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

Arvo Pärt, Joanna Bailie, Philip Venables;  Endymion, EXAUDI, Simon Wall (tenor), James Weeks (conductor), Purcell Room, London, 18.09.2011 (CG) 

Arvo Pärt: Fratres (version for string quartet) (1977, rearranged later)
Joanna Bailie: Artificial Environment No.6 (World premiere)
Arvo Pärt: Wallfahrtslied (Pilgrim's Song) version for tenor/baritone & string quartet (1984/2001)
Philip Venables: numbers 76-80: Tristan und Isolde (World premiere)
Arvo Pärt: Summa (version for string quartet) (1977/1991)
Arvo Pärt: Stabat mater (1985)

This was the first of two concerts by the enterprising Endymion Ensemble, and the equally adventurous vocal group, EXAUDI, under the heading "Music for People." Why the title, you may ask? Is there music composed for non-human animals? For gods and angels, yes, but surely all composers write for people...so the explanation has to be to do with the style of music performed here, which in different ways conforms to the "new simplicity" promulgated by certain minimalists, and the later works of the Estonian composer, Arvo Pärt in particular - although Pärt himself doesn’t consider himself to be a minimalist, and dislikes being labeled at all.  
You either love or hate this approach to music, but I'll come back to that later. For now we only need to know that Pärt came to his later style of composing after using various contemporary styles and having grown dissatisfied with the complexity of them. It is the absolute opposite of, and a reaction against, anything descended from Shoenberg's atonal or twelve-note methods which had ruled the roost in most contemporary circles for so long, and had alienated many music lovers. The opening work, Fratres, is a case in point. It exists in umpteen different versions for various ensembles, perhaps the best known being one for string orchestra, and structurally it consists of several episodes separated by a very simple repeating rhythmic leitmotif. In tonight’s version for string quartet, the second violinist is required to play a perfect fifth drone throughout, and after the opening leitmotif, the other players weave their parts in harmonics. These were not quite secure in tonight’s performance, but never mind, things became far more confident as the piece progressed into more normal registers and the episodes became more expressive. But you have to use words like “expressive” rather carefully. The piece never changes dramatically, but flows along at the same tempo with the same rate of movement. It is sad, modal, and altogether bleak; fans revel in its quiet peacefulness. 

In Joanna Bailie’s Artificial Environment No.6, the quartet was joined by two singers from EXAUDI, and a prepared tape. It was a little difficult to make sense of the somewhat pretentious programme note, but we were prepared for motorway noises and birdsong, and heard both very clearly, the roar or drone of the former frequently dominating the proceedings. A spoken text appeared and disappeared, and notes from the tape were picked up by the two singers and the string quartet. What we ended up with was a collage of effects separated by periods of silence; effective in its way of creating a rather mesmeric sound picture, but lacking a strong musical idea.

Pärt’s Wallfahrtslied (Pilgrim's Song) is a setting for tenor (or baritone) and string quartet of Psalm 121. It’s main oddity is that the Psalm is intoned on one of two notes, while the quartet provides all the musical interest. Endymion and Simon Wall performed beautifully; and you either find enormous spirituality in the work or, dare I say, find it frankly somewhat boring after a while. 

Numbers 76-80: Tristan und Isolde, by Philip Venables, began in a striking fashion with the quartet bashing out perfect fifths fortissimo; as the piece develops the excellent EXAUDI singers spoke most of Simon Howard’s strangely exciting if rather baffling poem. There’s genuine wit here, and pathos, and really terrifically flamboyant writing for the instrumentalists. What a thrilling moment there was when the singers suddenly burst into song rather than the spoken word! This composer is gaining a great reputation for original and sometimes quite brutally exhilarating music, and it’s well worth watching out for him.

Pärt’s Summa was originally composed in 1978 as a setting for voices and organ of the Credo (“We believe in one God”) and later rearranged for string quartet stripped of its text. Admirer’s love the timelessness and mystery of the haunting modal harmonies; I was struck by its similarities to aspects of Vaughan Williams’s work, especially in its modality, though it has to be said that VW would never have continued in precisely the same vein for so long, and it is the very lack of dramatic direction which gives this music its special “spiritual” quality.

And so to the major work of the evening - Pärt’s Stabat Mater. In this work, Pärt’s allegiance to the Russian Orthodox Church becomes particularly apparent; also, some of the music seems to hark back to something akin to Gregorian chant. It is scored for violin, viola and cello, with two female and one male singer. There was no doubting the sincerity and effectiveness of the performance and Pärt’s own pilgrims, clearly in evidence in the audience, must have been deeply moved by it. As for me, I needed to clear out my ears with some healthily human dissonant Bartok afterwards. There’s so much I can take of music in a single key with little contrast or light relief, and this was just too much.

Christopher Gunning 

Prokofiev, Dutilleux: Leonadas Kavakos (violin), London Symphony Orchestra, Valery Gergiev (conductor), Royal Albert Hall, 23.08.2011 (CG) 

Prokofiev: Symphony no 1 in D (“Classical”) Op 25 (1916)
Henri  Dutilleux:  L’Arbre des Songes  (1985)
Henri  Dutilleux: Slava’s Fanfare (1977)
Prokofiev: Symphony no 5 in Bb Op 100 (1944)

The two composers featured tonight are two of Gergiev’s favourites; he has performed and recorded Prokofiev’s works extensively, and has been making a welcome feature of performing Dutilleux’s music too. In all the works on tonight’s schedule, therefore, the LSO and its chief conductor should be well rehearsed.

It was a little disappointing to find Gergiev with his head in the score for Prokofiev’s “Classical” symphony, then, and even more disappointing to find the first movement being taken rather clumsily, and certainly well on the slow side of allegro. The ensemble playing was noticeably a little imprecise – not surprising because Gergiev seems to think it okay to shake his fingers in the air rather than provide the splendid LSO with a firm beat in music which demands the utmost precision. Things fared a little better in the second movement which was not without charm, but sank into ponderousness again with the third. The breakneck speed of the final movement could perhaps have been breathlessly exciting had Gergiev given the orchestra a really firm beat, and the LSO certainly deserve praise for keeping the tempo going at such a lick, but once again there was a lot of disconcerting shaking of fingers and not much direction, and finally I felt it was far too rushed to be anything but rather thrown-away. The performance was not without some strong points; there were some individually delightful contributions from the woodwind, and one sensed that there was a superb performance just around the corner. How frustrating!

Dutilleux fared much better, as one might expect with the outstanding violinist, Leonadas Kavakos, on stage for L’Arbre des Songes. Although dressed in a designer suit and now with copious amounts of jet-black hair, he is naturally modest and plays with astonishing musicality – his tone in this work was not massive, but absolutely convincing in its sense of line, phrase and sure intonation. This has long been a favourite work of mine, with its exotic orchestral colours breathing everything French, and the LSO rose to the occasion with superbly judged interplaying between soloist and orchestra, and a particularly outstanding contribution from Christine Pendrill in the notoriously difficult oboe d’amore solos. How the piece constantly unfolds its tree of dreams with a continual development of melodic phrases, always surprising yet somehow logical, is a source of wonder. Moreover, the orchestration of this piece, an integral part of the composition of course, is absolutely gorgeous; sensuously beautiful, but frequently acidic – rather like a superb Sancerre or Montrachet with twists of lemon from the cimbalom and delicately tinkling percussion. A delightful surprise was the crystal clarity with which everything sounded in the often chaotic acoustic of the Albert Hall. Fabulous music, superbly performed. 

The rarely performed Slava’s Fanfare, composed for the 70th birthday of Mstislav Rostropovich, proved to have many of Dutilleux’s hallmarks – perhaps a fanfare that only Dutilleux could write. A lot of interplay between the trumpets and trombones precedes a brief reference to Dvorak’s Cello Concerto – and then suddenly it’s all over. An interesting four-minute novelty, brief and very much to the point.

The Fifth Symphony of Prokofiev, a big undertaking for any orchestra or conductor, was described by Prokofiev as "a hymn to free and happy Man, to his mighty powers, his pure and noble spirit." He added that it clamoured for expression - “it filled my soul." Composed towards the end of the 2nd World War, in a safe place provided by the State, it is the composer’s reaction to world events; nevertheless, it is also tight in its construction, and is by turns darkly dramatic, nostalgically emotional, and ironically witty.
It is no mean feat to judge the tempi and character of the various trains of thought effectively; this performance certainly had impressive moments of suitably dark drama and there was much to admire in the LSO’s characteristically incisive performance generally. But here again, Gergiev’s waffly rather than sure direction provided too many opportunities for the orchestra to break ranks. The horns came adrift near the beginning, and there were other brief moments of uncertainty. This would not happen in other hands and although one cannot question Gergiev’s seriousness of purpose and magnetic presence, question marks concerning the basic essential function of a conductor continue to trouble this reviewer very deeply. Why stand there shaking and waving your fingers when the orchestra desperately needs a proper BEAT??? Gergiev has become simply one of the most irritating conductors to watch and how an orchestra follows him remains a mystery to me. Extraordinary, considering his starry status. 

Christopher Gunning

Sir Richard Rodney Bennett, Henri Dutilleux, Elizabeth Maconchy: Paul  Silverthorne (viola), London Sinfonietta, Nicholas  Collon (conductor), Cadogan Hall, 13.8.2011 (CG)  

Richard Rodney Bennett: Dream Dancing  (1986)
Henri  Dutilleux: Les citations (1985-1990)
Maconchy:  Romanza (1979)
Richard Rodney Bennett: Jazz Calendar (1964)

Sir Richard Rodney Bennett is celebrating his 75th birthday this year, and this was one of two Proms to include his music, the other being the Film Music Prom on August 12th, in which his music for “Murder on the Orient Express” was included. I can’t help feeling it a great pity the BBC couldn’t have pulled out some more stops for this extraordinarily talented composer; could we not have had one of his three symphonies, or one of his many concertos, or even one of his works for choir and orchestra, such as Epithalamion? One is spoilt for choice; Bennett has displayed an almost Mozartean prolificacy and counts as one of the most natural-born composers ever. Nowadays he prefers to live in New York, and loves to play and sing jazz and accompany his favourite singers, and consequently his output as a composer has slowed. Interestingly, it has also undergone a stylistic change; his music is more tonally based and less strident than it was following his studies with Pierre Boulez. Bennett would say he’s “grown up,” but it would be a terrible shame to dismiss the music he wrote through the 70’s and 80’s - it is choc-a-bloc full of inventive expression and yet always eminently playable and approachable. Let’s not forget the fantastic impression his early opera The Ledge made in 1961, or The Mines of Sulphur in 1963, in which he developed an expressionist technique sometimes reminiscent of Alban Berg, or the three symphonies, which demonstrate his development as a symphonic composer.

If one has to be content with relatively small mercies, this afternoon’s concert at least presented two very different sides of Bennett’s output; Dream Dancing is one of his “serious” works from the mid 80’s whereas Jazz Calendar is a set of jazzy pieces for an ensemble of 12 jazz players, composed to a commission from the BBC.  

Bennett’s starting point for Dream Dancing was the later music of Debussy, which he has always loved. The ensemble, consisting of flute, oboe/cor anglais, clarinet/bass clarinet, bassoon, horn, trumpet, harpsichord,  piano/celesta, harp, violin, viola, cello and double bass, is even inspired by Debussy’s late sonatas; the French composer had intended to write a series of six sonatas for small chamber groups, but only finished three. Bennett includes the intended instruments of the unwritten pieces, as well as the finished works. There are other influences of Debussy pervading Bennett’s score – Syrinx for solo flute, and reminiscences of other pieces, such as Masques (1904) which provides the rhythmic basis of the second movement. But this music doesn’t sound like Debussy; it is composed in Bennett’s freely wandering semi-atonal style, which, being the superb musician he is, always has harmony and harmonic momentum. The performance was excellent from the fluently autumnal nature of the first movement to the more jumpy, rhythmic character of the second, and Sir Richard, sitting in the audience, looked very happy.

The French theme continued with the second piece; Dutilleux composed the first part of Les Citations in 1985 when composer-in-residence at the Aldeburgh Festival, and it contains a brief reference to Peter Grimes by way of homage to Peter Pears. Then, in 1990, he composed the second movement, and added a double bass to the instrumental ensemble of oboe, percussion and harpsichord. There is a quotation from one of Dutilleux’s composer-colleagues who was killed in action during World War II, Jehan Alain, and another quotation from a theme and variations by Alain with a motif ascribed to Janequin used in one of his organ pieces. This seldom performed piece makes considerable demands of the four players. It is composed with Dutilleux’s acute ear much in evidence, and, as always with Dutilleux, there is plenty for the listener to hang on to, even when the music becomes extremely intense. Gareth Hulse negotiated the extraordinarily difficult oboe part with panache, and the ensemble between all four players was immaculate; it was a marvellous performance.

Next came an opportunity for Paul Silverthorne to display his command of the viola in the hugely neglected Elizabeth Maconchy’s Romanza, with a chamber ensemble of five wind instruments with string quartet and double bass. Bennett has enduring respect and admiration for Maconchy’s music, and the two became good friends until her death in 1994. Here we were in a predominantly “autumnal” mood again, the viola weaving long expressive lines over a richly orchestrated backdrop, but there’s much variety here too, and a good deal of contrapuntal writing. It is difficult to understand why Maconchy’s music is not better known – it is attractive, expressive, and superbly crafted. For those who do not know the string quartets (there are no less than thirteen) I can thoroughly recommend them!

All change on the platform, and now the London Sinfonietta suddenly became an ensemble of top London jazz musicians. Jazz Calendar is in seven movements inspired by the nursery poem “Monday’s Child” and became one of Sir Richard’s best known works when it was taken up in 1968 by Sir Frederick Ashton and the Royal Ballet, and performed at the Royal Opera House for about ten years. Now on the platform and in conversation with Christopher Cook, the composer explained how he admired the arranging skills of Marty Paich and Gil Evans, and wanted to incorporate some of their techniques into his piece. It’s not crossover music; it has nothing to do with the movement called “Third Stream,” which sought to combine the best of classical and jazz; it is straight-ahead jazz of a relatively comfortable kind which a great many people find hugely enjoyable. It’s expertly done, and this afternoon it was expertly played. And it was lovely to see a beaming Sir Richard on the platform afterwards receiving the enormously enthusiastic applause.

Christopher Gunning

Honegger, Bridge, Berg, Castiglioni and Debussy: Claire Booth (soprano), BBC Symphony Orchestra, Oliver Knussen (conductor), Royal Albert Hall, 29.7.2011 (CG)

Honegger:  Pacific 231 (1923), Pastorale d’été (1920)
Bridge: There is a willow grows aslant a brook (1927)
Berg: Der Wein (1929)
Castiglioni: Inverno in-ver (1973, revised 1978) 
Debussy: La Mer (1903-5)

This is just the sort of programming one can thank the Proms and Oliver Knussen for; only one real warhorse, and the rest of the programme made up of diverse but complimentary works seldom given an airing nowadays. Four items were composed during the twenties, and it is interesting to observe the different paths their composers were treading.

Arthur Honegger was of Swiss parentage, but had also studied in Paris and became a prominent member of the group of composers known as “Les Six.” He developed a lifelong love of counterpoint, a rugged seriousness permeating a good deal of his music. However, he also possessed a strongly pictorial imagination, and this enabled him to become a celebrated film composer when the bank balance needed extra input. Pacific 231 made him a popular figure, and it’s not hard to see why; it is a clever evocation of a railway locomotive, but considerably more than just that. To Honegger (and any railway enthusiast!) the mighty engine represented all that was exciting about industrial development in general and human achievement in particular. It is a wildly effective piece, and Knussen’s control of tempi as the locomotive gathers speed was spot-on. One might have wished for a little more raw energy, perhaps, but that would be a minor quibble, and this made a great concert opener.

The enormous range of Honegger’s output was illustrated by the next piece, Pastorale d’été, in that here we have a quietly intimate work for a small chamber orchestra with single woodwind and a lone French Horn, as opposed to the large scale of the preceding work. You can’t imagine a greater contrast with Pacific 231, or, indeed, some of Honegger’s earlier music. Gone is any suggestion of the atonality which had permeated his ballet of 1918, Le dit des jeux du monde, and gone, too, is the muscular drama of Pacific 231. This lovely piece, with its rustling strings developing into a dance-like section with perky woodwind figures, and then subsiding into a reflective combination of both, was given a beautifully shaped performance.

And so to Frank Bridge’s There is a willow grows aslant a brook which is scored for a similarly small orchestra. Bridge, always keenly interested in musical developments both at home and abroad, employs a chromatic idiom showing his interest in bitonality and even the music of the second Viennese school. Shakespeare’s Hamlet (Gertrude’s speech in act 4) provides the title, the theme being Ophelia’s death, and the music is imbued with watery features and a darkness expressive of ominously gathering gloom. It is a perfect miniature. Once again, the performance was rapturously quiet and sensitive under Knussen’s careful baton, with some outstanding woodwind playing.

To end part one, Alban Berg’s Der Wein demonstrated the composer’s development of Schoenberg’s 12-note system, with plenty of tonal references. It was composed during his work on the unfinished opera Lulu, and shares a similar musical idiom. The poetry is by Baudelaire, and is taken from “Le Vin,” a cycle expressing wine’s properties in helping us to escape from the material world. Berg – a real romantic in life as well as music – had an ultimately painful affair with the wife of an industrialist, and heartache and an autumnal melancholy permeates the music as the vocal line soars above the richly orchestrated tapestry beneath. Some may have preferred a rather more weighty performance than Claire Booth’s, but I for one found it nevertheless both beautiful and moving. The balance between voice and orchestra was also generally very well handled in the cavernous Albert Hall, with neither dominating the other overly.

Moving away from the twenties, part two opened with Inverno in-ver by the Italian composer, Castiglioni. This is winter music, and winter music par excellence. The orchestration is absolutely fascinating; nearly always in an extremely high register, it consists of eleven separate pieces exploring various kinds of iciness. Tinkly notes and trills from the piano, celesta, glockenspiel, vibraphone, harp, tubular bells, with string harmonics and chattering woodwinds occupy much of the soundscape, and it’s all tremendously imaginative. Castiglioni employs his vivid and original aural imagination to the full. There are references to Bach, popular songs, and dances, but all are brief and in some way distorted or mixed up with contemporary devices. At times the music almost stands still – at others it is very active. And it is both extraordinary and extraordinarily beautiful. It appeared to be an excellent performance.

Finally, “warhorse” time; but “La Mer” proved to be no inappropriate bedfellow with the curiosities so far played. Following the roar of the railway engines at the start, the whole programme had largely centred around music exquisitely conceived and orchestrated, and I daresay all the composers so far presented would have doffed their caps to M. Debussy. So we revelled in the dawn at sea, the lapping waves, the howling winds and magisterial beauty of the briny, and we went home with ears and minds refreshed by vivid performances of some wonderful music.

Christopher Gunning

Debussy, Dutilleux and Ravel: Lynn Harrell (cello), Edinburgh Festival Chorus, BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, Donald Runnicles (conductor), Royal Albert Hall, 3.7.2011 (CG)

Debussy: Prélude à L’après-midi d’un faune (1891-4)
Henri Dutilleux: 'Tout un monde lointain...' (1967-70)
Ravel: Boléro (1928), Daphnis and Chloë – complete ballet (1909-12)

The Proms audience is the best in the whole world, so we are led to believe. Er – actually, no it isn’t. Yes it is great to see the Albert Hall almost full for a programme of French music, some of it very well known indeed (Ravel’s Bolero, and Debussy’s Prélude à L’après-midi d’un faune) and some of it hardly known at all to general concert goers (the Dutilleux) but does the audience know how to behave? On the basis of tonight’s experience, I have to say, resoundingly, “no!”

Donald Runnicles came on, and waited for silence. It never quite came, so the languid flute solo of L’après-midi was accompanied by somebody behind me dropping a particularly large object, clatter, clatter, clatter, and the rest of the opening was virtually ruined by various outbreaks of the unstifled coughing which has become a real bugbear of this season’s Proms. It was an awful pity, because from what I could hear the piece was played with real attention to dynamics and tone colour, and the woodwind solos were beautifully done. Runnicles paced the music well – neither too fast or slow, and it could have been so enjoyable if only the audience would have allowed us to hear it without indiscreet interruptions every couple of bars.

Even more coughing was to accompany the great American cellist, Lynn Harrell, in his completely authoritative performance of the Dutilleux. It is heart-warming to see Dutilleux, now in his 95th year, being programmed more frequently, for there can be little doubt that he is now properly recognised as France’s leading composer, and the true successor to both Ravel and Debussy. He shares with them a sensuousness and a love of orchestral colour, although of course the nuts and bolts of his language are very different. Above all, Dutilleux has the most phenomenal ear; even when the music becomes fearsomely complex there are reference points harmonically, so that the listener need never lose his or her way. It is enthralling stuff.

There are five movements; Enigme, Regard, Houles, Miroirs, and Hymne. The second and fourth are slow, while the first and fifth are more dynamic. The central movement takes material from the first and develops it, and further developments take place in the last. What emerges is akin to an overall mirror-like shape, and Dutilleux’s fascination with mirrors is also evident in the internal developments of his material; frequently, in Dutilleux, one finds a series of notes repeated, only in reverse. But nothing in his music is ever “pat,” and nothing is ever quite what it seems; in other words, there is always something more for Dutilleux to do with his material; it’s ever-changing. But lest I’m making this sound like a continual series of intellectual processes, let’s put any such ideas to rest immediately; Dutilleux’s music, in this piece as well as his work generally, possesses enormous beauty, excitement, and immediacy. You can listen to it, knowing nothing of his methods, and thoroughly enjoy it.

And the audience, despite their coughs and wheezes, certainly warmed to Lynn Harrell’s performance tonight. Dutilleux makes fierce demands of the soloist (it was originally commissioned by Rostropovich) but is relatively kind in terms of balance; the problems of setting one solo cello against a symphony orchestra are dealt with effectively, and Runnicles and his Scottish crew partnered the soloist admirably. Harrell responded to his warm reception with a short encore of unaccompanied Bach, beautifully played, and with marginally less coughing.

An interval would have been welcome after this, but instead we had to sit through what can only be described as an appalling failure. The snare drum at the beginning of Ravel’s Bolero was completely inaudible! No, it was not because of the coughers, although they were busily continuing with their own concerto, it was because the snare drummer had presumably been directed to play as quietly as possible. The result? Silence - apart from cough, cough, cough. Then, when the first flute arrived with the famous tune, it quickly emerged that the tempo was too fast! And still there was no evidence of the drum, and the cello pizzicati were also inaudible! What a mess! Admittedly, there have been wide variations of tempo in various performances and recordings; durations have varied between 13 minutes (Toscanini) and 18 minutes (Ravel’s friend, Pedro de Freitas Branco) but Ravel himself preferred 60-66BPM, with a duration of about 15 minutes, and that’s surely what it should be; Runicles was nearer 76BPM. By the time we eventually heard the snare drum, things were unfortunately beyond redemption and with no real sense of the insistent hypnotic rhythm which is the very backbone of the piece, the best thing to do was to get outside and hope that things after the interval would fare better. I’ve since listened to the broadcast, and with the benefit of microphones you CAN just hear the snare drum and the celli pizzicato, but they’re still too quiet. The sound quality of the recorded concert is, incidentally, otherwise rather unflattering, though the coughs are well reproduced...

This reviewer was now decidedly nervous. Daphnis and Chloë is one of my favourite works. I have spent hours and hours pouring over the intricate orchestration in wonder at how every single effect works so brilliantly. And it isn’t just a feat of orchestration – the music itself is so consistently inspired and so darned gorgeous! I have also come to realise that it is one of the most difficult scores to get right in performance, with any number of awkward corners for the conductor, and a sense of where each phrase is heading constantly needed.

The audience coughed and shuffled its way through the first hushed bars, then the choir entered pianissimo, and – magic! From then on we were transported on the most enchanting journey through Ravel’s miraculous score and I could hardly fault a single thing. The choir continued to bewitch, the woodwind sang their solos captivatingly, the brass were spot-on, and the strings were resplendent or quietly beguiling as occasion demanded. The famous daybreak scene had me choking back tears, and the Danse General at the end had me wanting to get up and shout. The unaccompanied choral section in the middle was perfectly in tune and perfectly eerie too – incidentally, how could anyone ever think of performing this music without the wordless choir???

I would not quarrel with any of Runnicles’s tempi, apart from some of the more affecting moments perhaps being decidedly on the brisk side. The piece, long at 55 minutes, certainly works for me, although I am aware that others prefer the two orchestral suites which Ravel prepared. For my part, I vastly prefer to hear the whole thing because the first suite misses out far too much of the great music which follows, and the second suite feels somewhat unbalanced. And that daybreak scene, with which the second suite commences, is so wondrously effective coming after the desolate music which precedes it in the full version. Curiously, the only staged performance I’ve ever seen, at Covent Garden, did not work so well; for once I think it was a question of the choreography not living up to the standard of the music. Maybe it’s so complete in itself that anything visual is rendered superfluous?

As an aside to all this, if you haven’t already done so, may I suggest a visit to the Ravel museum at Montfort l’Amaury? It is in a lovely little house, purchased by Ravel in 1921, and this is the place where he wrote the two piano concertos and L'Enfant et les sortilèges  among other works. It is full of Ravellian idiosyncrasies – musical boxes, a hidden music library, a downstairs bedroom with upside-down pillars, and a charming little garden. I was shown over the house by a lady who knew Ravel when she was a child, and I even attempted to play Ravel on Ravel’s piano. For anyone who loves his music as I do, it is a deeply affecting experience to be there. http://website.lineone.net/~jdspiers/belved.htm

Christopher Gunning

Elgar, Grainger, and Richard Strauss: Tasmin  Little (violin), BBC Singers, BBC Symphony Orchestra,  Sir  Andrew  Davis (conductor), Royal Albert Hall, 2.7.2011 (CG)

Elgar: There is sweet music op. 53 no. 1 (1907)
Elgar: Violin Concerto in B Minor op. 61 (1909-10)
Grainger: Irish Tune from County Derry (1902, arr. 1912)
Grainger: Suite 'In a Nutshell'  (1916) - first performance at the Proms.
Richard  Strauss: Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche op. 28 (1894-5)

When thinking about Elgar’s Violin Concerto, my mind goes back to the BBC’s Maida Vale studios where, back in the 60’s, I used to attend the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s Sunday afternoon concerts. The violinist on one particular occasion was Alan Loveday, who had emigrated from New Zealand as a child prodigy and later became a leading member of Neville Marriner’s St Martins in the Fields. His performance of the Elgar concerto, seemingly not available on record, moved me profoundly and I believe he had mastered the work’s central emotional character – grandness coupled with an all-important heart-rending sweetness. Later, I got to know Yehudi Menuhin’s famous recording of 1932, with the composer conducting, and several other interpretations. A glance at a record catalogue now reveals that this concerto is one of the most recorded; American, Russian, European, Japanese, and Korean violinists tackle it, including some extremely famous names; Heifitz, Kyung Wha Chung, Nigel Kennedy, and Zukerman to name but four. And the first performance was given by the work’s dedicatee, no less a figure than the legendary Fritz Kreisler, who had asked Elgar to write him a concerto in 1907. Even when Elgar’s work has been out of fashion, the concerto has continued to be played. It has been partially eclipsed, periodically, by the much later Cello Concerto of 1919, but it is probable that it remained Elgar’s own favourite, and not only because the first performance of the Cello Concerto was apparently under rehearsed and shambolic.

The concerto is a challenge on many, many levels; a gigantic piece, a real concerto of Brahmsian proportions. It demands complete virtuosity in the fiery passages, but also extreme musical sensitivity, and the various interpretations available tend to emphasise the brilliant at the partial expense of the quietly emotional, or vice-versa.  Fortunately for us, there were no disappointments tonight; Tasmin Little has already recorded the concerto, clearly knows it backwards, and this was completely confident playing, and not just technically so – she handled the gorgeously romantic passages with a marvellously warm tone, always expressive but never sentimental, and her tempi seemed, to this listener, just right. If anything, she majored on the introspective, but this is not to suggest that her command of the difficult, dramatic passages was ever less than brilliant. In all this she was partnered quite excellently by Andrew Davis who drew from the BBC Symphony Orchestra strength in the more robust orchestral passages, as well as a touching tenderness in the quieter moments. The slow movement was a pure delight – not too slow but simply hushed and softly expressive – and it rose to its impassioned climax perfectly naturally. For me, the heart of the work lies in the extraordinary cadenza towards the very end of the work, as the violin remembers themes from earlier and the strings of the orchestra throb with pizzicato tremolando. It is one of Elgar’s most touching, original, and effective passages, and tonight it was utterly spellbinding. What superb music making.

The concert had opened with small scale Elgar; There is sweet music, is one of his ‘choral songs,’ composed for choral societies and festivals, and is remarkable in that the male singers are notated in G major, but the female in A flat major; Elgar was thus paving the way for other composers to take up the cudgels of polytonality. It is a sleepy piece with, apparently, 5/4 and 10/4 time signatures helping to produce a somewhat odd ‘blurred’ effect. It was well done by the BBC Singers, and a million miles in style and content from the grandeur of the concerto to follow. Rather interesting programme planning, too, to open with Elgar’s private world before embarking on the bigger, more public statement.

Further oddities were provided by the two pieces by Percy Grainger, the first of these being a short setting sung by the BBC Singers of the famous “Londonderry Air.” This was a Proms favourite for several years following its first performance by Grainger himself in 1913, and it has recently been revived. Personally I find it rather unremarkable, but the same could not be said of the second item, “In a Nutshell,” which proved to be something of a revelation. Grainger almost always used folksong as the basis of his work, but here there is almost none. Moreover, the music and especially the orchestration of it, is highly unusual and original. The four movements are sharply contrasted, but achieve some measure of unity by the use of some extraordinary percussion instruments, and a common theme of diversity, central to Grainger’s thinking. The first, Arrival Platform Humlet, is supposed to represent the sort of thing one might hum on a station platform waiting for one’s sweetheart to arrive from foreign parts; it’s very lively and is essentially a monody orchestrated for various instrumental groups. (Grainger even prepared an alternative version for solo viola alone!) The second, Gay but wistful, is an evocation of the music hall – and yes, it’s gay but wistful. The third, Pastorale, is the longest and most interesting; after a folk-like melody played on the oboe, things become progressively disturbed, with cross-rhythms and bitonality much in evidence, as well as some strange specially manufactured tuned percussion instruments. It is terrifically exciting before it settles into a rather Scriabin’esque quiet ending. The last movement, which bears the title The ‘Gum Sucker’s’ March, refers to the practice of some natives of the state of Victoria, Australia, of sucking the gum from eucalyptus leaves to provide refreshment from the great heat. It is short and sweet and jolly, and sounded quite American to me. In fact it struck me that the whole work has some American tinges, and I was frequently reminded of Aaron Copland, or perhaps the jazzy pieces by Constant Lambert. Davis and the BBCSO performed this music, in celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the unjustly neglected composer’s death, with huge panache.

Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche, Strauss’s fifth large tone poem, has always been a concert favourite. Davis’s was a terrific performance, with the BBCSO once again excelling in all departments. Fun, quirky, and a showpiece for almost everyone taking part, it was great to hear all of Strauss’s kaleidoscopic colours presented so vividly, and the intricate counterpoint so clearly defined. Michael Bryant’s solo violin, Andrew Webster’s E flat clarinet, and Nicholas Korth’s principal horn deserve special mention, but everyone taking part helped to confirm that the BBCSO is a terrific orchestra currently at the very top of its game.

A brilliant concert, then, marred for me by two niggles:

Niggle one: the coughing at this year’s Proms is out of control. At times you begin to wonder if the entire audience needs to visit the A & E department of the nearest hospital, but when you observe the coughers more closely, you realise that mostly they’re idle coughs with no attempt whatever at stifling. It is time for an announcement before each concert asking people not to cough unless absolutely necessary, and then please to cough into a handkerchief, a coat sleeve or ANYTHING!

Niggle two: There was clapping between each movement of the Elgar concerto, and “In a Nutshell.”  It is unnecessary, interrupts any continuity of thought, and is not what the composer wanted. So I also think it’s time for an announcement suggesting that applause be saved until the very end of each work.

Christopher Gunning