I knew our music would allure him…

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

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

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream…

The first thing that would have struck you on entering Stratford ArtsHouse, last night, was that there were a lot more chairs laid out for the Orchestra of the Swan than perhaps was usual. This was to be a big concert in many ways: but the maximum volume output was perhaps the most noticeable – although David Curtis’ smile, conducting the first movement of Copland’s Four Dance Episodes from Rodeo – Buckaroo Holiday – wasn’t that far off from matching it. (And neither were some of his more demonstrative gestures!)

What a great piece of music to pull you away from the miserable grey wetness of a Warwickshire evening: especially when played with such verve – and truly astonishing precision! We were now on the far side of The Pond (in a ‘wild west’ where it never rains); and we would not leave America all evening – the second Rodeo movement, Corral Nocturne, truly pulling us in (if not lulling us into lovelorn dreams of our own).

Saturday Night Waltz – a self-styled “Texas minuet” – after its shockingly rude awakening – is just as beautiful (if not more so): the violins (under leader Fenella Humphreys) getting a chance to shine, before the woodwind dominate the central trio – slower and more luscious; and just as romantic.

The final movement, Hoe-Down, starts as it means to go on, though; and marks the birth of every ‘Western’ movie soundtrack ever produced. It is a thing of unmitigated joie de vivre and controlled ‘rough-and-readyness’ (albeit requiring a huge amount of concentration from its players). [“This is about cowboys,” laughed David. “It’s not sophisticated stuff!” (Neither was the too-early “bravo!” from Yours Truly: so deeply immersed in the music that I had forgotten the movement’s heffalump trap. David and OOTS – God bless them all – just grinned, and carried on. Consummate professionals all.)] And we were thus rewarded with the ride of our lives! (It’s a good job the piano had to be moved: giving us a chance to get our breath back; and me to lose some of the colour from my blushing face….)

Our fleeting Bach is under sail…

This review (of the same programme performed on successive days) is dedicated to leading light – and all-round nice guy – Hugh ‘Miles’ Davies (above): trumpeter supreme; and, it turns, out, Orchestra of the Swan’s answer to Tim Vine. He may have played less than a hundred notes during each of the two concerts: but, suffering, as he is, from chronic myeloid leukaemia (CML), every single one of those notes was worth its weight in gold; and was as hard-earned, and as shimmeringly transcendent, as moondust.

So, if you would like to make a donation to the Fountain Centre – an independent charity located in the St Luke’s cancer unit at the Royal Surrey County Hospital, Guildford – which is supporting Hugh (and many others): please click here. Thank you.

A thickset man, with penetrating eyes, wearing a powdered wig, and with a viola da gamba and bow under his arm, walks into the local Brandenburgher joint, and stares at the gaudily-lit menu: “I’ll have ein Big Bach, bitte; mit special pizzazz; ein huge Klumpen of momentum; und ein extra-großer bucket of sizzle… – oh, und a Stein of sparkling virtuosity!”

     “To eat in; or to go…?”

     “Ach: to go, danke! To go mit a bang…!”

There are some performances (I have now declared) that should not be gauged by the number of tears shed (one of the usual Bardic measures, of course); nor by the charisma or technique of the soloists; or even the astonishing dedication and musicality of the players and composers involved – all of which can be presupposed when the Orchestra of the Swan are involved… – but, instead, should be judged by the sheer cumulative dynamism that is required to create and perform them, to bring them to life. (Fulfilment of, or success in, all of those other factors, listed above, will be achieved, anyway, as a natural consequence….) Such an attribute (particularly concerning OOTS) probably comes somewhere around the Richter and Beaufort scales in intensity; is directly proportional to the square-root of the enjoyment meted out and received; and, I think – after witnessing this programme’s non-stop sequence of marvels (and, remember, twice in two days…) – must be christened the Le Page Scale of Wonderment.

The concert in question thus turned out to be as perfect in reality for the audience as it had looked, theoretically, on paper – revolving, as it did, around the timelessness and genius of one man: Johann Sebastian Bach. And yet, because of the demands it placed on OOTS – specifically in the “dynamism” department (a challenge which seemed simply to provoke in them a constant stream of delight!) – I don’t think it hyperbole to suggest that this programme would have been a nightmare for many other ensembles. There was nowhere to hide from first stunning note to last; and it was a test not only of stamina but of technique. [I was half expecting personal trainers to come on at the interval with towels and buckets of ice; and perhaps even a massage table or two. And then, of course, for Maestro Curtis to deploy a few reserves from the substitutes’ bench. But no such wussiness for this lot! All we had – eventually… – was a change of conductor’s strip.]

Oh, by the way, that “stream of delight” did not spring into existence simply because OOTS made it through to the end, each time; but emanated from the challenge, the music, itself – it emerged from the making of it: and so downright gloriously. [A day later, and I’m still trying to work out how they crammed all this in to a matter of a few seconds, though. I honestly do not remember a concert flying by so quickly – and both times – without a single momentary waning of interest, or moment to draw breath. This was music – both in print and in performance – that you could easily get high on. (And I did.)]

For their 21st Anniversary season, the Orchestra of the Swan have commissioned four composers to write “companion works” to existing ‘concertante’ pieces – principals as soloists being a great way to demonstrate the astounding depth and breadth of this sensational band’s instrumental talent; as well as showing us (just in case we needed reminding… – and we really shouldn’t…) what wonderful music continues to be written for chamber orchestra.

I had no idea of the historical evolution of the civilized world’s music and had not realized that all modern music owes everything to Bach.

– Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov

The first of these works is Douglas J Cuomo’s (above) Objects In Mirror – which immediately followed the Bach that inspired it: his second Brandenburg Concerto – thereby showcasing leader David Le Page; flautist Diane Clark; oboist Victoria Brawn; David Ponsford on harpsichord; and trumpeters Hugh (for the Cuomo) and Jonathan Clarke (for the Bach). [Although Hugh obviously isn’t very well at the moment, the solo part in Objects In Mirror was written specifically for him: so he travelled up to the Midlands for his sixty-three bars of fame – a demonstration of great fortitude and dedication (he even donated his fees to the Fountain Centre) – as well as some of the greatest “very expansively throughout, with a jazz-like sense of phrasing” horn-blowing, this side of Birth of the Cool. This was playing measured in teardrops: utter beauty; perfection of phrase; and, somehow, an utterly fitting demonstration of the man’s talent and current frailty.]

As (also) befits the themed programme, this is a work that looks pretty challenging on paper – for both soloists and orchestra (concertino and ripieno…) – but everyone involved was obviously having great fun, despite having to concentrate so hard: resulting not only in the habitual happiness glowing from the players’ faces, but OOTS at the very top of their already-supreme game.

Even after studying the score in advance, and discussing it briefly with the composer, what I think surprised me – perhaps having now reflected on the concert through the prism of the final Stravinsky – is how well the almost intangible allusions to Bach, and the specific work that inspired this, shine through. This was helped, firstly, by attending rehearsals; but mostly by a neat little off-the-cuff demonstration from David and the orchestra: highlighting certain themes and ideas – and, consequently, probably reducing the almost palpable fear in the audience that seems to creep in under the doors like a fetid pea-souper every time the words “new work” or “commission” are mentioned….

These “allusions” are perhaps not as blatant as with Dumbarton Oaks (which ended the concert): Cuomo’s work has very little of the neo-classicism that so imbues the earlier tribute… – but they are definitely there: although, I have to admit, without David’s canny masterclass, most would probably have crept up on us unawares; or maybe even passed us by subconsciously.

¶

The work opens with the wonderfully-named Elliptical Sewing Machine. Possibly the most ‘American’ sounding of the three movements – apart from the interpolation of the harpsichord, perhaps… – this was, in places, quite irresistibly funky! Full of joie de vivre – and demonstrating that eighteenth-century instrumentation can still be relevant and valid – this was rapturous stuff; and utterly mesmerizing. There was precise, awesome playing from all involved – and with great heart, too – stitching together some brilliant clothing with that “off-kilter” device!

In the Bach, the trumpet plays very virtuosically, fast and high, in the first and third movements; and is tacet for the second. I flipped that around – silent in the first and last; and playing medium- and even low-register, with long-held notes, in the central one. I discussed this with Hugh… because I wanted to give him something that allowed him to really show off as a soloist – but in the opposite way (again) to that which Bach did. It was also a practical consideration: the plan being to play the Bach first… – after which your chops really need a rest!

Hugh’s moment in the sun – simply Ballad – was the perfect love song: a beautiful distraction from worldly concerns (and, for the first performance, the awful weather outside). As Cuomo says above – and after the intense drive of the opening movement – this was balm indeed. If the first movement reminded me somewhat of the hustle and bustle of a great city; then this one left that metropolis far, far behind. Even Copland’s Quiet City was nowhere to be seen. This was a luscious dreamscape; a thoughtful wander: if not through our own (or the composer’s) innermost thoughts, through the mists – of time; of a country dawn; of history… – with just fleeting remembrances of the urban jitteriness we had left behind. [That this suited Hugh – that it suited Hugh’s present life – so perfectly, simply rendered it even more poignant: a prolonged sigh for what had been… – but with deep optimism for the future. (And anyone who tells me that you can’t be sad whilst listening to jazz, hasn’t heard Hugh and his harmon mute – surely one of the sexiest instrumental sounds ever devised (albeit with a tendency toward the mournful) – and certainly has not listened to enough jazz!)]

Of course, David (Le Page), Diane and Victoria were Hugh’s high equals: wrapping a comforting quilt of extended lyricism and warmth around him; and with some wonderful echoing friendly interjections and accompaniments. Those final six notes, though – “very freely” – trumpet not quite silent, creeping away over cellos and basses – will stay with me for ever. (Simply glancing at the score now provokes a flood of those tears: the emotion utterly concrete.)

There was more astonishing playing in the final movement’s cadenzas: from David – almost gypsy-like, with earthy passion and his own spellbinding brand of thoughtful virtuosity in every note – Diane: a sweet, sweet bird, growing ever more argumentative; and – immediately following a wonderful, almost Haydnesque, climactic false-ending – Victoria: gentle ardour and authority with every breath; and proof that a reasoned argument will always win the day… (musically, if not politically) – before the door finally, convincingly slammed shut!

[If the central Ballad and final Squabble felt a little truncated, it was only because Cuomo had set himself the (daunting) challenge of writing a piece of exactly the same length – bar-wise – as the Bach. I could quite happily have had them play on for much, much longer, though! (Which is why, of course, I went back for more, the next day.)]

This is a cracking work: the perfect foil to the Bach that inspired it; and it deserves to become a commonplace pairing, as is the Stravinsky with the third Brandenburg. (New works can sometimes tarnish, it has to be said – but that mostly stems from lack of performance; and music is written only, truly, for performance – it only exists in performance. Like an unread book, or a painting kept in a deep, dark vault, we do a disservice to living composers – especially ones of this calibre – by not building their works into the repertoire so that they become, well, not routine… – but that their ‘airing’ becomes the rule, rather than the exception.)

¶

The concert had opened with Steve Martland’s stupendous (“arrangement” isn’t really a strong enough word, here: so let’s say…) reimagining of Bach’s legendary Toccata and Fugue in D minor. I have raved on these pages before about this “utterly original – and as crisp and fresh as a newly-plucked grape” work, and how it so suits OOTS’ transcendent strings. But it bears repeating. It bears repeating.

This is not any kind of traditional gentle warm-up music, by any stretch of the imagination (or biceps): more a way of instantly demonstrating the high levels of energy, precision and passion (the three axes, perhaps, of the Le Page Scale…?) that would be sustained throughout the evening. Never waning; always astonishing… – pushing you hard back in your seat from the get-go.

¶

And then the second Brandenburg – which also never fails to sound astoundingly fresh – and, yes, there are (officially) four soloists: but this is really a demonstration piece for the trumpeter; and one of the most difficult works in the repertoire. And, yes, it was sad that Hugh doesn’t currently have the “chops” to show what he is capable of – but the generosity and comradeship he and Jonathan Clarke (not a substitute, but an equal…) showed each other (these aren’t just superhumans, you know: they are also some of the nicest people you could ever meet…) just goes to demonstrate another of OOTS’ disarming – and possibly infinite – array of (possibly unique) strengths.

There aren’t many who could fill Hugh’s shoes: but Jonathan blasted the roof off with his opening ascent – and that trill…! Just wow. In the ArtsHouse – where just moving along a couple of seats can completely change the acoustic – sometimes it was hard to separate the soloists; but in Birmingham Town Hall, each line was stunningly clear and perfectly interwoven. I just closed my eyes, and let the staves, dots and lines dance before me, ebbing and flowing, ascending and descending. All four were simply mesmerising… – and, although I was tempted to give the honour to Mr Le Page (below), in the end, performer of the night (and then day) simply had to go to Jonathan: for all sorts of brilliant reasons – including all of the above; as well as a huge heap of bravura and obvious talent…. What clinched it, in the end, was his partnership with David (LP) during the closing bars of the last movement: bringing the work to a controlled, but ultimately thrilling, close. Magical to behold. And I did not breathe until my hands were numb from clapping.

[By the way, I still tend to disagree with David (C)’s decision(s) not to conduct pieces like this. But, in this case, I’ll let him off. Once the blue touch paper was lit, these were self-propelling fireworks of the highest order! (And he is boss, after all!) I do think, however, that just a smidgen of clarity is lost when he is not at the helm; that the oomph is dialled down to, say, 99% of normal. It is a measure of both David (LP)’s talent and the massive esteem he is held in by his colleagues, though, that he manages to play so astoundingly, mesmerizingly well, and still guide the orchestra to such a stunning performance. (One player said to me, afterwards, that David (LP) always makes you want to improve – probably, I think, because he is constantly demonstrating that he is doing the same. As the pre-concert talk at Stratford demonstrated, once more: he is also a great communicator – maybe just not quite so enthusiastically, or knowledgeably, about woodwind, as he is about strings…!)]

Having (eventually) gone to sleep after experiencing what may well have been the world’s most glorious harmonious dream, I – and billions others – woke up to a political nightmare. But this – amongst many other reasons – is what music is for…. Time to finish committing my judgments to paper; and to suggest that David (C) conducts in T‑shirt and jeans more often… – as it is obviously more ‘freeing’ than the starch of tie and tails; and, imperceptibly, perhaps, brought just a tiny air of relaxation to proceedings, along with a lovely breath of fresh air!

After the (concert) interval – and even that flew by, somehow… – we were treated to Bach’s strings-only third Brandenburg Concerto. Again, this never fails to delight – especially when played with OOTS’ magical combination of passion and precision. Just as complex as any contemporary score – each of the three string groupings (three each of violins, violas and cellos) often splitting into their component parts – David (C) managed this with deftness (and a ginormous grin). No baton was needed with such a small group of players – one where every drop of ink hitting the page was audible – his arms gathered as if to embrace, rather than direct.

If the works before the interval had allowed individuals to shine, this was the moment for the whole group to be brilliant. And this is not an orchestra that can resist such opportunity! This, for me, was the highlight of a programme built from a stream of highlights – the glowing sun hitting the highest peak…. Not only the purity of such a small force; but that glow, that resonant lure of string music – from the intimacy of a Haydn or Beethoven string quartet through to the shimmering splendour of Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Tippett… – harmonies that have a line, that sing, straight to my soul. This – for all my spilling of “generous” adjectives and adverbs loaded with praise, astonishment, delight, satisfaction… – was perfection. And its direct link with the Martland which opened the programme, wizardly.

It is easy to see why Stravinsky became so fixated with it: not only the wonder and power of the notes; but the inventiveness of the scoring; the crispness of the counterpoint; the ebbing and flowing of voices through and across the stage. I do not believe in God. But Bach did. And God obviously believed in him.

¶

So, to finish, Stravinsky’s response to that “fixation”: a work that bears a similar relationship to the third as Cuomo’s does to the second – the scintillating and spellbinding Dumbarton Oaks – which, like the Bach, turns every single member of the ensemble into a soloist. (And I can forgive David for not running the movements together, attacca – after all, even the greatest athletes need a break now and then!)

I am not sure that any band of players could ever make this look easy: but OOTS sure as heck didn’t make it appear the challenge it truly is. Its full title is Concerto in E flat for Chamber Orchestra – and that “concerto” word is paramount: not only creating stars on every stave; but requiring an individual and group virtuosity that is second nature to OOTS – their powers of instrumental transparency and camaraderie (a handful of string players, plus five wind) conquering every complexity; every line as clear as spring water… – although it opens with what could almost be a peal of church bells: hidden (not very successfully) amongst which is the selfsame theme that launches the preceding Bach!

This, for me, is Stravinsky at his neo-classical best (with the wit dialled up to eleven). And, from the dazzling sound they produced, it seems as if OOTS might agree! It may not be as ‘in your face’ as Le Sacre du printemps – although there are strong hints of that riotous work: particularly in the last movement – but it demonstrates perfectly his mastery of rhythm, melody and instrumentation: and with a huge dollop of heart (nicely interwoven with self-conscious, affectionate pastiche)!

No wonder the applause went on for so long….

¶

This was not only an extremely intelligently-crafted programme – with all its internal “mirror-symmetries”, reflections, refractions, tributes and inspirations – but one full of power and great joy; one that lifted the soul and the spirits – as well as leaving you in awe of what the OOTS Energizer Bunnies can achieve. [I just count myself extremely fortunate to have had the chance to be there twice. (This was, after all, a programme christened Bach to the Future.)]

It is just a shame – at both venues – that there weren’t full houses to witness this captivating contiguity – although, to be fair, it wasn’t that far off at Stratford ArtsHouse, thankfully. I shall never understand, though, why some otherwise-avid concert-goers will go out of their way to avoid a programme with ‘contemporary’ music scheduled – especially when (in this case) it’s only twenty minutes or so in length. How on earth can anyone know in advance whether they’ll like it, loathe it, or absolutely adore it (which, in this case, I can guarantee they would have done…)?

This was something incredibly special and compelling. So, be warned: the new work from Paul Moravec commissioned for the next concert – as a “companion piece” to Haydn’s deceptively charming Sinfonia Concertante – is heart-breakingly, jaw-droppingly, lung-stoppingly beautiful. (If you don’t believe me, please listen to his Tempest Fantasy, the Violin Concerto, one of his quintets… – indeed, any of his wide-ranging recorded repertoire… – they will not disappoint.)

Oh, and of course those tears… – they were mostly of joy and admiration.

Hugh took one last lingering look around the Town Hall before slowly leaving the stage…. Don’t worry, though: he’ll be Bach. This is a man (pictured above, earlier in the year, with composer Dobrinka Tabakova) as mettlesome as the instrument he plays. (That doesn’t mean – hint, hint – that you shouldn‘t click that link at the top of this review, and hit the “donate” button!)

Music owes as much to Bach as religion to its founder.

- Robert Schumann

The leaves bow themselves to the ground…

Next week’s Bach to the Future concerts – at Stratford ArtsHouse and Town Hall, Birmingham – feature the first of four pieces commissioned to celebrate the orchestra’s 21st Anniversary Season: Objects In Mirror, by Douglas J Cuomo – best known (I am told) for the title theme to Sex and the City. Each of the selected composers was invited to write a concertante piece for OOTS principals using the same instrumentation as an existing composition – in this case, Bach’s second Brandenburg Concerto – which will be performed immediately before this new work – thus enabling both audience members and players to compare and contrast the differences and similarities of composers across the ages.

Despite his busy schedule – he has a première of a choral piece in Florida at the same time as this one… – I managed to catch up with Doug, by email, to discuss his new – and (evident from just reading through the score) utterly captivating – work.

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents…

                                        When the oracle

(Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up)

Shall the contents discover, something rare

Even then will rush to knowledge.

– Shakespeare: The Winter’s Tale (III.i.18-27)

Sometimes you find music – or perhaps it finds you… – that rapidly develops an intense attraction, or a penetrating significance… and will not let go. It often comes out of the blue – although, in this (CD) case, the composers were familiar, and much loved (hence the disc’s acquisition); just not the individual pieces… – yet, bound “in chains of magic”, the melodies and harmonies immediately captivated me, melded with my soul. As did one of the most beautiful, unalloyed, expressive voices I have ever heard.

Such precipitous love at euphonious first bite is not an infrequent occurrence. However, typically, it will be a single work, or even just a single movement, that so grabs me. To light on a complete programme – one that is both “thought-provoking [and] infectious” – of such unfamiliar yet compulsive (and in this case, compulsively beautiful) music is a rare and fortuitous conjunction indeed. [And may go some way to explaining why this review takes as long to read as the music does to listen to. So why not grab the disc, and set it playing, whilst I walk you through this remarkable sequence of wonderments….]

The CD in question – a “Live performance recorded at the Civic Hall, Stratford-upon-Avon on 29th May 2011” – is truly a marvel in and of itself. There is not a hint of audience interruption, nor even existence (until the surprising, and surprisingly subdued, final applause): not a cough, nor rustle of paper. This, I admit, is probably down to the engineers’ (Steve Swinden and Paul Arden-Taylor) magic; but I would also like to believe that it is because those present were so rapt (if not stunned) by the quality of both the music and its performance, that they simply did not breathe.

¶

Those receive me, who quietly treat me…

Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,

That if I then had wak’d after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open, and show riches

Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak’d

I cried to dream again.

– Shakespeare: The Tempest (III.ii.93-101)

The programme opens with Copland’s Quiet City – a tiny ten-minute miracle of orchestration: just cor anglais (Victoria Brawn), trumpet (Hugh Davies) and strings: almost the perfect Orchestra of the Swan combo (for yes, of course it is them…); and utilized so carefully and cleverly that the textures created draw you in and capture you like the most tantalizingly-spun web. You cannot resist.

I find it moving because I was the trumpeter in [Irwin Shaw’s original] play. The part was that of a kid wandering around New York, wanting to be a trumpet player like Bix Beiderbecke.

– Norman Lloyd: Stages of Life in Theatre, Film and Television

This is a nocturnal city suffused with translucent, never-quite-lifting dawn mist; and David Curtis and OOTS convey this impeccably (reminding me somewhat of Nielsen’s similarly evocative Helios Overture – even though that is written for a much larger, more dramatic, orchestral force) – taking me back (such is their power) to a solitary stroll through the centre of Chicago’s constructed canyons in the height of summer, on the way to catch one of the first trains of the day from Union Station, just as the sun’s light began to glisten from the windows of the tallest skyscrapers.

Copland was a city boy, born and raised in Brooklyn. His desire to speak for a larger America led him to compose music that convincingly portrayed settings outside his own experiences; the regional settings of Copland’s depictions include both city and country.

– Jennifer DeLapp: Copland in the City, Copland in the Country

Hugh’s accented, hushed trumpet calls (ricocheting through empty streets) not only beckon us, but immediately inscribe the score with Copland’s signature. We may be in the built urban environment, but we are not far from the fields, streams and mountains of the same composer’s Appalachian Spring (which again harvests magic with only a handful of instruments). The music breathes (immediately inscribing the sound with David’s signature); and there are tender dynamics and interjections, conjuring a true spirit of place. (Such thoughtful intimacy truly is an OOTS trademark.) Victoria’s cor anglais so mimics the trumpet that the two ‘horns’ are almost interchangeable: both players are subtle as they make their exchanges, with the strings’ gentle support ebbing and flowing – albeit with occasional declamations that Shostakovich would have been proud of!

The sound builds gradually, though, and the opening section leads to a wonderful, almost bluesy (almost Porgy and Bess – as rendered by Miles Davis) trumpet solo: “freely espressivo”, as Hugh temporarily parts the haze, and our gaze is drawn upwards to those mammoth, manmade blocks and spires.

The mood in the strings shifts slightly: as a calm, warming breeze feathers your upward-musing face. The trumpet’s and cor anglais’ conversation (mini fanfares, perhaps?) intensifies just a little; but a repeat of that tumbling brass solo leads to a lyrical passage in the violas and cellos that would be the envy of any contemporary English pastoral composer. This is, somehow, though, intensely American.

The violins and basses join in; the cor anglais sings through them; and those “mini fanfares” become the trumpet’s own: growing insistently until we reach a fortissimo, largamente climax – the strings now playing with all their gorgeous might: the textures, as they increasingly divide, growing richer and richer… until all that remains is a high, sustained, perfect piercing sigh from the trumpet (Hugh on magnificent form); the strings peeling away, below: the main theme mournfully fading, fading…

…until all we are left with now are the trumpet and cor anglais (again, such a wonderful choice of instruments: their tones, here, blending so seamlessly in a duet of friendship). I imagine David holding his finger to his lips, as the hushed strings, with beautiful control, fade from pp to ppp to pppp… – and yet the remaining violas, cellos and double-basses are still expected to steal away (their parts amazingly marked morendo…): which, of course, this being OOTS, they do perfectly, receding to naught – all whilst the trumpet repeats its opening muted call, distant, gently and ad libitum.

This is quietude beyond belief – and yet it has a real physical presence: as if it were cradling your soul, tenderly, gingerly. More hints of the opening – a pair of tiptoe pizzicatos from the strings – the cor anglais is left floating (to be joined by one half of the violas); and, once more, morendo, we are all alone in the friendly urban haze: stood stock still in awe.

From all the air enchants my eardrums…

The recording includes a performance of Barber’s Knoxville, a work about the power of memory, tinged with loss and great affection. In her essay on the work, April [Fredrick: the soloist, here] says: “A Death in the Family, by James Agee, for which ‘Knoxville’ was the opening essay, revolves around the death of James Agee’s father when he was six. Agee wrote frequently about his father, so much so, that his father’s death has been called ‘the pivot around which his life evolved’.

     “When Samuel Barber read ‘Knoxville’ he was struck firstly by the beauty of the text but also by the many similarities between his and Agee’s background. ‘The text’, he wrote to his uncle, ‘reminded me so much of summer evenings in West Chester, now very far away, and all of you are in it... I found out, after setting this, that Mr. Agee and I are the same age, and the year he described was 1915, when we were both five. You see, it expresses a child’s feeling of loneliness, wonder, and lack of identity in that marginal world between twilight and sleep...’.”

– SOMM Recordings: April Fredrick debut

Knoxville: Summer of 1915 is a work “for voice and orchestra” – and, because, again, of its minimal instrumentation, seems, even at first glance (and it is a beautiful score to simply stare at…), perfectly suited to the intimacy that OOTS so excel at. In many ways, it is the perfect complement to the Copland that precedes it: taking us away from dawn in the city centre to a late afternoon in the beautifully-neat, neatly-beautiful suburbs – specifically to the picket-fenced, smartly-trimmed sward of a particular home, on a particular date, untroubled by any external events (although not far away, in my mind, from the view of Christina Olson). It also, like Quiet City, begins with a Vaughan-Wiliamsish hush: as if the child (as so the conductor), “Her golden finger on her lip Wills silence” conspiringly, before beckoning you over, from your unwinding on the creaking deck, to hear the quiet description of the events which unfold before her. As with all such stories, it does not matter if this is real or imagined. For the child, the episode she recounts is as true, as solid, as the house itself.

Mine was a kindly, good upbringing, full of much love and happiness. But… I feel I have come to understand something quite intimate and fundamental, too, about Agee’s restlessness, his need to wander and return.

– April Fredrick (personal correspondence)

Sit her on your knee, or close, close by you – perhaps on the wooden steps down to that grand lawn – and do nothing but listen and understand; your chair still “rocking gently” as does the almost timid orchestral introduction. A warming bassoon solo from Phillip Brookes, interwoven with horn (David Garbutt) and clarinet (Sally Harrop), opens our ears and our eyes: you are that child, now: you see and hear as she does. And you realize her story has begun: as April’s pure, clear, celestial voice – infused with her “rural Wisconsin” upbringing; “the deeply Midwestern aspects of my being” – floats gently, gossamer-light, over the harp and strings. This melody is fresh – but, by some means, already familiar. It brings with it (as does that serene inflection) comfort and profound peace. And yet there is a hint of pleading: a desire for belief, perhaps; or a premonition of pain. (As Barber brought this beautiful music to life, his father’s health was failing; and this later chamber version is dedicated to his memory.) The flute (Diane Clark) – calling from the “birds’ hung havens” – reassures us, though; draws us deeper into enveloping nature. And the words – perhaps mundane when read, contextless – are given meaning: great meaning; greater depth; as David’s control of those subtle accompanists – letting each line also sing – begins to shape a realm of clarity and faith.

¶

This is more lyrical (for want of a better word) than the Copland. (Barber himself was a wonderful singer; and understood exactly what was required to make the words – so meaningful to him – burst into musical life.) Time flows with the love of and for the child; and the instruments repeat and confirm her observations – David exploiting the work’s tenderness with real discernment and his habitual wisdom.

But it is that voice we must pay attention to – I want to say Heather Harper, such is the almost-mezzo evenness (even creaminess…): but this is Janet Baker as soprano… – painting pictures with each word, each note, each pertinent melisma. (April’s microscopic rubato and expression simply on the duplet of “quiet” is transcendent… – and captures in one word her persuasive, apparently guileless rendition: the enunciation of a rich sincerity. The technique is imperceptible. But the world she has brought you into – fingers compactly interlaced with yours – is as visible, as real, as anything ever has been; or could be.)

¶

At figure 5, there is a sudden interjection from the strings. Other people are with us; and yet we are removed, separate – a world apart. The change of dynamic that accompanies this rises as a cooling breeze. The instruments seem to be chatting amongst themselves; and – for one moment – we are back in Copland’s cityscape (with hints of Gershwin, too). Our sphere is expanding to incorporate the sounds and movements around us; and April rejoins the conversation – yet describing, not partaking. She and the orchestra are a perfect match: the sound finely, remarkably balanced; yet there is more passion in her voice, now. Still clear and crystalline, she needs to be heard – especially when the pizzicato strings (little pointed demons) warn her, threaten her: “the bleak spark crackling and cursing above… like a small malignant spirit”.

The mood darkens – “Now is the night…” – as April soars above, gazing down, with affection, into the cosmos she inhabits. There are some wondrous, beautiful, sustained high notes – the pianissimo B‑flat of “one blue dew” remarkable in its subdued intensity. Seemingly without pausing for breath, she has the power to illustrate every syllable; to produce enlightenment with an individual sound.

Almost imperceptible strings – reminiscent, just, of that famous Adagio – set off on a short passage of similar extended tones, joined by woodwind and horns: the latter mournfully shadowing those dark words, as April’s storyline moves on once more. She is imparting her life in confidence. Any excitement is held back, though: there are only, yet, hints at the passions which lie beneath; the emotions which exist even in the kernel of such a small child.

¶

This is music (as it must be) of the most personal kind (composed by a self-declared “small town kid”). Music from the heart, to the heart. And yet we are not intruding. We have been invited to share this vision. We are co-conspirators, if you will. In some ways, it is also music of precision. No note, no marking, no emphasis, is un-needed. But it is not sparse: just pellucid in its hints of atonality. It is music which suits David as much, of course, as it does OOTS. But it belongs to April. And her words are perfectly set, rhythmically: tiny jewels against a verdant backcloth.

What seems, therefore, like another rude interruption from the orchestra rapidly transforms into support: a growing fervour equalled, then surpassed, by that unalloyed voice… – which takes us from “lying on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night” high into the sky again. Her ardour is not quelled by the orchestra’s interrogations. She holds firm; and glides above them: a solitary white dove in the fading, shadowy firmament. There is lucidity and exactitude in that timbre; in the dynamics and articulation – but this does not mean the emotion has been quelled. Just the opposite. (A shattering realization.)

Now. Now I am an outsider. I feel sharply that I am intruding on the child’s innermost dreams and designs. This is music so intensely intimate that your perspective has been erased. Too late, you realize it is your soul that has been opened, exposed. Only such affect can explain the glorious pain; the tears flushing your face. You are, you were, that child. This is your story – a fragment of the universality of innocence that we all share… – and Barber digs keenly to its deepest foundations (using only the most delicate and sensuous of contrivances). He realizes his absolute ambition at the paramount Meno mosso at figure 22: “May God bless my people”. And April sings this with all the “intensity and deep feeling” that could ever exist in this world; as well as such piercing sadness. (Does this small child, troubled, even in her tiny corner of an infinite universe, already doubt that such a Being may exist? What has led her to this finite view…?)

I sing as one who does believe, but recognises that at the moment of the breaking of one’s world, in the crucible of grief and loss, even the strongest faith is pushed to the brink.

– April Fredrick (personal correspondence)

¶

We may have remembered Barber for his way with strings and slow magic; but the ever-growing, pounding waves that now threaten to shatter our souls are as overwhelmingly glorious and heartrending as anything his contemporaries produced. (The nearest equivalent for me being the crushing climax of Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht.) His orchestral writing is at once beautiful, gentle, intelligent and penetrating – there are many liminal textures and lustrous filaments – something which is demonstrated perfectly at figure 24: where a radiant, almost pastoral – are we drifting away from those suburbs, now; or climbing higher, towards the stars…? – section (it is hard not to think of Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony, such is its power of invocation) emerges from the fortissimo turmoil, and leads us by the hand to the return of the main melody.

Close your eyes again; and almost touch the overwhelming presence of something ineffable. But just before you can grasp its significance, it fades. And then that regular warming rhythm from the harp (Sally Pryce) – Come prima, un poco mosso – that so entranced you at the beginning – returns. A heartbeat? The child’s heartbeat?

It is your heart: pulsing strongly with the compulsion to conclude the narrative before night (and its conceivable horror) falls heavily, and overwhelms. If, up to this moment, April’s confidence in you has been rewarded, is this the point at which her faith in humanity now wanes? Each note feels weighted with regret; mournful, almost – the orchestra reinforcing, emphasizing such complex sorrows. But April ascends once more. The zenith is all-too brief, though – “not now, not ever” – the fortissimo allargando collapsing, almost instantly crumbling, to a muted pianissimo, largamente, molto espressivo. Yet April remains above – stratospheric; resolutely quiet and sustained – before a gentle, comforting, waning modulation of the principal motif trembles from harp to oboe to horn, before finally passing beyond our knowledge. The woodwind climb to heaven, on angels’ breath.

¶

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

– Shakespeare: King Lear (I.iv.134)

This is surely Barber’s masterpiece – and with an alluring, haunting melody at its heart that recurs both in the piece, and frequently in your mind, willingly, for many days after… – and should therefore be so much better known; more frequently played (especially as in this recording: such an honest, intelligent, compassionate reading from everyone involved – and infused with April’s individual experience and affection). I have to be candid, and say that I found it one of the most difficult musical works and renditions to review: not only because of its piercing beauty, but also the emotive reactions and sensations it continues to provoke in me. My habitual pile of scribbles took a long time to emerge: my pad, at first, left blank at the music’s undeniable impact. I had to stop, and take a long, deep breath of the fresh Warwickshire air… – such is its power.

You hear what I was trying to say, heard my heart as I sang… when I was pouring my whole heart, soul and craft into the intensity, honesty and lived reality of that moment.

– April Fredrick (personal correspondence)

I would so love to hear this performed live (but will have to wait until next March) – immersed in the electric thrill of that additional dimension… – and by these very forces: who obviously understand the work so much better than I. I fear, though, that my eyes would have to remain closed throughout; that, otherwise, I would be deprived of the child’s tender trust; or fail to grasp the direct connection which April creates, unhesitatingly, with the listener, as she shares her most personal thoughts, and hints at further mysteries. We lose so much beyond childhood. And this is where Barber’s power lies. He understood. His music tells us so.

After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.

– James Agee (1909‑1955)

 

All my people are larger bodies than mine…

If I had been there – and I so wish I had… – I would have needed the respite an interval provides after such intenseness: as I am sure would singer, conductor and orchestra…. But, in some small way, the first movement of Barber’s Capricorn Concerto (which is scored for flute (Diane Clark), oboe (Victoria Brawn), trumpet (Hugh Davies) and strings (leader, David Le Page): the same forces Bach uses for his second Brandenburg Concerto – sans solo violin) here serves a similar purpose. Its (somewhat atypical) introductory syncopation temporarily refreshes our hearts and minds: shaking us awake, and leading us back a little closer to our own realities….

Despite that rhythmically challenging opening – which has an air of unrest, with its dark tones and hushed pauses (obviously written with David in mind!) – it is not long before we are on our way back to Knoxville, and the world those exquisite harmonies so beautifully conjure. Victoria’s fluid, mournful oboe solo – each measure a different duration – merges with Diane’s flute, then Hugh’s trumpet, to produce a short passage of melodic interplay that is both intensely ravishing and disquieting. As the lower strings enter – the swaying bar-lengths gradually evolving and mutating – it is hard not to feel perturbed. There is no comfort here – yet. We are not allowed to settle, to acclimatize: the consequence being not just uncertainty, but a troubling malaise of musical vertigo.

This is resiliently original, intriguing and alluring writing. Buoyant violins … – there is now no foundation, no solid ground on which to plant your feet; no surety… – are joined by the three wind soloists for a fleeting flash of subdued passion. (All I could see, looking at the score for the first time, was how difficult this must be to conduct and to play. And yet, as the discord continues to develop, with a change of key and rhythm, at last a kind of serenity emerges: as if we are beginning to settle; to acclimatize to this contradictory swell of irresolution – our bodies now steadfast on the deck of the small boat rocked by Barber’s discomfiting, but not menacing, waves. And yet Captain Curtis holds the helm steadfastly: his collegiate crew working with him in perfect concord.)

The string passage which follows is supremely exquisite – rich inweaved tapestries of sound amplifying, broadening, climbing (even the basses – all parts now marked with a treble clef – leaping towards the upper reaches of their range). But when Diane, Victoria and Hugh re-enter, Allegro – David carefully, craftily, holding the orchestra back for one small intake of breath… – not only does the time signature finally solidify; but we emerge into a new world: and one, I think, that Bach himself would recognize.

¶

Slightly manic patterns characterize the continual interplay between wind and string sections – a concerto grosso, mid-twentieth-century-style. (Tippett and Britten immediately spring to mind. Dumbarton Oaks, anyone?) There are some sensational clashes and exclamations, coupled with swift dynamic variety: and the music now sounds consequently argumentative. And yet those involved are true partners: continually interrupting each other; completing each other’s sentences – circling each other as they do so… – and yet impassioned, certain in their beliefs and statements. The instrumentation is light, clear, airy: contrapuntal moments interspersing the perpetual motion. For all that, this is no merry dance. Always, always, we feel that, at any instant, the whole fabric of this emotive conversation could collapse.

Leaving the wind behind, the upper strings swell with confidence – crescendo molto – and, as they reach fortissimo, the cellos and double-basses thump out a percussive, low motif, which settles – as the outburst subsides – to a quiet, repeated, then prolonged, low F‑sharp.

This is the cue for the flute and oboe to return: quietly chatting between themselves; asserting their supremacy above distant sustained footings. But such resolution cannot, will not last. And it doesn’t. Softly, but with staccato menace, fading and more hesitant, the strings have their last unsatisfied mutter. And we are back to the oboe’s first plangent melody – this time sung gently, insistently, by the trumpet (Hugh’s subtle tones so reminiscent of Copland’s Quiet City – which is, perhaps, where we have been all along?). The restless strings, never satisfied, join in – although now they are again supportive and sympathetic. A last call from that pianissimo clarion; and the sound fades to naught.

But there is a final onslaught! Six sudden fortissimo bars of the first page’s leaping rhythms: wind joined by strings. And now we really are done! Such a superb, ingenious, almost sparkling way to complete the movement… – and, despite all the previous argumentative unrest, you just have to smile (even after a third hearing)!

¶

The second, middle, tiny gem of an Allegretto begins so lightly – Diane’s oboe and Hugh’s trumpet accompanied by pizzicato strings (first violas, then cellos) – that you may be lulled into thinking that you are listening to the modern equivalent of a minuet or scherzo (despite many more shifting measures). Of course, it is not long – molto meno mosso, tranquillo – before we enter the realm of that most famous Adagio again. But, as seemingly with every single stave of this incredible work, you can never be certain how long such a mood will hold; how sustained any section can or will be – and, although this is immensely, intensely lyrical writing (the strings almost sighing with sadness, before the oboe mourns – for lost love?), it lasts just ten bars before the opening sprightliness returns.

Barber, it seems, is not just the master of profound emotion; but also has a finely-tuned sense of the sardonic (much more subtle than, say, Shostakovich’s sarcasm-powered jackhammers); a dry wit – his deadpan delivery never intimating (certainly not giving away) exactly what he really means; what his next statement might be. Thus we return to the opening motifs – somehow a little restrained, maybe less joyous – and we fade out to the strings descending to ghostly cello pizzicatos.

¶

By now, we should expect that each bar, each rhythmic figure will be different from the last. But for just how long, you ask, can Barber sustain such inventiveness? The answer, it seems, is in perpetuity!

The last movement opens with the trumpet and strings pretending to finally have agreed just what a concerto grosso really should look, sound, feel, taste and smell like… – but why do I feel that Copland’s Rodeo is just around the corner?! Instead, we get hints of Gershwin (again) and (again) of Stravinsky; then a cheeky bird-like flute solo from Diane (not that far from Beethoven’s rolling pastures; or Prokofiev’s forest clearing) – with even cheekier oboe interruptions from Victoria – over a pianissimo, sul ponticello rocking accompaniment.

But, again, this will not stay. The repeated rhythm builds and climbs to a sforzando repeat of the movement’s emphatic first bars. This time, though, it is the strings who lightly chunter away – the density always in a state of flux until the wind trio rejoin in the same style. Then… an almighty, swift crescendo. And moreover, just as abruptly – piano – the oboe and violins (exchanging confidences once more) appearing to set out from what must be base camp, on the first ascent of their attempt to conquer the work’s final summit. However, of course, it is anything but!

The opening bars return again. Yet more insistently: over a pedal bass. Surely, such a device signifies that this is it? No. (We really should know better by now!)

The oboe and flute instead take us for a gentle walk, accompanied by pizzicato strides in the cellos and basses – but we’ve not gone more than a few paces before a gentle descending melody in the violins causes those lower strings to rumble; to hint at something new… – all the while below impossibly-long Mozartian notes in the wind.

What follows is goose-bumpingly, breath-takingly astonishing. Over an Andante, un poco mosso undulating cello and bass figure, the wind play a simple legato trio that, on paper, looks as if it has emerged from the special pen Barber reserves for his most transcendental string writing. This is a prolonged moment of clarity, of yet more crystalline beauty… – but, even when the instrumental rôles are so reversed, all one can do is marvel at the man’s unfailing instinct. These two pages, I believe, are amongst the most radiant he composed. We are back – only momentarily; but it is enough – in Knoxville again: holding that small child’s hand; as tiny, impending, infrequent droplets of rain scintillate in the darkening air….

A pause. A David Curtis proprietary deep breath.

Those launching chords stamp out their reappearance. We are returned to the world of classicism hinted at in the movement’s opening bars. Order – of a sort – is restored. And we are – triumphantly – truly finished!

¶

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

– Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken

This is an infernally complex work; and yet the precision required – paralleled with a need to keep the music flowing: as it continually changes course, halts for a while; then cascades, twists, and repeats… – as well as an ability to simultaneously render the most poignant of beauteous moments with sincere, often raw emotion – is never lacking from OOTS’ exceptional rendition. David’s control is flawless; the balance of these small forces never once out of kilter. Changes of tempi and volume are handled with apparent ease; and, despite – or possibly because of – the never-ceasing fluctuations of mood and dynamic, the orchestra produces something utterly tight and cohesive; and, hence – despite its many fleeting shadows (sometimes leading to despair; sometimes demonic irony) – we are left with expansive joy in our hearts.

This is also an exquisite work – at least the equal of many more famous and contemporary equivalents (say, Britten’s Variations on a Theme of Frank Bridge…) – and David and OOTS not only meet its complex demands head-on, unfailingly; they demonstrate just why this wondrous rarity should be a more frequent component of any chamber orchestra’s repertoire. It is – to my mind – exhilarating and spine-tingling: both on the page and in performance. And it demonstrates (again) that Barber was amongst the greatest of composers: not afraid – unabashed, even – to negotiate his own courageous paths.

I do wonder if a lack of overt Americana – in this work, anyway (and when compared to Copland’s – and perhaps Gershwin’s… – frequent reliance on folk traditions and early jazz) – is at the root of such infrequency. However, surely such uniqueness should be relished…? All this enchanted writer can say is that Barber is obviously held – if these recordings are anything to go by (which I am sure they are) – in high esteem by these gifted players. And they demonstrate continuously, with a sure belief and rapport, why we should do so too.

 

A frailing of fire who breathes…

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again, it had a dying fall;

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour.

– Shakespeare: Twelfth Night (I.i.1-7)

The main programme ends with Copland’s Eight Poems of Emily Dickinson [pdf] – “arrangements for small orchestra” of two-thirds of an earlier song-cycle for soprano and piano. Dickinson is a lyricist I have a great deal of time, respect and love for – as, obviously, did the composer. (“Her poetry, written in isolation, was folklike, with irregular meters and stanzas and many unconventional devices.”) 

In many ways, his final choice of verse echoes many of the environmental and personal thoughts recounted in Barber’s Knoxville – and yet, as Robert Matthew-Walker states in the CD’s liner notes, the two works “are by no means similar”. Nevertheless, in many ways, this capricious, sometime tempestuous, but oft-delightful succession of songs unifies (and completes – in both senses) the whole evening: sublimely pushing, pulling and progressing concepts and moods from the previous works.

He wanted to give America a voice that was all her own…. In order to create this musical style… he incorporated American folksongs, jazz rhythms from the popular music of his day, and aggressive dissonances from the machine age and urban life that surrounded him…. Copland did give American music a voice, and more specifically, he gave a voice to an American. This American was a woman who was also creating an American style, but hers was in the world of poetry. That American was Emily Dickinson. In his song cycle… Aaron Copland combined Emily Dickinson’s poetry with his music in an extraordinary marriage of artistic genres….

     It is through Copland’s technique in employing meter, rhythm, and word painting that he was able to portray the beautiful poetry of Emily Dickinson in a way that seems truly appropriate to her style of expression. These compositional techniques proved to be exactly what the poetry called for. Every musical aspect of these songs – the specific note, meter, or the rhythm chosen – brings the words of Emily Dickinson alive for the listener, transforming the poetry into another plane of artistry. The Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson is a true reflection of Emily Dickinson’s poetry that gives her words to audiences that would not have heard them otherwise.

– Jan M Weaver: Aaron Copland’s ‘Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson’: a study of rhythm, meter, and word painting with application through an original composition

I will not scrutinize or report so much musical detail here – the author of the above thesis (which I heartily recommend) is much more insightful than I could ever be. However, the virtuoso performances this brilliant, impressionistic series of miniature personal gems inspires are certainly worth documenting.

¶

This… CD showcases the spectacular voice of American Soprano April Fredrick whose star is now firmly in the ascendant. SOMM first heard her in concert singing the songs of Ivor Gurney which she had studied closely as part of her MMus in Vocal Performance at the Royal Academy of Music. SOMM unhesitatingly recommended April to David Curtis, conductor of the Orchestra of the Swan who having heard her, enthusiastically engaged her for several of his concerts.

– SOMM Recordings: April Fredrick debut

Although the work utilizes a slightly larger chamber orchestra than the previous pieces as part of its expansive gambit, its opening immediately evokes the self-contained universe which their disparate worlds inhabit. Yet, quickly, we realize that we are immersed in the heart of a distant galaxy… – faintly visible in the night sky above the closing bars of Knoxville, perhaps; or fading from view in the dawn of Quiet City… – a galaxy still in the godlike throes of creation and destruction. This is, then, the most ‘modern’ – perhaps the most challenging – of the works on the CD. However, it is the perfect culmination of all that has gone before – a release of all those tangled, heartfelt emotions, which have, until now, never quite surfaced so blatantly. It is truly cathartic in its inward- and outward-facing magnificence.

Such convolution may, at first, appear counterintuitive. Dickinson’s lines are always crystalline with manifest meaning: but Copland’s percipient music courageously delves into their almost fathomless depths. April, too, is no circumspect traveller: and she willingly joins the composer in exploring these shadows – delivering, enunciating them so clearly that their profundity can never be obliterated. As a result, the words and their complex implications now shine more clearly – even in the songs’ most crepuscular moments.

This is not to say that April in any way minimizes the cumulative emotional impact of the poetry. Far from it: her lucidity, whether pianissimo or fortissimo, accentuates the penetrating strength of Dickinson’s narrations, representations, characterizations and proclamations – aided, of course, by Copland’s germane instrumentation, and David’s and OOTS’ devoted and consummate expression. These supportive forces thus endow the poems with even greater sensitivity and awareness: their deft transitions of dynamic and pace further intensifying each line’s significance and purpose.

And such contrasts of light and shade abound! Each and every song – while undoubtedly members of the same family… – has its own style and personality: Copland generating unique ambiences so apt that the poems begin to feel almost weakened without their allied musical energy. Both orchestra and soloist convey such mood changes without hesitation… – and yet we never quite lose sight of the songs’ interdependencies; their connections to the earlier works, with their parallel dispositions of sadness, pleading, subdued anger; their comparable evocations of nature; nor, above all, the humanity that is at their core. And, in the end, it is these similarities – conjoined with the interrogative reflections innate in each work and performance, as well as the authenticity of thought and sound – which resonate and linger.

April’s sustained notes – of which there are many; and at both ends of her range (the final low B‑flat in the opening Nature, the gentlest mother so tenderly intimate…) – are similarly startling in their richness and purity (even after the bravura and prowess of Knoxville…). This, though, is the voice of that innocent full-grown. And yet the adult she has become still retains a heart of absolute tenderness, longing and wonder… – best displayed, I think, in my favourite of the eight songs: Heart, we will forget him. This is a demonstration of soloist, conductor and players at their lyrical (almost atonal, even operatic, Mahlerian) best.

The last song, The Chariot – contrarily, the first to be composed by Copland – brings us full circle: pulling us back once again to that Quiet City. At its climax, the sun sets irrevocably “before a house” not dissimilar to Barber’s childhood home. And, as it should, the work ends with a seemingly immortal floating high note – aptly, the last syllable of “eternity”… – April never wavering in this pure expression of infinity: such is her talent, her skill, her extraordinary ability to convey meaning with one final held breath….

I often wonder what precise combination of factors make music ‘touch’ us, but I think it does require a certain courage and openness in the performers, along with a certain vulnerability which some performers are simply not willing to give. We all want to project the illusion of control, but yet to plumb the true depths of human emotion in the piece, I think sometimes we have to walk the edge of technique, which can make for slippery footing….

     The more I go on, the more I think that music is not about performance but about mutual offering and participation, that music is made in all senses of the word both by those who perform and those who witness it. The truly electrifying performances are perhaps where the collective attention and passion of the audience match that of the performers.

– April Fredrick (personal correspondence)

 

It has become that time of evening…

The recording itself concludes with what I presume was an encore: an exquisitely contemplative, but sultry, rendition of Gershwin’s Summertime. You can almost hold the humid evening heat in your hands; sense the sweat sucking your clothes to your skin; perceive the pungency of the working waterfront.

This is surely one of the greatest operatic arias (and lullabies) ever written; and April – even after the immense challenges of the preceding Copland (and that extraordinary final note…) – delivers all the intimate intensity it requires: not only placing us in Catfish Row, “standin’ by” Clara and her baby; but proclaiming a vision of innermost longing that may never be fulfilled. David and the Orchestra of the Swan are, once more, the perfect accomplices – staggering beauty, and that searing South Carolina sunset, explicit in every note.

I sat alone in the dark, last night, eyes closed, listening to the programme again – for the umpteenth time – now all my verbal responses had been committed to paper; jettisoned from my mind. That each note was now familiar removed nothing of its freshness, nor my resultant awe. Every phrase, whether vocal or instrumental, captures yet more moving beauty – and its overwhelming, yet finally calming, emotion provided me with an oasis of irenic certainty in the midst of current challenges and irresolution.

As I wrote five thousand words ago: the combination of insight, love and skill invested in these performances “is a marvel in and of itself”. It is a long time since I have been so captivated, so enraptured by a series of previously unknown (to me) works; and I know such singularties of ravishing beauty are few and far between – and are therefore to be treasured. This perfection will therefore stay with me, physically and mentally, for a very long time….

But, oh, to hear these pieces draw breath again in concert with these great musicians….

 

Acknowledgments…

I am extremely grateful to April Fredrick, for her kindness, honesty, and trust, but especially for sharing her deep insight; to all at OOTS, for their continuing support and inspiration, as well as the roll-call of this concert’s players and SoundCloud tracks; and, finally, for the provision of the New York Philharmonic Leon Levy Digital Archives, which enabled and enriched my research into both Copland’s Quiet City and Barber’s Capricorn Concerto, through its generous online provision of Leonard Bernstein’s annotated conducting scores.

As thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears…

Admittedly, my taste in music is broad (and, I would like to think, deep) – but, even so, occasionally (and only occasionally), I chance upon a concert so perfectly-programmed that I wonder if my thoughts have somehow leaked out into the stratosphere to be captured by some propitious musical genie (with snazzy multi-coloured socks, perhaps…). And then I remember that not only are the works themselves immaculate, and impeccably-aligned, but the performers are also from my happiest, most aspirational dreams. (It’s as if someone’s gifted me my own personal orchestra!)

So it was that I entered Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – and still in daylight… – with the most gormless grin plastered on my face. No, not Brahms, Elgar, or even Vaughan Williams; but, yes, congratulations to those of you who yelled out “Shostakovich”! In this case, his First Piano Concerto – and wait, it gets better… – performed by Peter Donohoe (above)! And bookended by my favourite Mozart symphony (No.29, K201) and piano concerto (No.12, K414) – both in the “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… 

This key includes declarations of innocent love, satisfaction with one’s state of affairs; hope of seeing one’s beloved again when parting; youthful cheerfulness and trust in God.

– Christian Schubart (translated by Rita Steblin): Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst

…and I think all these properties could be said to be present – not only in the golden, warm, and sunny Orchestra of the Swan – but especially in the symphony, which opened the evening. (The concerto, I feel, is more meditative – an aspect that was beautifully illuminated by Donohoe: who appears to have such a gracious affinity with Mozart that the music always sounds fresh, yet considered, in his hands… – but more of that later!) Additionally, to my ears, in both works it sounds as if the young Wolfgang has found his wings – and is making sure that everyone knows he can fly!

Eric Blom, in Ralph Hill’s The Symphony, describes Symphony No.29 as “this slender but extremely appealing work of 1774” – but adds that it “takes the foremost place in one’s affections [because] the youthful musician took fire from his inspiration and wrote for his own satisfaction”.

It may be an early work for Mozart (he was eighteen): but its ingenious string writing, with its gossamer strokes, foreshadows the serenades of the late nineteenth century. Such accomplished orchestration is often superimposed – throughout the work – with characteristic (on some occasions, extremely) sustained notes in the oboes and horns (demonstrating the Orchestra of the Swan’s wind section’s magnificent collective lung capacity). But it is that glorious leaping, ascending first subject of the Allegro moderato that grabs your attention – sung so radiantly by OOTS’ skilful strings… – as well as the sudden, electrifying changes of dynamic and mood (especially in the first repeat) which follow. And, for once, the floating oboes (Victoria Brawn – page-turner par excellence… – and Louise Braithwaite) and insistent horns were perfectly balanced and transparent. (It can be so easy to overwhelm them with too many strings… – but never here.) Bliss!

Blom says of the following Andante that “Its peaceful atmosphere is that of a sunlit garden and its finely balanced shape suggests that the garden is one with trimmed hedges and symmetrical vistas.” The muted strings, here – with the, at first, timorous descant-like counter-melody in the first violins; and the building layers of oboe and horn – wandered through the greenery with plangent, sometimes whispered, delicacy; the second subject just as beautiful and affecting as the main theme of the Tchaikovsky that followed after the interval. Not one blade of grass was flexed or folded. David Curtis, conducting, needless to say – with occasional balletic sweeping gestures, subtle body language, and a marvellous range of encouraging facial expressions… – let the music breathe: with profound moments of gentle rubato. We bathed in the orchestra’s warmth; and all was well… – well, until the wind’s salute in the spine-tingling Coda. Not a rude awakening as such: but a fanfare to signal the following Minuetto was on its way.

Blom describes this as…

An extraordinarily vigorous and original movement. The octave unisons for the oboes and horns… at the end of each of the two parts of the main section are a daring innovation, and the immediate mocking imitation of it by the strings at the opening of the second part is irresistibly humorous.

Look out, Shostakovich, you have competition!

As the pleasing programme note – by Christopher Morley – implies, this is hardly music to dance to, with its “less than courtly energy of Beethoven scherzos”; and yet there are hints of a Tchaikovskian waltz in the Trio. More originality – this time tinged with fun (and the smiles of a happy band)!

The final Allegro con spirito is well-known for its status as a “conductor’s nightmare, with its [oft-repeated] rushing upward unison scale beginning off the beat… this sky-rocket…”. However, Curtis had apparently not even glanced inside the programme’s pages: the violins were always perfectly, brightly, joyously synchronized! What stood out for me, instead, was the superb horn playing from Francesca Moore-Bridger and Craig Macdonald.

With its octave jump, the rising initial theme, here, takes us back to the first movement – one of the many signs of Mozart’s burgeoning maturity – which, as Blom states, “is used imitatively with great skill in the working out”. He then adds an aside to his description of “the very pretty second subject” that follows – which, I believe, sums up the whole symphony (if not the complete works…):

The word ‘pretty’, by the way, though it happens to be the right one here, should not be taken to confirm the far too widespread view that Mozart is the ‘dainty’ composer, not only of the popular fancy, but even of the imagination of many musicians, especially of the nineteenth century, who ought to have known better and seen deeper. He could achieve prettiness incomparably well simply because he could express anything whatever that came within the range of the technical resources and the aesthetic conceptions of his time.

…and I simply could not have put it better (although Donohoe certainly did, in the too-short pre-concert talk…). Read a Mozart score (including this one), and his genius leaps from the page – the effects he achieves with “only the normal small Salzburg orchestra of two oboes, two horns, and strings” are remarkable. His music may sound ‘pretty’ – but underneath the tranquil waters of the Avon, that swan is pedalling with all its might: a picture of effortless, exuberant perfection. And in its undoubted element.

Both the Shostakovich and Mozart concertos (the latter ending the concert) are known for including quotations from other composers (and, of course, in Shostakovich’s case, himself…). I think they also share a dark inner voice – already hinted at in the symphony’s inner movements. Whereas, there, it was the strings who butted in; here, in Shostakovich’s First Piano Concerto, it is nearly always the trumpet – given emphatic, argumentative articulation by Hugh Davies (stupendously producing some of the greatest, almost jazz-club-like playing: akin, for me, to the legend that is Miles Davis…) – which supplies the interjections.

Years after he wrote the work, Shostakovich recalled that he had initially planned to write a concerto for trumpet and orchestra and then added the piano to make it a double concerto. As he continued writing, it became a piano concerto with a solo trumpet.

– Wikipedia: Piano Concerto No.1 (Shostakovich)

That sums the work up quite pithily – but does not go far enough in hinting at the mayhem that Shostakovich’s mastery somehow knits into a cohesive whole (and a jolly entertaining one, at that – if your idea of entertainment is as masochistic as mine… – although it must be fiendishly hard work for both soloist(s) and orchestra). For one thing: I am not convinced that the trumpeter has the same perspective as the pianist. Anyway…

The first movement, Allegro moderato, immediately wakes you from your Mozartian reveries: pulling you away swiftly and cruelly from those sunlit uplands; with Donohoe issuing a startling challenge of runs and a creepy, creeping, resonant bass motif (above). This develops into what I can only describe as ‘typical Shostakovich’ – a pointed Allegro vivace, with infrequent trumpet commentary. Although the strings, with Curtis’ precision guidance, try their hardest to calm things down, as the pace slows (marginally) to Allegretto – and just as it looks as if everyone is going to play nicely together, at the transformation to Allegro – Donohoe careers off expertly with yet more of that trademark, jagged sarcasm.

The strings will not be defeated: and try again, with an episode of deep introversion, low, low down. But that skulking bass figure, and its accompanying open theme, return; and…

…well, we’re suddenly thrown into the deep end of a transcendent, piercing beauty that, again, could only be by Shostakovich: almost a slow-motion mazurka – here, revealing Curtis’ increasingly deep immersion in such movements: expressed ethereally in the upper strings. Eventually, Donohoe joins in – reticently, almost, as if scared to intrude… – but the crystalline melody he conjures up just adds to the tension: especially when underwritten by a hint of “that skulking bass figure”, again, momentarily; before a simple tune and accompaniment. You know it can’t last for long…

…but, somehow, it does; and further evolves into supreme, Rachmaninoff-style gorgeousness. Of course, this is when the façade comes tumbling down! The man just can’t resist! And off we go again, Più mosso, with an intense, short burst of a cadenza, underlined with some heavy martial bass chords from Donohoe. The strings reciprocate… – and we are drawn back into the haunting world of the Fifth Symphony: “the brass-less Largo, which ‘is the work’s emotional core’ – ‘one of the most despairing pieces of music ever written, a memorial for Mother Russia and all those sent to the labour camps’.” Even the solo trumpet now sings muted and mournfully – sensational, plangent playing from Davies: well-deserving of Donohoe’s approbation and gratitude at the end… – before holding hands with the piano for a moment; which then leads us on, as the strings return for a heartbreaking descent into hell, whilst Donohoe soars almost imperceptibly heavenwards.

¶

The Moderato third movement is really just a short skip and a step from being the introduction to the final Allegro con brio. As if to acknowledge where he left us – sobbing into our handkerchiefs – Shostakovich breaks us in gently with some twinkling work for Donohoe (and that remarkable, ineffable, deftness of touch). But the strings seem to want to pull the music back to that soul-shaking slow movement. And yet, you just know that the proprietary spikiness will return, eventually…

… and so Davies interjects yet again: with Donohoe trying to overwhelm any other instrument in hearing with massive torrents that build to what I can only describe as an almighty bunfight between the two soloists.

I’m not sure you could say that order is then restored, as such. It never is. It’s not a compromise, either; nor a handshake – more a licking of wounds – and yet, the piano reneges on whatever Machiavellian bargain was made, and again asserts its supremacy.

But Davies’ gleaming trumpet has a trick hidden up its valves – and all Donohoe can do is punctuate its swagger with one annoyed fortississimo chord: slamming the door and storming out. So cocky, now, is the trumpet, that it even sings a repeated burst of “I’m H‑A‑P‑P‑Y” (seriously); and the strings join in with the fun, before – of course! – Donohoe tries to barge back in. Unperturbed by this rudeness, everyone else just keeps going, before the trumpet finally gives in, widely opens the door, and in flies Donohoe, tails trailing, with the most manic, gathering, swinging storm of a cadenza. Gosh, that man can play! (Which may well be the understatement of the century.)

The trumpet’s return is impudence personified. Both soloists want to have the last word. And they do. And we cheer and stamp, and applaud: knowing that intense magic was worked – but not quite knowing how. (I’m beginning to think Curtis must have some Soviet blood in him.) Stupendous, on all counts! (And not a surprise – considering the immensely-skilled, interrogative punishment it received – that the piano needed a quick retune, afterwards.)

[Reading this back, I find that I am struggling to do both the work and the performance justice. Just take it from me that it was formidably astounding… – or, perhaps, astonishingly overwhelming… – and then mix those thoughts in with the rest of my underachieving prose….]

¶

I don’t know about anyone-else: but I also required a retune after that. And maybe, then, to follow, a nice gentle massage…?

Call me a mushy romantic – “Tysoe: you’re a mushy romantic!” – and I shall be happy to agree. The Tchaikovsky Andante Cantabile that followed (an arrangement of the slow movement of his first string quartet – usually for cello and strings – and music now recommended for funerals, would you believe…?!) is just an outpouring of the purest beauty – and therefore ‘gets’ me every time. It speaks – nay, it sings – to me….

Some may consider it ‘sentimental’ – but, to me, it feels like a distillation of regret; albeit with a teensy smidgen of hope. It was the perfect antidote to the Shostakovich; and definitely massaged my soul.

All I need say is that Curtis and the OOTS strings played this simpler, warmer adaptation (not quite the one above…) – paced perfectly, with some agonizingly pure poignancy – as if their lives depended on it. (The solo from David Le Page, as always, was considered and touching: utterly representative of the rest of the orchestra.) This was controlled catharsis of the most ravishing kind. I felt truly cleansed….

The closing Mozart concerto never quite lets go of this more maudlin feeling – despite being in that “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… – not even, I feel, “in the genial rondo finale marked Allegretto”.

There is some wonderful orchestral writing before the piano is finally invited to join in. Donohoe seemed to be enjoying the rest, though: observing Curtis and the orchestra with a keen eye and matching smile – perhaps, wondering, like me, with only oboes and horns added to the core strings, how they were making such rich music! But his entry (above) was fabulous: as if he had just heard these wondrous themes for the first time; absorbed them; and was extemporizing on them. No-one plays Mozart like Donohoe: there is such fluidity; apparent spontaneity; and yet great thought (you know that every single note has been scrutinised and weighed-up with his well-developed wisdom and expertise). He honours the music with so much grace; so much meaning; that it is as if he has clothed himself deep within it.

He wears it lightly, though; and never grandstands. He is a truly collaborative performer (despite his justified quarrelsomeness in the Shostakovich) – especially with Curtis “at the front, waving his arms around” – and he and the orchestra’s members are genuine equals. Thus, even the first-movement cadenza was simply a demonstration of his wonderment at Mozart’s brilliance. No fireworks, as such – just clear illumination of genius.

His playing in the Andante – entering with one of Mozart’s most beautiful piano themes – was thoughtfully subdued. It flowed slowly, affectingly, out of his fingers… – although I thought I detected just a hint of menacing Shostakovich in the short cadenza… – all the way to that transcendent ending. (Do not doubt that this is Romanticism of the highest order – up there with both Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.)

Even the final movement’s cadenza was ruminative – allowing Curtis to pause the orchestra, take deep breaths… before a final flourish from Donohoe; and a compact climb to the pinnacle of… – actually, I really don’t have the words for such… beauty. (Just let’s say that I could probably listen to Donohoe play Chopsticks on an endless loop – preferably accompanied with his and Curtis’s commentary – and still find it compelling.)

And then, just when I thought this was an evening that could not be improved upon, the gentle, generous soul that is Donohoe – who had thanked everyone on the stage several times, as is his wont, with modest graciousness… – spoke a few quiet words to the audience; entranced us, transported us, with an encore (Shostakovich – of course… – his Prelude and Fugue No.7 in A major (the great man tells me…)) that seemed to encapsulate all that had gone before….

¶

And so it was that I departed Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – in darkness… – with the most gormless grin (still) plastered on my face; but with tears yet drying on my cheeks. My heart was full… – thanks to some of the most wonderful music and musicians. What else could one desire…?

Postscript

Well, if, after all that – and my failure to praise it duly… – you’re looking for even more of OOTS’ patented, emotive yumminess: then, on Friday, go grab a copy of the CD, below…! (And, be warned: Donohoe and the orchestra also have a recording of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto out, hopefully later in the year; matched with yesterday’s recording of the First…! Watch this space!)

On Naxos’s new album of the English composer’s work, the Stratford-upon-Avon-based Orchestra of the Swan, under their music director David Curtis, perform arrangements of some of Ireland’s finest inspirations.

     The Downland Suite, arranged from its brass-band original by the composer himself, is in the best English pastoral tradition.

     The passionate Cello Sonata, written in the Twenties, when Ireland was in the throes of an affair with a much younger man, has been transcribed for cello and strings by [OOTS cellist] Matthew Forbes, and is brilliantly dispatched by cellist Raphael Wallfisch.

     If you didn’t know, you could think it was originally composed as a cello concerto.

     A really good introduction to Ireland’s art.

– David Mellor: Daily Mail (26 March 2016)

More information here and here.