Bartok, Kurtág, and Sibelius: Hiromi Kikuchi (violin), Ken Hakii (viola), BBC Symphony Orchestra, Jukka-Pekka Saraste (conductor), Barbican Hall, London, 16.12.2011 (CG)

Bartok: Dance Suite (1923)

György Kurtág: Concertante Op.42 (2002 -3) UK premiere

Sibelius: Symphony No. 6 in D minor Op.104 (1923)

Sibelius: Symphony No. 7 in C major Op.105 (1924)

This was the third in the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s series featuring works by Sibelius including the seven symphonies; we had Symphony no. 3 back in October, and a selection of Sibelius’s songs and his incidental music for Belshazzar’s Feast last week. Of course the BBC programme planners would never do anything as obvious as playing Sibelius’s symphonies in the order he composed them, which seems more than a little perverse; how interesting and educational it is to witness the development of this infinitely fascinating symphonist from one to the next. A number of different conductors will be taking part; after the opening concert, it was difficult to imagine performances more sympathetic than Sakari Oramo’s of the 3rd, but tonight we had Jukka-Pekka Saraste, who is one of the triumvirate of dedicated Finnish Sibelians along with Osmo Vänskä and Esa-Pekka Salonen, all of whom studied in the same class in Helsinki and are now in their 50′s. Saraste was making a welcome return to the BBC Symphony, having been their Principal Guest Conductor from 2002-2005.

The first half was, for some reason, Hungarian. Bartok’s Dance Suite, interestingly composed at the same time as Sibelius’s 6th Symphony, is one of his most immediately attractive orchestral works, drawing on Hungarian, Romanian and North African folk music to great effect, with the various sections being connected by a returning theme in changing guises. The brilliance of Bartok’s colourful orchestration came over well in the BBC SO’s performance, and the constantly varying tempi, a vital ingredient, were all fluently handled. There was plenty of rhythmic zap as well as some beautifully idiomatic solos, and it was all highly enjoyable – just the thing on this cold December evening!

The two major successors to Bartok in Hungary are Ligeti and György Kurtág, whose Concertante was next on the agenda. Kurtág won the 2006 University of Louisville Grawemeyer Award for Music Composition with this work, which has solo parts for the violin and viola with a very large orchestra. The soloists tonight have been playing the work around the world since the first performance in 2003 and have also recorded it. The programme note waffled about Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante, and references to Wagner and Magyar music, but if I was supposed to recognise any of these, I’m afraid I failed miserably. In fact I found this work altogether perplexing; the soloists are not soloists in the conventional sense, and their contributions often seemed inconsequential or inaudible. The music is also extremely discontinuous; at worst it felt like a random series of sounds and gestures, which although frequently interesting in themselves, were largely disconnected. There are welcome periods of greater energy, and some violent outbursts too, but overall this doesn’t make for coherent, let alone pleasant, listening. You may say there’s absolutely nothing wrong in that in itself, of course, but there’s a point at which incomprehension gets the better of me and I must admit to being pretty relieved when it was all over. Awful to say this, when the soloists, conductor and orchestra have worked their socks off – but maybe I’ve spent too many hours trying hard to appreciate things I instinctively just don’t like at all. I certainly prefer my Kurtág in his more typically shorter, more concise mode, and I found myself asking yet again why the BBC favours so many contemporary composers from abroad rather than the host of home-grown composers desperate for an airing.

It was brave to place the Sixth and Seventh Symphonies of Sibelius next door to one another. These very different works could have benefitted from this, one might have thought, but in reality they did not. Why? Although each is short by major symphonic standards, each is complete in itself and benefits from a period of reflection afterwards. So we could wander off into the night with the magnificent 7th ringing in our ears, but the more delicate and less overtly dramatic 6th suffered. Technically, these were both assured, efficient performances; I wouldn’t argue with the tempi chosen for any part of the 6th, but somehow the music refused to spring into life in the way it can, and too much of it felt – well – efficient. Despite some fine work from the BBC symphony Orchestra, I found myself asking where was the poetry? And although there was plenty of rhythmic verve in the scherzo and the last movement, didn’t things feel somewhat briskly mechanical rather than genuinely spirited? And while I have come to love this symphony, I also recognise that it’s a special case, needing specially sensitive treatment and programming; placing it just before the interval would have worked better.

The 7th was far more successful. Saraste maintained a tight grip on the formal shape, managing all the difficult tempo changes brilliantly. There was a satisfying inevitability to the unfolding of the drama, the emotionally charged string passages near the beginning pulling us forward irrepressibly towards the first great trombone solo, expertly judged by Helen Vollam; the way she rose above the orchestra with no semblance of force was just perfect. And I marvelled all over again at the astonishingly inspired orchestration that Sibelius dreamed up here; just one lone trombone against the whole orchestra – and yet you hear it clearly and gloriously. The remaining sections flowed effortlessly; the stormy sections were genuinely thrilling, with the brass and horns glowing in the winter sunshine, and the woodwind sparkling like freshly fallen snowflakes. I could have wished for a greater sense of heartbreak in the final pages, but nevertheless, Saraste’s interpretation was absolutely justifiable and it was impossible to leave without this, one of the very greatest of all symphonies, having made its mark yet again. Marvellous.

Christopher Gunning

Britten, Sibelius, and Walton: Gerald Finely (baritone), BBC Chorus, BBC Symphony Orchestra, Edward Gardner (conductor), Barbican Hall,  London,  10.12.2011 (CG)

Britten: Sinfonia da Requiem, Op.20 (1940)

Sibelius: Kom nu hit, död, Op.60 no.1 (1909 orch. 1957; Pä veranden vi havet, Op.38 no. 2 (1902 orch. 1903); Koskenlaskijan morsiamet, Op.33 (1897)

Belshazzar’s Feast – Suite, Op.51 (1906-7)

Walton Belshazzar’s Feast (1929-31, revised 1931, 1948, and 1957)

Britten, Sibelius and Walton sharing the same concert? The BBC Symphony Orchestra is subject to some strange programme planning, but the works tonight made interesting bedfellows. The connection between Walton and Sibelius is not difficult to grasp: Walton was a great admirer of Sibelius, and in his First Symphony showed just how strongly the Finnish composer influenced him. But Belshazzar’s Feast shows Walton in an altogether different light, and its juxtaposition with Sibelius’s work of the same name showed just how different the thinking of the two composers could be. And Britten? A near contemporary of Walton, of course, but with his own unique musical language and thought processes.

His Sinfonia da Requiem is about the nearest Britten ever came to writing a purely orchestral symphony, and it certainly demonstrates that symphonic processes were very much part and parcel of his modus operandi. It is a fine work, immediately impressive, and with unfolding drama and an ingrained seriousness that displays Britten at his anguished anti-war best. Composed in 1940, much of this music hints at the War Requiem to come much later; thudding timpani, tortured melodies, snarling brass, whirling woodwind, and all the time a sense of Britten’s outrage. There are echoes of some other composers here – Mahler, and perhaps even Sibelius? Yet the 26 year old composer was remarkably mature for one so young, and already had a sure control of form. The three movements, Lacrymosa, Dies Irae, and Requiem Aeternam, form a continuous whole, and individually have firm structures which carry the listener along a troubled route for twenty minutes or so, with only the last movement hinting at a degree of reluctant resolution. The commissioners of the piece, the Japanese Government, were not yet at war with Britain or the US, but rejected the piece because of its Christian connotations; ironic, then, that it has emerged as one of the most substantial of Britten’s works and the several other pieces simultaneously commissioned by the Japanese. Edward Gardner and his forces were in total command; the tempi felt just right, and with the BBC SO continuing to be at the top of its game this made for a powerful, committed and memorable performance; its sounds are still haunting me now, almost twenty-four hours later.

Gerald Finley was the soloist in three virtually unknown songs by Sibelius, which turned out to be delightful gems from the unmistakable hand of the master. Come Away Death, a setting of Shakespeare translated into Swedish, has simple muted strings and is bleakness personified. On a Balcony beside the Sea, to a text by Viktor Rydberg, has dark woodwinds and is imbued with a sense of isolation and desperation. The Rapids-Rider’s Brides (poem by August Ahlqvist-Oksanen) is larger in scale than the preceding two and hints strongly at the Sibelius of the early symphonies with its greater expansiveness and menacing brass, the latter even reminding us of Karalia. Finley was absolutely terrific, his vocal beauty enhanced by clear enunciation of every word, and Gardner was the most sensitive accompanist; this was exquisite music making of almost chamber music intensity.

Gardner continued to impress as a Sibelian in the Finn’s Belshazzar’s Feast. This music, the very antithesis of the Walton to follow, falls into four separate sections. The first, Oriental Procession, is a grotesque march. The second, Solitude, is a tiny but sweet miniature. The third, Nocturne, gave Michael Cox an opportunity to display some ravishingly expressive flute playing, and the fourth, Khadra’s Dance, seductive and delicate, reminded us what a fine clarinetist Chris Richards is. Sibelius opted for a whimsical, quasi Oriental, view of Belshazzar – as befitted pieces composed as incidental music for the play for which they were intended. What a contrast, then, to Walton’s monumental and exuberant cantata composed in his late twenties.

The gentlemen of the BBC Chorus got things off to a fine start with their opening declamation, and the full chorus followed, gently weaving their lines with wonderfully rich sonorities, to be joined by Gerald Finley in his plaintive “If I forget thee.” Once again combining noticeably fine diction with perfect intonation and sense of character, he took command of the proceedings with his long recitative and then we were plunged into sheer brilliance, as orgiastic and celebratory as you could want, for the rest of the piece. And you would have to be a real nitpicker to find any faults; the BBC Symphony Chorus sang with gusto and accuracy, the orchestra shot through the whole work with massive amounts of verve, and the brass, augmented by two groups up in the gods, were constantly thrilling. Gardner kept the tempi brisk, propelling things forward mercilessly. And, if I have to nitpick, the only thing I can find to say is that I wish this had been in the Royal Albert Hall, and it’s not often I’d say that! The Barbican hall, admirable though it is for such a variety of music, is just not quite man enough for music on Walton’s scale. Never mind. It was still a great evening, on this occasion narrowly won by the concert opener. That Britten – it really is a superb piece.

Christopher Gunning

Kadeřábek, Dvořák, Martinů, Janáček, Maxim Rysanov (solo viola), BBC Symphony Orchestra, Jiří Bĕlohlávek (conductor),
Barbican Hall, London, 10.11.2011 (CG)
Jiří Kadeřábek: ‘C,’ BBC commission: World premiere
Dvořák: The Golden Spinning Wheel, op.109 (1896)
Martinů:  Rhapsody Concerto (1952)
Janáček: Taras Bulba – rhapsody for orchestra (1915-18)
Are you sitting comfortably?

“Jiří Kadeřábek sees the listener of his music as being ‘inside a geometric shape of many sides, a polyhedron, with mirrors reflecting every small line and direction.’” So commences the ludicrously pretentious programme note. And it goes on, and on, likening his music to the Cubist Picasso – “It’s as if the Women of Avignon were singing from each strange facet of their bodies. I think that’s the point: the deconstruction of linear association and the emphasis of purely structural particles.”

In fact what we got was a piece of mind-numbing banality. “C” consists of twiddles and scales in C major, with a couple of sections of the brass players blowing air, but no notes, through their instruments. If the composer, the BBC, or anyone else imagines that there’s a useful point in this nonsense, then it’s certainly lost on me. You might argue that it’s not the fault of the commissioners that Kadeřábek turned in a piece of abject rubbish, but they might have guessed, and that they make errors of judgement like this when there are umpteen British composers dying to have the opportunity of having their music played by a fine symphony orchestra beggars belief. What a dreadful waste, a thought also going through the minds of the orchestra who looked bored out of their minds and failed to applaud the composer as he stepped onto the platform.

Moving swiftly on, the next item in this all-Czech programme was the tone poem The Golden Spinning Wheel, which was one of several works which marked Dvořák’s move from the purely symphonic forms of his great idol, Brahms, into the more ‘progressive’ area of Liszt, who had already established the revolutionary idea of the tone poem. This was a big and controversial departure for a man nearing the end of his life, and the five tone poems composed between 1896 and 1897 contain some of the composer’s most imaginative and colourful music. The Golden Spinning Wheel is one of four based on the ballads of the Czech folklorist Karel Erben and contains elements of Bohemian folk music woven into a richly lyrical symphonic tapestry. There was some really lovely woodwind playing from the orchestra; Michael Cox’s flute was especially poignant, with Bĕlohlávek clearly revelling in every moment of it and bringing poise, charm, warmth and humanity to musicians and audience all too ready to involve themselves in some real music after the opening dud. What a shame, then, that the conductor had savagely cut the music; why? Important elements of the story were lost, and although this rarely heard piece may be quite an effort for an audience unfamiliar with it, a few extra minutes certainly wouldn’t have hurt.

Martinu followed the interval in the shape of the seldom-performed Rhapsody Concerto, with Maxim Rysanov the full-toned soloist. Composed in America in 1952, the work harks back to Martinu’s homeland, with some of the melodic material reminding us strongly of Bohemian folk music and Dvořák. It is a predominantly sweetly lyrical work, relatively uncomplicated harmonically, and a far cry from Martinu’s famous Double Concerto for Two String orchestras Piano and Timpani, and other more dissonant works from the 30s; back then Martinu was flirting with expressionism, neo-classicism, and jazz, but by now the composer was in his sixties, weary and seriously homesick. If melody is to the fore, it does not mean that the music is dull rhythmically, especially in the last movement. Here Rysanov’s technique came to the fore with some extremely impressive finger and bow-work, and the BBC SO responded with equally impressive vigour.

But the highlight was still to come. With Taras Bulba, we were on a different planet. The bloodthirsty tale on which it is based tells of the Ukrainian warrior, Taras Bulba, and the attacks of the Poles. Remarkable, isn’t it, that at the time Janáček was a committed fan of everything Russian, believing that his own country would be protected and freed by the indominatable Russians. Whatever the rights and wrongs of Janáček ‘s political views, he certainly composed one of his most vivid masterpieces with Taras Bulba, and this extraordinary music was given a stupendous performance tonight. Janáček ‘s orchestration is so intensely personal, and so raw and ruggedly expressive – there’s absolutely nothing ordinary about it. There was especially gorgeous playing from Alison Teale (Cor Anglais), Richard Simpson (oboe) and Stephen Bryant (solo violin.) and the brass and percussion playing was as bright and incisive as you could possibly want. A fabulous performance of fabulous music.

If it hadn’t been for that awful first item, this would have been a completely enjoyable and even inspiring evening. What a shame, then, that the BBCSO’s Barbican concerts seem to be comparatively badly attended. The stalls were more or less full, but the balcony not even open. Why? The LSO consistently fills the same hall. Is it the often somewhat strange programme planning? Inadequate publicity? I search for answers. The BBCSO is a terrific orchestra and deserves to have the very strongest following, especially in the face of current budget reviews.

Christopher Gunning

Berlioz, Barber, Tchaikovsky: James Ehnes (violin), Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Charles Dutoit (conductor), Royal Festival Hall, London, 8.11.2011 (CG)

Berlioz: Le Corsair (1844)

Samuel Barber: Violin Concerto op. 14 (1939)

Tchaikovsky: Symphony no 5 in E minor, op. 64 (1888)

Appearances by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in London with its Artistic Director and Principal Conductor, Charles Dutoit, are comparatively infrequent, so this concert which included the Violin Concerto by Samuel Barber with the Canadian violinist, James Ehnes, and warhorses by Berlioz and Tchaikovsky, was something to look forward to. The RPO is sometimes considered the Cinderella of the London orchestras; it receives a fraction of the Arts Council funding of the others, and is thus forced to play a repertory which is often more overtly popular, and to embark on tours far and wide, resulting in a schedule which most musicians would find exhausting. Nevertheless, it boasts some of the very finest players in the land, and gets through a fantastically varied range of music – everything from well-worn classics to film scores and rock concerts. It is a tribute to the management that in the face of considerable difficulties, it continues to flourish and put in some fine performances.

Berlioz’s overture Le Corsair (the Pirate) could be considered something of an orchestral test piece. Composed in 1844 when Berlioz was on holiday in Nice, it is a swashbuckling extravaganza in which precision in the fast passages is the keynote. In this performance, Dutoit set off at a fast but not ridiculous pace, the strings impressing with their dashing scalic passages. The curious rhythmic wind and horn passages were perhaps less clear, but the long slower melody was was well done and overall the performance was bright and secure; if I felt that the conductor wished to get even more action from the orchestra in the fast passages than he actually received, it is a very minor carp.

The Barber Violin Concerto has an unusual history. The work was commissioned by a wealthy businessman for his young protogé, Iso Briselli, but when Barber presented the first two movements, the violinist declared the solo part too easy. As if to say “I’ll show em!” Barber then wrote a dazzling finale only to find that the same violinist pronounced it unplayable. The businessman wanted his money back, but Barber had already spent it, and, now desperate, presented the concerto to the virtuoso Oscar Shumsky, who decided it was indeed playable. The work finally received its first performance in 1941 by Albert Spalding with Eugene Ormandy conducting.

Samuel Barber was a somewhat reclusive man, who would have no truck with the American avant-garde, led by figures such as John Cage and Morton Feldman. Instead, he composed a series of essentially lyrical works in an easily comprehensible idiom which caught the public imagination and secured an important place for him alongside other mainstream Americans, such as Aaron Copland, Roy Harris and Virgil Tomson. James Ehnes won plaudits for his recording of Barber’s concerto together with those by Walton and Korngold in 2008 (ONYX 4016), and it was not surprising to find that his approach to the first two movements seemed to be just perfect. His purity of tone was beautifully suited to Barber’s melodic lines, with ample projection but nothing feeling forced or indulgent. Dutoit and the RPO accompanied carefully with exactly the right gently wistful tone colours, and John Anderson’s expressive oboe solo in the second movement – pale, but touching – was particularly noteworthy. In the last movement, all hell suddenly broke loose, with the violinist scurrying around and the orchestra giving their two-pennyworth; it’s phenomenally difficult, brilliantly effective, and utterly delightful. Ehnes was simply marvellous – and so was the RPO.

And as if to show that he could also fly through the more traditional virtuoso violin repertory on his Stradivarius, Ehnes played the famous Paganini Caprice no. 24 with complete accuracy and fantastic panache. The audience was enthralled.

And so to the major warhorse of the evening – Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony. Composed in 1888, when Tchaikovsky and others were convinced that his powers were waning, it was not immediately successful and this didn’t help the composer’s mental state one little bit; he was to die, tormented, five years later. Critical reaction was hostile, even in the US and Europe, but how times have changed; nowadays it is one of the most popular of all symphonies, and understandably so. The tunes for which the composer is famed are marvellous, and the construction, with its recurrent motto theme heard in different guises in all four movements, no less so.

Dutoit’s reading had plenty of high points. We were treated to some lovely phrasing from the woodwind, and a pleasingly rich string tone throughout. The famous horn solo in the lovely slow movement was beautifully played if perhaps a tiny bit loud, and in the third movement there was much grace and great elan from the strings in the fast passages. I would have preferred a gap between the third and last movements, and a slightly more stately tempo for the opening motto theme in the last, but in the fast sections the playing was simply hair-raising, with fantastically incisive work from the brass. So exciting, and just what was needed to get the blood coursing on this damp, dreary November evening.

Christopher Gunning

Nicholas Maw: The Master: A day of Nicholas Maw’s music.

Pre concert chamber music: Academy Manson Ensemble, Sara Lian Owen (soprano), Bruce Nockles (conductor), Andrew Burn (presenter) Queen Elizabeth Hall, London 30.10.2011 4pm.

Maw: La Vita Nuova (1979), Ghost dances (1988)

Robert Peate: Images Part One (2011)

Ivor Bonnici: Four Movements for Quintet (2011)

Pre concert talk: Andrew Burn, Anthony Payne 6pm

Concert: City of London Sinfonia, Holst Singers, Tasmin Little (violin), Christopher Austin (conductor), Stephen Layton (conductor), Andrew Burn (presenter) Queen Elizabeth Hall, London 30.10.2011 7pm (CG)

Maw: Violin Concerto (1993), Concert Suite from Sophie's Choice (2003), One Foot in Eden Still, I Stand (1990), Hymnus (1995-6)

 Those of us who were privileged to know Nicholas Maw were fairly astonished when a significant event was announced featuring a veritable feast of his music. He isn't performed with anything remotely like the frequency he deserved – a fact that remains as perplexing as ever after this wonderful day. Of course there are others of his generation, Birtwistle, Maxwell Davies, and Goehr, who have attracted more attention with their more overtly modernistic way of doing things, and still more who have suffered infrequent performances (Anthony Payne, or Hugh Wood, for example) but Maw's work has always been a particularly special case because he shunned a great many of the techniques that have been "all the rage," and pursued his own highly individual path through thick and thin. There are early works in which he dabbled with Shönberg's dodecaphony, but with Scenes and Arias, first heard at the Proms in 1962, Maw discovered and established a new way of working for him in which, at last, he could write the music he instinctively wished to. This was the first piece I’d heard of Maw’s, and it bowled me over.

 Maw was always anxious to digest any music on offer, and had no hesitation in using elements from all manner of sources to assist his own creativity. This isn't to imply that he wasn't original – in fact his music has a habit of sounding like nobody else's. At the same time, it is not difficult to discern some of his influences; in particular he wanted desperately to be part of the Western musical tradition which he loved, and especially that which can loosely be termed "romantic." Consequently one can hear echoes of Austrians and Germans, as well as British, from the late nineteenth centuries and early twentieth – Strauss, early Schonberg, Berg, and even Vaughan Williams come to mind. These influences place his oeuvre well outside the mainstream of late twentieth century music, and many of us feel that it is all the better for that, but there's nothing "old hat" about his music either. In fact his genius was to absorb everything from here, there, and everywhere, and make a language which became very much his own.

Above all, Maw craved melody. Of that his music is full to the brim, but his melodies are not eight bar trite affairs – they tend to span vast paragraphs. Next, was harmony. No, it's not conventional or ordinary, but a mixture of tonal and dissonant harmony which always has direction. "Tonal plus" was how he described it to me. And then there's counterpoint too – lines are all-important in Maw. And last, but certainly not least, there's orchestration – and Maw absolutely loved the orchestra with its endless colours and textures; Maw called it "my instrument." 

 In the afternoon, Sara Lian Owen sang La Vita Nuova with the Academy Manson Ensemble conducted by Bruce Nockles. This setting of five Medieval and Renaissance Italian love poems is one of Maw's finest works and was his second PROMS commission, the first having been Scenes and Arias. Maw's settings of the chosen texts are both varied and subtle, with rapturously beautiful vocal lines and some extraordinarily telling instrumental moments. Movements one, three and five are predominantly slow, and two and four are fast. It was easy to warm to Sara Lian Owen's appealing and accurate singing and to the sensitivity and brilliance of the young Academy Manson Ensemble; all the performers are current or recent students at the Royal Academy of Music, and the ensemble specialises in contemporary music. 

The other Maw piece performed in the afternoon was Ghost Dances, in which the instrumentation is identical to Schönberg's "Pierrot Lunaire;" flute, clarinet, violin, cello and piano, but no voice. Maw boosts this ensemble with some off-the-wall instruments which members of the group have to play in addition to their regular ones – the African thumb piano, the American strumstick, a one-stringed banjo, a flexatone, a kazoo, and Pakistani manjeeras (or small finger cymbals.) The "ghost" in the title refers to Maw's idea that the nine movements are all "memory related or dream distorted images of various forms of the dance." (Maw's own description.) It's a fascinating, colourful, and at times macabre work, the individual dances being full of character and the whole making something quite dark, quirky, mysterious, and even scary. The players acquitted themselves admirably.

Two non-Maw pieces occupied the rest of the afternoon concert, both by young composers from the Royal Academy. Being placed next door to the meaty works of Maw did them no favours, although each demonstrated real promise. Robert Peate impressed with his technical command and some weird but effective textures, as well as some genuinely lyrical music, particularly in the second of the piece's four short movements. Ivor Bonnici's contribution displayed more classical influences, with a particularly entertaining fast second movement somewhat reminiscent of Stravinsky. It will be fascinating to see how these composers develop. 

In between the two concerts was a conversation between Andrew Burn, who is a Nicholas Maw fan, and who provided helpful introductions to each piece during the concerts, and the composer Anthony Payne, a friend of Maw's for many years. Payne understands Maw's work thoroughly, and as a composer who himself has suffered "blocks" in the past, obviously felt close to Maw, who also experienced appalling struggles from time to time. Had there been more time, it would have been interesting to hear of some of the depressions that Maw suffered periodically. He could be a bon viveur alright, and loved his food, a fine bottle of wine, and conversation about anything and everything. Conversely he could also feel isolated and dreadfully gloomy; I remember having more than one conversation in which he revealed that he often thought he was completely wasting his time as a composer. Some of this was undoubtedly a result of feeling neglected musically, and some because his financial position caused intense worries. I believe that his last 24 years in Washington DC were far happier, where he lived with his devoted companion Maija Hay, a ceramic artist. Nevertheless, the fact that Maw was an intensely emotional person is central to his musical creativity; to put it simply, the highs and lows are all there, with all shades between. It is, above all, music with tremendous humanity.

The first work in the evening concert was the Violin Concerto, first performed in this country and the US in 1993 by Joshua Bell, who has recorded the work and whose playing had inspired Maw to write it. This is a grand work in four movements on the scale of Brahms and others: it shares with them much dramatic interplay between orchestra and soloist, soaring melodies, a virtuosic solo part, and it is imbued for much of the time with an expressive late romantic melancholy. If that is the overriding feeling of the first and third movements, there is nevertheless optimism in this concerto too, and the second (scherzo) movement is positively playful, with a rhythmic vitality reminiscent of Walton, while the last movement offers more relaxed and peaceful moods, recalling music from the previous three and including several powerful outbursts from the orchestra and pyrotechnics from the soloist. What fabulous music! Without doubt this is one of his most inspired creations, and in tonight's performance Tasmin Little's reading was spellbinding; it is difficult to imagine a more sympathetic performance and the balance between soloist and the classically-sized City of London Sinfonia worked particularly well. 

Maw's opera Sophie's Choice provided the material for the next work, an orchestral suite receiving its UK premiere. His experiences in the world of opera were certainly not without pain. His two previous operas, One Man Show and The Rising of the Moon, had been well received but had also involved him in hostilities in one form and another, and he had distanced himself from the world of opera for some thirty years. As he said "it seemed to me that the whole opera world was a collection of ferocious egos to whom you were expected to surrender control of your work and then disappear." Sophie's Choice was ten years in the making from start to finish, and critics were divided – some openly hostile. It probably would not have reached the stage at all had it not been for the efforts of Simon Rattle, who had, a few years previously, also insisted on recording Odyssey, Maw's gargantuan symphonic work. Once again this is Maw at his mature best – with long melodies and directly tonal music rubbing shoulders with tortured, dissonant stuff. Maw's use of plain major and minor chords, scored in much the same way as the Vaughan Williams of the Tallis Fantasia, is particularly telling. Much of the music in the Suite is taken from the orchestral interludes which link the dramatic scenes and provide an increasingly agonized commentary on them. Under Stephen Layton's clear and energetic direction the City of London Sinfonia gave a committed performance of this disturbing yet often beautiful music. 

The concert finished with two of Maw's choral pieces. The first, One Foot in Eden Still, I Stand, for unaccompanied choir, displayed Maw's ability to write in the contrapuntal tradition of Stanford and other Anglican composers and the Holst Singers performed admirably despite some rather odd solo voices. Then came Hymnus, a more substantial work for chorus and orchestra, which exhibits a more mellifluous style than one usually finds elsewhere. Maw's intense desire to communicate with audiences – to be of some practical use – is well to the fore here in this beautifully crafted music which passes through shades of Britten, Vaughan Williams, and – unexpectedly – chromatic jazz harmony. 

It wasn't always easy being Nicholas Maw. It is so sad that he was taken from us at the – nowadays – too early age of 73 after suffering with dementia, diabetes and heart failure. He left us a huge treasure-trove of music to perform and enjoy, and I strongly suspect that in years to come he will quite possibly be revealed to have been one of the very greatest composers of his day.

Christopher Gunning

Anu Komsi (soprano) BBC Symphony Orchestra, Sakari Oramo (conductor), Barbican Hall, London, 28.10.2011 (CG) 

Bax: Tintagel (1917-19)
Kaija Saariaho: Leino Songs (UK premiere) (2002-7: rev. 2010)
Sibelius: Luonnotar Op 70 (1910-13)
Sibelius: Symphony No. 3 in C major Op 52 (1904-7)

This was the first of a series of concerts by the BBC Symphony Orchestra featuring the complete symphonies of Sibelius, but the curtain raiser was Bax’s Tintagel, and I must say the warmth and opulence of Bax's orchestration was particularly welcome on this chilly October night. Although in London's Barbican, here we were at the seaside, reveling in Bax's most popular piece with salt in the air and wind in our hair, delighting in images of Tintagel's ruined castle and its associations with the Knights of the Round Table. What a fine piece Tintagel is; a quite wonderful tune, steadily unfolding drama, and a totally satisfying formal shape made of music which always develops in episodes, one leading quite naturally to the next. And if one had any doubts that a Finn would understand this peculiarly British piece, they were assuaged completely. It was a beautifully formed, idiomatic performance by Sakari Oramo, full of colour and with all the minute tempo variations demanded by the music. I enjoyed it immensely.

Then we headed north. Although now a resident of Paris, Kaija Saariaho quite definitely retains Finnish roots, and in her Leino Songs, receiving their UK premiere, paints bleak pictures redolent of her birthplace and its culture. Leino (1878-1926) is one of Finland's most important writers, and Saariaho has worked with his poetry before. For her, his language has an appealing combination of mystery, melancholy, intimacy and distance - and if there's also something rather French about this piece, it's in the quasi-impressionistic orchestral tone colours she employs and the extreme fastidiousness which is a hallmark of her music generally. And yet, I come back to the word bleak; but it's not a cold, barren bleakness, for this is very human music too, with a warm heart beating within. Indeed the second of the four songs is called The Heart, and becomes wild and passionate, contrasting with songs one, three and four (Looking at you, Peace, and Evening Prayer) which are generally quieter and more meditative. The vocal lines are expressive, beautifully set against the orchestra, and it's all tremendously imaginative. The soprano Anu Komsi, Nordically blond and bedecked in various shades of blue-green, is married to Sakari Oramo and the two have worked together a lot. It shows; their collaboration was supremely sensitive, and the contribution by the BBC SO no less so.

A brief trip outside during the interval confirmed that the night was growing colder, and so Sibelius's Luonnotar, for soprano and orchestra, seemed appropriate once safely inside once more. This music is as Sibelian as it gets - so many hallmarks are there! The tremolo strings at the start, fluttering woodwind, timpani rolls, and a massively stormy climax. "A warm heart in a cold scene" is how a friend epitomised Sibelius, and that's what you get here. The vocal part amounts to a recitative-like rendition of part of the Kalevala, which is Finland's national epic poem; it is extremely expressive, but always very much to the point. Sibelius rarely wasted notes, and in this piece there are no exceptions to that principle. Anu Komsi entered fully into the part, and Oramo was also clearly totally in his element. 

Incidentally, Sibelius originally described this as a tone poem in 1906, so it must have developed into its ultimate form over time. At any rate, it was first performed in Gloucester in 1913 at the Three Choirs Festival - which, bearing in mind the nature of the piece, struck me as quite extraordinary. 

Finally, more Sibelius in the shape of one of his least performed symphonies - no. 3. Coming after the first two, with their rich romanticism and hefty tunes, this one came as a shock; it is relatively bare and smaller in its scale and orchestration. What was Sibelius up to? It seems clear, now, that he was at a crossroads - he needed to develop the symphony as a form, and in doing so, needed to pare things down and investigate some earlier models. Thus, the first movement has even been compared to Beethoven's work, and some have called this Sibelius's Classical symphony. Of course, it's totally Sibelius even so. The first movement needs bags of energy in performance and a strict control over the tempi of the various ingredients. Oramo and the BBC SO got it right, and there were some thrilling moments. The second movement, a kind of nocturne with a sort of rondo structure, is even smaller in scale than the first - it has no trumpets or trombones, for instance - so it's Sibelius pared down even more closely to the bone. So far so good, but in the last movement things always go awry for me - there's something not quite right about the structure here, and for me Sibelius arrives in the home key of C major far too early and then proceeds to bang on in it for far too long. Oramo and the BBC SO did their very best with it, but it didn't work, not that anyone else in the audience might have been aware of it. Oramo received exceptionally warm applause, and the orchestra declined to take it, the musicians preferring to clap the conductor they had obviously absolutely loved working with.

Christopher Gunning

Steve Reich (percussion), Neil Percy (percussion), Synergy Vocals, London Symphony Orchestra, Kristjan Järvi (conductor), Barbican Hall, London, 15.10.2011 (CG)

Steve Reich: Clapping Music (1972), The Four Sections (1987), Three Movements (1986), The Desert Music (1984)

The Barbican Hall was packed. The age range of the audience was noticeably wide – teenagers to sexagenarians and a few beyond, and that alone demonstrates the huge appeal of Steve Reich’s music. It’s been like that since 1966, when Reich first formed his own ensemble and began performing the music that had grown from his extensive studies of Western music, Hebrew chanting, Jazz, African drumming, and Balinese Gamelan music.

He appeared at the beginning of the concert, complete with signature cap, gave a thumbs-up to the orchestra and then performed his Clapping Music together with Neil Percy. It is an engaging exercise in rhythm. The two performers clap a 12 beat pattern; one player then shifts the pattern by one quaver. When it has been shifted 12 times, the two players are again in unison and the piece ends. It was the perfect introduction to Reich’s musical thinking and appropriate preparation for the meatier items to follow.

Reich did not immediately take to the large forces of a symphony orchestra, preferring to work with small groups, and it’s not difficult to see why. Ultra-precise rhythms, tight ensemble work, and crystal clear textures are central to his thinking and more readily achieved with fewer musicians. When writing for orchestras, Reich needed to rethink the conventional Western orchestra – so in The Four Sections, which came next in tonight’s programme, the strings are divided into two antiphonal groups, separated by two pianists who also play some electronic devices. The four sections of the title refer to the four movements of the piece, each of which has its own tempo and features a particular section of the orchestra; strings, percussion, wind and brass, and lastly the full orchestra.

Similar devices are employed in Three Movements, with the strings once again arranged antiphonally. As they pass short fragments between one another in the opening movement, Reich’s notion that the music is like the changing light patterns created by clouds wafting across the sky is certainly evident. The three movements are differentiated by tempo and mood changes; the second has darker textures and the third is more jazzy.

These two works were well performed by Kristjan Järvi and the LSO, even if a hypercritical listener would have ideally preferred even greater computer-like precision. But if Reich rethought the composition and performance of music, it is also true that audiences have had to rethink how they listen. Repetition, albeit ever-changing in subtle ways, is a key, even the key ingredient in this music, and if you’re not absolutely tuned in, the lack of conventional drama and interest can lead to – well, frankly, boredom! As I glanced around the audience, I saw quite a few slumped heads, and it’s to be expected – this stuff has a hypnotic quality. Or is there a more serious problem? There is no doubting Reich’s genius in formulating and developing his ideas, and there’s no doubting the sheer attractiveness of the music either – but I did find myself asking more than once if the style of this music has run its course. That’s partly due to the fact that composers with lesser gifts have latched on to the superficial nature of it and duly churned out ream upon ream of computer generated riffs for TV and film scores to the point that we’re sick and tired of it all, but it’s not the whole story. Some of Reich’s smaller pieces, Different Trains especially, or the opera The Cave seem to have far greater meaning than The Four Sections or Three Movements, and it’s curious that they were both composed after The Desert Music, another crucially important work. That minimalism, the tag with which Reich along with John Adams and Philip Glass were quickly labelled, had to develop was fairly obvious, and Reich has come a long way since the early beginnings, but these two works don’t really seem to venture much beyond what was achieved in The Desert Music. Perhaps it’s not surprising that he has now returned to smaller groups in recent works.

Anyway things definitely bucked up in part two. At around fifty minutes, The Desert Music benefits enormously from having a faster rate of harmonic change and a formal shape (basically A-B-C-B-A) which really works. There’s far more tension and drama here, and considerable variety in the orchestral palette. All Reich’s techniques are on display – pulsating rhythms, short imitative figures, oscillating chords, jazz-derived harmony – the lot. More importantly, Reich uses various texts by William Carlos Williams to suggest a combination of messages concerning our contemporary society, questioning its morality and where it is going. But why the desert in Desert Music? Reich was deeply affected by both the Sinai and Alamagordo deserts, the first for its historical importance in Jewish history, and the second because it is where the US stores its nuclear weapons.

The performance was terrific. Kristjan Järvi conducted with a firm beat and the LSO responded with the right degree of energy and with ever-sensitive dynamics. The vocal writing came off superbly well, with the ten amplified voices of Vocal Synergy effectively balanced against the orchestra, their parts, often reminiscent of jazz-orientated groups such as Singers Unlimited or Swingle Two, perfectly in tune. And when the composer reappeared he received a standing ovation, apt recognition that Reich is one of a very few composers who has genuinely changed the course of music history.

Christopher Gunning

Philharmonia Orchestra, Lorin Maazel (conductor), Royal Festival Hall, London, 1.10.2011 (CG)

Gustav Mahler: Symphony no 9 (1909 -10)

When Mahler died in May 1911, he left two major completed but unperformed works; Das Lied von der Erde, and the Ninth Symphony. The Tenth Symphony remained incomplete apart from two movements and sketches for the others.
Mahler’s life is particularly well documented; it was not short of dramatic incidents and tragedy. One of his two children had died in 1907, his wife Alma Schindler had a long standing affair with the architect Walter Gropius, he fell out with Vienna Court Opera (of which he was director) and was regularly subjected to anti-Semitic abuse. He had been diagnosed with a heart condition in 1907, but although advised to avoid strenuous exercise, continued with extremely taxing concert tours conducting the New York Philharmonic and other orchestras. His own music had been introduced little by little to mixed reception, although with the massive Eighth Symphony he scored a particularly notable success in 1909.
Mahler’s indomitable spirit spurred him on against all manner of difficulties, but it was inevitable that his life dramas would find their way into his music, and never was this more the case than in his very last works. Much has been made of his apparent obsession with death, but while there are certainly passages in the Ninth Symphony where Mahler seems to be peering over the precipice, there is hope too – joy, even. It is crucial that all these elements be fully represented in performance, and in the end it is perhaps Mahler’s love of life which underpins everything; without that intense love, despair and frustration would mean nothing.
Maazel’s view of the composer has been gaining some mixed responses during this current cycle. When there have been criticisms, reviewers have found his tempi to be slow and ponderous; I, however, thought his performance of the Fifth Symphony in London superb. The fact is there are dozens of interpretations which will work, pleasing some and displeasing others. People become obsessive and even make careers comparing versions by conductor x and conductor y, and I read a reviewer’s detailed ‘take’ on no less than ten different recordings of the Ninth recently, finishing up in knots. So I go back to basics; I listen to the marvel of Mahler in this extraordinary symphony and ask some simple questions. Does this conductor understand what Mahler intended? Does he have a firm grip on the complex structure of the score? Does he guide the orchestra successfully through the emotional journey set out in the music? And do the players respond in a way of which Mahler might approve?
The conductor Kurt Sanderling has been much in my mind recently, not only because of his recent death, but because some sixteen years ago I attended a performance of this same symphony in this same hall with this same orchestra, and was duly reduced to mumbling wreck status. Sanderling was eighty-two and approaching the end of his long career, and I thought then, as I thought watching the eighty-one year old Maazel tonight, that there is almost bound to be something especially poignant about an old man’s view of this music. Sanderling gained universal respect as a conductor who spurned showmanship and strove valiantly to get to the very heart of the music. Would I remember Maazel’s performance in a similar way?
Things didn’t start too well. The tempo was leisurely, as marked by Mahler, but the gently rocking opening was thrown slightly off-kilter by a French Horn that was beautifully played but a little too loud. Things settled down thereafter, and the extraordinary form of the first movement, with its combination of themes and moods seemingly at odds with themselves, made its full effect, with the returning “sighing” motif always feeling threatened by the next altercation. And what of the recurrent rhythm that, according to Bernstein, was supposed to represent Mahler’s irregular heartbeat? Yes – it was there, but not given undue prominence and anyway it is now reckoned that the composer’s leaky heart valves would not necessarily cause an irregular beat. Most importantly, it was impossible not to feel that this was indeed the start of a long journey encompassing just about all that life has to offer; serenity mingled with frustration, torment, and – well, let’s not give away the end just yet. And, equally to the point, the orchestral playing was terrific, with some particularly fine and anguished work from the strings, not outdone by the fabulous woodwind department with all solos magnificently done.
The second movement is another of the composer’s unique creations, and Maazel took things at deliberate tempi, with the ländler sections feeling genuinely rustic and the ironic waltz sections full of wit. What was going through Mahler’s mind? He seems to be looking back with a mixture of affection and ridicule; and that’s how the music struck me in this performance, with some marvellous verve and wit emanating from all sections of the orchestra.
The third movement, more-or-less a classic rondo structure, displays, among other things, Mahler’s love of J S Bach; it is highly contrapuntal yet, as is so frequently the case in this symphony, there is a mocking undercurrent to the whole movement. What is required here is energy, and we had it, particularly in the closing bars where the orchestra positively erupted! Elsewhere there was amazing work again from the woodwind (superb clarinets!) and in the penultimate section, real angst from the strings, given just enough spaciousness for their gloriously expressive role.
The strings mostly dominate the textures of the final movement, and they set off with the most gloriously passionate tone I’ve ever heard from a British orchestra, or, for that matter, any orchestra anywhere. Here, Mahler is returning to the world of his 2nd and 3rd symphonies and also to his most recently completed work, Das Lied von der Erde. This is surely where Mahler contemplated his own death, and although certainly tinged with regret, it is not a death viewed with complete hopelessness. Instead it looks forward to the possibility of peace after death; Mahler was never devoutly religious, and yet it has been remarked that he was never closer to God than during this movement.
I found the account tonight persuasive in every way – it is really astonishing how the music reaches its two climaxes and then disintegrates little by little, as if reluctant to bid farewell. The last page, containing fewer notes, perhaps, than any other symphony, was not spoilt by a few unmuffled coughers in the audience who had been asked prior to the concert to stifle any unavoidable coughing. There followed a long silence, which is always a clear indication that this symphony, and its performance, had left its mark. And I would gratefully have listened to the whole thing over again.
If Maazel’s reading is not to everyone’s taste, so be it, but I do not think anyone could be in any doubt that his is a totally authoritative and committed interpretation, and that the Philharmonia continues to be on absolutely top form and the match of any orchestra in the world.

Christopher Gunning

Viktoria Mullova (violin), Monica Groop (mezzo-soprano), Jukka Rasilainen (bass-baritone) Orphei Drängar (male chorus) Philharmonia Orchestra, Essa-Pekka Salonen (conductor), Royal Festival Hall, London, 25.9.2011

Johannes Brahms: Violin Concerto in D, op. 77 (1878)
Jean Sibelius: Kullervo, op 7 (1892) 

Kullervo has always been considered something of an oddity. In some respects it is Sibelius’s choral symphony, since movements three and five are settings of lines from the epic poem Kalevala; in other respects it is a tone poem, because the remaining movements chronicle parts of Kullervo’s life. Although the first performance in 1892 was enthusiastically received, there were only four more performances in the composer’s lifetime; Sibelius withdrew it, and towards the end of his life intended revising the whole work, but in the event re-orchestrated only the final section of the third movement in 1957. Kullervo had to wait until 1971 for its first recording, by Paavo Bergland and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.
The composer was a mere 27; it was another six years before he tackled his First Symphony. Yet there is much in Kullervo to indicate where Sibelius was heading. Characteristically short woodwind phrases, passionate string melodies frequently in octaves, clarinets swooping and diving, strident hammer-blow tutti chords, plentiful atmospheric string tremolos and other effects, solid hymn-like brass passages, long pedal notes with slowly increasing tension – all these are here and much more besides. It’s a feast of dramatic orchestral colour! One might find the text, displayed by surtitles on this occasion, a little pedantic, but what is important here is that it is set with absolute conviction, and Finnish conviction at that. Sibelius was expressing intense pride in his native Finland, by means of a text (to which he was subsequently to return) in the Finnish language, at a time when the country was dominated by Russia, and Swedish was the official language. So the emergence of nationalist sentiment is crucially important in appreciating Kullervo, the story of a mythological character with magical powers who falls from grace, seduces a woman who turns out to be his sister, and eventually commits suicide.
Essa-Pekka Salonen is obviously on home territory with this score, and it was impossible not to be carried along with the performance from beginning to end. If he has occasionally been described as “cool” there was certainly no evidence of it here, and this was an absolutely terrific performance; the Philharmonia was faultless and the Orphei Drängar male chorus, flown in from Sweden, simply stunning. Monica Groop and Jukka Rasilainen, from Finland, had to stand with nothing to do for long periods but when their moments came, they too were well matched for their roles, despite vocal writing that is perhaps not the strongest aspect of the score. Rasilainen was particularly convincing in the moments of self-hate when he bemoans the shame he has brought on his whole family to the accompaniment of some wonderfully Sibelian crashing chords. Stirring stuff!
Prior to the main items on the agenda, Salonen made a heartfelt tribute to Kurt Sanderling, who was associated with the Philharmonia for many years. He dedicated the concert to the great conductor, describing Sanderling’s performances as being “the truth,” a sentiment which I heartily endorse; it was in this very hall some years ago that Sanderling first opened my eyes and ears to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, in one of the most memorable, moving and thankfully unshowy performances I have ever experienced. It was entirely fitting that Salonen and the Philharmonia treated us to an extra item – Melisande’s death from Sibelius’s Pelleas and Melisande, in which we admired the beautiful piannisimo of the muted strings.
Viktoria Mullova’s reading of the Brahms concerto was absolutely note perfect, and her tone was gloriously warm or bright by turns. This was a consummately brilliant performance, the Philharmonia complimenting the soloist with sympathy and some totally appropriate Germanic solidity. If it didn’t quite raise the roof, I’m not quite sure why not, for all the right ingredients were there, and I wouldn’t like to give the impression this was less than highly enjoyable and, in the slow movement, touching. And, all in all, this was a fabulous evening and a great start to the Philharmonia’s new season. 

Christopher Gunning

Morton Feldman, James Weeks, Andrew Hamilton;
Endymion, EXAUDI, James Weeks (conductor), Purcell Room, London, 21.09.2011 (CG)

Morton Feldman: Only (1947)
James Weeks: Inscription (world premiere) (1973)
Morton Feldman: Voices and Cello
Andrew Hamilton: Right and Wrong (world premiere)
Morton Feldman: Clarinet and String Quartet (1983)

The second of two concerts given the heading “Music for People” by the excellent Endymion Ensemble, and the terrific vocal group, EXAUDI, concentrated on works by the proudly American composer Morton Feldman (1926-1987) with two British works by younger British composers sandwiched between.
Feldman is considered to occupy an important place in American music, and is often associated with John Cage in pioneering an approach to music that has little to do with music of the past. He was one of the first to employ indeterminate techniques, in which rhythms and/or pitches are interpreted freely by the performers; consequently some of his scores employ graphics rather than conventional notation systems. He found inspiration among artists such as Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko, and the abstract expressionist painters in general, while it was the music of Anton Webern which made a profound effect and set him on his revolutionary course. Feldman’s later music was fully notated, and some works are extremely long; we had samples of those tonight, though not his String quartet no 2 which lasts for six hours!
To start the concert the delightful Juliet Fraser sang Only with a haunting tone and perfectly sure intonation. This is a very short setting of the Rilke poem, composed when Feldman was only 21, and is largely in the Dorian mode with some telling ‘foreign’ notes. Without a break we were thrust into James Weeks’ Inscription, for two female and two male singers, and string quartet. It is a setting of a text by Fernando Pessoa, “all work is futile, and futile is all work.” Weeks employs high register clusters to good effect, and there is some fine writing for both singers and instrumentalists, but unfortunately it rather outstays its welcome for those not fully attuned to music which hardly develops over a long period, and it became somewhat tiring.
Feldman’s Voices and Cello, with two female voices and a lone cello, is one of Feldman’s more static pieces, employing clusters and chromatic movement – delicate, soft and strange, it almost stops several times. It was beautifully performed, although in this, and some other pieces, one would have preferred a more spacial acoustic than the Purcell Room offers.
Andrew Hamilton’s Right and Wrong was something of a blessed relief after so much quietly static music. A setting of a text from The Untroubled Mind by Agnes Martin, this is exciting, dynamic music, and complex in an effective way. One admired not only the composer’s considerable skill, but also the extraordinary virtuosity of the Exaudi singers and Endymion players, for whom this piece is a brilliant showcase.
Following the interval we were back in Feldman territory with his late Clarinet and String Quartet. At over forty minutes, this is one of his substantial works, and it’s also an exercise in maintaining a consistent atmosphere over a long span. Devotees find enormous depths in this and other late works; dissonant clusters and highly repetitive short phrases (there is no melody as such) continue ad infinitum, and sympathetic souls lose themselves in the quietly hypnotic quality of it all. I’m afraid my reaction is slightly different. For me this was close to torture, and possibly the most tedious listening experience I have ever subjected myself to. I counted the spotlights on the ceiling, the planks of wood on the platform, the number of seats per row, praying that it would end. I mused that it was the Ennaudi of “serious” music (will someone please explain the success of Ennaudi?) and longed for something dramatic or at least interesting to happen. Nevertheless, no blame should be ascribed to the wonderfully sensitive clarinetist (Mark van de Wiel) or the lovely quartet from Endymion; their devotion to the music was obvious, and maintaining the required level of concentration and precision cannot be easy.
Is Feldman’s music vitally important, or no more than a curious backwater? I know what I think, but there remain plenty who would sharply disagree, and at least Endymion and Exaudi should be congratulated on bringing his work to our attention again, and, perhaps even more importantly, commissioning and performing the new works heard over these two concerts.

Christopher Gunning