You know when you’ve been Schnittked
by berberis on Nov.28, 2009, under Choir, Concerts, LPC, Rehearsals
Saturday, 28th November 2009, Royal Festival Hall.
“It was an impressive performance from orchestra, choir and soloists alike. Of the soloists, Christopher Maltman was the star, his baritone voice comfortably accommodating both his natural tessitura and the low bass registers occasionally required of him. The orchestra wasn’t quite up to the exceptional standards of the first half, and the ensemble of the string section occasionally compromised the textures. In fairness though, this piece is a tough call for the strings, given that the audience can’t help but unconsciously compare their playing with the memory of so the quartet version […] No such qualms about the choir though. Both the precision of their ensemble and the expressivity of their singing elevated the entire performance. The result achieved something all too rare in among Haydn performances, a perfect combination of fidelity to the score and immediacy of expression.”
“Haydn’s very different ‘Seven Last Words’ (given in its fullest version) proved equally compelling, the choir sharing the platform with the orchestra, the four soloists between the two, a performance of real integrity… aided by Jurowski’s excellent judgement and an outstanding response from all the performers.”
Colin Anderson, The Classical Source.
“Until recently, few conductors have investigated the austere beauties and sudden moments of disorienting anguish in the composer’s 1795 version [of Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross] for voices and orchestra. The unaccompanied choral announcements of the “words” according to the Gospels pierce the soul in their simplicity… Lisa Milne was the dedicated image of stoic grief; Ruxandra Donose and Andrew Kennedy had only to join the two natural horns to underline the word ‘Geist’ as Christ declares ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit” to make stones weep. We thought we had reached the perfect haven as baritone Christopher Maltman summoned up bass resonance to have the last word. But no: an earthquake rips it all apart. Jurowski suddenly let his inward and sensitively phrasing London Philharmonic Orchestra and Choir give focused vent… Many of us will still be talking about it in years to come.”
I usually forsake the pleasure of sitting in for the first half of a 2-parter and use the time for last-minute cramming. This time, however, I decided to attend the performance of Schnittke’s Cello Concerto No.2 (1990), because I was curious.
I shuffled on, together with those of a like mind (and there were many), we muttered until the lights went down, listened to the obligatory warning to switch off all mobile phones and watches with alarms (intoned by the disembodied voice of Sir Ian McKellan but, sadly, oft ignored, and especially important this evening as the performance was being recorded) and we all finally went quiet. The soloist strode on with his ‘cello and took his seat front and centre, followed by Maestro Jurowski, all in black (as were the rest of us).
It cannot be said that I’m not open to new ideas. It could, however, be said that my auditory pathways are perhaps not hard-wired to appreciate certain musical genres. In my opinion, what followed was 35 minutes of… well, noise. At one point towards the end of the performance, the man at the piano slammed his forearms down on as many keys as his forearms could hit. This summed up the piece for me. The only other thing I remember was that the ‘cellist’s bow was losing strings in the same way that our cat sheds fur. I cannot recall one note, and I’d have been much better off (following two 50+ hour weeks) having a 30 minute catnap given what was to happen after the interval.
After the interval, we had to congregate in the wings from where the orchestra/conductor/soloists emerge. We’d been there a while before I realised I didn’t have my reading glasses with me. Beginning to panic, I asked Angela if I had time to go back to the dressing room and get them. Yes, she said.
And she was right. Just as long as you don’t mind going on stage gasping for breath, your heart pounding, your blood pressure and pulse sky-high, and your throat painfully constricted. Having gotten lost both on my way to and from the dressing room, I had to mime for about 5 minutes when my voice went completely, and anything above a whisper risked bringing on a violent coughing fit. And, despite actually knowing the piece well enough not to have to stare at the score every 5 seconds, I was staring at the score every 5 seconds and seemed to have forgotten everything Vladimir had told us about phrasing, dynamics, tone, volume etc. etc.
Suddenly encountering Maestro Jurowski around a corner as we made our way towards the stage was somewhat disconcerting – I think I managed a smile – but it did serve as a reminder that even geniuses can behave as oddly as us mere mortals. And get things wrong; the professional orchestra had to stay behind to patch whilst we amateurs were allowed to go home. At least they didn’t have to patch the Schnittke. Mind you, who would notice a wrong note or two? Not me.
