Berberis' World

Saturday, 30th October 2010, Royal Albert Hall.

Brace your lungs! Clear your throats! Lock your knees! Batten down your hatches! It’s Carmina Burana! BUT! Where are the Welsh Guards and their splendidly shiny horns? Where are the Fruit Pastilles? Why the hell am I sitting here?

In the midst of Westminster we are again in the Royal Albert Hall, with its crowded dressing rooms (‘Ladies of the LPC’ were in 9 instead of our usual 8: it’s the wrong way round, there’s no CCTV, the majority of the lockers don’t work, but they have more shower space) and its bizarrely hot basement corridors. Carl Orff’s musical weird-fest was (this time) performed by ‘400 voices in Monumental Harmony’ (in democratically alphabetical order) the English Concert Chorus, the London Philharmonic Choir, the Royal Choral Society, and the Southend Boys’ Choir.

I’ve sung this at least twice before (in November 2005 with Lewisham Choral Society and, in 2009, with the LPC) but it’s such an easy piece that I could almost sing it sans score, a là Beet9. My main problem? My eyes. I have reached that stage in life when my eyes no longer want to focus on anything either close to/somewhat removed/very far away from me. Contacts and reading glasses are no good, because the reading glasses are too narrow to allow me to look at both score and conductor simultaneously; I head-bob like a rabid pigeon. So I wear my normal specs and hope that repeated blinking doesn’t deposit too much mascara on the inside of the lens and render me blind.

(It’s 1.15am and, whilst I don’t have to be up especially early tomorrow, there are limits when you get to my age).

It took a dog’s age for everyone to line up in the right order. It’s not rocket science, chaps; you only have to remember who is sitting to one side of you. If we made everyone hold hands with the person on their right it would solve the problem instantly. Hmm. Somehow, I can’t see that happening…

My OU course started today. Having started (and abandoned, from lack of both time and money) a 10 point Arts course many years ago, I decided to have another go. I chose another 10 point course which is done almost entirely online, without the residential school requirement, called ‘Start listening to music’. Now, in common with arguably the entire world’s hearing population, I have been listening to music since I realised I could hear anything, so I had to admit that studying listening to music did seem fairly pointless. However, it has not escaped me – in writing this blog – that I occasionally have difficulty explaining why I like certain pieces of music and dislike others.

For instance, you may recall that I have – in earlier posts – expressed a dislike for Vivaldi’s Gloria and Cecilia McDowall’s Magnificat. Conversely, I love Bach’s B minor Mass and Eric Whitacre’s Lux Arumque. Presumably, this is because there is something in my brain which finds the former disagreeable to listen to but not the latter. If I had to explain it more thoroughly, I’d struggle. That much is abundantly clear.

And yes, there is a difference between listening and hearing. It sounds obvious when you say it like that, but it’s perhaps not so when you’re actually doing them. Hearing is what you do when the radio is on in the background at work, or in a shop, or driving a car. Listening is what you do when know you are not going to be interrupted, and you can turn the lights down low, relax in a comfy chair with maybe a glass of your favourite tipple.

I’ve also realised that listening to music is also going to require me to be more open-minded. I find it easy to dismiss, without much thought, not only just single bands (Kings of Leon, Florence and the Machine, Stereophonics) but also whole genres like jazz, rap and reggae. I could argue that I find the voices of the lead singers of the named bands particularly grating, and that the genres I’ve singled out produce nothing but the same tune (with or without words) time after time. This is patently untrue. You only have to go to Wikipedia to find that the entry for ‘Jazz’ includes Scott Joplin and Herbie Hancock, ‘Reggae’ names The Maytals (Toot-less and Toot-ed) and UB40, whilst that for ‘Rap’ is so peppered with names it’s impossible to single anyone out.

When (to be honest, it’s not a question of ‘if’) I’m accused of being narrow-minded, I counter with the argument that it’s not particular bands or genres that I like or dislike, it’s particular songs or melodies that move me. Perhaps it’s the ‘Desert Island Discs’ conundrum; in the unlikely event that I was asked to appear on that programme now, my 8 tracks would include ‘Hysteria’ by Muse, ‘Herr, lehre doch mich’ from Brahms’s Ein Deutsches Requiem, ‘It Is Well With My Soul’ by Four Voices (a stunningly good barbershop quartet I literally stumbled upon on the intertubes), ‘Champagne Supernova’ by Oasis (reminds me of moving to Newcastle), something by Sting (‘Dream of the Blue Turtles’, ‘Mercury Falling’, ‘The Soul Cages’ and ‘Summoner’s Tales’ being but four from which it would be very difficult to pick only one song) and Stevie Wonder (and where to start with this man?). The last two would be difficult. ‘She Makes My Day’ by Robert Palmer, ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ by Ella Fitzgerald, the 3^rd Movement of Rachmaninov’s 2^nd Piano Concerto… the list is very long and (I’d like to think) very diverse. Well, quite diverse. Still, as I’m not going to get Kirsty calling me up any time soon (any time at all, actually) I don’t have to worry about it.

Still, I am straying from the subject somewhat: yesterday’s Carmina Burana. Normally, I would take the bus (436, then the 9 or 10) but, as my other half decided (against type) to come and see the show, we drove into South Ken, finding a parking spot behind the RAH for £2.20 per hour. Sounds a lot, but… actually, it’s a lot. And they only took cards… Waylaid for only a moment by two cops on bikes, who reminded us of the dangers of leaving visible trinkets to tempt ne’er-do-wells we made our way to the not-so-round-as-you-might-think Albert Hall to enjoy Berlioz’s ‘Radetzky March’ and Saint-Saëns ‘Symphony No. 3 in C minor (Organ)’ before the epic Orff-ness in the 2^nd half.

And the wheel went round, and I felt that although we were louder than at the rehearsal, we traded something of the accuracy in places. The soprano was good, the baritone was very good, but tenor was superb, and played his part brilliantly, getting many laughs as he ended up prostrate in front of the organ seat until the end of the concert.

I hadn’t expected the Hall to be as full as it was – apparently, the concert was a sell-out – and the audience response was extremely enthusiastic. I felt quite emotional at the end, and (I’m told) that the biggest cheer of the night was for the combined adult choirs. I thought it was for the Southend Boys, but perhaps that’s just me.

I found out today (1^st November) that I should have done my re-audition at 12.20pm on Saturday. I have heard some nightmare stories about these – people I knew, and who I thought were good singers, have been rejected – and I’m not looking forward to having to go through the process at all. In the meanwhile, I have my copy of ‘Improve Your Sight Singing’  and I really should be reading that instead of writing this.

Saturday, 9th October 2010, Royal Festival Hall.

“Following their success last year with Dvorák’s ‘Requiem’… Neeme Järvi and the London Philharmonic presented two better-known choral works in this Royal Festival Hall concert. The moving ‘Stabat Mater’ and jubilant ‘Te Deum’… The London Philharmonic Chorus was on fine form, impressively unanimous in moments of both subtle intimacy and full-throated might… the magnificent a cappella passage at the end of the final chorus was spine-tingling.”

Graham Rogers, classicalsource.com

“…excellent, well-balanced choral work… a wonderful ‘Paradisi gloria’ and a miraculous unaccompanied choral moment near the end… The London Philharmonic Choir remains a superb group, working impressively as a single body at either end of the dynamic spectrum.”

Colin Clarke, musicweb-international.com

“Superbly drilled, the London Philharmonic Choir came into its own in the a cappella passages, but sang impressively throughout.”

Erica Jeal, guardian.co.uk

Better known, eh? Well, I’d not heard either of these pieces before, and it took a while for each of them to grow on me. In the end, I much preferred the Stabat Mater to the Te Deum, but my enjoyment (and the anticipation of savouring the wonderful lines of the opening movement) was somewhat spoiled by the fact that it was taken at what I considered to be an indecently fast tempo. Dvorak wrote the Stabat Mater during a relatively short period of time when three of his children died – one at only 2 days of age – and the opening movement should not (in my humble opinion) have been taken at a Usain Bolt-like breakneck speed.

Maestro Jarvi’s stated reason for proceeding with such alacrity was that the opening movement is ‘very long’ (between 17 and 20 minutes) and he didn’t want to “bore” the audience! The recording I’ve been listening to takes the opening at a slower – frankly, more respectful – tempo, which makes so much more sense against the background of Dvorak’s undoubted grief. For the sake of doing proper justice to some very moving music, I’d have risked one or two people possibly being bored. No, I’d have risked them all being bored in order that just one or two of them might hear the anguish, the aching poignancy contained in those bars.

But he is the Maestro, and he has the baton, and we follow it whether we like it or not. Anyway, after the sprint to Movement 2, things were allowed to calm down a bit. I particularly enjoyed both the ‘Eia, Mater’ and the ‘Virgo, Virginum’, although (once again) I was unlucky enough to catch something virulent in the run-up to the concert, which meant that I had a much better final rehearsal than performance. Just as well they recorded both.

The final movement is written to be played at the same tempo as the first. Thankfully, Jarvi took notice of the composer’s instructions and conducted it at a speed that I think both we (the choir) and the audience (at the receiving end) found more appropriate. At the very end, the unaccompanied ‘Quando corpus’ was less conducted than fought, with Jarvi clutching the baton with both hands, wielding it in the manner of Obi-Wan Kenobi battling Darth Vader. I almost expected lightning to shoot from it.

As usual, I ran out of breath at the worst moments, which just reinforces my belief that singing lessons would be a good idea. I think we managed to remember everything Neville had nagged us about – most importantly the fact that Maestro Jarvi could be ‘unpredictable’ in his interpretation – as he seemed quite happy at all three curtain calls.

Not to forget the Te Deum: it was quite Christmassy.

Saturday, 20th February 2010, Royal Festival Hall.

“…inclusion of [The Eternal Gospel] this unwieldy yet absorbing hybrid of symphonic poem and cantata was welcome in view of its rarity… this setting of Jarosalv Vrchlick’s poem… has a fervency that came across strongly. It helped that Sofia Fomina was so eloquent in the lines allotted to the Angel, and if Adrian Thompson… was severely tested… his commitment was never in doubt. Neither was that of the London Philharmonic Choir, making for a gripping performance that was by some measure the highlight of the evening.”

Richard Whitehouse, Classical Source.“The Eternal Gospel was an unexpected success: no easy Bohemian lyricism here, either, but a blaze of ecstatic choral chant and terse instrumental motifs. The London Philharmonic Choir distinguished itself…”

Andrew Clark, FT.

“The London Philharmonic Choir brimmed with ardour…”

Geoff Brown, TimesOnline.

The positivity of these reviews is, in my opinion, generous, considering the breivity of the part played in this concert by the choir. It was very fortunate that we were on in the first half, because if I’d had to sit around for nearly 2 hours to sing for maybe 15 minues, I’d have been less than enthusiastic. As it was, this was not the most fun I’ve ever had in the Festival Hall.

The choral involvement in Eternal Gospel is minimal, as it is in Beethoven’s 9th, but the latter is almost the entirety of the final movement whereas, in the Janacek, it is spread throughout the piece, thus diluting (for me) its impact. There are two places where we got the chance to really let go, and neither seemed to do anything, or go anywhere.

Add to this unsatisfactory mix the Festival Hall’s organ and you have the ingredients for a short, and less than sweet, evening, about which there is very little more to say.

Saturday, 13th February 2010, Royal Festival Hall.

“The evening yielded two Pavans…  from which the aching lamentations of Poulenc’s Stabat Mater made for a highly original (and rarely heard) climax to the programme. The fantastic mix of textures and moods in this piece – angelic one moment, all grimacing gargoyles the next – lends it a slightly subversive tone and there’s something sensually Caravaggian about its pained chromaticism… purity is close to eroticism here and that’s something Nezet-Seguin appeared to have shared with the LPO Choir.”

Edward Seckerson, The Independent

We had such fun with this in rehearsal. My score was liberally decorated with cartoons and comments regarding the music (and its degree of cheesiness) and the text (and its degree of ridiculousness). However, when Neville said that ‘Poulenc’ was pronounced ‘Plank’, unbounded hilarity ensued.

Having said all that, I finally enjoyed singing this piece – having, for reasons already mentioned, not been hugely enamoured in the beginning – and it was a joy to work with Yannick Nezet-Seguin again. He’s adorable; enthusiastic, generous (and tactful) and I give not a fig about the alleged tendency towards ‘fly-catching’ that some have criticised.

It was unfortunate, then, that we were required to sing the choral version of Faure’s Pavane. This is a criminally over-used piece of music at best, the addition of lyrics simply compounding the crime. Twee and embarrassing.

Some of the LPC sops and alts were selected to perform the Debussy ‘Nocturnes’ and most of the rest of the LPC sat in the side stalls to listen. It was a lovely and ethereal climax to some gorgeous performances by the LPO.

During the rehearsal the last-minute sop sub Claire Booth seemed to rely very heavily on a pencil, which she wielded deftly with her left hand. We figured that her amazing voice actually emerged from the end of this magic pencil, which could explain the reviews. Professional singers should, ideally, not suffer from stage fright.

Saturday, 5th December 2009, Royal Festival Hall.

“Arthur Honegger’s ‘Christmas Cantata‘ is the jewel in this composer’s catalogue. Written at the very end of his life, it is a profound work, setting words from the Bible and various carols. Starting quietly and building in intensity until Honegger unleashes huge cries de monde this is tortured stuff but passionate and deeply felt. The work ends with a glorious chorus concluding with a large Amen and the organ returns with the music of the opening. Tonight we heard a performance of such intensity that one could well believe that all involved were so deeply caught up in the performance that they were left as breathless as the audience. It brought a superb ending… the best solo singing came from Ruxandra Donose and Andrew Staples, both of whom displayed a lovely sense of line, using vibrato as it should be used, as  an expressive devise (sic). [The London Philharmonic] Choir and Children’s Choir both gave excellent performances…”

Bob Briggs, Musicweb International.

“This concert brought many delights and surprises as well as consistently fine performances. […] Mendelssohn’s setting [of ‘Vom Himmel Hoch’] made a jubilant and lyrical opening to this refreshing collection of works. ‘The First Nowell‘ was Vaughan Williams’s final music and, indeed, he passed away before finishing it, leaving Roy Douglas (due to turn 102 a week after this concert) to complete the work… particularly lovely in ‘On Christmas night…’ the crowning glory being ‘The First Nowell’ itself. [‘Christen, atzet diesen Tag’] by Johann Sebastian Bach proved sublime, springy and exhilarating.

Honegger’s ‘A Christmas Cantata‘ (from the end of his life, he died in 1955), for baritone, chorus, children’s choir and an orchestra of strings, winds and brass with organ… but no percussion, begins in the depths, the emerging ostinato reminding of the finale of his Symphonie liturgique (Symphony No.3), the children’s choir offering contrasting radiance and innocence. The change to optimism is magically achieved, the music dancing, lullabying, and reaching ecstasy and rapt transfiguration, ending quietly. It’s a great piece and was done proud here.”

Colin Anderson, The Classical Source.

Blimey, but this was LOUD. You know when people say they can’t hear themselves speak? Well, when the organ kicked in at the end of the Honegger we couldn’t hear ourselves sing, even though there were 150 of us and we were at full volume. It was almost pot luck as to what note you were singing unless you stuck a finger in your ear, which not only looks ridiculous but could result in the loss of the score if your folder was the type to fold right back on itself. Current models are designed with two strategically positioned straps: one to allow it to open so far and no further; the other to allow it to be held in one hand, weight of score permitting.

I was unimpressed with the Honegger to start with. Even now I can’t say I would rush to sing it again, but I’m glad I did the concert. The other pieces were less enjoyable, perhaps because I’d not done as much homework as I normally do; it’s easy to assume that smaller and/or more familiar works don’t require the extra-curricular attention but these did, and I know that this lack of attention to detail showed in my performance.

‘The First Nowell’ took on a darker dimension than its somewhat fluffy content betrayed when Vladimir pointed out the very bar at which Vaughan Williams died. After this, every time I sang it, I had a lump in my throat. The dreaded unaccompanied sop1/sop2/alt section, for all its problems in rehearsal, actually went very well after some last-minute cramming (and I do mean last minute… as in during the solo beforehand).

Mendelssohn’s ‘Vom Himmel Hoch’ is gorgeous when sung properly, with some wonderful crunches. However, it is one of those pieces that is best sung (dare I say it?) by a church choir, with boy trebles singing the soprano line. Then it shimmers, not unlike Whitacre’s ‘Lux Arumque’.

Bach’s ‘Christen atzet diesen Tag’ I didn’t like quite as much, even when sung by a professional choir. It has a soprano/boy soprano+bass duet which not only goes on twice as long as it ought to, but causes aural discomfort akin to listening to someone scraping their fingernails deliberately, tortuously slowly down a blackboard. Not one of his best.

So, all in all, a bit patchy, but ending on a exceedingly low note. If you’ve heard the Honegger, you’ll understand what I mean.