Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Berlin Pleasures
Verdi enthusiasts probably agree that, while Otello and Falstaff are the summit of the Master's work as complete operas, the act of Don Carlos that contains the dialogue with the Inquisitor is surely the finest single act. Mid-April I went with a party of Brits to Berlin for five days music-making which contained a truly memorable performance of the Schiller based opera.
This performance began well enough but gradually became positively inspired – a great occasion. The conductor was Donald Runnicles, alive to the overall pacing of the week as well as the individual nuances – the orchestra superb if at times too loud. The venue was the Deutsche Oper and the version played began with a sombre brass prelude, no love duet but the first one between Posa and the Don.
The scenic feature of the sets was a series of grey, chunky walls with silver paper covering, that perpetually moved about – rather tedious. Curiously from the point of view of etiquette, King Philipp received the Inquisitor in his bedroom. The auto-da-fé scene was suitably gruesome and firegirt (oh, that wonderful tune the Flemish men sing, surely the best in the opera?).
The star of the show was Alastair Miles/King Philipp; a beautiful voice from below the plimsoll line up to top F: he positively exuded danger, that is, until he started to feel sorry for himself (cello obbligato very well played). The Grand Inquisitor was sinister and with a fine powerful voice (Kristin Sigmundsson. Posa (Markus Bruck) was mellifluous and symphathetic (his character always reminds me of Piotr in War and Peace). The ladies were at one time very good and powerful, next moment inclined to wobbles and shrillness. But the performance as a whole was superb, as good as you could wish for (Elisabeth/Meagan Miller, Eboli/Anna Smirnova). The Don himself/Massimo Giordano was suitably inclined to hysteria, fine voice all the way up.
The previous evening (Friday, 13 April) contained a very mixed bag: Fauré Requiem at the end with Schumann's Piano Concerto in the first half; also two numbers by Luciano Berio, not long but insignificant: Evó (a Sicilian lullaby) and O King (Luther). Murray Perahia must have played the Schumann hundreds of times yet it sounded wonderfully fresh, powerful and poetic, fine accompaniment by the Berlin Phil. with that rattling good British conductor, Sir Simon, in fine form throughout, introducing, apparently to his performers the Fauré. The Rundfunkcho Berlin was a joy to hear, positively piercing the heart as it sang the Libera Me tune pianissimo. Sorry to say neither Kate Royal nor Christian Gerhaher were eloquent enough for their tasks. Our last evening was spent in the pretty Komische Oper with Der Rosenkavalier, a mixed blessing. The Marschallin (Geraldine McGreevy) and Octavian (Stella Doufexis) were excellent, so was the Baron Ochs Jens Larsen but the production (Andreas Homoki) often veered towards jokey farce. Recognising that the weak spot of the opera is the beginning of the third act he decided to do what Rossini and other composers of the otto cento might have done, he whistled up a storm (too many flashes). The part of the Italian Tenor is not much more than one glorious song but Tim Richards sang it so beautifully as to linger in the mind. Bravo! The conductor (Patrick Lange) looked very young but sounded very experienced, well paced, another fine orchestra.
The previous evening (Friday, 13 April) contained a very mixed bag: Fauré Requiem at the end with Schumann's Piano Concerto in the first half; also two numbers by Luciano Berio, not long but insignificant: Evó (a Sicilian lullaby) and O King (Luther). Murray Perahia must have played the Schumann hundreds of times yet it sounded wonderfully fresh, powerful and poetic, fine accompaniment by the Berlin Phil. with that rattling good British conductor, Sir Simon, in fine form throughout, introducing, apparently to his performers the Fauré. The Rundfunkcho Berlin was a joy to hear, positively piercing the heart as it sang the Libera Me tune pianissimo. Sorry to say neither Kate Royal nor Christian Gerhaher were eloquent enough for their tasks. Our last evening was spent in the pretty Komische Oper with Der Rosenkavalier, a mixed blessing. The Marschallin (Geraldine McGreevy) and Octavian (Stella Doufexis) were excellent, so was the Baron Ochs Jens Larsen but the production (Andreas Homoki) often veered towards jokey farce. Recognising that the weak spot of the opera is the beginning of the third act he decided to do what Rossini and other composers of the otto cento might have done, he whistled up a storm (too many flashes). The part of the Italian Tenor is not much more than one glorious song but Tim Richards sang it so beautifully as to linger in the mind. Bravo! The conductor (Patrick Lange) looked very young but sounded very experienced, well paced, another fine orchestra.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Seabirds and Edwardian Opulence
The odd men out have been often the ones who produced masterpieces, often men under sentences of death or crippled on way or the other, completely deaf, tuberculosis or syphilis, obsessive to the point of madness; then there are some we throw into prison. Of course there are lesser torments, some composers needing to wear fancy lingerie (because of skin disease.) Of course there are just as many who sit at a desk and get on with their writing, ones who are impotent, homosexual and suffer from class distinctions because their parents were in 'trade'.
I am sure you can identify the composer I am referring to, even down to the last mentioned who always felt socially inferior, lapped up honour s and spent his last penny on acquiring the fancy clobber necessary for presentation days.
Yes, Elgar has been heard just recently, his first Symphony, conducted brilliantly and convincingly by Sir Mark Elder with the LPO in the Royal festival Hall (March 24). Boult depth and authority were evoked here (although the sepulchral bark of the muted trombones at the end of the Adagio did not quite come off). And imagine the insensitive audience applauded after the slow movement – Oh joy, whatever next? 'Coach parties' a voice near me grumbled.
Elder's programme included another golden oldie, Delius wonderful essay in nostalgia, Sea Drift "I curious boy, never too close" (to the sea-birds, solitary guests from Alabama, as unlikely subject for music as Janacek's vixen) yet how potent and sheerly beautiful they emerge in Delius's music). Roderick Williams (solitary guest from not so far from Alabama) was a sensitive, poetic birdwatcher. The London Philharmonic Chorus and Orchestra almost matched one's memories of Beecham.
The previous evening in the same hall the BBCSO and Symphony Chorus – superb as usual – were heard in Tippett's poignant, powerful evocation of the horrors that overcame Europe in the 30's. Tippett's was an unlikely success. In 1942 he was clapped into gaol as a conscientious objector; the LPO was brave two years later in putting on the oratorio of a composer known not for his compositions but for his record as a communist turned pacific who was also a homosexual.
A Child of Our Time is the story of a Jewish boy so frustrated by not being able to get the exit papers so important to the boy and his mother that he shoots a Nazi official. Tippett does not personalize his four solo singers; his trump card was, where Bach used chorates known to the audience, that he used negro spirituals, hottedup in the latest style, an emotional meltdown. It was a risky idea but it works, emotionally clinching.
Middle Period Masterpiece
If Benjamin Britten had lived in the nineteenth century he would have had to spend time battling with censors. Can you imagine them passing The Turn of the Screw, Billy Budd or Glorian? After the French Revolution the Ruling Classes were twitchy about any words on stage about disaffection of clergy or monarchs. At one point Bellini had to change his title because Norma could be inferred to be an ecumenical office.
In 1832 Victor Hugo's play Le Roi s'amuss was taken off before its second night and not seen on stage for another fifty years. But it was published which is how Verdi saw it and realised, correctly that it was perfect for an opera. "The greatest drama of modern times. Triboulet (the original name for Rigolette) is creation worthy of Shakespeare's". A battle commenced with the local Venetian censors which was won after changing the name, place and epoch.
Piave's libretto, master-minded by the composer, is of its time, but can only be criticized on the grounds that Rigolette's nastiness is not anything like fully shown. The master-stroke is the famous quartet, with the four characters each projecting different sentiments in different music, something Hugo cannot do in his play, something that he envied the composer for. And, not content with the vocal parts, Verdi throws in a clanging bell and a raging storm.
Rigolette was given in the Royal Opera House on 30th March, the first of a run of a revival of Donald McVicar's decade-old production, it’s the one with two ugly sets, a castle on the skew-whiff a Gilda's cage-like pad.
The hero of the evening was the conductor John Eliot Gardine, gunpowder tense, full value to the lyrical parts and complete command of chorus and orchestra, both on top form. The three principals were less than wonderful but more than competent. Vittarie Gringlo was a suitable brash Count, a singing Errol Flynn-type, any amount of confidence but lacking in bel canto. Dimitri Plantanias had a sure command of the notes in all registers, acted well, pleased the groundlings and only lacked that extra depth of character that would make one forget Tite Bobbi. Gilda (Ekateri Siurina) likewise had many good points just lacking that star quality that would put her into the bracket of stalls that cost two hundred pounds a time.
Verdi and Gardiner made the evening memorable no wonder the composer know he had hit gold.
Beethoven Quartets
Belcea Supreme
The Belcea String Quartets started to get known at the Aldeburgh Festival, had residence there. It took some time to pronounce the name, hard C or soft, Romanian like we thought the leader was? But it did not take us long to realize the quality of the group, the four quarters of their fine string playing just right for the performance of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, all of which it played in a completely satisfying way, no frills just concentration on and devotion to classical quartets. Bartok was added, also good, as idiosyncratic as the Tackas.
Recording contract, London concerts, soon Vienna, Paris, America – we soon had to share the Belcea with the civilised world; we did so willingly because the four came back to London often enough. We felt proud that 'our' quartet received the acclaim it deserved; the playing matured, became even more cherishable.
On March 22 the Belcea String Quartet played a Beethoven evening in the Wigmore Hall: Opus 18/1 in F, 1800; 59/3 in C, 1806, 'Razumovsky', and 132 in A minor, 1825.
In his exemplary programme notes Misha Donat pointed out that, of course, opus 18 does not apply any immaturity. Beethoven was 30 years old: he was well aware that his first published quartet was awaited with interest, would be scrutinized and compared, so he took great care with what he launched into the critical Viennese circle, revising this F major work considerably over a couple of years. One sign that this was no tiro, was his use of that important element in the work of …silence.
Between opus 18 and 59 lie few years but an enormous growth in immaturity, the same composer but a world of difference. Which there is also between the 'Razumovsky' trio and the rare atmosphere of the late quartets. How was it that LvB did not simply explode with the intensity and concentration required to think out these amazing late pieces? Interesting that he augmented in them the use of sonata form by putting new life into some forms of former times.
The quartet playing of the Belcea gave full weight and fluidity to the three works, one marvelled anew at the leader's mastery of her music, so high-flying, ever reaching way above the staves.
The music was no doubt familiar to the packed and appreciative audience who took in the allusions in the slow movement of 18/1 to Romeo & Juliet, the worldliness – almost Jewish flavour – of the second movement of 59/3 and the rarified slow chorale of 132 that precedes the ecstatic dithyrambic finale.
It wasn't easy to return to the mundane world.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Amis at 90
The Tait Memorial Trust presents
John Amis 90th Birthday Celebration talks to Humphrey Burton
John Amis and Humphrey Burton have been friends for donkeys’ years. Humphrey has been a TV man, John radio and critic. They have known everybody who was anybody in music for 60 years, and have the stories to prove it.
Both are now in their 80s, but still have many of their own teeth, which are often to be seen in London or Aldeburgh, France and Australia.
Stefan Cassenemenos will join them, a virtuoso Australian pianist of today, to play Liszt’s virtuosic Rigoletto-Paraphrase.
Tuesday 24 April 2012
7 for 7.30pm at 49 Queen’s Gate Terrace London SW7 5PN
Suggested donation of £35 for interview and buffet dinner, £25 for interview only. No presents just donations to the Trust. RSVP to info@taitmemorialtrust.org
ROSSINI IN A BARN
REKINDLED CINDERS SPARKLE
Andrew Staples is a newly risen star in the operatic world who has proved his outstanding tenor with Das Lied von der Erde directed by Sir Simon Rattle and the title role in Candide in the Barbican. But he is also a wizard opera director; on 17 March he was in charge of the fourth and last performance of Rossini's second most often performed comedy-opera La Cenerentola, sung in Italian. The venue was Barn Court in remote Hampshire near Farnham, the barn seats 140, has an inverted V roof, excellent acoustics. Last year it was Don Giovanni; the object of Bury Court is to give opportunity to young promising artists. Staples also did the casting and played ducks and drakes with the surtitles bringing wittily and inoffensively the 1817 opera into our century. The cast had no weakness, all acted well as well as coping with Rossini "s florid coloratura roulades and runs.
The sound was not particularly Italianate but the musical style was right. Cenerentola is predominantly an ensemble opera, reaching its climax near the end with a sextet in which each of the principals sings the tune and then breaks into variations of the most delightful and virtuosic species, it is a masterpiece, Gioachino in full flight with showers of vocal fireworks. The Prince and his valet Dandini impersonate each other when they come to Cinderella's house, confusing her family, and sometimes the audience. Dandini was not only more princely but a head taller. A minor point and of course tenors who can scale the heights, in both senses, are not easy to come by. Nicholas Darmanin sang his aria heroically and suitably highly, Dandini, John Mc Kenzie was very good, impressive and suave.
But what of the heroine, Cinders? Rossini wrote the part for a contralto but Conchita Supervia ( I heard her once sing the part ) and then Kathleen Ferrier were the last of the breed,it seems. So it is usually a mezzo-soprano these days, like Stephanie Lewis who took the part at Bury, good, almost a show-stopper. The star of the show was her wicked father, Don Magnifico, David Woloszko, plenty of en bon point, some charm and a magnificent voice and stage sense. These days the custom is for what our pantomines call the Ugly Sisters to be pretty as here they were; Clorinda /Eliana Pretorian was good in the duets and showed a powerful voice when it came to her aria. Tisbe/Belinda Williams in the second of the two acts developed into a comedian of the first class, one couldn't take ones eyes off her, every mime and gesture was so funny, a genuine droll.
There was but a single set, a diner-cum-bar with Cinders as barmaid and drudge; so we had no carriage or transformation scenes. Both the set and the costumes by William Reynolds were brilliant. The overture's exquisite opening clarinet solo was cut. Simon Over conducted the excellent Southbank Sinfonia, the 18 players raised up behind the stage.
There was also a six-men singing chorus, black hats, sometimes joined by girls who only danced; they were really part of the show, so well directed.
The whole performance was delightful and the audience happy and jolly. Rossini might have regretted the lack of garlic and chianti in the singing but would have been content, I think, with the superior musical style of the performance. The surtitles might have sometimes foxed him, especially "if we are not careful we may end up in the Betty Ford clinic".
I have seen many country-house opera productions recently but this, by a long way, topped the lot. More power to Bury Court Opera's future, especially if stapled to Andrew.
Andrew Staples is a newly risen star in the operatic world who has proved his outstanding tenor with Das Lied von der Erde directed by Sir Simon Rattle and the title role in Candide in the Barbican. But he is also a wizard opera director; on 17 March he was in charge of the fourth and last performance of Rossini's second most often performed comedy-opera La Cenerentola, sung in Italian. The venue was Barn Court in remote Hampshire near Farnham, the barn seats 140, has an inverted V roof, excellent acoustics. Last year it was Don Giovanni; the object of Bury Court is to give opportunity to young promising artists. Staples also did the casting and played ducks and drakes with the surtitles bringing wittily and inoffensively the 1817 opera into our century. The cast had no weakness, all acted well as well as coping with Rossini "s florid coloratura roulades and runs.
The sound was not particularly Italianate but the musical style was right. Cenerentola is predominantly an ensemble opera, reaching its climax near the end with a sextet in which each of the principals sings the tune and then breaks into variations of the most delightful and virtuosic species, it is a masterpiece, Gioachino in full flight with showers of vocal fireworks. The Prince and his valet Dandini impersonate each other when they come to Cinderella's house, confusing her family, and sometimes the audience. Dandini was not only more princely but a head taller. A minor point and of course tenors who can scale the heights, in both senses, are not easy to come by. Nicholas Darmanin sang his aria heroically and suitably highly, Dandini, John Mc Kenzie was very good, impressive and suave.
But what of the heroine, Cinders? Rossini wrote the part for a contralto but Conchita Supervia ( I heard her once sing the part ) and then Kathleen Ferrier were the last of the breed,it seems. So it is usually a mezzo-soprano these days, like Stephanie Lewis who took the part at Bury, good, almost a show-stopper. The star of the show was her wicked father, Don Magnifico, David Woloszko, plenty of en bon point, some charm and a magnificent voice and stage sense. These days the custom is for what our pantomines call the Ugly Sisters to be pretty as here they were; Clorinda /Eliana Pretorian was good in the duets and showed a powerful voice when it came to her aria. Tisbe/Belinda Williams in the second of the two acts developed into a comedian of the first class, one couldn't take ones eyes off her, every mime and gesture was so funny, a genuine droll.
There was but a single set, a diner-cum-bar with Cinders as barmaid and drudge; so we had no carriage or transformation scenes. Both the set and the costumes by William Reynolds were brilliant. The overture's exquisite opening clarinet solo was cut. Simon Over conducted the excellent Southbank Sinfonia, the 18 players raised up behind the stage.
There was also a six-men singing chorus, black hats, sometimes joined by girls who only danced; they were really part of the show, so well directed.
The whole performance was delightful and the audience happy and jolly. Rossini might have regretted the lack of garlic and chianti in the singing but would have been content, I think, with the superior musical style of the performance. The surtitles might have sometimes foxed him, especially "if we are not careful we may end up in the Betty Ford clinic".
I have seen many country-house opera productions recently but this, by a long way, topped the lot. More power to Bury Court Opera's future, especially if stapled to Andrew.
Monday, February 27, 2012
ALFRED BRENDEL
Master Musician – Great Pianist
Now that he has retired from the concert platform, do we call him a past master? No, he is still in our minds a master and we salute him.
Who showed more teeth when performing, Alfred Brendel or Ken Dodd? Alfred hated waiting in the artists' room; he always hurtled onto the platform as if he could not wait to get on with the music. For many years his fingers oozed blood so that his fingers were covered with band-aids " I am the only pianist who cannot play unless he is plastered."
He obviously likes playing with words as well as piano keys so it was no great surprise when he started to write poetry; it is published and he has even had some of his poems set to music by Harrison Birtwistle. In his early days, he had many concerts in Germany and his native Austria with his baritone friend Hermann Prey. Their tours entailed many rail journeys and while waiting for trains they used to make funny faces into those four-shot photograph booths that you find on platforms, acting out lines from Schubert's Winterreise or Die Schöne Müllerin. Another. Another habit was collecting misprints. Alfred would hand you the latest from his wallet and scan your face eagerly until you got the joke when he would explode with laughter.
On the contrary, his performances were very serious, just occasionally to the point of being on the intellectual side when he could lose his spontaneity, over-phrasing simple tunes.
He researched music texts thoroughly, not even trusting so called Urtexts, searching out the original autographs whenever possible. At his usual best, his playing was a perfect blend of head and heart, backed up by technical perfection. Playing Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Schubert and Weber (his playing of W's Konzertstuck was like a romantic dream), Liszt (in his early days), Busoni and Schönberg, peerless, he was one of the greatest pianists of his day.
He settled in Hampstead in a house full of native art; and when the house next door became available, he bought that too, so as not to be overheard by neighbours.
He became interested in the piano's innards in his constant search for a good piano, knowing just enough about things like pricking the felts as to be a bit of a menace to the piano tuners and technicians. He is obviously a good teacher – as witness his star student, Imogen Cooper. Marriages: two; children, also two, a son and a daughter. Adrian is a fine cellist, often playing recitals with his father.
Long may he enjoy his retirement!
Now that he has retired from the concert platform, do we call him a past master? No, he is still in our minds a master and we salute him.
Who showed more teeth when performing, Alfred Brendel or Ken Dodd? Alfred hated waiting in the artists' room; he always hurtled onto the platform as if he could not wait to get on with the music. For many years his fingers oozed blood so that his fingers were covered with band-aids " I am the only pianist who cannot play unless he is plastered."
He obviously likes playing with words as well as piano keys so it was no great surprise when he started to write poetry; it is published and he has even had some of his poems set to music by Harrison Birtwistle. In his early days, he had many concerts in Germany and his native Austria with his baritone friend Hermann Prey. Their tours entailed many rail journeys and while waiting for trains they used to make funny faces into those four-shot photograph booths that you find on platforms, acting out lines from Schubert's Winterreise or Die Schöne Müllerin. Another. Another habit was collecting misprints. Alfred would hand you the latest from his wallet and scan your face eagerly until you got the joke when he would explode with laughter.
On the contrary, his performances were very serious, just occasionally to the point of being on the intellectual side when he could lose his spontaneity, over-phrasing simple tunes.
He researched music texts thoroughly, not even trusting so called Urtexts, searching out the original autographs whenever possible. At his usual best, his playing was a perfect blend of head and heart, backed up by technical perfection. Playing Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Schubert and Weber (his playing of W's Konzertstuck was like a romantic dream), Liszt (in his early days), Busoni and Schönberg, peerless, he was one of the greatest pianists of his day.
He settled in Hampstead in a house full of native art; and when the house next door became available, he bought that too, so as not to be overheard by neighbours.
He became interested in the piano's innards in his constant search for a good piano, knowing just enough about things like pricking the felts as to be a bit of a menace to the piano tuners and technicians. He is obviously a good teacher – as witness his star student, Imogen Cooper. Marriages: two; children, also two, a son and a daughter. Adrian is a fine cellist, often playing recitals with his father.
Long may he enjoy his retirement!
DMITRI AND DEATH
The Overture, Concerto, Symphony concert programme that existed for such a long time seems to have been overtaken by the American habit of a programme with just two works, even beginning with a concerto. On February 9 in the RFH we started off with one of the weightiest of Piano concertos, the B flat, Brahms No. 2, Opus 83, composed about the time that he sprouted his beaver. Clara must have had her work cut out to get her maulers round it – surely it’s a man's work if ever there was one.
Rich, beautifully composed, a complicated structure, perfect in all its parts from the serene horn solo lead-in, through the chunky scherzo, the tender cello solo in the Andante, ending with the gay (old style meaning) finale. You almost forgive of the work coming to an end the way it happens, like a stately galleon coming into harbour.
The Russian pianist Arkadi Volodos whose masterly Rach. 3 some time ago might have made one wonder if he might take the Lang Lang road to the flashing lights – but no, his way with the Brahms was virtuoso, yes, but measured and serious, almost solemn at times. Bliss was it!
The second heavy weight of the evening was the Fourth Symphony of Shostakovich, composed while World War 2 was raging but penned while Dmitri was in peace and quiet faraway in a Soviet composer's hideaway. There are various hidden agendas that have been put forward, but hidden is the wrong word. No. 8 does not hide its message for it batters its way into the listener's ear and consciousness, it goes for the jugular, searing the hearer, despite some quieter moments, quite shattering even if the coda is a soothing glimpse of better times (wishful thinking on Dmitri's part?).
There are some similarities between No. 5 and No. 8 but whereas 5 has many melodic moments, 8 has few and is surely about DEATH. The DEATH of those millions who fought in the siege of Stalingrad and, just as surely, DEATH of more millions bulleted by the monster Stalin, and, quite likely, DEATH feared by the composer himself.
It is one of the wonders of our musical world that the persecuted Shostakovich was compelled by his inner self to go on composing, composing masterpieces too. A veritable miracle. certainly none in the audience in the RFH could forget it. The Philharmonia Orchestra under Tugan Sokhiev (Russian though the programme does not say so), played like virtuoso heroes and superb artists. Shattered we were in the audience, but somehow refreshed by a notable experience.
Rich, beautifully composed, a complicated structure, perfect in all its parts from the serene horn solo lead-in, through the chunky scherzo, the tender cello solo in the Andante, ending with the gay (old style meaning) finale. You almost forgive of the work coming to an end the way it happens, like a stately galleon coming into harbour.
The Russian pianist Arkadi Volodos whose masterly Rach. 3 some time ago might have made one wonder if he might take the Lang Lang road to the flashing lights – but no, his way with the Brahms was virtuoso, yes, but measured and serious, almost solemn at times. Bliss was it!
The second heavy weight of the evening was the Fourth Symphony of Shostakovich, composed while World War 2 was raging but penned while Dmitri was in peace and quiet faraway in a Soviet composer's hideaway. There are various hidden agendas that have been put forward, but hidden is the wrong word. No. 8 does not hide its message for it batters its way into the listener's ear and consciousness, it goes for the jugular, searing the hearer, despite some quieter moments, quite shattering even if the coda is a soothing glimpse of better times (wishful thinking on Dmitri's part?).
There are some similarities between No. 5 and No. 8 but whereas 5 has many melodic moments, 8 has few and is surely about DEATH. The DEATH of those millions who fought in the siege of Stalingrad and, just as surely, DEATH of more millions bulleted by the monster Stalin, and, quite likely, DEATH feared by the composer himself.
It is one of the wonders of our musical world that the persecuted Shostakovich was compelled by his inner self to go on composing, composing masterpieces too. A veritable miracle. certainly none in the audience in the RFH could forget it. The Philharmonia Orchestra under Tugan Sokhiev (Russian though the programme does not say so), played like virtuoso heroes and superb artists. Shattered we were in the audience, but somehow refreshed by a notable experience.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
HOFFMANN'S TALES
Jones Brilliant Production
"I prefer Offenbach to Bach often" – Also sprach Sir Thomas Beecham. So, hurry to the London Coliseum where on February 10 English National put on a scintillating new production by Richard Jones of Offenbach's perennial favourite, The Tales of Hoffman. Offenbach was a German who lived in France most of his life. Having written a string of successful operettas he decided to have a crack at a grand opera. Death began to overtake him and he could not finish it (the premiere was in Paris in 1881, the year after the composer died). Guiraud who wrote the recitatives for Carmen did the same service for the Tales and orchestrated the whole thing. Various editions exist but the opera is rather a mess. Offenbach's numbers, songs, arias, duets etc., are fine, rull of favourites melodies and fascinating musical ideas, but the bits in between are lumpy hackwork so that the score is a hodgepodge. But the plot is intriguing and the tunes are winners, that’s why it is still in the repertoire.
There are three Tales, each in a different venue (though all in the same single set in this production – i.e. no gondolas for the Venice Tale) and each is devoted to a different girl that Hoffman woos without scoring a hit: Olympia because she is a doll, Antonia because she is a sick singer, who will die if she sings, and Guiletta apparently because she is a tart. Barry Banks sang all the notes (its a difficult role) but he is no romantic heartthrob. Georgia Jarman, American soprano was stunning as Olympia, a lifelike doll (!), singing and acting the part superbly. Alas, in the other acts she sang loudly and her intonation suffered accordingly. Her tartiness consisted of swishing her skirt incessantly. The subsidiary parts (three venues means a big cast) were all well cast and played, headed by the always excellent Clive Bayley as Lindorf and Dapertutto, Christine Rice as Hoffmann's trouser-role boy companion Nicklaus, Iain Paton/Spalaanzani, Simon Betteries/Frantz and Tom Fackrell/Schlemil.
What a treasure that famous Barcarolle is! To be told that it was originally part of another work altogether is like being told that there aint' no Santa Claus; such a lilting lulu, the very essence of Venice one would think.
Permit a grouch and a suggestion anent surtitles: they are too small in this theatre, illegible to many of the audience. And why not indicate the name of the character as he or she sings for the first time? So often one needs to know.
"I prefer Offenbach to Bach often" – Also sprach Sir Thomas Beecham. So, hurry to the London Coliseum where on February 10 English National put on a scintillating new production by Richard Jones of Offenbach's perennial favourite, The Tales of Hoffman. Offenbach was a German who lived in France most of his life. Having written a string of successful operettas he decided to have a crack at a grand opera. Death began to overtake him and he could not finish it (the premiere was in Paris in 1881, the year after the composer died). Guiraud who wrote the recitatives for Carmen did the same service for the Tales and orchestrated the whole thing. Various editions exist but the opera is rather a mess. Offenbach's numbers, songs, arias, duets etc., are fine, rull of favourites melodies and fascinating musical ideas, but the bits in between are lumpy hackwork so that the score is a hodgepodge. But the plot is intriguing and the tunes are winners, that’s why it is still in the repertoire.
There are three Tales, each in a different venue (though all in the same single set in this production – i.e. no gondolas for the Venice Tale) and each is devoted to a different girl that Hoffman woos without scoring a hit: Olympia because she is a doll, Antonia because she is a sick singer, who will die if she sings, and Guiletta apparently because she is a tart. Barry Banks sang all the notes (its a difficult role) but he is no romantic heartthrob. Georgia Jarman, American soprano was stunning as Olympia, a lifelike doll (!), singing and acting the part superbly. Alas, in the other acts she sang loudly and her intonation suffered accordingly. Her tartiness consisted of swishing her skirt incessantly. The subsidiary parts (three venues means a big cast) were all well cast and played, headed by the always excellent Clive Bayley as Lindorf and Dapertutto, Christine Rice as Hoffmann's trouser-role boy companion Nicklaus, Iain Paton/Spalaanzani, Simon Betteries/Frantz and Tom Fackrell/Schlemil.
What a treasure that famous Barcarolle is! To be told that it was originally part of another work altogether is like being told that there aint' no Santa Claus; such a lilting lulu, the very essence of Venice one would think.
Permit a grouch and a suggestion anent surtitles: they are too small in this theatre, illegible to many of the audience. And why not indicate the name of the character as he or she sings for the first time? So often one needs to know.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Cosi fan Tutte
6th Covent Garden Revival
The revival of Mozart’s COSI fan TUTTE at Covent Garden, Friday, January 27th, was like a curate’s egg. Not good in all parts. Mozart was OK, Jonathan Miller’s production was OK, and the orchestra played well, the soloists in wind and brass, as usual, bang in the middle of any note. But that was more than you could say of the singers (with one shining exception – Thomas Allen - approaching his 300th assumption of the role of the scheming Don Alfonso). Mozart requires exact intonation without any bulging tones or distortion towards the upper register. These vocal imperfections have become something like my King Charles’ head but it is surely a critic’s responsibility to try and maintain standards.
COSI is a long opera and on this occasion it seemed very long indeed, even a bit tedious. Why? Imperfect singing and a conductor (Sir Colin Davis) who seemed to be on autopilot, not bad but lacking lustre.
I ‘discovered’ Colin when he was doing exuberant and stylish work with the semi-amateur Chelsea Opera Group and got him one of his first assignments, to conduct at Bryanston in 1951 at the Summer School of Music. After a time with the BBC Scottish he became director at Sadlers Wells; the big breakthrough came when he took over a Don Giovanni in the RFH from an indisposed Klemperer. For a time he was in charge of the BBCSO and eventually he got to Covent Garden in 1971 and the LSO I ’95. A recent heart attack seems to have slowed him down, his exuberant freshness seemed absent from this COSI. Tired Mozart is a contradiction in terms.
The Ferrando, Charles Castronove (American) was not new to the house but nearly all
the others were: Guglielmo – Nikolay Borchev (the two ‘Albanians’ were kitted out to look like caricatures of Nigel Kennedy); the other newcomers were Malin Byström (Swedish) and Dorabella, Michèle Losier (Canadian); Rosemary Joshua was a delightful perky Despina. All attractive competent actors. The outstanding performance though, vocally and histrionically, was that of Sir Thomas Allen, bang in tune and a joy to watch.
After the performance Tony Hall , Administrator of Covent Garden, made a presentation to Thomas and congratulated him on his 40th year at the Garden where he has sung over 50 roles, a warm high baritone voice and an ability to become the character he is portraying. He is easily the best Don Giovanni I have seen and his portrayals of Billy Budd, Wozzeck, the Count in Figaro and Gianni Schicchi were all benchmarks and a marvel to experience. (He’s a nice bloke too!)
The revival of Mozart’s COSI fan TUTTE at Covent Garden, Friday, January 27th, was like a curate’s egg. Not good in all parts. Mozart was OK, Jonathan Miller’s production was OK, and the orchestra played well, the soloists in wind and brass, as usual, bang in the middle of any note. But that was more than you could say of the singers (with one shining exception – Thomas Allen - approaching his 300th assumption of the role of the scheming Don Alfonso). Mozart requires exact intonation without any bulging tones or distortion towards the upper register. These vocal imperfections have become something like my King Charles’ head but it is surely a critic’s responsibility to try and maintain standards.
COSI is a long opera and on this occasion it seemed very long indeed, even a bit tedious. Why? Imperfect singing and a conductor (Sir Colin Davis) who seemed to be on autopilot, not bad but lacking lustre.
I ‘discovered’ Colin when he was doing exuberant and stylish work with the semi-amateur Chelsea Opera Group and got him one of his first assignments, to conduct at Bryanston in 1951 at the Summer School of Music. After a time with the BBC Scottish he became director at Sadlers Wells; the big breakthrough came when he took over a Don Giovanni in the RFH from an indisposed Klemperer. For a time he was in charge of the BBCSO and eventually he got to Covent Garden in 1971 and the LSO I ’95. A recent heart attack seems to have slowed him down, his exuberant freshness seemed absent from this COSI. Tired Mozart is a contradiction in terms.
The Ferrando, Charles Castronove (American) was not new to the house but nearly all
the others were: Guglielmo – Nikolay Borchev (the two ‘Albanians’ were kitted out to look like caricatures of Nigel Kennedy); the other newcomers were Malin Byström (Swedish) and Dorabella, Michèle Losier (Canadian); Rosemary Joshua was a delightful perky Despina. All attractive competent actors. The outstanding performance though, vocally and histrionically, was that of Sir Thomas Allen, bang in tune and a joy to watch.
After the performance Tony Hall , Administrator of Covent Garden, made a presentation to Thomas and congratulated him on his 40th year at the Garden where he has sung over 50 roles, a warm high baritone voice and an ability to become the character he is portraying. He is easily the best Don Giovanni I have seen and his portrayals of Billy Budd, Wozzeck, the Count in Figaro and Gianni Schicchi were all benchmarks and a marvel to experience. (He’s a nice bloke too!)
Bream: Master of the Frets
"Mr. Bream" asked the German Ambassador after young Julian played some solos "you play this Spanish music so marvellous, you must have Spanish blood, nein?". "Wot me" answers Julian in his usual Cockney vernacular "I was born in Battersea, between the Pah (power) station and the Dogs 'Ome." Yes, true, but his commercial advertising Dad liked to play guitar jazz with the local lads of an evening. His little boy found the guitar about the house and was soon strumming, jazz-style riffs. But one day Dad brought home a 78 record of the great Spanish virtuoso, Andres Segovia, playing that fascinating Tremolo Study by Tarrega. In an instant Julian was converted to the classical repertoire – although he continued to play jazz.
From time to time, Julian played little gigs in people's parlours. Ladies fell for the young prodigal and raised money to send the lad to the Royal College of Music. No guitar teacher but he could learn the rudiments and music history. The guitar and Julian became popular among the students, so much so, that the Principal of the College actually forbade young Jules to bring his guitar into the building. More little gigs, his fame spread, bigger gigs. Julian was taken under the wing of Tom Goff (maker of harpsichords, pal of the Queen); he eventually persuaded Julian to play the lute, making for him a beautiful instrument so that Julian became the ruler of ancient staves as well as classical, romantic and modern 'dots', as Julian dubbed printed music.
He began a concert-giving career, broadcast, made gramophone records, became a favourite at the Aldeburgh Festival, inspiring Benjamin Britten to write the song cycle Songs from the Chinese (tenor and guitar) in 1957 and the solo Nocturnal after John Dowland in 1963. When Britten was ill or too busy, Peter Pears and Julian gave recitals together, sometimes with guitar, sometimes lute. In time Julian formed a consort 'playing the ancient stave' with players including Joy Hall on the gamba and (my wife) Olive Zorian on violin.
Julian organised his life with skill and artistic sensability. When he toured in exotic places, India for example, he would extend his tour in order to get to know the place, its people food and drink. He also made a deal with his record company so that he had a free hand to record what he liked, where to record it and who should engineer the disc, an almost unique and profitable system.
Many composers wrote music for Bream: William Walton a song-cycle Anon in Love 1959 and some solo Bagatelles 1972; and Malcolm Arnold his Guitar Concerto in 1959 (lollipop tune in the first movement, deep blues second movement).
Love life: vigorous and varied, including a lengthy affair with the cellist Amaryllis Fleming, and three marriages, the second short and not sweet, the other two lasting longer but not ending well.
Julian's vernacular continued to be salty and fruity. He described himself at the festival in Elmau, Germany, as being 'knee deep in girls'; on entering a Royal Academy exhibition room dominated by a large nude: "crikey, I know 'er – what a smashing pair of plonkers". At one time he would offer a cigarette: "have a choob of narcotic joy" and, anticipating government warnings, "have a cancer rod".
Cricket was a passion, slow spin, occasionally with gloves to protect his 'German bands' (hands); every year at one time there was an annual match against the local Dorset farmers, pre-match net practice obligatory. I was warned that the opposing team were sometimes stroppy and refused to 'walk', arguing the toss with the umpires. Julian wittily circumvented that by engaging as umpires a couple of local Jesuit priests.
Julian had a penchant for fast cars. Once on the way to Glyndebourne a naughty driver cut rudely across our path. A bit later we spied the same car waiting to turn right at a traffic-light. "Shall we put the wind up the bugger?" says Julian and revs up the car; we whistle past the car; but the space was less than anticipated so that it was us who got the wind-up. Silence for ten minutes then Julian says "bloody hell, Amis, that was fag-papers".
He came no less than eight times to Darting ton to the Summer School, to play, teach, smoke his Gauloises, entertain and cut a swathe thought the girls. One day in class he criticized the sound one student made. "All very well for you, you've got a custom made box." Julian said he had a point and went round the class playing on all the students' instruments one by one (making a good sound on each one, as it happened).
One day Julian bashed his car and himself on a local bridge going home after a jar or three "I knew that bridge well, but that night it had gotten smaller". He recuperated, then started playing again. But some of the magic seemed to have gone; Julian was never the cleanest of players (unlike his friend and colleague, John Williams). The great thing about Julian's playing was his power of communication with an audience. Despite the occasional squeak.
From time to time, Julian played little gigs in people's parlours. Ladies fell for the young prodigal and raised money to send the lad to the Royal College of Music. No guitar teacher but he could learn the rudiments and music history. The guitar and Julian became popular among the students, so much so, that the Principal of the College actually forbade young Jules to bring his guitar into the building. More little gigs, his fame spread, bigger gigs. Julian was taken under the wing of Tom Goff (maker of harpsichords, pal of the Queen); he eventually persuaded Julian to play the lute, making for him a beautiful instrument so that Julian became the ruler of ancient staves as well as classical, romantic and modern 'dots', as Julian dubbed printed music.
He began a concert-giving career, broadcast, made gramophone records, became a favourite at the Aldeburgh Festival, inspiring Benjamin Britten to write the song cycle Songs from the Chinese (tenor and guitar) in 1957 and the solo Nocturnal after John Dowland in 1963. When Britten was ill or too busy, Peter Pears and Julian gave recitals together, sometimes with guitar, sometimes lute. In time Julian formed a consort 'playing the ancient stave' with players including Joy Hall on the gamba and (my wife) Olive Zorian on violin.
Julian organised his life with skill and artistic sensability. When he toured in exotic places, India for example, he would extend his tour in order to get to know the place, its people food and drink. He also made a deal with his record company so that he had a free hand to record what he liked, where to record it and who should engineer the disc, an almost unique and profitable system.
Many composers wrote music for Bream: William Walton a song-cycle Anon in Love 1959 and some solo Bagatelles 1972; and Malcolm Arnold his Guitar Concerto in 1959 (lollipop tune in the first movement, deep blues second movement).
Love life: vigorous and varied, including a lengthy affair with the cellist Amaryllis Fleming, and three marriages, the second short and not sweet, the other two lasting longer but not ending well.
Julian's vernacular continued to be salty and fruity. He described himself at the festival in Elmau, Germany, as being 'knee deep in girls'; on entering a Royal Academy exhibition room dominated by a large nude: "crikey, I know 'er – what a smashing pair of plonkers". At one time he would offer a cigarette: "have a choob of narcotic joy" and, anticipating government warnings, "have a cancer rod".
Cricket was a passion, slow spin, occasionally with gloves to protect his 'German bands' (hands); every year at one time there was an annual match against the local Dorset farmers, pre-match net practice obligatory. I was warned that the opposing team were sometimes stroppy and refused to 'walk', arguing the toss with the umpires. Julian wittily circumvented that by engaging as umpires a couple of local Jesuit priests.
Julian had a penchant for fast cars. Once on the way to Glyndebourne a naughty driver cut rudely across our path. A bit later we spied the same car waiting to turn right at a traffic-light. "Shall we put the wind up the bugger?" says Julian and revs up the car; we whistle past the car; but the space was less than anticipated so that it was us who got the wind-up. Silence for ten minutes then Julian says "bloody hell, Amis, that was fag-papers".
He came no less than eight times to Darting ton to the Summer School, to play, teach, smoke his Gauloises, entertain and cut a swathe thought the girls. One day in class he criticized the sound one student made. "All very well for you, you've got a custom made box." Julian said he had a point and went round the class playing on all the students' instruments one by one (making a good sound on each one, as it happened).
One day Julian bashed his car and himself on a local bridge going home after a jar or three "I knew that bridge well, but that night it had gotten smaller". He recuperated, then started playing again. But some of the magic seemed to have gone; Julian was never the cleanest of players (unlike his friend and colleague, John Williams). The great thing about Julian's playing was his power of communication with an audience. Despite the occasional squeak.
Sibelius at Sixes and Sevens
In the nineteen-thirties Walter Legge, the great record producer, ran the Sibelius society, a collection of albums containing six of seven 78 records, not obtainable singly. He had occasion to visit Sibelius in his Finnish home, Järvenpåå, the composer was then in his seventies, Legge forty years younger; it was the young man's first encounter with the old master; he was on his best behaviour. Business was discussed, drinks were served, cigars smoked.
Legge dared to ask a question: "at the time of the composition of the sixth and seventh symphonies, had Sibelius been studying the works of Italian masters like Palestrina? Sibelius rose abruptly and disappeared into the garden, pausing only to pick up a hunting knife from a stand. Legge went to the window and saw Sibelius by a fruit tree, slashing at it with the knife. Legge went into the garden and apologised for his question. Sibelius said to him: "Finnish plumbing being what it is, if you want to pee before you go, do it out here".
Fast forward seventeen years. Schwarkopf (Mrs Legge) was in Helsingfors (Strauss Four Last Songs performance). Legge rang the composer: would a visit be welcome?" Yes.
Sibelius received them in his grand seigneur manner: "I seem to remember that you prefer the Mumm marque of champagne …Romeo y Julia cigars and, the answer to your previous question is, yes."
Since Pekka Saraste had just conducted the two symphonies in question. I went backstage to tell the conductor the above story. (He anticipated the punch-line). The BBCSO had played well for him; the sixth came out rather more forcefully than it did under Beecham's delicate handling; the seventh like the masterly monolith that it is. I haven't heard either symphony for some years and was refreshed and stimulated by the noble trombone theme that rises from the depth like the Krakenwake, by the sudden flurries of string semiquavers, the plangent wind statements, the use of augmented fourths, added sixths, the sudden silences, the brass chords that bulge from piano to forte, the almost sentimental phrases that are turned as austere as Easter Island stones, and the archaic use of modes.
The first half of the programme turned from Finland to the other country with which it shares linguistic roots, Hungary. The programme began with the Dance Suite that Bartok (forty-two years old at the time) composed on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the unification of Buda Pesth in 1923. The pattern begins with woodwind and brass in rhythmic, masculine style, notes mostly around and below middle C; with contrasting string sections in longer notes, high and lyrical. It sounds for all the world like a sketch for the Concerto for Orchestra that came some twenty years later.
Before the interval came …concertante… a rather rare longer work, 2003, by György Kurtag (born 1926). Like Mozart's famous work, Kurtag's features violin and viola soloists. But these soloists do not, like the earlier work, have grateful, lyrical or virtuoso lines to sing. The later work is rather brittle, even scratchy. Even the programme-notes conceded that "everything seems uncertain". The soloist were Hiromi Tuchi and Ken Hakii.
Legge dared to ask a question: "at the time of the composition of the sixth and seventh symphonies, had Sibelius been studying the works of Italian masters like Palestrina? Sibelius rose abruptly and disappeared into the garden, pausing only to pick up a hunting knife from a stand. Legge went to the window and saw Sibelius by a fruit tree, slashing at it with the knife. Legge went into the garden and apologised for his question. Sibelius said to him: "Finnish plumbing being what it is, if you want to pee before you go, do it out here".
Fast forward seventeen years. Schwarkopf (Mrs Legge) was in Helsingfors (Strauss Four Last Songs performance). Legge rang the composer: would a visit be welcome?" Yes.
Sibelius received them in his grand seigneur manner: "I seem to remember that you prefer the Mumm marque of champagne …Romeo y Julia cigars and, the answer to your previous question is, yes."
Since Pekka Saraste had just conducted the two symphonies in question. I went backstage to tell the conductor the above story. (He anticipated the punch-line). The BBCSO had played well for him; the sixth came out rather more forcefully than it did under Beecham's delicate handling; the seventh like the masterly monolith that it is. I haven't heard either symphony for some years and was refreshed and stimulated by the noble trombone theme that rises from the depth like the Krakenwake, by the sudden flurries of string semiquavers, the plangent wind statements, the use of augmented fourths, added sixths, the sudden silences, the brass chords that bulge from piano to forte, the almost sentimental phrases that are turned as austere as Easter Island stones, and the archaic use of modes.
The first half of the programme turned from Finland to the other country with which it shares linguistic roots, Hungary. The programme began with the Dance Suite that Bartok (forty-two years old at the time) composed on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the unification of Buda Pesth in 1923. The pattern begins with woodwind and brass in rhythmic, masculine style, notes mostly around and below middle C; with contrasting string sections in longer notes, high and lyrical. It sounds for all the world like a sketch for the Concerto for Orchestra that came some twenty years later.
Before the interval came …concertante… a rather rare longer work, 2003, by György Kurtag (born 1926). Like Mozart's famous work, Kurtag's features violin and viola soloists. But these soloists do not, like the earlier work, have grateful, lyrical or virtuoso lines to sing. The later work is rather brittle, even scratchy. Even the programme-notes conceded that "everything seems uncertain". The soloist were Hiromi Tuchi and Ken Hakii.
Just One Mastersinger
Tomlinson Wins the Prize but not the girl
We all know that Wagner's Mastersingers of Nürnberg is about a singing competition. At Covent Garden on Monday 19 December there was one clear winner: Sir John Tomlinson, who proved himself again to be a National Treasure. He is surely the Wagnerian bass of our time. He is in his late sixties and the voice is a bit grizzled but he is a 'passed' master not a past-master. This is a voice of ripe maturity, seasoned and mellowed, every note a joy. He played Pogner the father who generously gives his daughter Eva to be the prize of the Eurovision competition of 1868.
Second prize goes to the chorus of the Royal Opera House, director, Renato Balsadonna, flexible, well-tuned and fresh. Elsewhere there was a shortage of beautiful vocal sound. Where have all the good singers gone? Of the later Wagner operas this is the one into which he poured most melody but the score needs beautiful and meaningful singing; this performance lacked that vital commodity. The voice of the Walther, Simon O'Neill, was accurate but dry and reedy, dressed all in white with a vulgar cod-piece, he tended to resemble a pregnant blancmange. Eva, Emma Bell, looked pretty but made too few pretty sounds. Hans Sachs, Wolfgang Koch, dominated in the final 'Honour your German Masters' scene but elsewhere lacked charisma, although note perfect, and he didn't look good: costume unsatisfactory, too young. Peter Coleman-Wright sang well and in time will surely fill in more of Beckmesser's character but at least he was a plausible town clerk. There were good cameos from Robert Lloyd as the Night Watchman and Donald Maxwell as the baker Köthner.
Antonio Pappano conducted in ship-shape fashion without reaching any great heights. Graham Vick's production was blessedly straightforward and concept-free. Richard Hudson's Nürnberg dollhouses were again on show. The Act Two riot was just that: a riot; all in all, an enjoyable evening but not one to equal past performances. Still there was the chorus ….. and the great Tomlinson.
We all know that Wagner's Mastersingers of Nürnberg is about a singing competition. At Covent Garden on Monday 19 December there was one clear winner: Sir John Tomlinson, who proved himself again to be a National Treasure. He is surely the Wagnerian bass of our time. He is in his late sixties and the voice is a bit grizzled but he is a 'passed' master not a past-master. This is a voice of ripe maturity, seasoned and mellowed, every note a joy. He played Pogner the father who generously gives his daughter Eva to be the prize of the Eurovision competition of 1868.
Second prize goes to the chorus of the Royal Opera House, director, Renato Balsadonna, flexible, well-tuned and fresh. Elsewhere there was a shortage of beautiful vocal sound. Where have all the good singers gone? Of the later Wagner operas this is the one into which he poured most melody but the score needs beautiful and meaningful singing; this performance lacked that vital commodity. The voice of the Walther, Simon O'Neill, was accurate but dry and reedy, dressed all in white with a vulgar cod-piece, he tended to resemble a pregnant blancmange. Eva, Emma Bell, looked pretty but made too few pretty sounds. Hans Sachs, Wolfgang Koch, dominated in the final 'Honour your German Masters' scene but elsewhere lacked charisma, although note perfect, and he didn't look good: costume unsatisfactory, too young. Peter Coleman-Wright sang well and in time will surely fill in more of Beckmesser's character but at least he was a plausible town clerk. There were good cameos from Robert Lloyd as the Night Watchman and Donald Maxwell as the baker Köthner.
Antonio Pappano conducted in ship-shape fashion without reaching any great heights. Graham Vick's production was blessedly straightforward and concept-free. Richard Hudson's Nürnberg dollhouses were again on show. The Act Two riot was just that: a riot; all in all, an enjoyable evening but not one to equal past performances. Still there was the chorus ….. and the great Tomlinson.
Friday, December 16, 2011
PORGY AND DULWICH
200 Alleynians lustily singing the Gershwin indestructible tunes of Porgy and Bess was thrilling, heart-warming and mind-blowing. No doubt that Gershwin is up there with the great composers. It is a miracle how a Jewish New York boy could conjure up the spirit of the negro world; and make something universal with his music.
We must be grateful to Ed Lojeski for his arrangement even if the opening and the bits between the six numbers are crumbly. The deployment of the voices on the platform and the multitudes in the galleries worked extremely well. Dr. Carnelly stirred the mixture most effectively.
I generally find that adolescents cope better with romantic and twentieth century scores than those of the eighteenth century because Mozart and Haydn need style which grown-ups handle better – adolescents take to Mahler and Shostakovich more easily… or Gershwin. But I found I was wrong because Lesley Larkum got the boys to play idiomatically correctly in the performance of the Mozart Divertimento (there were even some pianissimi in K.138) and the first movement of the Piano Concerto in A, K. 414, which was most elegantly played by Lewis Lloyd. He made beautiful sounds and music… and later proved his versatility by joining the bassoons in the second half. He's a cool and talented Head Boy is Lewis.
Richard Mayo launched the evening with Elgar's once popular, now rarely played, Imperial March, a piece that shows some familiar composing footprints even if Elgar had not quite got into his stride by 1897. Michael Deniran produced good tone in Beethoven's Romance even if his intonation was somewhat shaky – nerves, I would guess.
So, we have to say goodbye to Barbara Lake which is sad, but she marked her departure in fine style. The Wind Band responded enthusiastically in two New York numbers: Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue (which is evergreen) and Nigel Hess's Brit view of the American capital, the playing was suitably tangy and a bit brash. Sebastian Chong took a little time to warm up at the piano, the opening lacked continuity (not helped by some rough riffs from the clarinet) but thereafter he gave full measure to Gershwin's masterpieces of an evocation of the twenties. Wonderful tunes even though, as usual in his symphonic works, he found difficulty in wrapping up his sublime melodies and inventive passage work.
Dear present-day Alleynians, I wonder if you realise how fortunate you are at Dulwich with such a lot of music going on under the supervision of Richard Mayo. I was at the college wayback, from 1935 to 1939. True, there was an orchestra of sorts and a choir but music was low in the priorities: there was only half a director of music because Mr. Gayford was also in charge of History. Whereas now you have two orchestras, choirs large and small, a jazz band, instrument facilities and really capable teachers.
Out in the wide world there is recession and financial mayhem but down in SE21 you have an enviable enclave of music making. Boys, you may not continue your musical activities later in life but the discipline of singing and playing instruments, the joy of music, will undoubtedly improve your lives and will to a greater or lesser degree, affect you when you leave Dulwich.
We must be grateful to Ed Lojeski for his arrangement even if the opening and the bits between the six numbers are crumbly. The deployment of the voices on the platform and the multitudes in the galleries worked extremely well. Dr. Carnelly stirred the mixture most effectively.
I generally find that adolescents cope better with romantic and twentieth century scores than those of the eighteenth century because Mozart and Haydn need style which grown-ups handle better – adolescents take to Mahler and Shostakovich more easily… or Gershwin. But I found I was wrong because Lesley Larkum got the boys to play idiomatically correctly in the performance of the Mozart Divertimento (there were even some pianissimi in K.138) and the first movement of the Piano Concerto in A, K. 414, which was most elegantly played by Lewis Lloyd. He made beautiful sounds and music… and later proved his versatility by joining the bassoons in the second half. He's a cool and talented Head Boy is Lewis.
Richard Mayo launched the evening with Elgar's once popular, now rarely played, Imperial March, a piece that shows some familiar composing footprints even if Elgar had not quite got into his stride by 1897. Michael Deniran produced good tone in Beethoven's Romance even if his intonation was somewhat shaky – nerves, I would guess.
So, we have to say goodbye to Barbara Lake which is sad, but she marked her departure in fine style. The Wind Band responded enthusiastically in two New York numbers: Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue (which is evergreen) and Nigel Hess's Brit view of the American capital, the playing was suitably tangy and a bit brash. Sebastian Chong took a little time to warm up at the piano, the opening lacked continuity (not helped by some rough riffs from the clarinet) but thereafter he gave full measure to Gershwin's masterpieces of an evocation of the twenties. Wonderful tunes even though, as usual in his symphonic works, he found difficulty in wrapping up his sublime melodies and inventive passage work.
Dear present-day Alleynians, I wonder if you realise how fortunate you are at Dulwich with such a lot of music going on under the supervision of Richard Mayo. I was at the college wayback, from 1935 to 1939. True, there was an orchestra of sorts and a choir but music was low in the priorities: there was only half a director of music because Mr. Gayford was also in charge of History. Whereas now you have two orchestras, choirs large and small, a jazz band, instrument facilities and really capable teachers.
Out in the wide world there is recession and financial mayhem but down in SE21 you have an enviable enclave of music making. Boys, you may not continue your musical activities later in life but the discipline of singing and playing instruments, the joy of music, will undoubtedly improve your lives and will to a greater or lesser degree, affect you when you leave Dulwich.
A FINE YOUNG PIANIST
Alice Sara Ott gave a piano recital on November 22 in Queen Elizabeth Hall. There was nothing unusual about the programme: Mozart late variations (Dupont, K575), an early Beethoven Sonata (opus 2/3), a handful of Chopin Waltzes and the last of the Transcendental Studies by Liszt and his Rigoletto Paraphrase. But the playing was.
Edwin Fischer once wrote that performers "made their greatest impact when they played not in accordance with an interpretation thoughtout beforehand but when they surrendered to the sway of their imagination". That was the crucial quality of Ott's performance. How did she acquire such mastery in her twenty-three years? Her technique was never in question, it was perfect, and what is more, she made beautiful sonorities. Her technique was used as a springboard towards making significant music. And in the second half of her short programme she transported us to a higher plane.
During my long life I have heard Gieseking, Cortot, Lipatti, Horowitz, Richter, Michelangeli, Schnabel, Brendel, Lupu, Perahia and many other great pianists – added to them now is Alice Sara Ott, no doubt about that.
She is German-Japanese but the programme gave no details of her training. She played the Grieg Concerto at the Proms this year and she has been recorded and contracted by Deutsche Gramofon.
Mozart and Beethoven were both great pianists and played on the same kind of instrument (Beethoven, of course, bust strings right and left; Mozart didn't write down his earliest piano works but fortunately LvB did; no less than fourteen of his first twenty opuses are for the piano. Liszt, as we know, played Chopin's music although Chopin did not return the compliment. Isn't it curious that the majority of Chopin pianists do not play the music of Liszt, and vice versa? It seems that young Alice may be an exception to the rule.
Too often we hear Chopin's Waltzes orchestrated for the ballet but their subtleties are not suited for that medium. This rubato – what Fischer was writing about – was what brought life, colour and understanding to Ott's playing of opus 34 and 64. In Liszt she performed climaxes of passion and intensity.
As well as writing about her playing I must report on the enthusiasm in the audience by this handsome, slim girl in a simple white dress. We would willingly have stayed for more than the pair of encores she gave us; LvB's Für Elise and La Campanella, the former limpid and cantabile, the latter exciting to a degree.
All together this was an exceptional experience which quite broke through any critical reserve that I usually have. Alice Sara Ott is already the mistress of her art and if she continues to play like this she will give future audiences the greatest pleasure.
Edwin Fischer once wrote that performers "made their greatest impact when they played not in accordance with an interpretation thoughtout beforehand but when they surrendered to the sway of their imagination". That was the crucial quality of Ott's performance. How did she acquire such mastery in her twenty-three years? Her technique was never in question, it was perfect, and what is more, she made beautiful sonorities. Her technique was used as a springboard towards making significant music. And in the second half of her short programme she transported us to a higher plane.
During my long life I have heard Gieseking, Cortot, Lipatti, Horowitz, Richter, Michelangeli, Schnabel, Brendel, Lupu, Perahia and many other great pianists – added to them now is Alice Sara Ott, no doubt about that.
She is German-Japanese but the programme gave no details of her training. She played the Grieg Concerto at the Proms this year and she has been recorded and contracted by Deutsche Gramofon.
Mozart and Beethoven were both great pianists and played on the same kind of instrument (Beethoven, of course, bust strings right and left; Mozart didn't write down his earliest piano works but fortunately LvB did; no less than fourteen of his first twenty opuses are for the piano. Liszt, as we know, played Chopin's music although Chopin did not return the compliment. Isn't it curious that the majority of Chopin pianists do not play the music of Liszt, and vice versa? It seems that young Alice may be an exception to the rule.
Too often we hear Chopin's Waltzes orchestrated for the ballet but their subtleties are not suited for that medium. This rubato – what Fischer was writing about – was what brought life, colour and understanding to Ott's playing of opus 34 and 64. In Liszt she performed climaxes of passion and intensity.
As well as writing about her playing I must report on the enthusiasm in the audience by this handsome, slim girl in a simple white dress. We would willingly have stayed for more than the pair of encores she gave us; LvB's Für Elise and La Campanella, the former limpid and cantabile, the latter exciting to a degree.
All together this was an exceptional experience which quite broke through any critical reserve that I usually have. Alice Sara Ott is already the mistress of her art and if she continues to play like this she will give future audiences the greatest pleasure.
CRITICAL PASTMASTERS
Having been a music critic for more than sixty years perhaps it is time to spill a bean or two. My first bean is dated 1951 when I was not only London Music Critic of the Scotsman but also organiser secretary of the IMA, International Musicians , which had association premises including a restaurant, in South Audley Street. I organised a 85th birthday luncheon for Ernest Newman (S.Times, articles mostly about Wagner). Acceptances came rolling in, but many of them gave evidence of old emnities: "don't put me next to Eric Blom (Observer); don't put me next to Cardus (Guardian)." A good number turned up but not Richard Capell (Telegraph); he developed a sudden funeral on the day.
Back in the forties Frank Howes (Times) and Capell were like Canutes trying to stem the tide of modernism. Stravinsky and Bortok were anathema. But both papers occasionally accepted crits from temporary stringers, usually from events abroad. Walter Lagge wrote some pithy pieces for the Guardian, William Glock for the Telegraph including a review of the first European performance, in Berlin, of Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms in 1930. Glock sent a rave notice but Canute Capell inserted negatives in front of William's words of praise. Later William was an excellent Music Critic of the Observer. That was until his editor, Ivor Brown, warned him: one more article about Britten, Tippett, Bartok and co, and I'll fire you. Next Sunday another piece about Bartok appeared and William was sacked.
Capell (1885 – 1954) had been a WWI correspondent, in 1928 wrote a classic on Schubert's Songs. At some point he had a stroke so that his face was lop-sided (we called him 'mad Caesar') His reviews confirmed that he was sick of the nightly grind, he never stayed to the end, couldn't get back to the card-table in his club soon enough.
Frank Howes had spent thirty-five years on the Times and was showing signs of weariness, his articles conscientious but predictable. Worthy books about RVW and Walton, good committee man, quasi elder statesman, wore sandals, chairman of the English Folk Dance & Song Society. After the Albert Hall UK premiere of Britten's entertaining Scottish Ballad I found myself walking across the park with Frank. He was angry. After ten minutes: "Just tell me, Amis, can this fellow Britten be serious?". Generation gap?
A couple of years after he had retired I met Frank one evening at Covent Garden: "Hello, Frank, nice to see you. We miss you, you know. "Yes, but I'll bet you don't miss my opinions." His successor on the Old Thunderer was William Mann who like many of younger generation of critics, went the other way, hooraying every novelty, regardless of quality. Bill's most quoted dictum was that the Beatles' songs were the best since Schubert.
Scott Goddard (News Chronicle) was sympathetic to the younger composers, and political events like the Aldermaston March. His paper gave him scant space so that he could only report, not comment. His copy was difficult to parse. He was not easy to befriend, not happy with his homosexuality, twitchy and, as was said of Mozart, "as touchy as gunpowder".
The American Cecil ( to be pronounced Ceecil) Smith and his successor Noël Goodwin were likewise kept short of space by the Express although that often seemed ok in Noël 's case. I remember one time during a Cheltenham Festival some of us lads went on a hike, ending up in a pub where Bill Mann sat down at an upright and quizzed us. It was embarrassing that Noël couldn't answer a single question. Enter the landlord with a tray of glasses, starting to quiz us about wine. We were all hopeless, couldn't tell claret from burgundy. All of us except Noël who guessed correctly every time, even one or two vintages. Was he in the wrong job, we wondered?
Noël was also successful with the opposite sex; married to a Bluebell dancer but at every concert or opera he had a fresh snazzy popsy in tow.
Martin Cooper (Telegraph) looked like a retired military man, moustache, bow tie, dogtooth tweed, catholic, dapper, French music a speciality, would never meet performers which I thought a mistake as he was therefore out of touch with the problems entailed in being an artist. It seemed like a divine retribution that his daughter Imogen became a professional, superb pianist, as we know.
Neville Cardus (1885 – 1975), many years on the (Manchester) Guardian, liked you to know that he was also something of an intellectual, larding his copy with quotes from Montaigne or de Quincy, sometimes poncey, one of his books begining "There was a sequestered purlieu…" when he could have just written "There was a park…" But Cardus also had great qualities. Uniquely, he gave you an impression of what it was like to be at the event he is writting about. I found his books move valuable that his reviews (of both music and cricket). My present day colleagues would do well to read in Conservations with Cardus what he says about writing criticism, that reviews should aspire to match the style and quality of the work of art under review.
Sometimes I used to sit with him at Lords in a little triangle of turf (a purlieu?) near the Tavern. While the spinners were on, we chatted. When the fast merchants were bowling we wrote. He was a better talker than listener. One time he was saying "Der Rosen…." when I managed to get a word in edgeways. When I had said my piece he continued "kavalier".
I found his views on life, music, even religion very sympathetic (which means I agreed with him). But he expressed them better than I ever could. Atheists both, we agreed that when we heard great music, we could believe in the Divine.
Back in the forties Frank Howes (Times) and Capell were like Canutes trying to stem the tide of modernism. Stravinsky and Bortok were anathema. But both papers occasionally accepted crits from temporary stringers, usually from events abroad. Walter Lagge wrote some pithy pieces for the Guardian, William Glock for the Telegraph including a review of the first European performance, in Berlin, of Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms in 1930. Glock sent a rave notice but Canute Capell inserted negatives in front of William's words of praise. Later William was an excellent Music Critic of the Observer. That was until his editor, Ivor Brown, warned him: one more article about Britten, Tippett, Bartok and co, and I'll fire you. Next Sunday another piece about Bartok appeared and William was sacked.
Capell (1885 – 1954) had been a WWI correspondent, in 1928 wrote a classic on Schubert's Songs. At some point he had a stroke so that his face was lop-sided (we called him 'mad Caesar') His reviews confirmed that he was sick of the nightly grind, he never stayed to the end, couldn't get back to the card-table in his club soon enough.
Frank Howes had spent thirty-five years on the Times and was showing signs of weariness, his articles conscientious but predictable. Worthy books about RVW and Walton, good committee man, quasi elder statesman, wore sandals, chairman of the English Folk Dance & Song Society. After the Albert Hall UK premiere of Britten's entertaining Scottish Ballad I found myself walking across the park with Frank. He was angry. After ten minutes: "Just tell me, Amis, can this fellow Britten be serious?". Generation gap?
A couple of years after he had retired I met Frank one evening at Covent Garden: "Hello, Frank, nice to see you. We miss you, you know. "Yes, but I'll bet you don't miss my opinions." His successor on the Old Thunderer was William Mann who like many of younger generation of critics, went the other way, hooraying every novelty, regardless of quality. Bill's most quoted dictum was that the Beatles' songs were the best since Schubert.
Scott Goddard (News Chronicle) was sympathetic to the younger composers, and political events like the Aldermaston March. His paper gave him scant space so that he could only report, not comment. His copy was difficult to parse. He was not easy to befriend, not happy with his homosexuality, twitchy and, as was said of Mozart, "as touchy as gunpowder".
The American Cecil ( to be pronounced Ceecil) Smith and his successor Noël Goodwin were likewise kept short of space by the Express although that often seemed ok in Noël 's case. I remember one time during a Cheltenham Festival some of us lads went on a hike, ending up in a pub where Bill Mann sat down at an upright and quizzed us. It was embarrassing that Noël couldn't answer a single question. Enter the landlord with a tray of glasses, starting to quiz us about wine. We were all hopeless, couldn't tell claret from burgundy. All of us except Noël who guessed correctly every time, even one or two vintages. Was he in the wrong job, we wondered?
Noël was also successful with the opposite sex; married to a Bluebell dancer but at every concert or opera he had a fresh snazzy popsy in tow.
Martin Cooper (Telegraph) looked like a retired military man, moustache, bow tie, dogtooth tweed, catholic, dapper, French music a speciality, would never meet performers which I thought a mistake as he was therefore out of touch with the problems entailed in being an artist. It seemed like a divine retribution that his daughter Imogen became a professional, superb pianist, as we know.
Neville Cardus (1885 – 1975), many years on the (Manchester) Guardian, liked you to know that he was also something of an intellectual, larding his copy with quotes from Montaigne or de Quincy, sometimes poncey, one of his books begining "There was a sequestered purlieu…" when he could have just written "There was a park…" But Cardus also had great qualities. Uniquely, he gave you an impression of what it was like to be at the event he is writting about. I found his books move valuable that his reviews (of both music and cricket). My present day colleagues would do well to read in Conservations with Cardus what he says about writing criticism, that reviews should aspire to match the style and quality of the work of art under review.
Sometimes I used to sit with him at Lords in a little triangle of turf (a purlieu?) near the Tavern. While the spinners were on, we chatted. When the fast merchants were bowling we wrote. He was a better talker than listener. One time he was saying "Der Rosen…." when I managed to get a word in edgeways. When I had said my piece he continued "kavalier".
I found his views on life, music, even religion very sympathetic (which means I agreed with him). But he expressed them better than I ever could. Atheists both, we agreed that when we heard great music, we could believe in the Divine.
CHERISHABLE SINGER
To Parson's Green, SW6, to talk to my favourite baritone, not only mine but everybody's who has had the luck to hear him. His is not the Hans Sachs variety of deeper baritone but the higher one, the type that sings Figaro (Rossini and Mozart), Beckmesser, Eugène Onegin, Pelléas, Papageno, Billy Budd and other roles. The wonderful thing about Sir Thomas Allen is that he made all these roles his own, for his forte is to probe deeply into the characters of these roles, he utterly convinces you that he IS Don Giovanni or whoever he has sung during his long career. His voice is still in good nick but at sixty-seven he has moved on to slightly less taxing roles, moreover he now produces as well as sings character parts (Don Pasquale soon in Chicago). He has the stagecraft and personality so that he can stand still, make no gestures and yet you cannot take your eyes off him. This was a gift he employed in that crucial but difficult role of Don Giovanni, who must be so charismatic that he has seduced hundreds of girls yet he is a murderer and a rogue. He played the role first at Glyndebourne and I was amazed to find that at later productions he did not add to his gestures and stage business but pared them down, subtracting, not adding. He is that sort of artist. He observes people wherever he goes in different countries.
Recently he played in Donizetti's Turco in Italia a character that seemed more Eyetye than any Italian you'd ever seen, follow by playing in the same composer's La Fille du régiment a Frenchman more Frog than any Gaul ever encountered. Mind you, no jambon, no prosciutto.
His voice can be noble, honeyed and everything in between, his musicianship impeccable. Tom is quite tall, imposing with the big features necessary to an actor or singer, both of which he so notably is. He did a stint in the chorus at Glyndebourne and made his debut with Welsh National as Rossini's Figaro. Soon he graduated to the Royal Opera House; at Covent Garden he has sung fifty roles in thirty-five years. He is at home there but he has made lengthy associations elsewhere, twenty-five years at the Met and likewise with Munich Opera where he was recently singing what he reckoned must be close to his 300th Don Alfonso in Cosi fan tutte.
Stagework is only the three-quarters of it; he sings concerts with orchestras and is a consummate recitalist, singing in French (a connoisseurs delight), German, Italian, Czech and Russian. He also sings ballads and the like; his CD he calls Songs my Father Taught me, with titles like Until and Because – Auch kleine dinge! Soon he will be off to Moscow to sing Oktavian's father, Faninal, in Strauss' Der Rosenkavalier, a fussy little nouveau riche.
Thomas Allen was born in NE England and he has said: "the very fact that I came from Durham, the coal dust or something, is very much ingrained in me. I don't think I'll ever shake it off, nor do I want to. Its part and parcel of the way I can make my work valid." So he was vastly chuffed to be asked to be Chancellor of Durham University, an appointment he takes up (took up?) in January 2012. He is good company, friendly, no side, funny, voluble, loves boats, machinery, biographies and gardening. He has children, is happily married to beautiful South African Jeanie and they travel together most of the year to wherever Tom is singing, producing or, now, Chancelloring.
He graduated from master-classes to producing. He likes working with young people, passing on wisdom from his long experience. He doesn't like the tendency of present day producers for updates and 'concepts' where what librettists and composers have laid down is ignored.
Recently he played in Donizetti's Turco in Italia a character that seemed more Eyetye than any Italian you'd ever seen, follow by playing in the same composer's La Fille du régiment a Frenchman more Frog than any Gaul ever encountered. Mind you, no jambon, no prosciutto.
His voice can be noble, honeyed and everything in between, his musicianship impeccable. Tom is quite tall, imposing with the big features necessary to an actor or singer, both of which he so notably is. He did a stint in the chorus at Glyndebourne and made his debut with Welsh National as Rossini's Figaro. Soon he graduated to the Royal Opera House; at Covent Garden he has sung fifty roles in thirty-five years. He is at home there but he has made lengthy associations elsewhere, twenty-five years at the Met and likewise with Munich Opera where he was recently singing what he reckoned must be close to his 300th Don Alfonso in Cosi fan tutte.
Stagework is only the three-quarters of it; he sings concerts with orchestras and is a consummate recitalist, singing in French (a connoisseurs delight), German, Italian, Czech and Russian. He also sings ballads and the like; his CD he calls Songs my Father Taught me, with titles like Until and Because – Auch kleine dinge! Soon he will be off to Moscow to sing Oktavian's father, Faninal, in Strauss' Der Rosenkavalier, a fussy little nouveau riche.
Thomas Allen was born in NE England and he has said: "the very fact that I came from Durham, the coal dust or something, is very much ingrained in me. I don't think I'll ever shake it off, nor do I want to. Its part and parcel of the way I can make my work valid." So he was vastly chuffed to be asked to be Chancellor of Durham University, an appointment he takes up (took up?) in January 2012. He is good company, friendly, no side, funny, voluble, loves boats, machinery, biographies and gardening. He has children, is happily married to beautiful South African Jeanie and they travel together most of the year to wherever Tom is singing, producing or, now, Chancelloring.
He graduated from master-classes to producing. He likes working with young people, passing on wisdom from his long experience. He doesn't like the tendency of present day producers for updates and 'concepts' where what librettists and composers have laid down is ignored.
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
NOT FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
Onegin at the Coliseum
Eugeny/Eugene Onègin stands out amongst the operas of Tchaikovsky; none of the others have so securely captured the hearts and minds of audiences. Surely Fate drew him to Pushkin's verse-novel because of the parallel between its story and an event in the composer's own life: a letter declaring love from a young woman. In the opera the recipient rejects her; in life the composer, homosexual though he was, married her. With disastrous result in real life, and a near one in the opera.
Deborah Warner is the director of the new production of the work given for the first time by ENO in the Coliseum on November 12. Onegin is, in any ways, an intimate piece but Warner obviously likes plenty of people onstage; so there were hordes at every opportunity, sometimes to the point of distraction. Tom Pye's handsome set for scene one has in the background of the home of Madame Larins and her daughters Olga and Tatyana a barn with a vast wooden door leading to a foreground big space, not exactly a room but an area that houses farm implements – Tatyana sleeps here, apparently denied a bedroom. workers mill round ceaselessly, making it difficult to focus, for example, on Lensky's lovely song, sung eloquently by Toby Spence. There must have been close to a hundred in the two ballroom scenes, surely not necessary …and expensive.
In Castor and Pollux the previous evening in the same theatre we had three principals whose singing was exemplary: pure streams of tone, untainted by wobbles or inaccurate pitch. But the South African soprano Amanda Echalaz seemed to possess none of these should be requisites of a singer. Her Tatyana looked good and acted well, particularly in the heart-breaking final scene when she affirms that she still loves Onegin, but nevertheless, rejects him. Onegin himself was sung by the Norwegian baritone, Audun Iversen, short on stage presence, long in singing. The minor characters all performed well, suitably directed by Deborah Warner. Chorus and orchestra were tiptop under Edward Gardner so that, with impressive sets and, above all, the masterpiece that is Tchaikovsky's, a (fairly) good evening was had by all.
Tchaikovsky wrote: when I am composing an opera, it means (1) I must not see a soul during certain hours of the day and I must know that no one can see or hear me: I have a habit, when composing, of singing very loud and the thought that someone could hear me disturbs me very much. (2) A grand piano is at my disposal near me, i.e. in my bedroom – without which I cannot write, at least not easily and peacefully.
But to a lady who enquired how Tchaikovsky composed he answered: "Sitting down."
Eugeny/Eugene Onègin stands out amongst the operas of Tchaikovsky; none of the others have so securely captured the hearts and minds of audiences. Surely Fate drew him to Pushkin's verse-novel because of the parallel between its story and an event in the composer's own life: a letter declaring love from a young woman. In the opera the recipient rejects her; in life the composer, homosexual though he was, married her. With disastrous result in real life, and a near one in the opera.
Deborah Warner is the director of the new production of the work given for the first time by ENO in the Coliseum on November 12. Onegin is, in any ways, an intimate piece but Warner obviously likes plenty of people onstage; so there were hordes at every opportunity, sometimes to the point of distraction. Tom Pye's handsome set for scene one has in the background of the home of Madame Larins and her daughters Olga and Tatyana a barn with a vast wooden door leading to a foreground big space, not exactly a room but an area that houses farm implements – Tatyana sleeps here, apparently denied a bedroom. workers mill round ceaselessly, making it difficult to focus, for example, on Lensky's lovely song, sung eloquently by Toby Spence. There must have been close to a hundred in the two ballroom scenes, surely not necessary …and expensive.
In Castor and Pollux the previous evening in the same theatre we had three principals whose singing was exemplary: pure streams of tone, untainted by wobbles or inaccurate pitch. But the South African soprano Amanda Echalaz seemed to possess none of these should be requisites of a singer. Her Tatyana looked good and acted well, particularly in the heart-breaking final scene when she affirms that she still loves Onegin, but nevertheless, rejects him. Onegin himself was sung by the Norwegian baritone, Audun Iversen, short on stage presence, long in singing. The minor characters all performed well, suitably directed by Deborah Warner. Chorus and orchestra were tiptop under Edward Gardner so that, with impressive sets and, above all, the masterpiece that is Tchaikovsky's, a (fairly) good evening was had by all.
Tchaikovsky wrote: when I am composing an opera, it means (1) I must not see a soul during certain hours of the day and I must know that no one can see or hear me: I have a habit, when composing, of singing very loud and the thought that someone could hear me disturbs me very much. (2) A grand piano is at my disposal near me, i.e. in my bedroom – without which I cannot write, at least not easily and peacefully.
But to a lady who enquired how Tchaikovsky composed he answered: "Sitting down."
RAMEAU ON THE TROT
On October 24 the English Opera Company at the Coliseum ventured for the first time into the world of French baroque opera with a run of Rameau's 'tragédie lyrique en musique' – the performance under review was on November 11.
Rameau was born in 1683 and was thus a contemporary of Bach, Handel and Scarlatti; his career was unusual in that for the first half-century of it he composed harpsichord music but was also known throughout Europe as a theorist; but then until he died in 1784 he composed operas, a couple of dozen. Castor and Pollux are brothers, the first a mortal, the other a god and this is a story of sacrifices entailing death, a visit to the underworld, two loved ones and desolation for the woman that love the brothers. At the time of the premiere in Paris in 1737 works like this included dancing; this aspect of the work is included in the music but although the chorus move around there is no actual ballet.
Vocally and musically this performance is outstanding with three magnificent singers, Castor – tenor Allan Clayton, Pollux the god, Roderick Williams, baritone, and Télaire who loves Castor but is betrothed to Pollux – the soprano Sophie Beavan. All three sing and act marvellously and their performance includes vigorous action, fighting and running round the stage, also covering themselves with earth to symbolize visiting the underworld.
The set is like a wooden box, seemingly plywood, with extra partition walls that reveal and conceal.
The music is full of boundless vitality, ingenuity, enchanting orchestration, quirky to a degree, ingenious, passionate and unpredictable; Rameau is part of the line of French eccentrics such as Berlioz, Roussel and Satie. Christopher Curmyn deserves the highest praise for his direction and command of the orchestra which copes with the elaborate decorations in the music. The band, by the way, is raised from the pit so that it is visible – and more audible than usual.
The production is by Barrie Kosky, an Australian who now lives in Berlin and is about to direct that capital's Comische Opera (co-producer of this opera). My colleague in The Spectator advised his readers to shut its eyes to this show, only listen. But I found that the drama is well projected despite all the running about and several scenes that merit an X certificate. Kosky seems to have a thing about underwear: how many pairs of panties did Télaire peel off? We wondered if the production had moved to Knickeragua, were the cast going to sing pubic airs? And did the chorus receive a bonus for revealing its all?
However, nobody seemed to object aloud and the audience seemed delighted with Rameau's endless stream of melody, expressed in marvellous vocal and orchestral sounds.
Rameau was born in 1683 and was thus a contemporary of Bach, Handel and Scarlatti; his career was unusual in that for the first half-century of it he composed harpsichord music but was also known throughout Europe as a theorist; but then until he died in 1784 he composed operas, a couple of dozen. Castor and Pollux are brothers, the first a mortal, the other a god and this is a story of sacrifices entailing death, a visit to the underworld, two loved ones and desolation for the woman that love the brothers. At the time of the premiere in Paris in 1737 works like this included dancing; this aspect of the work is included in the music but although the chorus move around there is no actual ballet.
Vocally and musically this performance is outstanding with three magnificent singers, Castor – tenor Allan Clayton, Pollux the god, Roderick Williams, baritone, and Télaire who loves Castor but is betrothed to Pollux – the soprano Sophie Beavan. All three sing and act marvellously and their performance includes vigorous action, fighting and running round the stage, also covering themselves with earth to symbolize visiting the underworld.
The set is like a wooden box, seemingly plywood, with extra partition walls that reveal and conceal.
The music is full of boundless vitality, ingenuity, enchanting orchestration, quirky to a degree, ingenious, passionate and unpredictable; Rameau is part of the line of French eccentrics such as Berlioz, Roussel and Satie. Christopher Curmyn deserves the highest praise for his direction and command of the orchestra which copes with the elaborate decorations in the music. The band, by the way, is raised from the pit so that it is visible – and more audible than usual.
The production is by Barrie Kosky, an Australian who now lives in Berlin and is about to direct that capital's Comische Opera (co-producer of this opera). My colleague in The Spectator advised his readers to shut its eyes to this show, only listen. But I found that the drama is well projected despite all the running about and several scenes that merit an X certificate. Kosky seems to have a thing about underwear: how many pairs of panties did Télaire peel off? We wondered if the production had moved to Knickeragua, were the cast going to sing pubic airs? And did the chorus receive a bonus for revealing its all?
However, nobody seemed to object aloud and the audience seemed delighted with Rameau's endless stream of melody, expressed in marvellous vocal and orchestral sounds.
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