This serious moonlight…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten days ago, I wrote…

I have been fortunate to hear some truly amazing performances this year: but this was “the very best of the best” – every single musician working their socks off, giving it their all… until those ethereal, pure voices faded beyond hearing. The silence was unbearable. But so was the thought of applause.

     I had wept from start to finish. I could not have done otherwise: my mind in tatters; my heart riven; my soul shattered to smithereens. Good music will do this, of course. But only if played this well.

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

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

– Charles Hazlewood: Facing the music

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

¶

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

– Programme note

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

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

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

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

¶

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in

– Leonard Cohen: Anthem

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

…and we return to marvellous mystery and melancholy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

– Programme note

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

– Programme note

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

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

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

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

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

– Programme note

¶

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

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

– Albert Camus

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.

Bach and forth…

Where there is devotional music, God is always at hand with His gracious presence.

– Johann Sebastian Bach

It is something quite astonishing, this journey (nay, this pilgrimage) back to live music that I am on – although I am fortunate that I have not had to travel far, yet: with the recent visit of the enchanting Eboracum Baroque; and the accomplished, enthusiastic Orchestra of the Swan crouching figuratively on my doorstep – both, up to now, performing familiar repertoire. And it was to Stratford ArtsHouse I returned, last night, for another concert in OOTS’ scrumptious 2015‑16 Shakespeare 400 season: ‘Bach Doubled’.

Revolving around three Bach violin concerti – be still, my beating heart… – the ecstatic solo E major (BWV 1042); the entrancing Concerto for Two Violins (BWV 1043); and the utterly engaging one for violin and oboe (BWV 1060) – this was a programme that played to the orchestra’s and soloists’ undoubted strengths. [Although I am not sure the pieces were necessarily played in the right order: firstly because of the printed sequence (which implied a last-minute change of heart or plan); and, secondly – to judge from the audience reception, and repeated calls back to the stage for Tamsin Waley-Cohen and David Le Page: both extremely popular, locally (and with good reason) – the double violin concerto should almost certainly have closed the concert. (I would be interested to learn if this pattern is repeated at tonight’s Town Hall Classics in Birmingham….)]

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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

Handel’s overture to his magical opera Giulio Cesare provided the Shakespeare connection, this time around – opening proceedings with a too-short burst of utter baroque cheer: but a great way of warming up the orchestra, and bringing the audience to rapt attention.

Next came the sumptuous double violin concerto, and – although I think we should have been left waiting, licking our chops, to hear it (especially as it was the one work that appeared to have pulled us all in to the justifiably full house) – as you would expect from performers of such calibre, the two soloists did not disappoint: with wonderful interplay and interwoven dynamics.

I had gone thinking I would have been more than happy to hear just the Largo ma non tanto (although the more largo, the better) from this: which is heart-breakingly beautiful; and proof that Bach is no mere rude, technical, mechanical. It has always been one of my favourite tear-jerkers; and a work I know inside and out from repeated playing, coaching and listening… – but the oboe and ‘single’ violin concerti’s slow movements also completely absorbed me: demonstrating that the man could not help but write sinuous emotion of the highest order – and, as Waley-Cohen rightly stated in the pre-concert talk, his music is still, somehow, fascinatingly “contemporary”. Gripping stuff indeed.

However, I have to beg to differ (boo, hiss) with David Curtis – whose judgment as both artistic director and principal conductor is usually flawless – and his assertion that an orchestra this small (this “chamber”) doesn’t need ‘managing’ during performance. (This was also proved recently – and positively – by Eboracum Baroque; and I believe that there is an ineffable power in – and which stems from – befitting, expert musical direction.) Although tempi were generally crisp and cohesive, the dynamics were not as subtle or as controlled as when the maestro is in charge: for example, during the wonderful explosive precision of the Stravinsky (and its challenging, first-movement shifts of pace); and the happiness of the too-short Handel. (I also missed Curtis’ habitual interpolated words of wisdom – one of the major draws of any OOTS appearance.)

It may be the acoustics of the ArtsHouse’s “wooden O” – perhaps combined with my mortal hearing – but I felt that both Waley-Cohen and Le Page struggled, occasionally, to float above the level of the orchestra (especially in that gripping central movement) – although this should not detract from the sheer charisma and crystalline radiance of their joint performance. They obviously have a rapport and gladsome mutual respect – both of which shone through the whole work.

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Bach is the supreme genius of music…. This man, who knows everything and feels everything, cannot write one note, however unimportant it may appear, which is anything but transcendent. He has reached the heart of every noble thought, and has done it in the most perfect way.

– Pablo Casals

The same should be said for Waley-Cohen’s partnership with Victoria Brawn in the Concerto for Violin and Oboe. The heart-rending, astonishing, beautiful, smooth, sustained reed-playing of Brawn was musicianship and soul of the highest quality – producing a stunning “overheard intimate conversation” (as Curtis described it before the concert): and, again, they complemented each other perfectly. [Although the Stravinsky was flawless – and over far too quickly: as was the whole concert – this heavenly music, with heavenly musicians – and that includes the orchestra: who are never anything less than magical – was (albeit marginally) the highlight of the night.] Here, because of the lighter, pizzicato accompaniment in the Adagio, the lines scintillated and hung in the air miraculously: clear and strong as gossamer. I think I may have stopped breathing….

¶

Whether the angels play only Bach praising God, I am not quite sure.

– Karl Barth

After the interval, the Stravinsky; a shuffling of chairs – it was good to see the violas brought to the fore for the Bach and Handel; although it would also be nice to see the violins balanced this way, one day, in Elgarian fashion (or ‘continental-style’), for more modern works… – and then on to the joyous finale of the E major concerto.

The Stravinsky Concerto in D, as I have hinted, was mesmerizing: and was the ideal piece for demonstrating the innate, supreme talent of OOTS – their control of timing and volume, lyricism and tone; their strength and cohesion in small numbers. This was simultaneously wonderful, witty and addictive! And Curtis proved, yet again, what a subtle master he is at the helm.

Waley-Cohen made the fieriness of the first and last movements of the Bach seem so effortless: with fantastic tonality throughout the range. (The bottom G‑string on her “1721 ex-Fenyves Stradivarius violin” has a wonderful, muscular growling richness: which she emphasized perfectly – a wonderful complement to the singing top E‑string, and her ventures up towards the higher, soaring, lyrical reaches of the fingerboard.) Joyous stuff indeed – especially the enthusiastic, almost perpetuum mobile of the uplifting first movement.

The Adagio, with its hypnotic ground bass – surely inspiration for the Morse soundtrack… – was yet more proof of Bach’s uncanny ability to worm his way deep into your heart: and it was this low, lowing ‘melody’ that resonated through my mind as I headed home; as well as the shimmering, subtle harpsichord playing of (the uncredited) David Ponsford – obviously also much admired and appreciated by Waley-Cohen. I’m not sure I remember much of the final Allegro assai – although I do recollect wanting to cheer…!

It was good to see the ArtsHouse full for such wonderments. Although I noticed, as I left, that one seat, behind me, was taken up by a happy chap in tails and natty socks, for some strange reason dressed as a conductor…!

At the end of our visit, Fleisher agreed to play something on my piano, a beautiful old 1894 Bechstein concert grand that I had grown up with, my father’s piano. Fleisher sat at the piano and carefully, tenderly, stretched each finger in turn, and then, with arms and hands almost flat, he started to play. He played a piano transcription of Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze, as arranged for piano by Egon Petri. Never in its 112 years, I thought, had this piano been played by such a master – I had the feeling that Fleisher had sized up the piano’s character and perhaps its idiosyncrasies within seconds, that he had matched his playing to the instrument, to bring out its greatest potential, its particularity. Fleisher seemed to distill the beauty, drop by drop, like an alchemist, into flowing notes of an almost unbearable beauty – and, after this, there was nothing more to be said.

– Oliver Sacks: Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain