Berberis' World

Sunday, 30th August 2009.

We’ve been married for 23 years today. To celebrate, we went for dinner with our two children at a local restaurant.

Normally, when we eat out we don’t talk. As far as I’m concerned this is almost entirely due to the fact that when I was at primary school the headmaster, Mr Barry, forbade all talking during lunchtime. He would stand behind his desk surveying the children in his charge, making those who spoke stand facing the window at the front of the canteen and therefore unable to finish their meal. You ate in silence and, because you wanted to talk, you ate as quickly as possible so you could get out. Nowadays, kids can run around cafes and restaurants and cinemas and do what the fuck they like, even if it means pissing other people off, because to restrict them is to ‘infringe their human rights’. Bollocks. You want human rights violations? Go to the Imperial War Museum. See how children had their human rights infringed by being starved to death by people allowed to run riot in others’ countries. And then talk to me about kids being able to run riot in restaurants.

Make the little sods sit down and behave themselves. Make them aware of others feelings and opinions. Make them more considerate. Stop them being so fucking selfish and self obsessed. And, while you’re at it, stop indulging their every bloody whim, stop telling them that they’re ‘special’ when they clearly are just average and, for everyone’s sake, stop making them believe that they can be famous when they have no talent for anything except being bloody obnoxious.

We have two kids, both of whom are blessedly normal, i.e. neither of them have learning difficulties or physical or mental problems. For this I am very grateful, as I am well aware that there are children who have huge problems simply being alive. Both ours have been brought up to know right from wrong, to appreciate that other people matter, and to do whatever they do to the best of their ability. Neither have been ‘hot-housed’ or pushed to be more than they are, or berated when they have failed to attain unattainable standards. They are both well-balanced, considerate and happy, and I am thankful for this. I’m glad that neither of them passed a GCSE when they were 6, or got 14 A* GCSEs at their first attempt, because I don’t think I could live with myself for having produced such shallow, results-obsessed people.

I love both our kids unconditionally. I’d like our daughter to find herself a job where she is appreciated for her organisational abilities and people skills, I’d like our son to do well in his GCSEs, but not at the expense of their happiness. If, as they get older, they make mistakes, lose all their money and/or their enthusiasm, I’ll be there to counsel them/bail them out/cheer them up.

Right now, we’re all sitting in the front room, each with a laptop. Part of me thinks this is quite sad, but another part is content that we are, at least, in the same room talking to each other now and again. Which is more than a lot of people do, and certainly more than I and my parents used to do on a Sunday evening. Or any evening, come to that.

Saturday, 29th August 2009, Methodist Central Hall, Westminster.

In essence, Schoenberg’s Gurre-Lieder involved me sitting around whilst other people made a lot of noise. After a performance lasting just shy of three hours, I stood up and sang for approximately 4 minutes. It therefore seemed wrong, somehow, to be applauded for about twice that but, hey, you take it where you can get it.

On stage, and performing their young socks off, were the Hertfordshire County Youth Orchestra, under the baton of the clearly adored and adoring Peter Stark. Joining them on stage were Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts (Waldemar), Rita Cullis (Tove), and Jane Irwin (Waldtaube). After the interval they were joined by Robert Hayward (Bauer), Alan Oke (Klaus-Narr), Nigel Robson (Sprecher) and members of both the London Symphony Chorus and the LPC, half of whom had to rush on at the last minute due to lack of seating.

It was all quite strange. I’d planned to go into London on my own, get lost, feel lonely, drink too much coffee and get to the rehearsal late and overheated, having dressed inappropriately for the weather. After the rehearsal, I would then have drunk more coffee, and mooched around the streets, probably ending up in the National Gallery or somewhere else where admission is free, feeling at a complete loose end until the 7pm call time and more sitting around waiting for our 4 minutes of reflected glory.

What actually happened was that we caught a bus from the end of the road. At Peckham, having endured quite enough of the bus, we caught the train from Peckham Rye and went to Victoria. Here, we went to a pub and had lunch (solid and liquid) before strolling down to the Hall. The tutti, such as it was, was more a game of musical chairs, seeing how many of us sops and altos could remain seated so that getting those remaining onto the stage for those last few moments was not too undignified a scramble (not to mention a health and safety issue).

That having been achieved, we had 4 hours to waste. This we did quite nicely by visiting the Cabinet War Rooms and the Churchill Museum therein. I’d been to the CWR before – with the kids, before the CM was opened – but remembered little of the detail.

It’s scary and humbling and fascinating being down there, under all that concrete (the Slab, a 1-3 meter thick layer of concrete on metal running the entire length and width of the building, one fact I didn’t recall from the earlier visit) knowing that real people had lived and worked in conditions that would have Health and Safety Executives wringing their hi-vis jackets and throwing up their clipboards in horror. My erstwhile other half is very up on statistics – what engine went in each plane, who won which battle etc etc – but I was more interested in the psychosocial aspect. These people worked underground for anything between 10 and 16 hours a day, often sleeping in the same tiny office where they worked, living on the same meagre rations as those above ground. For six years.

The maps with countless tiny drawing pin holes showing every movement of every ship involved in the war; charts showing how many died during the doodlebug raids; telegrams from Churchill when he was suffering from severe pneumonia, the hand scribbled order at the bottom warning that on no account was this news to reach anyone but the King; a push-button operated coil with which those charged with charting and predicting the enemy’s moves could light their cigarettes. I guess if you thought you were going to die at any moment, then giving up smoking was not high on your list of priorities.

I’ve just finished reading ‘Early One Morning‘, a novel based on a true story about those involved in the French Resistance. Even if only half of it is a quarter true, I cannot even begin to imagine how people dealt with being under such pressure, all day every day, for so many years. Reportedly, when the war ended, the men in the map room at the CWR simply tidied their desks and left the office to go home. You are left thinking: how? How the hell do people living at such an intensity for such a long time just go home?

I was moved to tears at the Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum. The display case full of battered shoes and broken spectacle frames was appalling to behold. It is still utterly incomprehensible to me that there are people who claim that the Holocaust never happened when so much damning evidence exists. It cannot be simple ignorance – these deniers are not lacking in intelligence – so it must be denial. If they are denying it because their minds cannot cope with the magnitude of such atrocities, then that might be acceptable. But they deny it because they secretly agree with the belief that there are people in the world who are sub-human, and that these people should be eradicated.

On the train on the way home there were two men standing by the door. In the quieter moments of the journey, I could hear what one of them was saying, which was essentially that anyone who was not white and English should be made to leave the country. In light of where I’d been that afternoon, this open racism seemed both shocking and reckless. On leaving the train, he could quite clearly be heard to say that he was going to continue to think these thoughts, and no one was going to stop him expressing them. Best of luck to him.

And, for entirely different reasons, the best of luck to the Hertfordshire County Youth Orchestra. You were all splendid, and may you go on to bigger and better things.

There’s not much going on, singing-wise. I’ve been off for a week and haven’t been inclined to do any listening, practice, or even getting drunk and roaring along to Brahms Requiem, which is always a good standby activity. Instead, what I seem to have done most of is laundry, laundry and more laundry. At least the banana yogurt remnants are now gone from the sofa cushion cover.

I’ve also (almost) convinced our 15 year old son to spare whatever small part of his brain is unaffected by the endless and combined stimuli of video games and Red Dwarf re-runs for his GCSE set text, Silas Marner, as read by Andrew Sachs. You can lead a boy to books but, sadly, you cannot make him read.

Or is it Jonathan Sachs? If he ever decides to give up being Chief Rabbi, he should definitely go into audio books.

The most frustrating conversation I’ve had this week (apart from the constant one I have with myself) was with James at whatever call centre deals with our banking queries. Much of the 21 minutes that I was on the telephone was spent navigating their “press 1 for loans, press 2 for complaints, press 3 for limb amputation” system of call misdirecting screening. Once connected to the human being department, James twice tried to sell me insurance and a mortgage, told me that I should not be using my husband’s log-on details to access our joint account – the joint account we had spent all the previous day balancing (me trying to suppress my terror at our increasing overdraft) – and failed three times to answer my actual question. All this and they don’t pay interest on credit balances anymore! Basterds.

After all this I took the train to Charing X, got lost in Soho, had a meal in Eat Tokyo, a drink at The Market Porter (unbelievably busy outside, room to breathe inside) then came home, not really in a drinking mood.

Saturday, 4th April 2009, Royal Festival Hall.

“Brahms’s Ein Deutsches Requiem should be mandatory for anyone (and there are many) who has ever uttered a disparaging or ill-considered word against its composer. Under the conspicuously talented Yannick Nezet-Seguin, it shone, it thundered, it inspired all-enveloping awe and consolation. With sensitive, articulate singing from the London Philharmonic Choir, the fine balance between the work’s deep compassion and its death-defying exultation was memorably achieved.

Awe was duly forthcoming as the mighty cortege of “Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras” rolled out, low horns and pounding timpani accentuating its black splendour, and those fugal codas were properly rollocking, hopeful affairs – blasts from the past powering towards the future…”

Edward Seckerson The Independent

“… it was the London Philharmonic Choir that really took the honours, singing with incredible involvement, responsiveness and variety of tonal range, producing walls of pianissimos that almost dipped out of audibility, and closing with the most comforting ‘Blessed are the dead’ I have heard.”

Peter Reed www.classicalsource.com

“After the interval we were treated to the most moving, reverential, illuminating and ultimately uplifting performance of Brahms’ Ein Deutsches Requiem I’ve ever heard, either in the concert hall or on CD…

From the hushed introspection of the opening… it was evident that this was going to be a remarkable performance… confirmed when the LPO Choir entered singing ‘Selig sind, die da Lied tragen’… on barely a thread of tone. Throughout the evening they never put a foot wrong, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard such glorious choral singing, whether at full throttle in ‘Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras’… or in the quiet valedictory hymn ‘Selig sind die Toten’… which concludes the work. Quite astounding, and they and their superb director Neville Creed were rightly awarded a thunderous ovation at the end.

…The seemingly endless silence at the close, with no one daring to applaud, was indicative of the profound and stirring effect this performance had had on its listeners. All in all a performance that no one present will forget in a hurry and a reminder, if one needed reminding, that this is probably Brahms’ greatest achievement.”

Keith McDonnell  www.musicomh.com

“It’s fashionable to argue that… [Brahms’s German Requiem] works best done swiftly and on a small-scale. This, however, was big, slow and overwhelming. The choral singing was wonderfully intense, and soloists Elizabeth Watts and Stephane Degout were both outstanding. The long silence at its close, which no one dared fracture with applause, was testament to its impact.”

Tim Ashley The Guardian

“It’s an extraordinary interpretation: for one thing, at least in the first two movements, it must be the slowest account I’ve ever heard…Yet, to be fair, the effect is neither glacial nor too ponderous, but a passionate interpretation of burning sincerity, distinguished by superbly-sustained choral singing and orchestral playing.”

BBC Music Magazine, June 2010 ****

“I found so many things to enjoy about this recording…The live-ness, for one…the Royal Festival Hall has somewhat miraculously gained ambience, or at least atmosphere, probably thanks to the tension carefully sustained by the interpretation, and more particularly by the performers.”

Gramophone Magazine, August 2010

 

In 2007, having been with Lewisham Choral Society for three years, I was looking for more vocal challenges. Sue, a soprano I’d invited to join LCS, returned the favour and invited me along to a rehearsal with Eltham Choral Society, who were just about to begin preparing for a performance of Brahms’ Requiem. ECS was a smaller choir than LCS, but boasted at least one professional singer. However, pressures of work, as well as Real Life, intruded, and it soon became clear that I wasn’t going to be able to attend enough rehearsals to learn the piece to performance standard. So I had to abandon ECS, and Brahms, and my unmarked score gathered dust on the bookshelf.

But the seed had been planted and, over time, my desire to sing this piece grew seemingly out of all proportion to the two movements I’d sung with ECS. I wasn’t going to get the opportunity with LCS, so I resigned myself to listening to recordings. Finally, after more than a year, the chance finally came to see it performed by the Philharmonia Voices and Chorus at the Royal Festival Hall on June 28th last year.

By the end of the concert — to be honest, by the end of the 3rd movement — I had decided to grasp the nettle and audition for the London Philharmonic Choir. I’d prevaricated for long enough. I would be on that stage, singing that music. On 23^rd July, Matthew ‘Maestro’ Rowe decided (despite my rubbish sight singing) that I was good enough. If I’d had any voice left, I’d’ve squealed.

When rehearsals for Brahms started in March I was bewitched all over again. There are parts of this Requiem that make my heart pound, my soul soar and my blood sing: those unmoved by the third movement ‘Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand, und keine Qual rühret sie an‘ (‘The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God and no more pain touches them now’) can only themselves be bereft of feeling.

The penultimate movement includes the furiously defiant ‘Tod, wo ist dein Stachel? Holle, wo ist dein Sieg?‘ (‘Death, where is thy victory? Hell, where is thy sting?’) which is one of the most emotionally uplifting pieces I’ve ever sung. In comparison, the final movement’s ‘Selig sind die Toten… das sie ruhen von ihrer Arbeit; denn ihre Werke folgen ihnen nach‘ (‘Blessed are the dead… they may rest now from all their labours.. their works shall follow after them’) is a sigh of utter relief in response.

It’s entirely likely that this piece resonated far more with me this time round because of my mum. She’d been diagnosed with breast cancer in 1976 and had been determined that it wouldn’t win. After it was declared in remission – I don’t remember the year – she set herself a new challenge: she would live to be 80. Sadly, she didn’t. She died on June 6^th 2008, five months after being told she had terminal endometrial cancer.

One of the things I learned from her was that if you really want to do something, then do it. Ironically, one of her biggest regrets was that she had not. At the end of the performance, in that long silence, when we were all simply exhausted with the effort, I thought of mum. She had often said that she was not frightened of dying because she believed in a life after death, which would mean that she’d be reunited with her mother who’d died too young, her father, and her two sisters who’d both died as babies.

‘Der Gerechten Seelen sind in Gottes Hand, und keine Qual rühret sie an’ indeed. Clearly, George Bernard Shaw was at a different gig.

Saturday, 7th February 2009, Royal Festival Hall.

“… one of Neeme Järvi’s great strengths lies in allowing the excellent choir to sing with what sounds like an almost improvisatory fluency, though it is of course the product of a deep understanding and watchful control of Dvorak’s melodic lines. These can be unexpected; the music here sounds natural and always expressive. […] The heavy rhythms of the ‘Dies irae’ are far more telling than over-emphatic thumping; the touch of harshness at the opening of the ‘Tuba mirum’ exactly reflects the intention of the music; in the ‘Pie Jesu’ there is grace and gentleness that never lapses towards sentimentality.”

John Warrack, Gramophone.

For a long time, whenever I heard the name ‘Dvorak’ the only thing that came to mind was Sally Field in ‘Sybil’. Since that movie was made, I probably have – albeit unknowingly – heard music by Dvorak, but I’ve never sung any, and didn’t have a clue what to expect when I got hold of the score of his Requiem Mass.

It opens beautifully. Low and soft, with hairpins everywhere, until B when it’s suddenly fortissimo, phrasing away to piano, then again, before it’s fortissimo until the tenor entrance. I love the triplets here. The other 3 soloists join for 12 bars or so, before more hairpins (Dvorak seems inordinately fond of them) some pp interjections into G, when the last 6 bars crescendo to ff and the orchestra ties up the loose ends.

The next movement is mainly for the soprano soloist, with chorus sops and alts at A and B. The best bit, however, is at C. Here, the tenors and basses divide and murmur in glorious harmony for 10 bars.

Dies Irae is completely different. Fast and loud and angry with all voice parts getting their ten penn’orth in until we all run out of energy at bar 74. There’s a scribbled note in my copy which says “don’t turn the page until it’s loud enough”. The rustle of pages turned too loudly during a lull in a performance is not only extremely irritating but also very unprofessional, and should not be tolerated even in an amateur choir. You should always know where (and how!) to turn a page to cause the least possible noise – and it’s not always where you think.

We were warned that he would take the Quam olim Abrahae very quickly, and he did. Indeed, the warning had been so oft repeated that, if you listen carefully to the recording, you can hear that we took it slightly faster than the orchestra, albeit briefly.

There are some other splendid moments: the opening of the Confutatis, bars 79-89 and 137-139 of the Agnus Dei… and some really duff ones (bar 80-84 of the Lacrimosa and Fig. A to E of the Offertorium).

To close, and as I’m struggling to find much more to say about the rest of it, I would describe Dvorak’s Requiem as a grower. At approximately the speed of a Sitka spruce.