In full glory reflected now shines in the stream…

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

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

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

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

Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine…

Before I commence this review, a plea (or two). Firstly, that we never forget that Holst was a truly great composer; nor that 1934 was a devastating year for British music (and for Holst’s close friend, Vaughan Williams): with the simultaneous loss of three of its greatest sons. Admittedly, Elgar and Delius were old men; but Gustav Holst was only fifty-nine when he died. Considering that Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony was premièred when he was seventy (and he went on to write another four…), Holst had only just gotten started. Secondly, that we search out those other ‘English geniuses’ whose names may not so readily trip from our tongues as they should: Edmund Rubbra, Alan Rawsthorne, Malcolm Arnold, Herbert Howells, Cyril Rootham… – and that’s just for starters. There are many, many, many more out there, who – for whatever reason – the mainstream repertoire ignores; but who produced some startlingly beautiful and original music.

¶

Last night was the Orchestra of the Swan’s 21st Anniversary Concert: and it started with the suitably celebratory St Paul’s Suite by that man Holst. I think I must have just sat there with a silly grin on my face (I know my eyes were frequently closed) – this was one of those concerts where the standard of music and playing were so high, so well-matched, that it was a bit like sitting on top of your favourite mountain, gazing at your favourite view… – for this was, as was all of the evening, radiant perfection. (And, since you ask: Skiddaw.)

The final movement of this, The Dargason – especially with its first, extremely gentle rendition of Greensleeves; followed by its repeat soaring across summer wheat fields, swifts a-calling… – was, though, an utter triumph! Everything one could ever want from an English string band… and more. (Which should probably be OOTS’ slogan! Or something.)

When; and the art of existential transience…

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

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

¶

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

¶

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

¶

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Douglas Adams: Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency

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….)

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show…

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ben Goffe (Mustardseed); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.

I am feeling truly, gratefully blessed. First, the greatest, most profound King Lear. Then a matchless, audacious Hamlet. And now – last night – the most perfect, diaphanous, striking A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Seriously, Shakespeare does not, can not, will not… ever get any better than this.

What is even more astounding is that just this one remarkable man wrote these three remarkable, contrasting, peerless dramas. That I have been fortunate to see the most marvellous companies (including the creatives, of course) in the most marvellous productions, fills me with the most marvellous, joyous, almost-disbelief. How could I be so very fortunate? (And all this, of course, is just – just…?! – the sumptuous cake beneath the heart-rending, blood-red cherry that is the most gripping theatre I have ever seen: Doctor Faustus.)

And by the way let’s recount our dreams.

I remember my first A Midsummer Night’s Dream vividly (in effect, rather than detail) – as I will undoubtedly forever remember this one… – although, as one of Will’s most popular, accessible and most theatrical plays, I suppose I came to it quite late. It was at the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester; and I am pretty sure it was the first time I had experienced theatre-in-the-round (as well as such mind-boggling, awe-inspiring, dramatic engineering and architecture). The production was directed by Greg Hersov, and starred the magnificent Kenneth Cranham as Oberon. It was “Modern dress, with the fairies in particularly fantastic costumes of fur and feathers. The wood scenes were set around an abandoned bedstead.” What I remember most, though, is Peter Lindford’s almost hyperactive portrayal of Puck: acrobatically making the most of the Exchange’s spaceship-like structure.

In some ways – as with The Tempest – it can be quite onerous attempting to keep the play ‘magical’ without resorting to gadgetry and gimmickry: but I remember that production having a very humane feel (those at craft were as valid, as eminent, as those at court); as well as striking the right balance between dark and light, reality and fantasy – reconciling the play’s innate paradoxes – which is probably why it has stuck with me for so long.

Jack Holden (Lysander); Chris Nayak (Demetrius); Sam Redford (Theseus) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Following darkness like a dream…

And so it is now with director Erica Whyman (who I must, I think, henceforth have to refer to – and worship – simply as Minerva: “goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy”), and her startling, invisibly-engineered (but exceeding complex) engrossing, phantasmagorical new production of (to give it its full title) A Midsummer Night’s Dream: A Play for the Nation for the RSC. Having been on tour all over “This precious stone set in the silver sea” – utilizing mega-talented regional amateur companies for the Mechanicals, and skilful local schoolchildren for the Fairy Train – its return run in Stratford-upon-Avon (reuniting, in turn, with each of those non-professional groups) finishes on 16 July 2016. So, if there are actually any left, grab a ticket while you can! Honestly – and I, as is my wont, have two more viewings (which will definitely not be enough…) – I have never been so thoroughly entertained in my whole life! This is not to be missed!

Such a command – and my description of it as “most perfect” – are no mere conceits. Every single member of the cast, creatives (especially Tom Piper: for yet another cunning, and utterly beautiful, period setting; perfectly lit by Charles Balfour), musicians, fairies – even the caterers, cleaners, ushers and programme-sellers, for goodness’ sake… – should be immensely proud of what they have achieved. Ignoring the Sisyphean logistics; the nightmare of managing an ever-changing cast of hundreds; this is a dream of a Dream – which, as with that earlier version, straddles the peak of perfection gleefully – yet never veers far from “The jaws of darkness” – by concentrating on the humanity and humaneness of everyone involved: whether these emerge through gifts of empathy, compassion, vulnerability; or flaws of pride, vanity, jealousy. Yes, it is amazingly, unbelievably uproarious: but the humour rises from a solid foundation of great emotion and intelligence – all those passions and sensations; all that ardour, all that vehemence, excitement, despair, ecstasy; all that warmth and animosity; all those sensibilities that make us who and what we are.

David Mears (Bottom) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

What a dream was here!

As I have recently discovered, the only way to review such impeccability is to list every single contributor; and try to summon each individual’s unique contribution – relying solely on the “remembrance of [this] idle gaud”! So let’s start with those incredible, incredibly rude, Mechanicals.

Shirley Allwork (Starveling); Dominic Skinner (Flute); Charlotte Froud (Snug); David Southeard (Snout); Roger Ganner (Quince) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

That we have such amazing talent residing in another theatre in our home town is nothing short of miraculous. Moving from The Bear Pit Theatre to the vast auditorium of the RST takes serious guts, though – not that any nervousness showed: unless it was, of course, meant to show; unless it was acted. Although not on stage, huge dollops of praise must first be given to Nicky Cox, their director (and all-round megastar)! Charlotte Froud – who was also their “rehearsal Titania”…! – was a wonderfully timorous Snug; and a giggle-provoking lion. Shirley Allwork – as Starveling, and therefore “Presenteth Moonshine” – was incredibly, beautifully dry; and has a stare that could (and did) wilt pompous courtiers at a thousand yards (not to mention a disobedient dog). David Southeard’s Snout – and rough-cast signifier of Wall – was embarrassment defined: especially when his “crannied hole or chink” was exposed; never mind having his stones “often kiss’d”. Roger Ganner, as carpenter and director Quince, has timing to die for; and was the perfect foil to his unruly company. Of course, it is Flute (a wonderfully, almost-bearded, faux-effeminate Dominic Skinner) and even more so Bottom (David Mears: on startling form – ranging from a berserk Brian Blessed-declamatory style through to some incredible falsetto, squeaking and hee-hawing) who get the best lines – Mears’ interactions with Titania being of great beauty, as well as outrageous amusement. But it was the ensemble playing that showed just how awesome this grouping is; and I really don’t have enough words of praise to describe their engaging, consummate accomplishments. (Sadly, this was their last night. Boo hoo. But they went out – as, no doubt, they went in – with both barrels blazing!) Stunning… – and what prodigal casting.

David Mears (Bottom); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Sam Redford was a magisterial, authoritative Theseus: often with a knowing glint in his eye; as well as a commanding stage presence. The same can be said of Laura Harding, as Hippolyta – always dignified; always in control. This is a well-matched pair: growing comfortable in each other’s presence; and increasing in charm, warmth – and love – as the night progressed. Jon Trenchard, as Philostrate – especially in the closing scene – was captivatingly bossy; and every line uttered produced increasing amounts of laughter from the audience. (Timing is a hard thing to define: but he – like so many of this magical cast – has it by the bucketload!) Peter Hamilton Dyer, as Egeus – looking not unlike Cyril ‘Blakey’ Blake, in his uniform – evolved beautifully from dictatorial to loving father; and our sympathy therefore grew accordingly.

Mercy Ojelade (Hermia); Jack Holden (Lysander); Chris Nayak (Demetrius); Laura Riseborough (Helena) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

It would be easy (and lazy) just to say that all of the courtly lovers were superlative… and leave it at that. Honestly, never have I seen four actors – in all their argumentative, affectionate, boisterous combinations – play these parts so very, very, very, very well. Mercy Ojelade was a beautifully feisty Hermia: her emotions on show for everyone to see; and truly believable. At the beginning of her RSC career, this was the best of débuts. Chris Nayak turned Demetrius from villain to humorous empath – no mean feat… – and was certainly the equal of Jack Holden’s Lysander, and his mocking tongue. Both are immensely charismatic, superb at physical humour, and their continual joshing was a joy to behold! However, for me, Laura Riseborough’s Helena – who is often portrayed as a moping ninny – was (albeit marginally) the best of this constellation of brightly shining stars. I really felt for her; her every move felt justified; and her anger was discerningly and immaculately portrayed.

Lucy Ellinson (Puck); Laura Riseborough (Helena) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream.

Oberon’s musician fairies – Jamie Cameron, cello; Tarek Merchant, piano (and brilliant music director); Alex Tomkins, guitar (as well as Jon Trenchard – see above – doubling on flute) – were similarly outstanding (as well as an inspired leitmotiv…). Their almost constant presence – as well as the sad packing away of instruments, towards the end – delineated and punctuated the action wittily and fittingly. Adam Cross, woodwind; Andrew Stone-Fewings, trumpet; Ayse Osman, double-bass; and James Jones, percussion – also billed as “fairies”; and also permanently onstage – helped render Sam Kenyon’s impressively befitting (and ingenious) music with immense passion (and mind-boggling stamina and precision). I have such admiration for the RSC’s “bands”; and will always be grateful that they are always ‘live’ – no recordings, here, thank you… – providing an essential (and awe-inspiring) element of immersion and involvement.

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Theo St. Claire (cool as a cucumber), Mari Izzard (the one with the gentle smile), Aimee Gray (as light as air), Lila Clements (even lighter), and especially Ben Goffe (who expended more energy in one evening than I could in a lifetime; and who had the best, er, running joke of the night…) – were all stupendous as Titania’s protective and collaborative posse. Captivating – especially in their interactions with the Fairy Train of mega-talented local schoolchildren – and hilariously, teasingly affectionate in their treatment of Bottom – these were no mere sidekicks; but fabulous singers and dancers essential to the story, as well as that long-lasting overwhelming feeling of delight.

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

No more yielding but a dream…

I raved about both Chu Omambala (Oberon) and Ayesha Dharker (Titania), when they were last here – and they make incomparably sexy fairy royalty: ideal, sprightly soulmates; and yet with charisma, tension, chemistry and electricity buzzing between them like a horde of angry wasps. Their reconciliation was intensely moving; and I could listen to both of them recite Shakespeare’s poetry on a loop for ever and ever… – especially Omambala: whose every balletic-jazz-style move was mesmerizing; every glance intense. (I shall never see Oberon in quite the same way again.) Dharker was simply brilliant: her Titania may twinkle; yet those lights are as deep as the oceans. It was hard to take your eyes off both of them; but if Omambala glided across the stage with menace and manipulation, Dharker floated with joy and utter self-awareness. (Movement director Siân Williams, and her deputy, Polly Bennett, are definitely central to this production: their ideas flawless; and gracefully executed by all.)

Lucy Ellinson (Puck); Chu Omambala (Oberon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

The night though – as it must with any production of this glittering play – belongs to Puck. Success or failure is almost totally dependent on Robin Goodfellow’s amoral jesting; ability to gather up the audience, and take them along for the ride – despite the part’s sometimes discomfiting otherworldliness. To say Lucy Ellinson (and her top hat) accomplished all this before even a word had been uttered (and then just kept flourishing with increasing charm and cheekiness) shows just how spellbinding she was. She was born for this rôle: every single gymnastic gesture, every sideways glance, contained and meaningful; every word filled with wicked mirth and mockery; every other character – even Oberon, her almighty crush… – wrapped around her little finger (again and again and again – just like we transfixed and hopeless onlookers). She was everywhere; and always insanely enthralling. To be blunt, with the rest of the cast so similarly riveting and adept, she had to be this impossibly astonishing. I still don’t understand, though, how she made it look so darned easy….

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended.

That you have but slumb’red here

While these visions did appear.

Hats off to Lucy Ellinson (Puck) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Then to burst forth – we float…

It felt like careering along on a rollercoaster of emotion. Or surfing upon pounding, ever-increasing waves of the ineffable. At one point – at the climax of Never doubt I love (words that already have special resonance for me… – a meaning which now has multiplied…) – I knew how Gerontius felt, standing before his God. It was not just soul-rending. It was as if someone had reached deep within my heart and mind; unearthed my personal definition of the sublime, the divine, the celestial… and – for one extended moment – magnified it and presented it back to me a million-fold. Truth and beauty are my religions: and tonight, I prostrated myself before their joint altar; and communicated with rapturous angels of the empyrean.

The above movement is the stunning pivot around which Dobrinka Tabakova’s magnificent, essence-shattering Immortal Shakespeare revolves: circumscribing the perfect arc of man’s “exits and entrances” in music of such devastating purity and other-worldly harmony, that to say it was not out of place amongst – nay, was an equal of – three of the greatest works of transcendental radiance by Vaughan Williams, speaks volumes. (However, that is in no way going to prevent me from adding a few more said volumes myself….) This new work – performed here, in Holy Trinity Church – Shakespeare’s resting place – faultlessly (and with great gusto, and even more subtlety) by the Orchestra of the Swan and their Chamber Choir, under artistic director David Curtis, for the very first time – was itself the centrepiece, therefore, of a concert of quite the most “tumultuous and unquenchable power”.

The evening began with RVW’s paean to that most ephemeral of birds, The Lark Ascending. I have heard this orchestra, with the unsurpassable Tamsin Waley-Cohen on violin, play this many times (and if you haven’t yet got their CD of it, go and buy it now…) – and yet everyone involved managed to eke out yet more exquisiteness.

I felt the skylark rise, disturbed, from beneath my feet; the flutter of its rapid wings beating pulses of air into my inner being. I could see it, high above me, rapidly beating above the chalk downs; its loud, distinctive melodic call and warbling trills echoing, echoing…. Then parachuting; before climbing again. And again….

Waley-Cohen performs, interrogates this with such striking intensity – her tone, sublimely matched to the music, ranging from hushed earthiness to a beatific, soaring, incommunicable luminosity – that such images, such feelings, appear readily. This is her work: it flows so beautifully from her bow. And, needless to say, the orchestra are her match. All you need to know about them all is contained within this single piece of wonderment: their celestial dynamics; their shrewd tempi; their translucence….

And then Tabakova’s “Cantata for choir and orchestra” – five words that do not even begin to define this masterpiece. “Dobrinka says of this that it contains some of her finest music to date”, writes Curtis, in his introduction to the programme – and I would not, could not disagree. (And if you haven’t got the CD of some of her previous “finest”, String Paths, go and buy it now. Be warned, though, it will shred your heart and soul with its addictive, profound beauty….)

To me, her music sounds – and feels – both extremely modern, and yet extremely romantic (the nearest comparison, for me, I suppose, is Howard Skempton). And – thinking, for example, of the titles of the movements of her Concerto for Cello and Strings (‘Turbulent, Tense’; ‘Longing’; ‘Radiant’) – and her setting, here, of Never doubt I love (“Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia”) – it is also extremely emotional (which is, of course, A Good Thing).

That it is, in some ways, also ‘simple’ (although with many turbulent, technical undercurrents and textures flowing beneath the surface beauty), implies that I also find her music easy to listen to (again, A Good Thing…). However, it provokes intense feelings that I struggle to describe – in her own words, “music that grabs you and has something to say”.

But it is listening…. This is music that you can’t simply hear…. It pulls you in; questions you; forces you to pay attention – and there aren’t many composers who have that ability. (Few contemporary composers – to me… – seem keen to expose their own hearts – in the way, say, Schubert, Elgar, or, indeed, Vaughan Williams did. The ones that come instantly to mind include the late Peter Maxwell Davies; James MacMillan; and Arvo Pärt.)

But I am evading the issue. How am I supposed to “struggle to describe” what I heard, felt, tonight…?

¶

I have lived with this work for a few months: but only in the form of its orchestral score. That its brilliance shines from the page is testament to Tabakova’s obvious talent and inspiration. Perform it – as it must be performed – and it evokes elation; bliss; ecstasy; and deep, deep turmoil.

If you weren’t there (and if you were…), then you can hear the work broadcast on Sunday at 16:00 on BBC Radio 3 (preceded by Choral Evensong, with this selfsame orchestra and choir, also from Holy Trinity). However, here are my (vivid) reactions – reading back through that now-autographed (and therefore treasured) full score.

The Prelude begins “With excitement”, growing into “wonder and anticipation” (the composer’s own markings) – which I found ethereal; and which the orchestra played with typical great feeling. The soundscape is stunningly original – Tabakova has a way of combining disparate instruments to render something fresh, something (sometimes) disturbing: and her instructions throughout are of great clarity – which is reflected in the resultant music. We are introduced to themes that will reappear – forming that “perfect arc” – one of which is a simple motif ‘spelling out’ the Swan of Avon’s own name. (This is almost a choral symphony: such is its grand scale and structure.) Our attention is grabbed; and the ground is laid.

And then the choir enters (directed, and trained – amazingly – by Suzanne Vango… – oh, my goodness, what power…). “All the world’s a stage”. Words at once so famous, but here so fresh, original. Now we know what we are in for: orchestral and choral delights. That opening phrase grows from mezzopiano to forte – and we will never hear them the same way again. Their magic is unleashed in this short movement. (And I wouldn’t be surprised, if Bill, looking down from his memorial, was grinning from ear to ear!)

This is followed by the somewhat deceptive Brave new world. With The Tempest also lending Prospero’s “set me free” to the seventh section, Dobrinka describes these textual excerpts as “little gems: which bookend the piece; give it symmetry” (more of that “arc”). Commencing with a “Playful, light”, almost jazz-like, syncopated motif for flute, clarinet and vibraphone; the strings and harp enter like little spirits, creeping almost imperceptibly, but adding quiet notes of menace. And then, one of the most gorgeous, rising themes I have ever heard appears (and, remember, we have just listened to The Lark Ascending…). “Arise” – and it does; and how. But, what’s that we hear? The ascent is completed by none other than Waley-Cohen, rising from the string section, with a descant of such purity that my heart may have stopped.

This is so very inspirational – paying tribute, almost; but taking us in glorious new directions. Again, this figure will re-emerge – and it does not lose its vigour in doing so. I stared at that beautiful wooden roof. How could I not? And the first of this work’s many tears streamed down my face. (Sorry, Dobrinka….)

It is a movement of “blessings” in so many ways. There is an air of mystery provided by the violin’s marvellous counterpoint; and yet the choir’s proclamations advance imperiously, wondrously. The trumpet calls, doubling Waley-Cohen momentarily; and yet we keep on ascending with the wonder of it all. “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!” The music illustrates Shakespeare’s words with heaven-filling accuracy, potency and grace. And then the opening syncopated motif reappears: gentler, this time; and we go to meet the angels; all earthly matters left behind.

For one moment, there is a hint of a Vaughan Williams-like, gentle, melodic folk-tune “in the shoulder of your sails”. Such beautiful singing; such perfect pauses from Curtis. “And you are stayed for.” The orchestra here provides intermittent, gentle accompaniment (a magical scrape of the cymbal from the uncredited Jan Bradley – my player of the night: mastering the vibraphone, five temple blocks, a tambourine, the timpani, and those cymbals… – indicating “hoops of steel”). This is as magical as choral writing can be…. (In fact, it seems obvious – for example, reading the rhythms of the word-setting; as well as the ‘controlled’ – and, I think, relevant – use of melisma… – that Tabakova really, really enjoys choral writing! We certainly enjoyed the results….)

¶

And then, just when you think you could not possibly be moved any more, tiny earth-tremors appear, in the form of what appears to be a simple, incessant ground bass, split, in fifths, between the violas and cellos. But you have to be wary, assuming anything here is “simple”. This is the movement that probed my very essence…

Doubt that the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move his aides,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love

…these powerful words initially, incisively, crisply whispered by the chorus (sending shivers down my spine); again, accompanied by that transcendent solo violin. Gentle murmurings from the bassoon and horn lead to the quietest zenith of spread harp chords and wind for that last line. How could we possibly doubt anything, on this evidence…? (I have written “Phew!” in the score at this point. That just about hits the spot, I think.)

A sustained high note – “Moving forward…” – from Waley-Cohen – and the pressure starts to build. Oh, so, so gradually, though. Those magical spread chords again. (Where did I put my soggy handkerchief?) And there is choral writing – but for the violins and harp. Such magic. The solo violin re-enters: as gentle as rain on a summer’s day. But this feels like a funeral procession, such is the state of my soul. The violin sighs with passion – “Hold back” writes the composer; and Waley-Cohen judges her rubato to shattering perfection. The build continues. Every member of the orchestra is playing, but we are merely at mezzoforte. There is so much more to come.

And then the violin, flute and trumpet deliver a descending theme, which, repeated, gathers with it spread chords of vehement perfection. “Hold back…”. This is it. And then the choir enters, singing those piercing words with instructional fortitude. No, this is it. But it continues to build. “Hold back…”. We have string writing that even Vaughan Williams may have been a little envious of. We fade to pianissimo. “But never doubt I love…”. How could I…?

¶

Curtis paused. We all needed time to recover. And then gentle thrumming strings – “Tense, with suspense” – begin the next movement….

The King John “be fire with fire” speech, which forms the basis of this thrilling fourth section, features some of Shakespeare’s most powerful words (and on a level with anything Henry V declaims). And, again, the music matches it. A side drum alerts us to distant battle; an approaching army launches fanfares; and the choir instructs us not to “see fear”. But this is fearsome stuff.

Those fanfares grow in confidence; but the choir’s is greater. This is a battle of wills (with some superb percussion writing and playing). And suddenly the strings interject with growling, terminated crescendos. The battle is won; and fades away.

The fifth and sixth sections – Truth will come to light and All the world’s a stage – are conjoined; and reintroduce those earlier themes. As Edmund says in King Lear – “The wheel is come full circle, I am here.” But this is no simple repeat. Yes, the solo violin returns; but the music is developed, opened up (the nine-part choral writing at “many parts” is both illustrative and stupendous). Echoed motifs lure us on to the end. But it comes not yet…

…to that glorious “Arise” theme from Brave new world, we move seamlessly into the seventh section – Set me free, also, of course, from The Tempest. This feels inevitable and just. It (just) had to happen.

When it came to the seventh section, Tabakova admits that “I find old age difficult…. So much of what Shakespeare wrote about old age is depressing”. And one only has to take a sideways glimpse at, say, the above-mentioned King Lear, to concur. But, in his “farewell to the theatre”, The Tempest, she finally found what she was looking for. “It felt like a huge relief. The words are a little lighter than Julius Caesar – which was a potential contender. Prospero’s words – especially ‘set me free’ – felt more natural. They hint at immortality.”

So we dissolve into “Ethereal, resolved” woodwind and harp quavers, unsettling motions beneath the choir’s sustained music. But not for very long. The rising theme asserts its stunning supremacy. (But not for very long.) The woodwind and harp return, floating, bobbing almost… until those magical words: “set me free” – and then Shakespeare’s own theme cascades from trumpet to clarinet to flute, to oboe… finally to the strings, who ponder it, quietly, before taking us, even more gently, heavenwards.

¶

The Postlude is an extended miracle of unaccompanied choral writing – a “chorale” – with just gentle support from the organ. In a way, it brings everything back to reality – “a poignant ending that I hope everyone in the church will experience and feel”, says Tabakova. And I believe we did.

The music, in these dying moments – a full-orchestral ppppp – is even more astonishing than that which precedes it. It truly is rivetingly beautiful. It gives Shakespeare’s memorial the life, the humanity, it describes. And we are left with the chorus hanging in space and time….

It therefore took me several extended, sobbing, moments to remember how to applaud. Let’s just say that Holy Trinity’s roof also hovered, raised by joy and amazement, for many, many minutes. We knew that we had witnessed, well…

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant…

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself and frees all faults.

This is a work that will have a long, long life – far surpassing ours. The rest is silence.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis demonstrates both his unquenchable ability to write string music of magical qualities; and the Orchestra of the Swan’s ability to render them fresh, involving, edifying, even. Curtis explored the depths and the heights; the silences and the waves of sound. Simply put: yet more perfection. (He tells me that I am “generous” in my reviews. However, others tell me that I am simply stating it as it is. And I am.)

We ended the evening with the emotional pounding that is the same composer’s Toward the Unknown Region. And I simply cannot understand why this is not more frequently performed. Its setting of the splendiferous Walt Whitman’s Darest Thou Now, O Soul is appositely glorious and meaningful.

Here, Curtis’ mastery was in full flow. It would be easy to go full-out, hard-hitting the earlier summits of emotion; but the choir and orchestra held just enough back so that the final climax walloped you full-on with all its manifest glory.

Then we burst forth – we float,

In Time and Space, O Soul – prepared for them;

Equal, equips at last – (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.

I am still floating. And will be for several days. (I also still have tears streaming down my sodden face. But I am happy. This was a remarkable evening. And I would not, could not have missed it for the world.)

¶

Yet again, the full moon guided me home. I am so glad it knew the way. I felt lost, tiny in a gigantic world of beautiful sound. It cradled me. It cradles me still. (Thank you, Dobrinka. Thank you, David. Good night, all.)

The internal limit of all thinking…

The problem with ineffability is that it is hard to express. Okay, I admit that this is the great-grandfather of all terrible wordplay… – but, reading back my review of Tamsin Waley-Cohen’s riveting performance – and then the score – of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto made me realize that me being glued to my chair (figuratively – just about) throughout, awestruck, had meant that some sensations could only be conjured up, magicked into words, much, much later: when my heart and mind had managed to process the wonder of it all. (On the night, all I could say to her was a reticent “beautiful”, accompanied by a sputtered thank-you. I was truly ‘beyond’ words.)

To be blunt, firstly, I wimped out…

Waley-Cohen brings both ferocious intelligence and emotion to the stage. The first movement, in particular, was one of great contrast: with both incredible power and gauze-like delicacy on display. In the Andante, she then demonstrated a lyrical sensibility second to none. Her communication with – and obvious admiration of – the orchestra came into its own, though, in the final Allegro vivacissimo. Her rapport with Curtis was also quite staggering.

     Her maturity is never in doubt…. She is never afraid to play quietly: knowing that the orchestra’s large numbers are no indication of its transcendent accompanying subtlety. She is also willing to become an integral part of their limpid texture – an equal member – when necessary; and the joy she displayed – inbetween all that praiseworthy fireworks and tracery – when observing them at work, I believe demonstrates both generosity and a keen appreciation of their skills.

     Thus a work I had never really admired before now spoke volumes: its flow insinuating itself deep within me. This was a great, very special, utterly exceptional performance. And the rapturous reception said so much more than any of my words ever can.

…and, secondly, my only later addition (to that chunk of missing-the-mark assessment) was a limerick (and that of only average quality…) –

A keen fiddler called Waley-Cohen

Gleaned reviews that were always most glowin’ –

With technique confounding

And emotion astounding,

She’s really fantastic at bowin’!

…which, I think, shows just how much I struggled with the awareness that I had witnessed some sort of rare phenomenon but was unable to translate it into common language (a challenge most reviewers face, I know). As the conductor David Curtis so rightfully said – on the Orchestra of the Swan’s new blog –

Yesterday was amazing, I felt really privileged to be standing next to Tamsin…

…and I too felt honoured both to witness her commitment during the rehearsal; and then her stunning assurance and devotion during the concert itself, and at such close quarters. But I did (do?) not have the vocabulary to render it concrete.

Now, though, four days later, I close my eyes, and three particular captivating instances instantly spring to mind. Firstly – a reverberation, a timbre… – that almost growling G string entrance in the first movement; followed by a beautiful, explorative, lark-like ascent… – a thoughtful, restrained announcement of intent: not so much barging in through an open door, as gently pushing it ajar, having checked that no-one else was in the way. How she crammed so much emotion into so few notes is beyond me.

Secondly – a vision… – the bracing, emphatic, triple- and quadruple-stopping that proclaims the commencement of the cadenza. It is evidence of the craftsmanship of “the Italian family Stradivari” that her magnificent violin survives such powerful down-strokes with ease, and only sang in pleasure (not howled in pain), 295 years into its long life. It is also an exemplification of Waley-Cohen’s immense strength, proficiency and agility.

Finally – a blend of sound and sight… – her left-hand sliding down the strings toward the neck, pressing hard into the the fingerboard, in a chromatic, stopped descent of quite startling power and accuracy. Somehow, even though I have the evidence replaying in my head, it still seems quite baffling that this should be possible – let alone made to appear relatively matter-of-fact….

Then I return to the score: and much of her playing is resurrected in my mind. The sweetness of the main theme in the first movement: the vocalization transmuting into flashes of anger, before returning to that earthy bottom string and a recapitulation of Tchaikovsky’s honeyed melody. The customary trill at the end of the cadenza forming a sparkling bridge between her and Curtis: a mute, acknowledged signal for the orchestra to rejoin her journey. Her range – of dynamic, of tone, of mood – seeming infinite: everything from that romantic succulence and plaintive, ruminative lyricism; through delicate, lighthearted staccatos; thoughtful grace-notes, and joyful arpeggios; to angst and soaring passion.

In the Canzonette, there is more of that singing (of course); considered, subtle moments of rubato – and maximum immersion in the instruction to perform molto espressivo. This is a serenade of aching, yearning beauty… – nuance, where others may be tempted into extravagance.

And then the Finale explodes; and she enters, this time, with gusto – now booting that selfsame door wide open! Even the strummed pizzicato chords have an air of menace (interpolated, again, with that dark, rasping G string). Each entry of the orchestra – as a result of that “quite staggering rapport with Curtis” – is as crisp and cleansing as a spring snowstorm; and there is unashamed radiant delight at the cellos’ rumbustious, extremely Russian-sounding (almost raunchy) procession of fifths, which she responds to with true concomitant grit. All tempo changes are handled deftly; and synchronized perfectly with Curtis and the orchestra.

And a final memory: after the horns blare out the main subject towards the end, some of the most tender harmonics (perfectly spherical – rather than the spikiness one can sometimes hear…) – yet another example of her inconspicuous technique.

How do you capture this combination of music, movement, magic, majesty – and mystery – with dumb fingers and dull rumination? Can you ever really represent the paradise you experienced – in all its multidimensionality – on the page, so that others can grasp it? It’s easy to say “you had to be there”; or “you’ll see what I mean, next time”; but, when so many such encounters are so especial, how do you mark this particular one out as that rare, transcendent, ultimate, unsurpassable, incomparable, ineffable ‘happening’?

I don’t know the answer. My only response is to keep trying….

The music is over;

     the notes linger on.

The memories are formed;

     but the moment has gone.