The affectionate communication of insight…

Mark Lockyer (Subtle) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

The Alchemist – especially in its current form at the RSC – is undoubtedly one of the funniest plays I have ever seen. And although there are many factors that contribute to such a verdict – such as the stratospheric quality of Ben Jonson’s wit; the exquisite timing of all the actors; the wonderful set design and lighting; the overarching production values, and its perpetually accelerating momentum – I think it is the underlying contemporaneity, the applicability to our current political travails (however weighty and dour), which contributes (maybe paradoxically) more than anything to that humorous affect. In helping us recognize our current plight – but then simultaneously, for around two-and-a-half hours, shedding light on them (even making light of them) – it enables us, temporarily, to breathe a little easier; gain a little perspective; and emerge from the theatre after going through a rather intellectually undemanding (however edifying and effective) bout of mindfulness. As Peter Ustinov once said: “Comedy is simply a funny way of being serious.”

Even though there were captions for last night’s performance – courtesy of Beverley Ward (thank you!): some of whose music cues had the audience primed for laughter from the off… – I had finally gotten around to reading the original text. This not only reinforced my earlier admiration for Stephen Jeffreys’ insightful, incisive editing of the play (and his wonderful punting of the “snurk”); but led me to read Colin Counsell’s perspicacious introduction to the Drama Classics edition, which had, until now, lain idle on my bedside table.

I must admit that – even after witnessing the uproarious public understudy performance – I was astounded by the parallels Counsell elicits (although subtly; and probably unintentionally) between the 1610 period setting (and authorship) and today’s world of post-truth politics. My initial reaction was plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose – but that would be to oversimplify matters.

Siobhan McSweeney (Dol Common) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

For instance – in my mind, drawing parallels with today’s ‘shirker’ or ‘scrounger’ meme (and its ever-multiplying offspring of hate crimes…) – he writes of Elizabeth I’s response (the Poor Laws of 1597 and 1601) to the proliferation of “masterless men” who “wandered the countryside begging”. These Acts decreed “severe punishment for ‘persistent and able-bodied idlers’.” That is to say, Tudor sanctions.

He also discusses “the disguises that are employed in the service of illusion and misrepresentation” – which feel painfully prescient:

But misrepresentation is not limited to the rogues, for most of the characters at some time or another present themselves misleadingly…. Misrepresentation is central not only to the play’s action, but to each of its characters as well… [mirroring] the devices and conventions of theatre itself.

Discussing the pivotal rôle of Face/Jeremy, he writes that “[his] skill lies not merely in disguise, in illusion, but in tailoring illusions to fit the desires of the onlookers…”. One only has to think of the way the population of the United Kingdom has been wilfully gulled into leaving the EU to realize that we always do get fooled again, no matter our supposed resolve. As Alexis Conran writes in the programme – under the title The Oldest Trick – “I’m afraid it is part of our human nature…. We are, always have been and will continue to be hooked on the idea of getting something for nothing.”

Allied with such ideas is the description of “most foolish” Kastril – “the most lacking in self-knowledge”. Does this sound familiar?

‘Quarrelling’ is for him an end in itself; the meaning of words, the reasons for any disagreement, are of no importance when compared to the image… he wishes to contrive…. In the London of The Alchemist almost everyone lies for greed’s sake, and the trio of villains are distinguished only by the skill they bring to the task.

That each of this principal tripartite is so willing, at a moment’s notice, to knife the others – in the front or back; or with a slash to the throat… – also, of course, has current parallels: and provides the play with a continuously interwoven thread of threat (without which, the humour would have no necessary contrast – you need light to create the shadows…).

I admit that some of these parallel interpretations are subjective and subliminal – but I also believe that the more one knows about a drama, and the social environment in which it was created (and therefore encapsulates), the more one  comprehends and enjoys it (even if most of that learning, as in my case, swiftly scurries away to the dark, cobwebbed, infrequently-visited corners of my mind). Surely, this is one of the reasons we so eagerly purchase programmes?

Ken Nwosu (Face) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Anyway, enough of the deep and meaningless… – back to the funny stuff…!

In some ways, there’s not much to add to my original review – except, of course, that, last night, we had the ‘permanent’ cast. Although this added more of that insight and dark intensity, it did remove the lighter, higher moments of farce – especially when actors were doubling up on-stage, and having to talk to themselves! This performance therefore felt more developed, more nuanced (something it is nigh impossible to achieve with only one go at it, and with very little rehearsal: which is not to say that the understudies were anything other than exceptionally wonderful). Indeed, it was fascinating to see how characters (and even whole scenes) were rendered, in some cases, very differently – although, again, there is obviously a validity to each actor’s interpretation and delivery.

Hywel Morgan (Lovewit) and company – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

I had expected Hywel Morgan, as Lovewit, to be in The Dirty Duck (sipping a mineral water, of course…) until the second half – but he made a wonderful storming exit just as the play started; and his return was similarly powerful. I hope I am not giving away too much to say that he almost gains the upper hand: gradually evolving from flustered, confused master of a house he doesn’t quite recognize to confident and cunning master of his own, much-improved fate. Morgan’s eyes twinkled with increasing brightness as he took control – his was the agency for each gull’s realization that they had been duped by their own stupidity and greed; and his increasing delight at the increase in his fortunes came with huge helpings of relish and aplomb!

Ken Nwosu played Jeremy and/or Face (which came first, I wonder?) with similar great talent and enthusiasm; and a massive amount of finesse. It would be easy to render these characters as cartoonish; but along with Mark Lockyer’s charismatic, moody Subtle (the eponymous “alchemist”), and Siobhan McSweeney’s tantalizing, luminous Dol, this was a trio of spiky, yet assured miscreants: whose entwined relationships were always just a thin blade away from disintegrating, and where honour had very little to contribute. (Perhaps they should start a political party?) They are the pivot around which the whole plot revolves; and they played it to perfection – always knowing when to pull back to let others shine; and when to dominate the stage – which they did with consummate ease. Their changes of mood and identity were palpable: instant transformations of season and stormy weather – a fantastic core ensemble: rendered even more amazing by the fact that they were surrounded by actors of equally high calibre.

Joshua McCord (the dim-witted Dapper) – as he has done all season, in both Doctor Faustus and Don Quixote – proved what great timing he possesses; as well as great versatility. The same can be said for Richard Leeming (Abel Drugger) – there is a lot going on behind that cheeky, boyish smile: a nascent charisma that I think has the potential to be very special indeed.

Timothy Speyer (almost unrecognizable behind a mass of tangled hairs as Tribulation Wholesome) and John Cummins (probably my favourite of this year’s outstanding core Swan cohort – here, as Ananias) made a superb, quarrelsome pair of protesting Dutch Protestants – for some reason, Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau came to mind… – although I must admit to slightly missing Will Bliss’ canny, split-personality playing of both halves: as he did in the understudy tour de force.

Tom McCall (Kastril) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Tom McCall, as Kastril – “He’s not a gentleman, he’s a very angry boy!” – was simply bonkers (in the best meaning of the word); demonstrating a wonderful contrast to his portrayal of the spiteful Benvolio in Faustus. Rosa Robson – another key member of the gifted Swan company – as his sister, Dame Pliant, was equally amusing: just not quite as insane!

Tim Samuels (Sir Pertinax Surly) was demonstrably as gruff and sardonic as his name would imply – but his transformation into a supposed jolly Spanish nobleman was quite remarkable. Superb character acting – demonstrating the skill that made him so memorable in The Merchant of Venice. But the night – just by the teensiest of margins – belonged to Ian Redford as Sir Epicure Mammon. A gigantic, red-faced, bumbling, faux-sophisticated, swaggering, almost Dickensian fool rendered in Glorious Technicolor and Stereophonic Sound. Simply magnificent! I even felt sad, as he left the stage, relieved of his possessions and false beliefs. He encapsulated the credulity we are all so easily lulled into in a way that was both charming and alarming: a warning to us all to look before leaping.

Ian Redford (Sir Epicure Mammon); Siobhan McSweeney (Dol Common) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Seriously (if you see what I mean), this is not to be missed. On only for another four weeks in Stratford-upon-Avon – so grab your tickets (I have two more visits) whilst you can. Oh, and don’t worry about looking for those murky undertones – just sit back and have the time of your laugh, er, life…. Wonderfully good medicine!

The sickness hot, a master quit, for fear,

His house in town: and one servant left there.

Ease him corrupted, and gave means to know

A cheater, and his punk; who, now brought low,

Leaving their narrow practice, were become

Coz’ners at large: and only wanting some

House to set up, with him they here contract,

Each for a share, and all begin to act.

Much company they draw, and much abuse,

In casting figures, telling fortunes, news,

Selling of flies, flat bawdry, with the stone:

Till it, and they, and all in fume are gone.

Rape and pillage; rinse and repeat…

“Those stupid yokels in Tysoe won’t be up for another fight,” says Fat Greedy Bastard No.1 (FGB1) to FGB2. “We almost won, last time,” is the reply, between loosely-gritted teeth; “and I’ve already noticed that there are a lot fewer objections”. “Perhaps it’s because no-one can be bothered to fight anymore… – just as we planned. I certainly haven’t seen any of those notices we had, last time, pinned to trees, fences and lamp-posts; nor any of those huge village meetings.”

“It’s in the can, then, isn’t it?” gloats FGB1. “Instead of eighty houses in one place, splitting them over two fields seems to have done the trick.” “I think you’re right,” smirks FGB2. “Those on the Oxhill side won’t give a flying duck about those in Middleton Close; and vice versa. Divide and conquer. That’s what I always say. Divide and conquer.”

“I do think it’s wonderful that we’re allowed to simply walk in to – and walk all over – a field that cost thousands to defend, and just do it all again. Attrition – that’s my keyword. Grind the buggers down; and they’ll just roll over, and let you do whatever you want. Attrition. That’s the beauty of brass!”

So, where are the leaflets, hand-delivered by the “neighbourhood champions”? Are the People’s Front of Tysoe – or whatever they called themselves (The People’s Front of NoIdea?) – still so pissed-off at being found out (or having the Riot Act read out to them) by the Parish Council, that they’re cutting off their noses to spite their faces… (apart from the Great Tew: from whom I must beg forgiveness…)? Or are all we so happy/pissed-off (delete according to political nous) ourselves at #Brexit that we just haven’t noticed? Great timing, innit?! Chilcot, anyone?

The deadline has passed for the planning application that would literally flood Middleton Close were it to come to fruition – which, to a cynic such as myself, just looks like trying to build houses for thirty families who could then traipse their children up the hill to the nearest nursery, raising even more cash for its progenitor. But, we still have until next Wednesday to object to Gladman Mk.II.

All the previous reasons for not granting this permission, last time, actually apply to both applications; and, if you can be bothered, most of the points made in the following comprehensive document (about a 20 Mb download, I’m afraid) – which I produced, with the help of several others, thirty months ago – actually still also therefore apply to both. Copy and paste as much, or as little, of it, as you wish into the links above; and then barrage your local councillor – and of course, Chris ‘Teflon’ Saint, with as much vitriol as you want. (By the way, has anyone seen our MP, recently… – apart from in this week’s Herald, looking rather fetching in one of George Osborne’s high-vis jackets and matching hard hat…?)

That the planning laws are a whole herd of mega-donkeys, in allowing us to keep having to defend the same parcel of land from rapacious invaders again and again, is in no doubt. But, last time, we showed what we were made of; and I pray we can do it again… rather than slip in it.

I am far too disabled to go through what I went through last time – not sleeping for days on end – continually researching the law; producing leaflets; collating contact details; starting this blog, even… – but we would be just as stupid as the two FGBs above assume if we were not to fight back; and we would just get what we deserve. So that’s me done. Sorry.

Joseph Ashby, my much greater and more virtuous predecessor, must be rolling in his grave. Me, though, I’m off to have my head scanned. Literally.

He marched them up to the top of the hill…

Although billed simply as a concert of “Family Classics”, Sunday afternoon’s performance by the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra at Pittville Pump Room was really about painting pictures; crystallizing moments and places in time – each in a different country; a different climate; a different medium. And even though every piece was familiar (“classics” in both senses), this did not mean any subsequent dimming of the CSO’s habitual – one might say trademark – passion: either in effort or emotion. As always, their sound was spine-tingling and resonant; full of precision and love (of communication; of music; of involvement). I may have left Cheltenham with the closing ascents of the cellos and double-basses pulsing through the soles of my feet; but I was still somehow hovering a few millimetres above the ground (as I always am after their concerts); my soul raised ever so slightly further heavenwards; my heart light as air – both filled with intoxicating and inspiring joy.

This was an artistic Grand Tour – not of forgotten fusty museums or dusky, dusty long-galleries – but one that ensured our minds and lungs were filled with freshness and vitality: as canvases, boards and reams of fine paper were coloured before us en plein air, under some fascinating skies.

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First, sultry southern Spain: and a wonderful, perfectly-targeted introductory chat from cellist Stephen Pett – who then went on to conduct a selection of pieces from Bizet’s second Carmen suite in a beautifully crisp, energetic and flawlessly communicative fashion: eliciting some magically responsive playing from all sections of the CSO (with especial awe for their as-always stunning brass section – especially lead trumpeter Paul Broekman: who was on sizzling form). The percussionists – more of which, later – were also spectacular in their commitment to transport us to the baking esplanadas, plazas de toros, and that famed fábrica de cigarillos.

Yes, this was the top four of Bizet’s greatest hits; but familiarity, here, bred admiration. Thrilling, persuasive and ardent; and with fresh insights galore (subtle changes of tempo and dynamics; and no giving in to the urge to rush or to gloat). A lack of bombast, and a constant glow of sublimity, thus helped produce a powerful, detailed rendering of all those (in)famous operatic characters – more a skilfully-crafted, insightful, mesmerisingly three-dimensional bright, sun-baked pastel, though, than a coarse, broad-brushstroke oil-painting. Vivid, yes; but not crude; impressively considered and charismatically intelligent. The deeper the gaze, the more transcendent minutiae emerged. Simply put, a beautiful combination of zeal and skill. What a great way to start our tour of mainland Europe!

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Then, suddenly, we were whisked away to the cooler, more crystalline meadows and forests of fairytale Russia for Prokofiev’s enticing Peter and the Wolf. This is where the woodwind worked their magic – especially grumpy grandad Peter Kerr, beautifully overacting his infirmity on bassoon! Special mention should also be made of the three nasty Reservoir Wolves (“It’s the wool-uff!”) on French horns: hiding with ferocious intent behind intimidating sunglasses. (Grrr.) The whole Orchestra was knowingly in character – those thunderous drummers particularly shocking and scary (one small child in front of me instantly sticking his fingers in his assaulted ears – although with a cheeky grin that stretched between them…): emitting barrages of explosive power as the boastful hunters – and proving, after the Bizet, that they weren’t just one-hit wonders (boom-boom).

This was all wonderfully overseen and guided (with a little help from David Curtis, now back on the podium) by narrator Miranda Krestovnikoff: who not only spoke the words clearly, but gave them great weight and power with a superb range of expressive gestures and facial expressions. Altogether, a series of etchings of the highest quality; an illuminated storyboard of intense, thrilling delight.

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After the interval, a sublime watercolour rendering of Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ symphony. As much as I love the piano sonatas (to play and to listen to); the string quartets; especially the Drei Equali for trombones… – and although I am one of those awkward types who much prefers the even-numbered symphonies… – yet I have never been particularly moved by the orchestral works (not even by my favourite, the Eighth).

And yet, yesterday, I didn’t need the brook or storm: this performance provoked not only intense feelings; but more than enough resultant drops of water simply trickling down my frabjous face. In fact, the whole symphony flowed from beginning to end: gathering force (as torrents in summer) as it widened and deepened. (As Curtis said, afterwards, you need to keep the pages turning… – and he did: with marvellous, expressive, almost beautiful, control; and heaps of that proprietary trust.) Not that there was any rush….

[If I ever do lose the little that is left of my hearing, by the way, I shall still attend the man’s concerts. Just observing him ‘at work’ is a delight in itself. He communicates the music, and his wishes, with simple, graceful gestures and gazes. There is an economy of showmanship, mixed with an intelligence of expression. Genial magic flows from that baton. (Wizard!)]

This performance felt almost Straussian in its programmatic, extended tone-poem journey; never losing momentum: even in the second movement Scene am Bach – which Curtis told me Yehudi Menuhin once beautifully suggested should be performed as if a leaf, feather-like, is slowly descending, floating on and down that perfectly-painted stream: which the first movement – Erwachen heiterer Empfindungen bei der Ankunft auf dem Lande – had delivered us to. (It almost takes longer to say than it does to perform.) But I am getting ahead of myself….

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We started in sunshine: with that feeling you get at the end of a long journey, reaching the beautiful destination you have chosen for a day’s hike; emerging, breathing in that wonderful clean air, the evocative aroma of freshly-cut grass (and often, it has to be said, of the occasional flocks or herds of animals – although, having worked on a farm, I may be biased in finding such smells pleasant…). You stretch your arms and legs; and your whole body beams with expressed joyousness and celebration. Why, asks Beethoven, would you possibly want to be anywhere else but immersed in this paradise?

There was some beautiful delicacy, a few gentle pauses – as if, looking around, Curtis was taking stock of all this glory – before setting off. This is Beethoven as walker, wanderer, in touch with nature; his heart exposed to the raw elements – a musical Wordsworth roaming the foothills. (Was there more confidence – yet, somehow, contemplation – in the opening repeat; or was I already dreaming of blue-remembered mountains and valleys?!) Triplets in the cellos and violas, under sustained, Mozartian wind chords, presaged a change of atmosphere. What is coming? Is there a hint of rain in the air, cooling your face? A premonition of the storm to come?

And then we’re singing like the birds, momentarily soaring into the sky as the countermelody emerges; and the horns are now no longer wicked as wolves, but delicate as a wisp of cirrus. Such contrasts were rendered beautifully – painted, even – by Curtis and the orchestra. Somehow, all those repeats of the main motif just increased the happiness – never did this music sound in any way mundane: even though Beethoven never ever lets go of that key rhythm. I think it must be those contrasts, the light and shade….

If this movement ‘says’ anything – and, for me, it speaks volumes – it is of the gentle climb at the beginning of your day: following a friendly, familiar route, with the sun hiding-and-seeking behind fleeting puffs of cloud, as the views and landscape broaden gloriously. All this supported by some wonderful writing for the cellos and basses – including not only thematic material; but some superb, suspenseful pedal-points.

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Some beautiful, immensely clever string writing also opens that tremulous Scene am Bach – a very polite stream to begin with: tumbling gently over rocks between grassy banks; and forming almost-still pools. It ebbs and flows as we walk alongside it – or float leaflike along its surface – gradually changing its character. Are those birds we hear, high in the blazing sky?

Then the brook swells, momentarily, and the leaf continues its journey downstream, wafted slowly, cradled almost. The delicate orchestration here was sumptuously rendered: a conversation between wind and strings; the sky and the water. But hush! Another pool; a moment for reflection… – then onwards again. Is that us singing, or the stream humming to itself with hints of Schubert? No, it’s a nightingale, tempted out of its hiding place by the darkening skies. The quail and cuckoo return its call with a hint of alarm – such gorgeous gossamer woodwind playing; the strings now responding in kind: embracing them….

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The storm brews: dark and invigorating as my favourite espresso – but it is too far way, hovering on the distant horizon, for us to worry about. Yet. Time for a quick pint in the local hostelry; whilst the resident Morris troupe (who may already have imbibed a little) entertain us on the green outside! Those birds still hover above us, though, as sentinels; and there is still that hint of rain. You lift your dampened finger to the breeze: just as an alpine horn wafts across the valley. Yes – a final warning. Here comes the rain again, falling on your head like a memory. Better dash for cover. Quickly, now! But we’ve got to finish our round, say the Morris dancers… – before joining the sheltering huddle!

And, finally, those black clouds have arrived – yet so soon! Thunder and lightning (very, very frightening); large hailstones; huge dollops of rain….

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As the storm drew in – eyes closed at the back of the hall – I was reminded of an ascent of the Helvellyn range, forty or so years ago: trapped on the summit by weather summoned as if by Lear:

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world!

Crack nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once

That makes ingrateful man!

We had hoped to descend by Striding Edge; but were convinced that the squalls and cloud cover, never mind the pelting, hard drops of rain, would render this impossibly dangerous. But as with Beethoven – here lifting us, weightlessly above clearing, cushioning clouds into rich blue skies; soaring, eagle-like above the Austrian alps – so the ever-changeable and surprising Lakeland microclimate. And so we worked our way down, as planned, our sodden clothes steaming in the welcoming sun; any breeze devoted only to caretaking the remaining clouds; shepherding them like reluctant Herdwicks to distant corners of the glistening sky.

No wonder that final chorale – Frohe und dankbare Gefühle nach dem Sturm – is so joyous. The storm has been weathered; the terrain conquered; joy is unconfined and reaffirmed. But again, I am getting ahead of myself….

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A little light does break through, tantalisingly – but not for long. A piercing piccolo cuts the air sharply – the shrieks of those stranded; or nature’s vehemence? Oh, to be the conductor of such a storm! Prospero conjuring up revenge from the podium!

But, yes, it clears. A fresh horn call, and the reappearing birds welcome the returning sun… – and what warmth it brings! Tentatively, at first, as the rain begins to depart (wonderful string playing; and a stupendous control of dynamics, holding back the floods of joy). But they cannot be restrained for long. Those feelings grow in speed and volume, despite recurrent hesitancy (underlined by the cellos and basses soaring from the depths of their grateful hearts).

Thanks be to God! (Albeit this is an ode to joy with reservations… perhaps?) Curtis takes deep breaths, as Beethoven piles on the tension (as no-one else can) – knowing the exact moment to break free. And, when it does… phew. Two chords. That’s all it takes: heralded by a muted trumpet, growing rapidly in confidence.

Now all we have to do, is climb downwards, back to our starting point. All is well. All is blessed.

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I was tempted to reference Caspar David Friedrich, here; but the brushes involved in creating this landscape hinted more – to my mind – at Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruckner, even Mahler. I find it utterly astonishing that this rolling, unsurpassable Pastoral Symphony was written in parallel with the spiky, punchy Fifth – but both symphonies demonstrate Beethoven’s indefinable genius at experimentation: with standard musical forms, structures, motifs and repeated rhythm. On paper, so much duplication looks staid and almost tedious. But there are subtle differences: waxing and waning, accumulating a profundity and emotional depth. Keep the pages turning, and they illuminate and cross-fertilize our imaginations.

It’s good to have your preconceptions (and preoccupations) smoothed away; and driving home, under blue skies, and heaped pillows of sculpted glowing cloud, I could not help but sing that final shepherds’ hymn – and with great gladness in my heart. Our local hills may not be mountains; nor our weather as tumultuous and threatening as an alpine storm – but I imagine Beethoven would have fallen in love with the Cotswolds: painting Constable-type pictures, Wordsworthian poems in music, as he strolled along.

Stand atop Leckhampton Hill and tell me I’m wrong.

I might have sav’d her, now she’s gone forever…

But his flaw’d heart

(Alack, too weak the conflict to support!)

’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,

Burst smilingly.

They were packing away the superlatives as I left the theatre – along with the chair I shall always think of as Gloucester’s… – no truck seemingly large enough for the caseloads of words needed to describe how unparalleled a miracle this had been; will always be. I was correct in my belief – even at preview – that “I [had] witnessed the greatest Shakespearean performance of my long life”. What I could not have divined, back then, was how, with each performance, yet more jewels of tiny detail would emerge; perfection would be heaped upon perfection… until it came to this. Even the gods – finally, after ignoring (or just playing with) us mere mortals for so very long – wept with grief; and it took all my strength to pull myself together and into the car for the long journey home. A glance in the mirror confirmed that my face was not dissimilar to Lear’s….

Undeterred by having already bade my bitter farewells (and tumultuous thanks) on Tuesday, I was enticed into one last viewing by a kindred spirit (thank you, Mark…) – and, despite having to relive such a tortuous bereavement, it was more than worth the masochism. If there was one thing about this production – apart from the transcendent invisibility of the performances – that proved its greatness; and that will remain with me for ever… – it was its humanity (as also represented by the cast’s poetry reading, last Thursday, for Calais Action). This was an intense family drama on a human level: its humanitarian stance visible in every scene; audible in every line.

Howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones!

Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so

That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone forever!

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass,

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why then she lives.

So – and please note that this is not to ignore the outstanding creatives who made this miracle possible… – a huge and personal thank you, each, to Shane (so much nicer when ordering a coffee than when plucking out eyes); Catherine (charm and loveliness personified); Beth; Pip; Reginald; Joshua (thanks for the kind pull-quote…!); Gavin; Caleb; Adrian; Scott; Tom; Daniel; Michael (always genial and generous); and Sally – fourteen of the very greatest proponents of Shakespeare that I have ever witnessed; and all, somehow, primus inter pares. (There are some very young names in there, too; and I can only imagine – and hope for – the great heights they will soar to, from such an elevated foundation.)

Never before has a company been so stellar, so cohesive. And I know that I am not the only person who thinks we will never see the like again…. They must be even more devastated at the break-up of this company, this family, than any audience member, though…. I wish them all well. Go break some legs…!

So… sod the seven ages of man… – here begin the seven stages of grief.

But at length the season of summer does come…

The linden, in the fervors of July,

Hums with a louder concert. When the wind

Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,

As when some master-hand exulting sweeps

The keys of some great organ, ye give forth

The music of the woodland depths, a hymn

Of gladness and of thanks.

– William Cullen Bryant: Among the Trees

This month, despite the weather’s best attempts to immerse us in what feels like a premature autumn, music lovers in the UK are in for a treat – a bright, warming ray of sunshine – brought to us, from the United States, in the form of the young rising star, Thomas Nickell: a pianist who has already gathered great praise around the world.

This is his first – hopefully of very many – visits to these shores; and it is rendered even more special by the fact that he will be giving not only the UK première of his own Piano Sonata No.3, but also the first London performance of “Britain’s greatest living composer” David Matthews’ Piano Concerto, Op.111. Both of these will play pivotal rôles in two momentous Orchestra of the Swan concerts (on 10 July 2016 and 16 July 2016) – although his actual début will be with the Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra (on 9 July 2016) – all conducted by OOTS’ Artistic Director David Curtis.