The leaves bow themselves to the ground…

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

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

Abbey hour (or two)…

I don’t remember ever being inside Pershore Abbey before: probably because, my parents tell me, I was only a few years old, the first – and last – time I was there. I therefore spent the first fifteen minutes – before the concert began – with my jaw on the floor, and my head in the clouds. Reminiscent, in many ways, of Cartmel Priory, or even the much larger Cirencester Parish Church, this is an incredibly beautiful building – drenched in history and atmosphere – and therefore one I must return to, soon.

I did wonder, though, staring upwards – because of the abbey’s truncated proportions; and after spending half a lifetime performing in such high-roofed sacred spaces – how the rare ploughshare vaulting [pdf] would ‘contribute’ to the acoustic. It certainly seemed more suited to the archetypical chanting of plainsong by cowled monks….

And, perhaps, the opener did generate ‘too much sound’ for such a space? But this does not mean either its overall effect, or its subtleties, were lost – David Curtis and the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra obviously having spent the afternoon’s rehearsal acclimatizing themselves to the echoes and baffles such complex architecture presents.

Reliving more of my youth, Wagner’s Prelude to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg was one of the first pieces I recollect playing the timpani for – hidden away at the back of the huge amassed forces that this composer always seems to require… – although I was a little older than when I first visited Pershore! As if competing with the storm raging outside, as it built towards its close, this delivered cascades of ever-expanding lush, swelling avalanches of sound: generating overwhelming waves of emotion that were the perfect accompaniment to such ravishing music. And yet the woodwind – on astonishing form – sang through clearly (my player of the night being oboist Tessa Pemberton); as did one of the best triangle parts ever written.

I recall, so vividly, wanting to be the percussionist, rather than the timpanist, for this! It’s not often that such few notes command such attention: and therefore full credit to Andrew Pemberton for playing them with such aplomb. The moment he stood, shivers ran up and down my spine. This is when those “avalanches” are unleashed – each one incomprehensibly more powerful than the last: David’s left hand held flat, palm downwards: signalling restraint. Not too long, though, before a swish of the tails, a clenched fist, and the Mastersingers’ march launched into the night with impressive precision and almighty ‘oomph’!

It’s difficult remembering the details of a concert that you basically cried your way through – but I think it’s good for the soul to experience such catharsis (frequently, if possible, please). And there are some nights when immersing yourself in the music and its emotive affect, without concentrating on the minutiae, is just what you need. This was such.

I had known that the last work of the evening would hollow out my soul – a great symphony by one of the very greatest (and one of my favourite) symphonic composers – but had not expected the Wagner, or Bruch’s first violin concerto, which followed, to work their magic, too, quite so thoroughly. But I am glad they did. Musically, and spiritually, this was thus the perfect programme. Three stunning – but contrasting – examples of gritty late nineteenth-century Romanticism. What more can you ask for? And in such aesthetically-moving surroundings, too? Gosh.

The Bruch was, simply put, tremendous. And much of the credit for this must be given to Lisa Ueda (above) – her technique and tone so mesmerizingly sensitive and enthralling. After having the scales removed from my eyes during Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, earlier in the year, again, here was a familiar work rendered fresh and utterly enticing. There was exceptional communication between soloist, conductor and orchestra. And the acoustic furnished the violin’s sound with a perfect richness – suited both to the music and the venue. And yet Lisa always cut clearly through: the balance with the orchestra exemplary.

One of the greatest slow movements ever written (I now realize…), the Adagio was courageously, impeccably paced; and both violinist and orchestra sang their hearts (as I cried mine) out to perfection. Stunning stuff. Balm for the soul. (And one can only dream of the heights Lisa would reach with the Andante of the Elgar concerto….) And that ‘gypsyesque’ finale? Captivating. Never has it sounded quite so invigorating. The extended applause, and the delight on all the performers’ faces, were so well-deserved.

Time, therefore, for the traditional Bardic deep breath of fresh air; and the discovery that the radiance of the music had caused the clouds to part: revealing a similarly vibrant full moon, creeping over the roof of the abbey.

¶

There could never be enough Brahms in the world – and certainly not performed to this gilt-edged standard. All sections of the orchestra – particularly the woodwind and horns – seemed to understand perfectly the various levels of subtlety and sovereignty needed to demonstrate just what an amazingly cohesive work the man’s first symphony is. Long in gestation it may have been, but I struggle to think of another example from that era that has such a perfect narrative arc from startling (indeed gobsmacking) pained opening to its tumultuous, final, joyous chorale. (That pounding launch still has the power to amaze – and I wonder how the first audiences reacted to its startling, imploding intimation of heart-break.)

Here, the genius of Brahms’ orchestration pushed easily through the slightly echoey, treble-muffling ambience: and some of the greatest melodies ever written sang through the building – particularly the long violin solo in the second movement (leader Caroline Broekman on beautifully lyrical form), and the trombones and bassoons in the finale. (And, yes, Brahms’ response to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy is a wonderful, wonderful creation; but I always think the falling ‘alphorn theme’ – the horns echoing the opening notes of Blow the Wind Southerly… – that is intermeshed with it, is the composer at his most inspired.)

Performer of the night has to be David. His already supremely thoughtful and observant conducting appears to have shifted up yet another gear, recently – and, although I get the feeling that he is more at home with smaller forces, it does not show one jot. He invites – nay, challenges – each member of every section to be at their very best, throughout; and there is a level of communication, of mutual trust, that ensures that this happens – and consistently. He may claim that the instrumentalists do “all the hard work” – and, my goodness, they played their socks off, several times over, last night…! – and that all he does is “smile, and wave my arms around”: but he has developed a strong, lasting connection with this orchestra; as well as a great deal of respect and admiration – and it shows. What a fabulous season this is going to be!

Bookended by brilliance…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

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

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

¶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.