closing ascents from the bassoon and then the cello (has Nick ever sounded quite so mournful before; so sadly human in voice…?) bring hope; maybe even fulfilment; devotion rewarded… – yet quietly, tenderly, almost imperceptibly.

¶

Knowing of my pitch-dark explorations; my celestial observations, benchbound in the local churchyard, Moravec joked that “If there is a literal, programmatic association [attached to the third movement], it might be with mischievous little critters scampering about in the night!” Such “critters” are in perpertual motion, here: full of Moravecian impishness; dancing in a tricksy scherzo-by-any-other-name!

The duplicative textures the soloists create hover above the orchestra’s insect-like buzzing at the church’s porch-light; the solo strings soaring into the cloudless sky above. There is lots of “scampering” – but not of a frightening kind: no wicked spirit this way comes.

Out of the constant contrapuntal impatience and rapidity an almost-trio of almost-calmness surfaces momentarily – everything finally coming together. But it will not hold; and evaporates into the air, into thin air. Soloists and orchestra exchange ideas, attitudes, themes – at some points, it’s almost as if the soloists are the accompanists: holding notes over the manic mutterings of the orchestral strings. This is fun – for the critters, at least: the orchestra’s faces filled with joy! A major chord signifies its end…

¶

…and we return to marvellous mystery and melancholy.

Of all the four constituent movements, this final one is the toughest – for the players; the conductor; for the audience. For me, it was the movement which most belonged to the night. On paper, I found it opaque – but intriguing. It has an eeriness that stems from the unknown… – what we see and feel is only a miniscule proportion of that which surrounds us. And yet, over the course of a long day, David and OOTS unwrapped its magic: somehow rendering its many challenges transcendently invisible.

By almost forcing the main body of strings into the background, hiding them almost silently in the shadows which so infuse this work, the soloists are enabled, allowed to stress its melodic qualities; the lyricism that is at Moravec’s generous heart.

The strings climb and accelerate from near-nothingness: repeatedly “evanescing”. The mastery of the soloists evoking an apparently simple serenade over the ensuing unease. The cross-rhythms which so mark this work are like scars upon the page: but emerge as scaling whispers, vaporizing almost before they have begun. Passion – but more unworldly than imaginable – thus builds in waves: pulling you in; pulling you down to the underworld, perhaps?

There are still transcendent highs, however: David (LP) then Nick with ornamental, almost baroque, solos over sustained strings. The unrest never ceases: resolution always out of reach. Victoria and Philip return with the rising motif from the first movement; but the lack of stability rules still, even as the soloists soar to ever greater altitudes.

And then the bassoon ignites even more unrest: until everyone is uttering those infernal, now terrifying scales: the violins, cellos and basses immune until the end.

And then the bassoon ignites an astonishing, breathtaking, lung-pulverizing moment of stillness (if stillness can be marked forte…); of strong serenity. The night collapses into understanding: Philip now expansively echoing that foundational theme with authority; and soon followed by the oboe and violins. One last scale from the solo cello – one last, fading attempt to destabilize paradise found – and our transfigured night is ended: with the most melancholic E major chord I have ever heard! (Is this night fading into day? Or are we simply retreating…?)

¶

This was a rendition with wonderfully controlled playing from everyone involved. From the raw notes on the page, David and OOTS had fulfilled their potential, liberated their magic – fashioning something quite miraculous and mesmerizing – but without any loss of inscrutability.

I will be immensely sad if this is the only time I ever hear this performed. It continues the numinous trajectory along which Moravec has been travelling for so many years; and deserves repeated listenings. In summation: this was a thrilling, disquieting interpretation… – but overwhelmingly enchanting. One which left me with a mammoth lump in my throat; and several large somethings in both eyes. Just short of twenty immersive minutes of deep rapture; and a feeling of bliss… – one that remains many hours later.

Can we ask any more of music than this? That it connects directly with our souls, and leaves them forever altered…? I think not.

¶

Several large gulps of cold Stratford air later, we heard Mozart’s/the greatest symphony. (“Heard” is such a weak word. And I will explain why, momentarily.) But let us first return to the piece which opened the concert, and that inspired Paul Moravec’s remarkable composition: Haydn’s Sinfonia Concertante in B flat major (Hob.I:105).

More ‘concertante’ than ‘sinfonia’ – in form, if not in weight (there are initially surprising bombastic trumpets and timpani) for the same four soloists (oboe, bassoon, violin and cello) to contend with (although they are frequently given their own space, concerto grosso‑style – it seems unfair that this genial work is so rarely performed. (Of course, you could easily argue that hiring four soloists is an expensive affair; but when you have an orchestra of this capability and depth – where not only the principals are capable of such complex solo parts – then I would contend that there is no actual case to be met.)

The opening Allegro has all the wit, melodiousness, development, drama, and contrasting ‘back-and-forthness’, that you would expect from Haydn meshing two such classical forms together; but the four-part cadenza is a real joy – no soloist really dominating; each being passed the spotlight; and ranging in emotion from the lightest happiness to the deepest contemplation (and with a nifty elaboration of the soloist’s usual end-signalling trill that only Haydn could have come up with…).

The violin part was written for Johann Peter Salomon (who also commissioned the ‘London’ symphonies): and it is therefore no surprise that David Le Page is given the greatest number of opportunities to show off….

– Programme note

Also according to that programme note (and who am I to disagree?!): “The central Andante is one of the loveliest movements I think Haydn produced – reminding me, with its explicit emotion, of its exquisite counterparts in the string quartets…” – the soloists serenading us, whilst the orchestra provides gentle, background support. There are moments of breathtaking beauty: with opportunities for all soloists to shine – but David (as stated above) has quite a few more than the others! This was a great demonstration – yet again – of how well the OOTS principals know and respect each other; and, of course, of their great collegial reserves of talent.

The finale is Haydn in stunning, operatic form! David Le Page’s opening proclamation (one of many) transforming into a wonderful – almost comic – aria with orchestral interjections. Bassoon and oboe, then cello, soon get their chance, too, as the singing becomes more lyrical, more thoughtful, more dramatic. It is not long, though, before hints of trademark wit creep into the solos; and the orchestra also return to their playful interjections. “Despite some ravishing adagio recitatives for the violin, the orchestra continually attempt to assert their will.” And although all four soloists seem, at one point, to have tamed them – it is, of course, not for very long. A typical pre-cadenza build; a very short cadenza (sadly). And that’s your lot!

[Just as a footnote… I can’t imagine ever hearing a greater performance of this: not simply because of its relative rarity, but because of the time, in rehearsal, spent finessing the smallest of details (almost as long as the Moravec, indeed). David (Curtis) is no control freak: but he certainly understands how to shape a piece of music, how to shape its story, how to share that with the players, and direct them in telling it so that we, the audience, also understand, and can follow them – and the composer – on their journey of discovery and delight. My goodness, it showed – even if you weren’t aware of what had gone on, earlier in the day, behind closed doors. (It’s all done with smiles, by the way. The whips are reserved for the critics.)]

¶

I thought, for a while, after the interval, that I had died and gone to heaven. Perhaps, though, I had only been temporarily transferred to paradise: for, when I opened my rather soggy eyelids (joy, you understand; although never far away from its converse: knowing that so great a work – and a final symphony, at that – had been composed by someone so young; someone with so few years left to live…), my feet were still solidly planted on the wooden floor of the ArtsHouse.

As to the final work, “reverence” – as well as astonishment – is more than due. It simply does not matter whether you consider Mozart’s ‘Jupiter’ the greatest symphony ever written – or merely(!) the greatest symphony of one of the greatest composers who ever lived – it will always stand as an imposing, sunlit monument to the man and the genre….

     Not only is this Mozart’s greatest symphony; but, I believe, individually, the movements that constitute it are the greatest of their kind. It is as if Mozart knew this was to be his last: and therefore put every drop of his almighty talent into producing it.

– Programme note

For someone whose main musical love revolves around a certain Edwardian gentleman with an unmistakable profile and generous moustache, but extends more in the direction of the present than the past (hence my adoration for Moravec), Mozart will always exert an unbreakable hold on me. His piano sonatas were among the first pieces I learned to play; and – as they did for Elgar [pdf] – his compositions laid the foundation of the pathway on which I took my own, tentative, derivative first steps. He has therefore burrowed his way deep into my heart, mind, soul and psyche.

Of course, this is all helped by having musicians perform his music who (apparently) hold similar beliefs. This symphony may be well over two hundred years old: but, last night, it felt as fresh as our recent frosty mornings. No fog, here, though: everything was crystal clear – and not just because (I would argue) the orchestra was the perfect size. That David and OOTS truly ‘get’ what it takes to communicate Mozart in all his moods – from delicate, almost intangible filigrees of beauty, to stupendous, gobsmacking “turmoil – the like of which would not be heard again until the opening bars of Brahms’ First Symphony” (so claims the programme writer…) – just adds another layer of marzipan onto the Bardic Christmas cake!

[If I had one, teensy, reservation, it would be that David has recently started taking Mozart’s slow movements – here, an Andante cantabile “growing naturally into a sometime-syncopated heartbeat of disturbed, doubtful desire… sighing with love” – just a tad (i.e. a couple of percent) faster than I would like. His reading, though, was utterly convincing; and, of course, without a definitive tempo marking, who am I to say that he wasn’t correct? This, after all, is one of the most subjective of musical matters! And I was, after all, weeping rather fluently….)]

There truly is nothing that meets the realistic definition of joy than the opening moments of the Menuetto – “waves of tension built and resolved. This is hope writ large and in triple-time. And yet, somehow, we are left wondering if those aspirations are ever truly fulfilled.” Only Mozart could write such a gloriously happy movement that leaves us questioning ourselves in this way. But there is no doubt about the impact of the final movement. None whatsoever. Especially when played and directed with this much conviction and talent… – just as the earlier two pieces were, of course.

So, if this isn’t the greatest symphony ever written – christened for the king of all planets – surely the elaborately polyphonic Molto allegro which completes it can claim to be the greatest symphonic movement of all time? Those thundering cascades; all that complex counterpoint rendered deceptively transparent…. And then, in the coda, those four-and-a-half magical bars finally arrive: and all the preceding five themes of this sonata-form finale are played simultaneously – as if by miraculous coincidence; and as artlessly as breathing. We may not realize, consciously, that such has occurred; but, deep within us, we know we have witnessed what can only be understood as ‘genius’. No other word is sufficient.

– Programme note

¶

Is there any other musical ending which leaves you so filled with… well, whatever it is that completely convinces so many that there is a higher being? This is life writ as large as it is possible for any art so to do. My shout of “Bravo!” seemed tragically feeble in comparison. The squeak of a dying mouse in the middle of the Sahara; rather than an elephantine roar echoing for days around the Grand Canyon… that Mozart and OOTS so deserved. It will take me a lot of convincing that there is a greater work of music, of art, than this – whatever definition of “greatness” you wish to throw at me. And I can’t imagine it ever being played again with such gargantuan heaps of verve: so much so that the conductor appeared to punch the air with both fists on leaving the stage! But, then again, I’ve been wrong before….

Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.

– Albert Camus

Bookended by brilliance…

Having just experienced the most fabulous ending to a most (well, mostly) fabulous evening, how to describe the equally astonishing opening? Well, I’m going to cheat, and recycle the programme notes:

The title of this work, from 1775, refers to the the composer’s ‘name day’ – when people in many religious countries commemorate the day of the year that is associated with their given name (often a saint’s feast day): as we might our birthday. And Salieri celebrates in style!

     The first bars set the mood perfectly: a cascading Haydnesque fanfare from oboes through horns and trumpets to full orchestra. I can honestly think of no more exciting way to begin a concert of late 18th century music! Admittedly, this first movement feels more like an overture than a traditional symphonic opener – opera was Salieri’s real forte – but the orchestration alone demonstrates that here we have a composer who is extremely underrated, and yet possessed real, sparkling finesse.

Salieri? Oh, you mean the guy who poisoned Mozart? Well: yes… and no! He is the composer you’re thinking of; but it is extremely unlikely that he did such a dirty deed. “Indeed,” as it says in the introduction to the programme, “in later life, these two great musicians were, if not friends, peers who worked together, and had a great deal of respect for each other.”

Anyway, the work I’m rabbiting on about is the older composer’s extremely entertaining Sinfonia in D major ‘Il giorno onomastico’, written when he was in his mid-twenties. It may be more “traditional” than an equivalent work by Mozart (or, say, Haydn… natch); but it bursts with just as much joy and inventiveness. There are seductive touches – especially as rendered by the Orchestra of the Swan, last night – with opportunities for every section to shine: particularly, in the opening Allegro, the wind and brass.

But it is the richness and variation of instrumental texture which is most impressive – hinting, occasionally, at the future masterpieces of two of his most famous pupils: Beethoven and Schubert. Haydn and Mozart may, sometimes, have been limited by the courtly resources available to them – but, for whatever reason, Salieri manages, here, to escape those confines: and the results are enchanting!

The beautiful, pastoral, almost balletic Larghetto – an aria commencing with muted violins soaring over pizzicato double-basses; followed by a transcendent woodwind trio – shows just how adroit (and ravishing) Salieri’s instrumentation could be. As does (however differently) the bombastic, yet courtly Minuetto – a short movement of great contrasts: with a thoughtful, strings-only [almost Elgarian, here, with its bassoon reinforcement] Trio section.

But it is the finale in which the composer really goes to town. And, even if the concert’s ending was unbeatable (which it truly was), Salieri at least did his – indeed anybody’s – utmost to produce something just as memorable. And it was obvious that the orchestra were having the time of their lives proving it!

And yet the precision on display was exemplary. In some ways this could be regarded as music that is ‘easy’ to listen to (“extremely entertaining”, I said). But, pay attention; prick up your ears – whilst keeping your eyes fixed on the performers – and you would, nay should, imagine that such apparent simplicity would simply evaporate in a cloud of effort. This is complex stuff indeed – on the page… – but OOTS’ command is such that you would, could, never know.

At one point, their incredibly subtle touch transformed – and instantly… – into even more of the boisterousness that had so marked the first movement. And the last few bars were just as thrilling as the first. Are we there yet? Well, yes: several times. And all utterly spot on. An orchestra at the very top of its game… – yet, somehow, getting better all the time….

¶

What followed was, possibly, my least favourite Mozart piano concerto – never quite fulfilling its scintillating opening promise… – no.13 in C major, K415. (Lucky for some, perchance?) Despite yet more wonderful playing from OOTS (and my veneration of said composer), it simply would not engage me, last night. (Sometimes, these things just blummin’ well happen. The planets just won’t align. The moon remains behind its cloud.) I will therefore – thoughtful soul that I am – let my review stand for a week: until having attended a repeat of the concert, in Cheltenham Town Hall.

I have two things to say, though, before I move on. Firstly, I prefer my Mozart concertos (like my artistic directors’ pates) sparse. And I think – indeed, I know – I would have preferred the music as delineated by David in his pre-concert talk: with minimal strings; and nothing else (well, oboes and horns, maybe). The richness – so magically deployed in the opening Salieri (as well as the Haydn symphony which completed the evening) seemed ill-suited, here. To me, anyway.

Secondly… I like my white wine chilled to a crisp: with crystalline layers of depth; and (tasting) notes you can drive a bus between. Sideways.

Confused? Well, let’s just say that I have been spoiled, in recent times, by the almost-unmatchable pairing of Donohoe and Roscoe: both of whom make Mozart’s piano parts sing with the same apparent ease that OOTS apply so readily to their accompaniments. And that, maybe, just maybe, there was a little too much right pedal? Or perhaps I really was just having a bad half-hour? Perhaps you really do – as Donohoe himself once proclaimed – have to be sixty-five (which he isn’t…). We shall see.

¶

And then there was the matter of “the compulsory encore” – an opuscule, should you so wish. (I really, really don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, here… – and it’s always nice to see soloists return, Donohoe‑style, to sit in the audience after the interval. But I suppose I am concerned that my lack of engagement has implications for performances and premières, next season. And that troubles me deeply….)

In their programme note, the composers (who were also the soloists) described this as “a trip through the ages and fashions of musical history” – but it was not a leisurely journey: rather a fervid, accelerating, high-powered steam-train through the most lush and imposing mountain ranges of Europe. (Picture postcards to the usual address, please.) There was no denying the cumulative energy: generated not just through the repetition and variation of an already-familiar theme, but also in the orchestral forces amassed; the passion of the performers; and the contrasts between the translucent texture of the guitar; the more sonorous piano; and all the subtleties and forcefulness – and every micro-step inbetween – that David and OOTS always bring to the stage.

One could therefore not fault the performance, per se. But there seemed, integral to the score, to be an overt reliance on almost identical harmonies, as well as on the motif itself – “the original ‘La Folia’ theme – an ancient ground bass of eight notes that dates from at least the early Renaissance, but is probably much older: D‑A-D-C-F-C-D-A.” Its overall effect, therefore – for this jaded critic – was of a high-class movie theme. And, to put it bluntly, there was not enough variation in the variations.

Neither do I think – surrounded by giants of the late eighteenth century – that it slotted easily into the programme. As a late-Romantic exhibition piece, perhaps – and nestled amongst such – it may have felt more at home. But it felt like an interloper, here. This is not to say that conductor and orchestra treated it any differently to any other piece they perform. They gave their all….

And, for all my cynicism, it went down well in the hall. But those I trust expressed similar reservations – implicitly, explicitly, or just through their body language….

So, one final comment: which is to say that Rachmaninov demonstrated vividly and imaginatively what could be done with a simple theme – how much variety and pizzazz can be achieved. This simply didn’t. (And I truly am concerned….)

¶

Fortunately, we had an interval. So I sat outside the ArtsHouse, letting the cold autumn air inflate my lungs and invade my weary bones; and the sounds of the Mop Fair cleanse my soul. (It was almost like wrapping myself in the kindness of strange, random samples of Charles Ives; or Steve Reich’s intriguing phasing.) And that escape from the supposedly-sublime was just the tonic….

As they proved in their previous concert, David and OOTS’ utter belief in Haydn – in his obvious charismatic genius – is audible in every single note and phrase; each change of dynamic and tempo. It is as if the man’s unique combination of technique, invention, emotion and humour – as well as his many years writing for (and commanding) such forces – has somehow permeated every cell of their bodies; or, more likely, corresponds perfectly with their own ultra-communicative ethos. Haydn would have loved the Orchestra of the Swan as much as they obviously do him. (And David’s supposition that he would be the perfect composer-in-residence may be unprovable. But, of course, he is right. Who else would do such a fine job; and then be such a laugh in the pub, afterwards?)

Yes, these transcendent players are the masters and mistresses of repertoire from Telemann to Tabakova – but there is an indefinable, additional sparkle to their playing (perhaps encouraged by this anniversary season’s concentration on earlier repertoire; on works written for the chamber orchestras that were then de rigueur in princely courts across the continent…). Never ever out of their element, they just seem, somehow, more in it, at the moment! And nothing illustrates this more keenly than their rendition of last night’s Haydn symphony – no.92, nicknamed the ‘Oxford’ (because it wasn’t composed there…).

From out of the opening, misty Adagio introduction, through to the joyous, life-affirming last chord, this was a performance of dewy-eyed, tingly-spined, bumped-goose perfection: passion and precision flowing forth equally from every single instrument (including – and how to say this without recourse to what could easily pass for euphemism…? – Maestro Curtis’ magic wand…)!

The delicacy of the Adagio cantabile was astounding (yup, even for OOTS): subtle gradations of colour; almost imperceptible shades of rubato, and those stunning, proprietary you-could-hear-a-feather-drop lacunae as the movement drew to a close behind the most delicate of gauze veils. (Special mention must be made, here, of player-of-the-night Nick Bhattacharjee’s transcendent flute-playing – especially those magical first, soaring notes… – supported by Francesca Moore-Bridger and Paul Cott’s superb-yet-subtle horn calls; Victoria Brawn and Louise Braithwaite’s as-always spiritous oboes; and the beauteous tones of Philip Brookes and Rebecca Eldridge’s bassoons. Of course, such is the orchestra’s transcendence that one could name each and every single member, here – and deservedly so….)

Something of this “delicacy” carried on into the Menuetto – although, here, of course, there is Haydn’s wit to contend with, as well: especially in the wondrous syncopations of the central Trio (which I am humming as I write). Never too heavy; never too stressed; always tempered with lightness; and giving this audience member not one single chance to remove the tear-stains amassed earlier. If the ‘Mercury’ symphony (which certainly wasn’t composed there…) left we the audience “with one big smile spread all over our faces”, then this draped an even larger one over every single ounce of our beings.

(Of course, much of this responsibility is the composer’s – his maturity, his expertise and years of continual development appearing to have reached the summit of his personal Mount Olympus when this symphony was produced…. And you can argue all day with me that the final dozen ‘London’ symphonies are superior… – but I believe this is at least their equal!)

That “delicacy” appeared to have also infused the finale… – and yet the whole (perfectly-paced) Presto seemed to just build and build, even as it ebbed and flowed. The timpani and trumpets’ first entries were so marvellously subdued – yet sharp as a pin – luring us into believing that this was how it must continue; that this was as exciting (and stunningly so) as it could get. Pauses, and whispers from the strings (oozing impeccability from every pore), also deceiving.

But – remember – this is Haydn: always out to surprise (even in his most profound, tear-jerking moments). And the “build” – no matter how quiet the playing – is always there: bubbling gently beneath the surface, waiting, waiting, waiting… for the composer’s permission finally to be given to unleash the hounds of contagious happiness. We may feel as if we’re dancing, whirling with characters from the commedia dell’arte – and with more than enough momentum to get us all the way home… – but this is so, so much, so much more sublime.

And David controlled it all to perfection! (Of course.) Just as you think one thing is going to happen, something else does. (Of course.) Including the ending. Oh, Papa Joseph: what a wonderful tease you are! (Not only does he know every trick in the book; he invented most of them!) Magnificence defined! (But always with that wry sideways gaze.)

Let’s have all one-hundred-and-six played back-to-back, please! I know there wouldn’t be one dull moment. Not a single jottette of boredom. Haydn may not have invented the symphony – nor are OOTS the first orchestra to play what he created… – but he stamped his authority on the form like no-one else before or since. And so do they.

As the maestro said in his introduction to the previous concert – having reversed its printed order (note to self: never write programme notes for the man…) – any Haydn symphony deserves to end any evening of music (or words to that effect). No-one does it better… – well, not on this gob-smacking evidence, anyway! “Finis Laus Deo”, indeed.

Super… – but nothing superfluous…

There have been so many of these nights: sat in front of a blank, glaring screen, struggling for words; wondering what will jog them into existence… – yet another peek at the scores; a further glance at the programme; a memory… of a phrase, a note, a gesture, a smile; a glass of wine, beer, or brandy… – a single malt…? Maybe even one of my semi-habitual strolls in the well-past-midnight air…? It’s not – as my poor loyal reader will know… – that I am short of them. The problem is nudging the ones I do have into some semblance of the right order: so that you see what I saw; heard what I heard; felt what I felt… and therefore understood what it was to be me: immersed in magic – once again – for a couple of hours, within the “wooden O” of Stratford ArtsHouse. I need your cheeks to burn with my tears; that sudden gasp to fill your lungs; your palms to sting from my nigh-endless applause; your throat to rasp from that involuntary “bravo”….

Of course, the temptation, many times – but not now; never now… – has simply been to shout – albeit using the limited medium of pixels… – how adverbally wonderful my evening was; throw in a couple of mild adjectival profanities, perhaps; and convey the evening’s greatness in the time-honoured tradition… before retiring to the warmed snugness of cotton and goose-down. But that would be to renege on my responsibility to every single one of those many I witnessed… – those doing great, ineffable, incredible, intangible things… – to surrender my duty of recording for posterity (whilst sat on mine) instead to the eventual whispers of those hallowed, now-dark, now-peaceful, resting timber walls.

But we will be ghosts when those secrets are willingly given up – dissipated by the four winds, to the four corners of the earth: flowing as the audience’s reports do in time and space… – our atoms (should we beat the cruel humour of mischievous chance) only then co-mingling with the waves of stardust that were brought into being, this entrancing night. And those time-stretched echoes will only faintly hint at their miraculous birth. They will no longer detail the how; explain the why. Only – only – that it was. That it was astonishing. Your greed to know; your willingness to listen to those susurrations – rustling like long-shattered autumn leaves… – would never, could never, be repaid.

So it is down – maybe up – to me: to take you back there… praying that enough of the enchantment that then girdled me has clung to the grooves, the pores of my very skin (as well as permanently meshed with my still-tingling synapses): and thus will creep out of my fingertips, essentially unbidden, on to the clacking keys, slowly filling the screen… but quickly – I hope – firing your imagination.

¶

It was glaring at the programme notes, in the end: my eyes and mind finally beginning to focus…

…all three of this concert’s works [are] linked by their orchestration – the addition of oboes and horns to the Orchestra of the Swan’s core strings reinforcing our happy band’s quintessential translucent, intimate chamber feel…

…previous words thus locating me in a previous chair: wide-eyed, wet-cheeked, and slack-jawed; astonished only because I had expected to be astonished… just not quite this much. (There is obviously, therefore, no limit to the supply of astonishment. However much I witness… – and, of course I am intensely grateful… – there is always more to be delivered and consumed. Especially by these forces; and by their willing admirers.)

Some of this amazement is, I think, an indicator of the lofty heights at which the Orchestra of the Swan continue to soar (somewhere way, way above Mount Olympus). Initially, because – despite two previous reviews from me of flawless performances of Mozart’s 29th symphony, David had spent over thirty minutes at the beginning of the afternoon’s rehearsal finessing not only its ‘flow’, but a largish handful of particular, exquisite moments. Admittedly, the orchestra’s make-up was slightly different – with only twelve string players (surely the ideal number for this diaphanous work of creative genius); plus a brace each of those woodwind and brass… – but the balance (from where I was sat, at the back of the hall) was consummate from the first note.

Secondly: no matter how many times I see and hear them in action, they never cease to astonish me with their precision; and their responsiveness… – both to each other, and, of course, to David’s communicative smiles, nods, gestures, and trust. Not only that, of course: but, in performance, all those tiny, disparate details then gel to produce something, yes, utterly magical; and utterly fresh – almost spontaneous – in its affecting delivery; and, it appears, on this evidence, will do no matter how many times I experience it.

Somehow, the dynamics were crisper; their contrasts both more defined, and yet more subtle. The trademark translucency of texture was yet more lightly woven. The pauses, more natural…. I could go on. Just two highlights will have to suffice. One: a rising bass-line early in the first movement, and similar quavers in its closing bars. We all too often concentrate on the exposed soloists at the top of the score – a soaring flute; a piercing trumpet – but easily forget that any orchestra can only be as good as its foundations. And, tonight – and I am really sorry I did not catch the player’s name… – this was a marvellously perceptive, and obviously heartfelt (and way more than technically able) performance from the lone double-bass. She was – and I fear that, although astonishment may be infinite, my supply of the following word will quickly run dry… – perfect. Perfect to hear; perfect to watch; a perfect fit. And therefore – and for many more musical reasons – my orchestral player of the night. (It is another measure of OOTS, by the way, that Nick Stringfellow and Chris Allan, the two cellists, ensured that she was both welcomed into the family fold so readily; and then invited to move physically closer to them, so that they could play as a completely unified section.)

The other example is a little more difficult to pin down – but it happened in the Haydn symphony, after the interval, too: so I am certain I did not imagine it. As the jaunty Menuetto transitioned into its central Trio, somehow, more ‘space’ emerged. Not so much a slowing of tempo, or a loss of momentum: just that – even after an Andante which never feared to explore the limits of delicacy: extremely successfully and beautifully… – for a few bars, the levels of emotion soared; my heart was split open; and I experienced the most momentous tranquillity. And, during those few bars, I did not draw breath….

This was, somehow, a new feeling: not one generated by live music before – and certainly not in the middle of a supposed dance! It did, however, cause the final Allegro con spirito to glow with contrasted ecstasy: fireworks of explosive joy lobbed continuously into the musical stratosphere – quelled only by matching applause!

So, even with a work as justifiably popular as this one, I am sure its delivery will never wane. And no-one should, therefore, ever dare accuse David and the players of either resting on their hard-won laurels; or of simply churning out repeat – albeit top-notch – musical renderings. Every single OOTS performance begins – and every single time – with the building blocks of printed notes, dynamics and tempi; then the pencilled additions and emphases… – but ends gushing forth from that extraordinary well wherein each performer’s experiences; their beaming enjoyment of their work; their now-invisible skill (honed through thousands of hours of oft-lonely practice…) lie, enmeshed, waiting to be released by their generosity of spirit and openness of mind.

¶

This “generosity” and “openness”, of course, swathes those who work with the orchestra, too. Other staff; volunteers; the audience; and, of course, the soloists. Last night, we were treated (a word which only conveys a fraction of one percent of the experience…) to another visit from this year’s Associate Artist, Laura van der Heijden.

If I’m having trouble communicating just how “astonishing” OOTS are, then I do not even know how to begin to define or describe just how intensely special Laura is. It is as if she has been given a key that only she could possess: one which unlocks the voice of the instrument she cradles. That it produces such wonders, her actions, her reactions imply, is actually all down to the instrument. It is simply a matter of chance that she is the only one who knows and understands its secrets.

I also cannot compare her to anyone – because she is unlike anyone (certainly any musician) I have ever encountered. She is that rare wonderment: a true individual who is (or at least appears) sure of her own mind and abilities. They are what they are; and – to be exceedingly blunt – we are lucky to be on the same planet, never mind in the same room.

However, she is also incredibly ‘normal’ (however you wish to define that) – as are all great people, of course. From their perspective, they are just people. It is our perspective, our worship – and, of course, our “astonishment” – which anoints them with specialness. How they react to that is, perhaps, their true measure.

¶

Anyway… tonight’s disarming weapon of choice was Haydn’s D major cello concerto: an intensely beautiful, lyrical work on the surface; an intensely technical and challenging one, below. Not that you could tell. (It’s not that she makes it look easy – it’s that she doesn’t make it look difficult. There is no look-at-me showmanship. Every single movement is dedicated to the production of music: filtered through the prism of her individuality – her mind, body and soul.)

The concerto demands the intimacy that the Mozart had established. Thus, David’s – and Laura’s – choice to sit her, as collegiate member, rather than isolated soloist, between conductor and leader, not only demonstrated that quality’s fulfilment (and to perfection); but paid dividends. This really is music that draws you in – willingly – especially as performed here… – it is true chamber music: with gossamer texture and pellucidity. And, thus, for the concerto’s duration (at least), the ArtsHouse continued to shrink around us, to envelop us. We were an audience of close friends, immersed in the world of our close musical peers, witnessing another – even greater – continuous sequence of miracles.

Laura’s playing is so fluid, so communicative, so vocal, that Haydn’s ravishing melodies – even when highly ornamented, as they are here; so utterly complex on the page… – float into the air: bathing you in a plangent joy. (I have no other words.) The frequent double-stopping, and flights from deep, earthy growls to pure, seraphic sonority, were expressed as naturally as breathing. Effort is visible only under close scrutiny – Laura’s ever-present thoughtful demeanour immersed in that glorious sound; engrossed in her hawk-eyed observance of David; and embedded in this miraculous instrument she embraces. And yet she and the orchestra are equals, without doubt.

¶

During her first-movement cadenza – her own composition: perfectly demonstrating her unassailable technique; her stunning emotional connection with the space around her; her innate deep insight and joy… and perfectly harmonizing with the music that had gone before, as well as building the perfect bridge to the orchestra’s joyous conclusion – the world stopped on its axis. I believe that, if it could have – or had I the power to cause it to… – it would have reversed a little… just to hear this awe-inspiring and soul-penetrating exhibition of unalloyed stupefaction again.

But there was no need: despite its inherent “simplicity”, her (and the orchestra’s) transcendental ‘singing’ in the Adagio provoked enough tears for a lifetime. Tears of joy; tears of ocean-deep sadness; tears of disbelief… – her command so assured, but so very well hidden beneath her desire to communicate (and with this instrument that is now an integral part of her being) what this music means to her – so that it means this to you, too; that you experience and understand implicitly what every single note signifies.

Now, I was alone: an audience of one. Nothing visible but a blurred divinity; nothing audible but heaven. And, oh, the cadenza, here. An astonishing, strummed, extended moment of pure transcendence….

¶

The tempo for the Rondo was perfectly judged. No rush through those immense scales. Just joy, and extended delight, in some of the most radiant music for cello and orchestra ever composed. We know it is such, because that is how Laura and OOTS perform it. Those deep, angry ascents, stopped thirds and octaves may furrow her brow momentarily: but the centre around all which this revolves is happiness – a satisfaction with the world as it is, in this small space, now… – and there is no better. Please, please never stop….

¶

After the interval… – no, sorry, I really daren’t even attempt to write more about the concerto… – Grandad David asked some impossible questions; proved why he is the greatest Artistic Director the universe has ever known; sprinkled the orchestra with trust and fairy dust; and delivered… – yes, even after all that prior perfection… – a performance of Haydn’s utterly addictive ‘Mercury’ symphony with as much joy as it is possible for seventeen people to muster (with just another huge lump thrown in for luck)!

This was intimacy of a different kind. And I could rabbit on for hours about the cunning parallels that OOTS painted with the Mozart; how the Adagio – “a miniature chamber masterpiece” – opened the Bardic spigots again; how the universe expanded during the “more considered – and beautiful – Trio section”; how the last movement brought the house down. Twice.

That last word deserves an explanation, at least. Which is that there is a coda – of sorts – tacked on to the last movement: which, in rehearsal, David (incited by cellist Chris) proposed the orchestra (and some supposedly-gullible onlooker – that is, Yours Truly – even receiving an individual downbeat of the directorial baton…) should pretend did not exist: the preceding bars being delivered so emphatically as to raise an explosion of approbation from the audience… – whilst, of course, the orchestra carried on as if nothing of the sort had taken place.

And, of course, Papa Haydn’s false-ending joke worked wonders. And we all left the hall with one big smile spread all over our faces. Mine, though, masked an aching soul, and a hole in my heart you could drive a cello through. Don’t get me wrong: this is as happy as anyone can be. It will just take me an awfully long time to recover from such… from such perfection. And, of course, astonishment.

Postscript…

The perfect gentle opening of the Mozart makes the perfect gentle opening for a concert; and the answer to one of those “impossible questions” is that this is what ‘it’ looks like… – a thrilled group of people leaving a full house, heading into the freshening autumnal air; an orchestra plastered with glee; a soloist to match; music that breaks and mends hearts and minds; a glass of red wine; and a reviewer who knows he hasn’t a chance in heck of capturing and corralling the right words. (Of course, none of it would have happened without the swan….)

It’s all in the playing…

This year’s Orchestra of the Swan Associate Artist is cellist Laura van der Heijden – the winner of BBC Young Musician 2012 – who many of you will have seen and heard deliver an astonishing rendition of Elgar’s Cello Concerto during July’s Last Night of the Shakespeare Proms. As I wrote then…

Laura’s interpretation of this masterpiece is definitely all her own. (As [David] 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….)

     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….

     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…).

     Her thoughtful rendition showed such a keen understanding not only of this requisite harmony, but… of the composer’s expressed intentions – as well as how to convey them through the prisms of her own heart, mind and body.