There is no passion to be found playing small…

Two tantalizing prospects lured me to last night’s concert… – that of seeing and hearing the Orchestra of the Swan with a change of conductor; and witnessing that conductor – Julian Lloyd Webber – in his new element: that of (to use his own word) “accompanist”, rather than the accompanied. Having only witnessed him before as cellist (and one of the greatest) – but, luckily, been privy to his views on one of his new roles – I was rather intrigued.

There was a third element, I suppose: in that Mozart never having composed music for solo cello, this would also be the first time I would witness him immersed in this most beloved of composers (a kissed score at the end the perfect seal of this most wonderful partnership).

It was impressive – no doubt having been on the receiving end so very often… – how clear his instructions were, in rehearsal: both spoken and signed. So clear, that the dynamics (and crispness) he immediately provoked from the OOTS strings in the opening Allegro of Eine kleine Nachtmusik were incredibly and wonderfully fresh – vigorous even. He is a lithe big friendly giant of a man; and, even without a podium, loomed over the strings as if his arms would reach to the back desks. Never threateningly, though. It was almost as if he were embracing them….

This is a string section, of course – albeit with a scattering of fresh faces – more than capable of playing this work without guidance; and yet Julian quickly stamped his mark on what is always a watchful and obedient ensemble. The opening movement was therefore electrifying: pulling individual lines out for emphasis; snapping entries into place.

Weaver of moonbeams…

Ahead of his two concerts – in Stratford-upon-Avon and Birmingham, conducting Orchestra of the Swan with this year’s Associate Artist, cellist Laura van der Heijden – I went to meet Julian Lloyd Webber: now Principal of Birmingham Conservatoire, and steering it through some exciting times as it prepares to move into its purpose-designed new home.

Entering his office in the old building – sadly nearing the end of its productive life, in the centre of the city – one cannot fail to be reminded, though, of his previous career as one of his (and my) generation’s greatest, and most successful, solo cellists: with posters of some of his most memorable achievements scattered throughout the room. Indeed, above his desk – in pride of place, perhaps – he points out a large framed copy of the cover of the CD I am nervously clutching between my fingers: a recording which confirmed his status of hero for me, and for many others. But more of that later: because, as he welcomes me in, and shakes my hand, there could not be a more genial and gracious interviewee. (As I am rapidly learning – as my first year of being OOTS’ Writer-in-Residence comes to a close – the majority of classical musicians are incredibly generous people: open, willing to chat, to treat you as an equal, to spend time with you… – they just happen to be incredibly talented, too – although no mention of this will ever pass their lips.)

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.

The jest I’ll show you here…

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

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

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

– Elgar – His Music: Cello Concerto – Introduction

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

– CelloHeaven.com: The Elgar Cello Concerto

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

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

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

¶

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

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

                                             O now, forever

Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!

Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars

That makes ambition virtue! O, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,

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

The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

Th’ immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

¶

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

Note…

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

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

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page,

Who mutually hath answer’d my affection

(So far forth as herself might be her chooser)

Even to my wish. I have a letter from her

Of such contents as you will wonder at;

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,

That neither, singly, can be manifested

Without the show of both. Fat Falstaff

Hath a great scene; the image of the jest

I’ll show you here at large.

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