Berberis' World

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.

Tuesday, 2nd December 2008, Bishopsgate Institute.

Trad. arr. Willcocks Once in Royal David’s City
Pearsall In Dulci Jubilo
J.S. Bach Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring
Trad. arr. Harvey Lord of the Dance
Percy Grainger The Sussex Mummers’ Christmas Carol;* Shepherd’s Hey*
Trad. arr. Vaughan Williams O Little Town of Bethlehem
Trad. arr. Harvey I Wonder as I Wander
Cornelius The Three Kings
Trad. arr. Cullen I Saw Three Ships
Parry I Was Glad
Britten A Hymn to the Virgin
Irving Berlin (arr. Farrington) White Christmas*
Jule Styne & Sammy Cahn (arr. Farrington) Let it Snow*
Rutter Shepherd’s Pipe Carol
Trad. arr. Rutter The Twelve Days of Christmas
Trad. arr. Willcocks O Come All Ye Faithful
Trad. arr. Warrell We Wish You a Merry Christmas

As a long-ago lapsed Christian, carols have no special significance for me. They’re nice to sing, in particular ‘The Three Kings’, ‘I Was Glad’, and ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, though for different reasons. If I’m feeling adventurous, I will often attempt the descant line in ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ and ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, but that usually requires some additional lubrication.

The highlight of this concert, however, was Iain Farrington’s brilliant piano playing. The man’s a genius.

Saturday, 18th October 2008, Royal Festival Hall.

“A great or even a very good performance of “Missa solemnis“, one of the great masterpieces of the 19th (or any other) century, is rare.

Christoph Eschenbach‘s interpretation was a case in point. The opening ‘Kyrie’ was promising enough, tender and concentrated with flowing tempos, the devotional feel beautifully captured by the London Philharmonic Choir.

The opening of the ‘Gloria’ was swift and bitingly intense with glowing work from the chorus, the sopranos rising magnificently to the formidable musical challenges.

The ‘Agnus Dei’ was suitably solemn, a prayer for forgiveness, yet the military drums and fanfares which punctuate the prayer have been a little bit more dramatic.

Of the soloists, Anne Schwanewilms was sweet and utterly secure in the upper registers, Nikolai Schukoff was full of fervour and made light of the considerable vocal demands.”

Exerpts from review by Andrew Maisel (www.classicalsource.com)

My only experience of Beethoven before this was the 9th. Beethoven ticks a lot of ‘firsts’ boxes for me; the first piece I performed in public; my first concert with my first proper choir (the Lewisham Choral Society); my first sight-reading challenge. Of all of these, it was the sight-reading that was the most difficult. There were times when I thought I’d never decipher the dots and lines and squiggles that covered the shiny new just-under-A4-size-pages of my precious score. However, I practiced my chords off and it all went splendidly. Even my husband — who absolutely hates singing — quite enjoyed it.

Apparently, Beethoven is (perhaps ‘will be’?) Spock’s favourite composer, because of the very mathematical nature of his composing. I don’t see or hear it myself, despite being quite good at maths.

I’ve only listened to ‘Missa Solemnis’ once since the performance — whilst clearing out the cellar, and only to rediscover what my favourite parts were — which gives some indication of how memorable it was. Or perhaps I just wasn’t giving it my full attention. Despite a few lovely phrases here and there, nothing really stands out. Not that it matters. What is more important is what ‘Missa Solemnis’ represents to me: a successful audition; my first performance with a new choir; first time singing at the RFH etc etc. And my very first blog entry.

Odd recollections:

• I was in the front row for the concert, as I had been for the 9th with LCS.
• The old adage “good rehearsal, bad performance” is true, in my experience. For me, the rehearsal went very well. In the performance, I missed cues and sang in the wrong place at least once.
• Patching. This was a new experience for me. Basically, what you hear on a CD are the best bits of the rehearsal, the performance, plus amendments. Someone shouted “Patch!” as we left the stage and, briefly, I wondered who’d lost their dog.
• It’s always a little bizarre seeing the orchestra and conductor in civvies. They look so ordinary. I doubt they have the same view of us.

Saturday, 5th July 2008, Blackheath Halls.

When I first got hold of the vocal score for David Fanshawe’s African Sanctus I was immediately drawn to the picture which graced the front cover. When I opened it, I could see that it was going to be a challenge to sing. The decision-making process which led to the choir singing this piece had been very democratic; choir members wrote on a very large sheet of paper what they would like to perform the next term. At the end of the evening, it seemed that African Sanctus was the popular choice.

As other people collected their copies, I skimmed through the pages of this large volume. All through the score was notation, hand-written by Fanshawe, details about the inspiration behind the music, and a little doodle which is his signature. I stopped at ‘The Lord’s Prayer’, prose I know by heart from endless repetition at church and school.

A confession. I can take an instant dislike to things; people, food, music, films, wallpaper… name a category, chances are I’ve taken an instant dislike to something included within it. I am not afraid to admit that my opinions have, occasionally, been found to have been too hastily formed and have needed to be changed somewhere down the line. The degree of embarrassment which accompanies this volte face varies depends firstly on the alacrity with which I formed said first impression and, secondly, the intensity of my initial dislike. First impressions aren’t always the most lasting.

Bearing that in mind, it would be fair to say that when we started to rehearse African Sanctus I didn’t like it. However, at the end of the performance on a sultry 5th July 2008, I liked it even less.

I’d listened to it on CD numerous times, as I do with every piece I’m going to sing, in an attempt to find the hook. Despite this, I found the whole thing tedious, even embarrassing. It might have been the overtly religious text, or the sometimes jarring blend of 60’s hippie-dom with world music, but there was little about it that I found either moving, exhilarating or fulfilling. Notably, The Lord’s Prayer, accompanied by guitar and drums was as mawkish and saccharine as Sir Cliff’s later Millennium Prayer.

To judge by the rave reviews I’ve read, my negative response seems uncommon. Even the presence of the composer himself at one rehearsal, as well as the performance, failed to spark in me the excitement apparently felt by many choir members. So it’s obviously not the piece, it’s me. I can live with that. No-one should ever feel obliged to like something – be it music, food, clothes, books, films, anything – simply because everyone else does.

I’d need to listen to African Sanctus again to remind myself which bits were the most pleasing, melodically but, to be honest, I’d rather not.