Berberis' World

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.”

Gavin Dixon, musicweb.

“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.”

David Nice, The Arts Desk.

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.

Sunday, 22nd November 2009, Royal Albert Hall.

Strauss – Also Sprach Zarathustra; Wagner – Ride of the Valkyries; Sousa – Liberty Bell; Handel – Zadok the Priest; Brahms – Hungarian Dance No. 5; Offenbach – Barcarolle; Mussorgsky – Great Gate of Kiev; Bizet – Pearl Fishers Duet; Gershwin – Rhapsody in Blue; Elgar – Pomp and Circumstances March No. 1; Orff – O Fortuna; Bizet –Toreador’s Song; Verdi – Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves; Verdi – La donna e mobile; Rossini – Galop from William Tell Overture; Strauss – Blue Danube Waltz; Parry – Jerusalem; Arne – Rule Britannia; Puccini – Nessun Dorma; Tchaikovsky – 1812 Overture; Offenbach – Can Can; Elgar – Land of Hope and Glory.

Roll up! Roll up! Hear the themes from Monty Python and the Lone Ranger! Drool over the shiny horns of the gorgeous Welsh Guards! Be dazzled and/or blinded by the amazing laser light show! Sing along with all the stuff you’ve heard at the party conferences whilst waving a flimsy paper flag! Choke on the endless clouds of dry ice! Try to spot the choir play ‘Pass the Pastilles’ under cover of darkness! Marvel at the skill of the 12 year old pianist whilst wondering just how much bloody longer Rhapsody in Blue can continue! Flinch at the sound of cannons at the end of the 1812, even though you know it’s coming!

A Raymond Gubbay ‘Classical Spectacular’ is Last Night of the Proms for those who cannot possibly stand up for that long. And this, before anyone takes offence, includes myself. (Since joining the LPC, I’ve already missed out on 2 Proms concerts – Dr Who and Evolution! – but there’s a pretty good chance that we’ll be invited to do more, but ClassSpec is the closest I’ve come thus far.) I’d estimate the average age of the audience at between 55 and 70 (as evinced by the preponderance of grey- and white-haired individuals) and there are always special mentions for those celebrating a significant birthday (nonogenarians are not uncommon) or anniversary, as well as anyone reckless enough to propose in public. How can you say no in front of five and a half thousand people?

The usual stuff was on offer – which goes some way to explaining the brevity of the only rehearsal – except for Barcarolle by Offenbach (twee in extremis) and Toreador’s Song (I must find a translation of this, as we were repeatedly scowled at by the soloist for reasons that were unclear). Belting out Land of Hope and Glory several times is always fun, as is being able to sing loud enough to hit the high notes at the end of Rule Britannia.

Classical Spectaculars make money for the LPC, in the same way that Michael Caine makes films like ‘Muppet Christmas Carol’. They come around twice a year (March and November) and there are 3 concerts each time (Friday evening and Sunday afternoon and evening) and we are all expected to do one or more of them. I did all 3 the first time round, before realising why most people only do 2. The dry ice may ruin your voice, but not before the repetition drives you insane.

Saturday, 17 October 2009, Royal Festival Hall.

“This wonderful performance of Mendelssohn’s ‘Elijah’ marked the 20th-anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, in which Kurt Masur… played a crucial role […] Masur, looking rather like an Old Testament prophet himself, didn’t so much conduct the work as deliver it. His tempos had a momentum that especially suited the chorus… and allowed the choral singing the sort of unforced naturalness that distinguishes the best performances of the great German passions […] the fugues didn’t drown you in a flood of self-conscious counterpoint, and the chorus’s urgent projection gave the awe-inspiring romance of moments such as the storm and the prophet’s ascension to heaven a grandeur far removed from post-Victorian piety.”

Peter Reed, The Classical Source.

“The London Philharmonic Choir was outstanding: full of tone and equally incisive of attack. Large forces are called for here and the thrill of large forces we received.”

Mark Berry, MusicWeb.

The legend that is Kurt Masur announced his arrival at the Bishopsgate Institute by being late and then stripping to the waist. That said, at 82, Maestro Masur is entitled to keep his own time and, given his subsequent 3 hour workout, he’s allowed a change of kit. And it was from the waist up.

We’d been warned that he was a hard taskmaster, and would single out individuals whom he considered not up to that task. For those of us who’d not had the pleasure of working with him before this proved far less daunting than trying to interpret his instructions, both verbal and non-verbal. Sometimes he was crystal-clear, as when he told the tenors “You sing like women!”. Other times, his arms dropped to his sides and he would shake his head, chuntering away to himself for a while before telling us a story, the meaning of which we were seemingly not only supposed to divine but incorporate into our interpretation of the text. On more than one occasion it seemed to more than just myself that the version which finally satisfied Maestro Masur (after maybe 6 or 7 attempts to put his wishes into music) was exactly the same as the first one. However, whilst you are sighing and fidgeting and complaining as the same phrase is repeated ad nauseam, you have to remind yourself that we are not hearing what he is hearing. Also, what he wants to hear is a step on from that. Oh, and he is Kurt Masur.

So, Elijah. To be honest, I’d never heard of it until now. It wasn’t until I read the concert programme that I fully understood what it was all about. This is the ‘Speedread’ version. Elijah for Dummies, if you will…

‘Elijah prophesies years of drought for the people of Israel, punishment for their worship of a false god, Baal. After raising a widow’s son from the dead, he challenges the priests of Baal to slay a bullock and call upon their god to light the sacrificial fire under it. Their prayers go unanswered, but Elijah’s prayer to the Lord God of Abraham is spectacularly successful. The priests of Baal are slain and Elijah’s prayers bring the penitent Israelites abundant rain.’

And that’s only Part 1. In Part 2 ‘Elijah rebukes King Ahab, and Queen Jezebel rouses the people against the prophet. He flees to the wilderness, and laments in a poignant aria Es ist genug (It is enough). Angelic visitations restore his spirits, and he returns to the people, overthrowing kings and finally ascending to Heaven in a chariot of fire. The last section foretells the coming of Christ.’

As an all-but-card-carrying atheist, this is no more than a fairy story to me. The son wasn’t actually dead, just not very well; the only way to start a fire without human interference is by a bolt of lightning; weather systems, not prayers, bring rain; angels only exist in people’s minds, and don’t get me started on fiery chariots or Jesus.

Two of the billed soloists were replaced: John Relyea, who was to have sung Elijah, was suffering from a throat and sinus infection and was replaced by the wonderful Alastair Miles. Rosie Aldridge, who was to have been Queen Jezebel, was replaced by Sarah Castle. Such was the last-minute nature of these substitutions that Elijah had only 2 rehearsals with us, and Jezebel (accompanied by her 8 week old son) had to borrow a dress from one of the chorus. Alastair Miles was clearly a popular sub, although he cut an odd figure in his first rehearsal – tall, balding, and dressed like a farm-hand. However, he opened his mouth and this amazing sound emerged; we were so impressed with one of his arias that we broke into spontaneous applause.

The impending deluge in Part 1 is heralded by the sighting of a cloud in the shape of a hand, spotted from a high vantage point by a youth. Said youth doesn’t have much to do, and the part was to have been sung by a chorus soprano. However, on hearing her Masur asked for ‘him’ to indicate where ‘he’ was. Having been expecting a boy, the Maestro’s disappointment was evident. A boy treble was hurriedly found in time for the final tutti and subsequent performance, and all was well.

I wasn’t aware of this 3rd substitution until after the performance, however, as I arrived late for the Saturday tutti and, as under NO circumstances do you take your place if a rehearsal has begun, I had to sneak in and stand in the corner behind the door in order to hear the last-minute instructions. It was a blessing in disguise, as in the 24 hours between the Friday tutti and the performance I developed a sore throat* that would have been made much worse by an hour’s extra singing. As it was, I spent much of the time in the second half expecting to start coughing uncontrollably. Thankfully this didn’t happen, but the voice was not 100% – there were one or two moments when I had to mime as I didn’t trust myself to produce the right note.  And the only phrase that Neville said he’d be listening out for I still managed to get wrong. Ah well, onwards and upwards, to quote the man himself.

*This morphed into a full-blown and hideous head cold/cough, which I still have as I type.

Text aside, I enjoyed singing Elijah. I love the overture, even if 8 bars of it did become an earworm I couldn’t shift for days. (Neither, I might add, could I get over the fact that the opening bars were used by John Williams for the theme from ‘Jaws’.) I doodled a shark fin in the margin. The way it builds towards the opening ‘Hilf, Herr!’ is brilliant, wonderfully stirring stuff, as is the final chorus.

Masur was very keen to stress that our interpretation should be devoid of any sentiment, and much of his criticism of our performance in rehearsal was that we were being too sentimental. He would stand there, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes and plead with us to “stop singing so beautifully!” Confusingly, he also said that it was not, despite its content, a religious piece. Having never heard it performed, I only discovered after reading one particular review that it had been the Victorians who had imbued Elijah with the cloying sentimentality so beloved of that era, and so inappropriate in a piece which contains quite a bit of vengeance and smiting and destruction.

As of 25th October, I can only find 2 reviews of this concert online. I find this very odd, given Masur’s status and reputation. Also, I can’t find any decent recordings of any of the parts on YouTube. Either the sound quality is really poor or it’s in English or the singing is awful. And I mean awful. Nails-down-a-blackboard, cats-being-tortured, please-make-it-stop-my-ears-are-bleeding awful. Both of these situations can easily be remedied by going out and buying this CD. Or this one. Better still, buy both of them. I’m going to.

PS: Having given up on my totally inappropriately named Creative ‘Zen’ player (it did nothing to improve mine), I now have an iPod Touch. But no Mendelssohn. So I went looking for the 2 CDs that I recommend at the end of this blog entry… only to find that they’re the same. Many apologies to anyone who bought both on the strength of my review. Just me then…

PPS: If all else fails and you, like me, can’t seem to find a German version with A. Miles Esq, then try this one . I should get commission…

Saturday, 12 September 2009, Henry Wood Hall.

Spending 7 hours in an airless room singing with much repetition and hesitation (although not necessarily deviation) may not be everyone’s idea of a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon, but it was a chance to sing some nice cheesy tunes and I’m always up for that, circumstances permitting.

They did, so I arrived at HWH armed with a bag full of music, a frothyventimochafrappaccino and associated brain freeze. We dawdled into the hall just after 1pm and went through the first pieces we we’re there to record. Because that was the point of the day; to record some popular classical music for a CD. A CD rather than a DVD as we didn’t have to dress up. Neville nagged us, we made notes, sang the stuff through, sulked a bit at having to go over it again and again, made some more notes and waited for the conductor.

In the first half we sang O Fortuna, Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem, and two sections from the last movement of Beethoven’s 9th. I especially enjoyed the Beethoven – the last bit really does get the blood going.

After the LSC left, we stopped for lunch. I eschewed the on site refreshment (the basement eatery in HWH is nice but too dark) to patronise a local shop for local people, thus getting some sorely needed fresh air.

We regrouped to sing the Lacrymosa from Mozart’s Requiem, and the Hallelujah from Handel’s Messiah. The sops recorded Gunoud’s Ave Maria, but that was after the rest of the choir had been dismissed.

The endless repetition was frustrating but, to be honest, more frustrating was not being able to sing the rest of the music, especially the Mozart. I’ve only ever sung it twice, both times at the Royal Albert Hall as part of the ‘Scratch’ series of concerts, and it’s just wonderful. I sang Messiah in the same setting as well, but didn’t enjoy it quite as much. Nevertheless, the Hallelujah was nice and rousing, even if I started a bar before everyone else at one run-through. It would have been even more embarrassing had I come in forte, as indicated.

Pedant of the Week Award goes to the guys monitoring the recording. They had the orchestra play, over and over, the last bar of CotHS, which consists of one note. Still, when it’s only one note, you may as well make it a good one.

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.