Radio 3 played this at me on my drive home just now and it cheered me the hell up. Hope it does the same for you.
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Thursday, September 23, 2021
Sunday, October 05, 2014
Parp, Squeak, Clinky-Clank, Bong …
It's BritSinf time again.
Stop yawning at the back. I know … same old post-gig euphoria with some fashion notes thrown in. I'll spare you this time and keep it short.
Best dress: Miranda Dale in a black lace gilet over an illegally low cut dress, the lower part of which appeared to be constructed from ripped spider webs and madness.
As per, the distaff contingent laughed the "black formal" tradition out of court, looking not unlike a mad witch's convention.
Best shoes: this evening's soloist, Nick Daniel: black Oxfords with lipstick pink soles and laces.
Right … The music:
First up: to lull any newbies into a false sense of security, a delightful little Mozart adagio arranged for strings and cor anglais. Lovely.
Look out … it's a BritSinf gig so expect to be startled.
It's Geörgy Kurtág time.
Two short and utterly beautiful pieces: Doodles for András Mihály's Birthday, followed by In Memoriam András Mihály, arranged for piano and strings by regular BritSinf collaborator and one of my personal deities, Thomas Adès. Divers instruments dotted around the stage and the auditorium, in amongst the audience. Weird, cacophonic beauty. I loved it.
Well, that certainly left a few mouths gaping. Awesome.
Now for some show-stopping fun: John Adams' classic Shaker Loops. The Brits have done the full orchestral version before so this time they gave us the septet. There ain't nowhere to hide when there are only seven of you, but the BritSinf are masters of clarity and precision (and frenzied dancing) and this one brought the house down and the first of several encores.
A quick break for wine, chatty and walkabout …
The second half was devoted to one piece: John Tavener's Kaleidoscopes, written especially for Nick Daniel and the BritSinf. Insanely complex and not really Tavenerish at all, this is so difficult to play that nobody else has dared try it, even though it's been around since 2006.
Perhaps only Heinz Holliger in his younger days would have the oboe chops to match Nick Daniel but I can't think of anyone else.
Multi-octave leaps, sustained and intensely fast legato passages that require a masterclass in circular breathing (he gave us a demo in the pre-concert chat, blowing a continuous oboe-player's raspberry for bloody ages, much to our mirth) and more towelling down than fat Elvis in his pomp.
And it's not just the oboe that's tricky. Nick stalks centre stage surrounded by four string quartets at the points of the compass, two double basses and a full set of temple bells and gongs.
No conductor. Four quartets playing in different time signatures, alternating incredibly slow with INCREDIBLYFAST and hitting the sudden-death stops absolutely together every time.
You shoulda been there.
Lots of encores, well deserved.
So, the 2014-15 season has kicked off. I've got my usual seat reserved for every show so look out for more of my blather and faff.
Nighty-night.
Stop yawning at the back. I know … same old post-gig euphoria with some fashion notes thrown in. I'll spare you this time and keep it short.
Best dress: Miranda Dale in a black lace gilet over an illegally low cut dress, the lower part of which appeared to be constructed from ripped spider webs and madness.
As per, the distaff contingent laughed the "black formal" tradition out of court, looking not unlike a mad witch's convention.
Best shoes: this evening's soloist, Nick Daniel: black Oxfords with lipstick pink soles and laces.
Right … The music:
First up: to lull any newbies into a false sense of security, a delightful little Mozart adagio arranged for strings and cor anglais. Lovely.
Look out … it's a BritSinf gig so expect to be startled.
It's Geörgy Kurtág time.
Two short and utterly beautiful pieces: Doodles for András Mihály's Birthday, followed by In Memoriam András Mihály, arranged for piano and strings by regular BritSinf collaborator and one of my personal deities, Thomas Adès. Divers instruments dotted around the stage and the auditorium, in amongst the audience. Weird, cacophonic beauty. I loved it.
Well, that certainly left a few mouths gaping. Awesome.
Now for some show-stopping fun: John Adams' classic Shaker Loops. The Brits have done the full orchestral version before so this time they gave us the septet. There ain't nowhere to hide when there are only seven of you, but the BritSinf are masters of clarity and precision (and frenzied dancing) and this one brought the house down and the first of several encores.
A quick break for wine, chatty and walkabout …
The second half was devoted to one piece: John Tavener's Kaleidoscopes, written especially for Nick Daniel and the BritSinf. Insanely complex and not really Tavenerish at all, this is so difficult to play that nobody else has dared try it, even though it's been around since 2006.
Perhaps only Heinz Holliger in his younger days would have the oboe chops to match Nick Daniel but I can't think of anyone else.
Multi-octave leaps, sustained and intensely fast legato passages that require a masterclass in circular breathing (he gave us a demo in the pre-concert chat, blowing a continuous oboe-player's raspberry for bloody ages, much to our mirth) and more towelling down than fat Elvis in his pomp.
And it's not just the oboe that's tricky. Nick stalks centre stage surrounded by four string quartets at the points of the compass, two double basses and a full set of temple bells and gongs.
No conductor. Four quartets playing in different time signatures, alternating incredibly slow with INCREDIBLYFAST and hitting the sudden-death stops absolutely together every time.
You shoulda been there.
Lots of encores, well deserved.
So, the 2014-15 season has kicked off. I've got my usual seat reserved for every show so look out for more of my blather and faff.
Nighty-night.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Easter Message
And so to my regular seat for the Britten Sinfonia's Easter weekend St.John Passion.
I'll get the fashion stuff out of the way early: suffice to say the band take their usual liberties with "formal black": Jacquie Shave is wearing her calf length gladiator sandals with layers of net curtain, black lace and rags and a fascinator in her hair the size of a chicken. Miranda Dale's in that gloriously trashed crushed silk ball gown of hers that looks like it spent the afternoon inside a cement mixer and is all the more attractive for it, Claire Finnimore has her stripy clown top on and Julia Doyle (this evening's soprano) is in a period black chiffon and gold under-slip creation that would have driven Mister Darcy crazy.
The boys are all in black like extras from a gangster movie.
So … Bach's dark masterpiece: betrayal, capture, denial, interrogation, condemnation, flagellation, humiliation, crucifixion, death, burial. It's a laugh a minute, this one, but this is Easter, after all. Chocolate eggs and bunnies don't get a look in.
Having spent the weekend re-reading John Eliot Gardiner's "Music in the Castle of Heaven" (the best Bach book ever), and listening to SJPs ranging from enormous, lush, fifties orchestrations, through Britten's stark rendering, via the rise of the period instrument puritanism and culminating in John Butt's glorious reading from last year which placed the Passion in its original liturgical setting (including a downloadable one hour contemporary German sermon for the middle) I wondered just what Jacquie and the gang would do with it. They are notoriously unconventional (one reason I love them so much).
A funny and enlightening pre-concert chat involving countertenor Iestyn Davies and tenor Nicholas Mulroy (this evening's Evangelist) revealed that we were getting a stripped down, Bach-style band with no conductor, led by Jacquie at first violin. Tonally, they had gone through the score and tried various instruments for various parts, resulting in a balance of modern strings, oboes and flutes with period archlute, viola de gamba, harpsichord and that sweet little baroque organ covered in fretwork that the Bach Players use at the Octagon Chapel. The band felt that some parts sounded better on period instruments and some on modern so they balanced it out and the result was indeed gloriously light and transparent, with every note and every part seeming not so much the Britten Sinfonia's SJP but more Bach's own voice rendered as clearly as possible. Plus, of course, founders Jacquie and Nick trained with Britten and Pears so the chamber orchestra genius has rubbed off.
Rather than the usual organ continuo, they decided that Christ would have the organ and strings, the Evangelist the harpsichord and viola de gamba with cellos, "Es ist vollbracht" with just viola de gamba and the tiniest of organ washes; each singer an identifiable set of instruments tailored to their character. It worked beautifully.
Anyhoo … "HERR!" Good God, y'all: has there ever been a scarier opening to a piece than the SJP? No, there has not. The quietly twining sinister serpent lines of the woodwind and strings building dissonance upon dissonance in mysterious darkness until the tension is unbearable and then that glorious first "HERR!" Woah, Nellie! Bach's congregation must have shat themselves, especially as Bach's band were behind and above them.
Nicholas Mulroy's Evangelist was tremendous, quite a feat considering that the BritSinf had just arrived from frantic nights in London's Barbican and in Amsterdam's Concertgebouw. It's a huge part: physically and emotionally draining and at the curtain calls he was visibly trashed.
Matthew Brook was towering as Christ, a full-on Wotan for the bass arias but vulnerable and tearjerkingly real as Christ (yes, we cried); defiant yet resigned with Pilate (Eamonn Dougan - boffo), aware of the horrors to come but unwilling to change the fate his birth had inevitably triggered, the interspersed arias from Iestyn Davies and Julia Doyle only throwing the darkness into relief and intensifying it.
The chorus was genuinely terrifying in its howling mob frenzy, hounding Pilate with: "Kruezige! Kruezige!" baying for crucifixion.
Pilate's own despairing defiance of the mob with "Was ich geschrieben habe, das habe ich geschrieben." his last resistance. He turns aside and lets it happen.
The silences. The horror of Golgotha. Nobody in the packed audience dared breathe. Christ's "Siehe, das ist deine Mutter." utterly heartbreaking. And then the brief, beautiful chorale before the final breath. "Es ist vollbracht!" English doesn't have an "acht" with which to end a word but it is perfect for the silence to follow.
And into that silence Iestyn Davies' gorgeous countertenor sings Bach's lamenting aria "Es ist vollbracht" accompanied by Richard Tunnclife's plangent viola de gamba and there's not a dry eye in the house.
Matthew Brook storms back in full force for the burial arias with bass and chorus building to a climax of utter, hopeless darkness. There's no resurrection in the SJP: it stops short as any Good Friday piece should. And then, as the bleak despair envelops you those first three notes of "Ruht wohl" stop you dead and you know in an instant that Bach has achieved perfection. The next three notes bring floods of tears but also relief and hope. The woodwind are fantastic, especially the oboes, but then their voice is the perfect complement to the human singers. By the time the chorus reaches "Macht mir den Himmel auf und schließt die Hölle zu." you are wrapped in the warmth of Bach's love as Christ will be when God "opens Heaven for me and shuts the gates of Hell."
It only remains for the final chorale to tie things up, letting the audience breathe again, and then it's curtain call after curtain call.
The singers have been magnificent, the mix of period and modern instruments beautifully balanced and allowing Bach to speak more clearly than on any recorded version I have heard. The sound (in the acoustically perfect hall) far superior to the otherwise gorgeous reverberation of the Cathedral.
A triumph. Hell, I'm an atheist and it tore me to pieces.
Stumbling out into the darkness through revellers drinking and partying their own Easter away you realise the lesson has not been learned. We still arrest, torture and murder people: Guantanamo, waterboarding, extraordinary rendition to states where suspects can be brutally tortured while we look the other way, and to save us Pilate's bloody hands we no longer bother with the trial, simply sending drones to murder for us so that we do not need the guilt-trip of the legal process.
Someone needs to drag the world's "leaders" - most especially those who claim to have God on their side - into a performance of Bach's St.John Passion. If they don't learn from that, then it's all been in vain.
Happy Easter, peeps.
Click for Guardian review of the Barbican gig.
I'll get the fashion stuff out of the way early: suffice to say the band take their usual liberties with "formal black": Jacquie Shave is wearing her calf length gladiator sandals with layers of net curtain, black lace and rags and a fascinator in her hair the size of a chicken. Miranda Dale's in that gloriously trashed crushed silk ball gown of hers that looks like it spent the afternoon inside a cement mixer and is all the more attractive for it, Claire Finnimore has her stripy clown top on and Julia Doyle (this evening's soprano) is in a period black chiffon and gold under-slip creation that would have driven Mister Darcy crazy.
The boys are all in black like extras from a gangster movie.
So … Bach's dark masterpiece: betrayal, capture, denial, interrogation, condemnation, flagellation, humiliation, crucifixion, death, burial. It's a laugh a minute, this one, but this is Easter, after all. Chocolate eggs and bunnies don't get a look in.
Having spent the weekend re-reading John Eliot Gardiner's "Music in the Castle of Heaven" (the best Bach book ever), and listening to SJPs ranging from enormous, lush, fifties orchestrations, through Britten's stark rendering, via the rise of the period instrument puritanism and culminating in John Butt's glorious reading from last year which placed the Passion in its original liturgical setting (including a downloadable one hour contemporary German sermon for the middle) I wondered just what Jacquie and the gang would do with it. They are notoriously unconventional (one reason I love them so much).
A funny and enlightening pre-concert chat involving countertenor Iestyn Davies and tenor Nicholas Mulroy (this evening's Evangelist) revealed that we were getting a stripped down, Bach-style band with no conductor, led by Jacquie at first violin. Tonally, they had gone through the score and tried various instruments for various parts, resulting in a balance of modern strings, oboes and flutes with period archlute, viola de gamba, harpsichord and that sweet little baroque organ covered in fretwork that the Bach Players use at the Octagon Chapel. The band felt that some parts sounded better on period instruments and some on modern so they balanced it out and the result was indeed gloriously light and transparent, with every note and every part seeming not so much the Britten Sinfonia's SJP but more Bach's own voice rendered as clearly as possible. Plus, of course, founders Jacquie and Nick trained with Britten and Pears so the chamber orchestra genius has rubbed off.
Rather than the usual organ continuo, they decided that Christ would have the organ and strings, the Evangelist the harpsichord and viola de gamba with cellos, "Es ist vollbracht" with just viola de gamba and the tiniest of organ washes; each singer an identifiable set of instruments tailored to their character. It worked beautifully.
Anyhoo … "HERR!" Good God, y'all: has there ever been a scarier opening to a piece than the SJP? No, there has not. The quietly twining sinister serpent lines of the woodwind and strings building dissonance upon dissonance in mysterious darkness until the tension is unbearable and then that glorious first "HERR!" Woah, Nellie! Bach's congregation must have shat themselves, especially as Bach's band were behind and above them.
Nicholas Mulroy's Evangelist was tremendous, quite a feat considering that the BritSinf had just arrived from frantic nights in London's Barbican and in Amsterdam's Concertgebouw. It's a huge part: physically and emotionally draining and at the curtain calls he was visibly trashed.
Matthew Brook was towering as Christ, a full-on Wotan for the bass arias but vulnerable and tearjerkingly real as Christ (yes, we cried); defiant yet resigned with Pilate (Eamonn Dougan - boffo), aware of the horrors to come but unwilling to change the fate his birth had inevitably triggered, the interspersed arias from Iestyn Davies and Julia Doyle only throwing the darkness into relief and intensifying it.
The chorus was genuinely terrifying in its howling mob frenzy, hounding Pilate with: "Kruezige! Kruezige!" baying for crucifixion.
Pilate's own despairing defiance of the mob with "Was ich geschrieben habe, das habe ich geschrieben." his last resistance. He turns aside and lets it happen.
The silences. The horror of Golgotha. Nobody in the packed audience dared breathe. Christ's "Siehe, das ist deine Mutter." utterly heartbreaking. And then the brief, beautiful chorale before the final breath. "Es ist vollbracht!" English doesn't have an "acht" with which to end a word but it is perfect for the silence to follow.
And into that silence Iestyn Davies' gorgeous countertenor sings Bach's lamenting aria "Es ist vollbracht" accompanied by Richard Tunnclife's plangent viola de gamba and there's not a dry eye in the house.
Matthew Brook storms back in full force for the burial arias with bass and chorus building to a climax of utter, hopeless darkness. There's no resurrection in the SJP: it stops short as any Good Friday piece should. And then, as the bleak despair envelops you those first three notes of "Ruht wohl" stop you dead and you know in an instant that Bach has achieved perfection. The next three notes bring floods of tears but also relief and hope. The woodwind are fantastic, especially the oboes, but then their voice is the perfect complement to the human singers. By the time the chorus reaches "Macht mir den Himmel auf und schließt die Hölle zu." you are wrapped in the warmth of Bach's love as Christ will be when God "opens Heaven for me and shuts the gates of Hell."
It only remains for the final chorale to tie things up, letting the audience breathe again, and then it's curtain call after curtain call.
The singers have been magnificent, the mix of period and modern instruments beautifully balanced and allowing Bach to speak more clearly than on any recorded version I have heard. The sound (in the acoustically perfect hall) far superior to the otherwise gorgeous reverberation of the Cathedral.
A triumph. Hell, I'm an atheist and it tore me to pieces.
Stumbling out into the darkness through revellers drinking and partying their own Easter away you realise the lesson has not been learned. We still arrest, torture and murder people: Guantanamo, waterboarding, extraordinary rendition to states where suspects can be brutally tortured while we look the other way, and to save us Pilate's bloody hands we no longer bother with the trial, simply sending drones to murder for us so that we do not need the guilt-trip of the legal process.
Someone needs to drag the world's "leaders" - most especially those who claim to have God on their side - into a performance of Bach's St.John Passion. If they don't learn from that, then it's all been in vain.
Happy Easter, peeps.
Click for Guardian review of the Barbican gig.
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
The Mischief Volcano Explodes
I'll try to keep this short and restrained, but you know me and post-gig euphoria …
Britten Sinfonia time again, this time featuring a cataclysmic eruption of Mount Kopatchinskaja.
You DO know Patricia Kopatchinskaja, right?
Her reviews come glutted with "punky", "electrifying", "volcanic", "unchained", "wild" and "completely bloody barmy."
Anyhoo … She was in charge this evening and boy howdy, did she live up to her reputation and then some!
I first came across her by being a fan of her dad: the insanely virtuosic Moldovan Gypsy cimbalom player Viktor Kopatchinsky. She has a reputation for letting loose the Lords of Misrule upon the world of Classical music and so I turned up this evening expecting fun and fireworks and got 'em in spades.
First up: you'd be disappointed if I didn't do my usual BritSinf fashion notes. So … the prizes this time around go to Miranda Dale, resplendent in a jet black crushed silk gypsy outfit that looked like it had spent the last week getting trashed in a cement mixer. Sexy as hell!
Even she, however, got upstaged by Kopatchinskaja herself, who had raided Morticia Addams' wardrobe for a diagonally cut patchwork of what for all the world looked like bat-wing skin … and bare feet.
Well, she came on stage in gold sequinned slippers but kicked them off and then proceeded to kick them all around the stage for the rest of the evening, only putting them on again to walk off after the encore.
Right … The menu: The string and chorus arrangement of Brahms' last work, filled with the darkness of his impending death but still as romantic as only Brahms can do. The five pieces used by the BritSinfs separately as introductions to the main works with no applause allowed between.
The big new work: Tigran Mansurian's Concerto for Violin and String Orchestra No.2 (soon out on ECM).
Bartók's Romanian Folk Dances.
Janáček's String Quartet No.1 (the Kreutzer Sonata) arranged for the BritSinfs.
Mendelssohn's Concerto in D minor for Violin and Strings.
The Britten Sinfonia are - as you must know by now - never the most restrained and genteel of bands, but under Kopatchinskaja's direction they let rip with abandon. Kopatchinskaja herself? Well the entire universe could have exploded and nobody would have taken their eyes off her. She twirled, stomped, stalked through the other players, emoted, danced like all of Pussy Riot crammed into one tiny woman and set alight and played like a million dæmons unleashed from hell and looking to party. Never have Brahms and Mendelssohn been treated like that and they must have loved the thrashing they got.
Unlike Dorothy Parker's divine demolition of Katherine Hepburn with "She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B" Kopatchinskaja ran A through Z, α through Ω, А through Я, あ through わ and all alphabets beyond. The sheer number of facial expressions she pulled was astonishing, yet every one signified nothing but a woman completely lost in the music and squeezing emotional intensity from every pore.
What she did with Bartók's Romanian Folk Dances defied belief and as she landed from a final leap with a joyous "YEAH!" we could do nothing but scream, clap and stomp for more.
An astonishing evening of pure joy, mischief and magic, polished off by a duet encore (with star violinist Thomas Gould) of Bartók's Pizzicato.
We wandered off into the night ten years younger and ready to party.
If you ever get the chance to see Kopatchinskaja in action, DO it! Maim a relative or kill a friend if you have to but go see her. It's the best piece of advice I'll ever give you.
Britten Sinfonia time again, this time featuring a cataclysmic eruption of Mount Kopatchinskaja.
You DO know Patricia Kopatchinskaja, right?
Her reviews come glutted with "punky", "electrifying", "volcanic", "unchained", "wild" and "completely bloody barmy."
Anyhoo … She was in charge this evening and boy howdy, did she live up to her reputation and then some!
I first came across her by being a fan of her dad: the insanely virtuosic Moldovan Gypsy cimbalom player Viktor Kopatchinsky. She has a reputation for letting loose the Lords of Misrule upon the world of Classical music and so I turned up this evening expecting fun and fireworks and got 'em in spades.
First up: you'd be disappointed if I didn't do my usual BritSinf fashion notes. So … the prizes this time around go to Miranda Dale, resplendent in a jet black crushed silk gypsy outfit that looked like it had spent the last week getting trashed in a cement mixer. Sexy as hell!
Even she, however, got upstaged by Kopatchinskaja herself, who had raided Morticia Addams' wardrobe for a diagonally cut patchwork of what for all the world looked like bat-wing skin … and bare feet.
Well, she came on stage in gold sequinned slippers but kicked them off and then proceeded to kick them all around the stage for the rest of the evening, only putting them on again to walk off after the encore.
Right … The menu: The string and chorus arrangement of Brahms' last work, filled with the darkness of his impending death but still as romantic as only Brahms can do. The five pieces used by the BritSinfs separately as introductions to the main works with no applause allowed between.
The big new work: Tigran Mansurian's Concerto for Violin and String Orchestra No.2 (soon out on ECM).
Bartók's Romanian Folk Dances.
Janáček's String Quartet No.1 (the Kreutzer Sonata) arranged for the BritSinfs.
Mendelssohn's Concerto in D minor for Violin and Strings.
The Britten Sinfonia are - as you must know by now - never the most restrained and genteel of bands, but under Kopatchinskaja's direction they let rip with abandon. Kopatchinskaja herself? Well the entire universe could have exploded and nobody would have taken their eyes off her. She twirled, stomped, stalked through the other players, emoted, danced like all of Pussy Riot crammed into one tiny woman and set alight and played like a million dæmons unleashed from hell and looking to party. Never have Brahms and Mendelssohn been treated like that and they must have loved the thrashing they got.
Unlike Dorothy Parker's divine demolition of Katherine Hepburn with "She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B" Kopatchinskaja ran A through Z, α through Ω, А through Я, あ through わ and all alphabets beyond. The sheer number of facial expressions she pulled was astonishing, yet every one signified nothing but a woman completely lost in the music and squeezing emotional intensity from every pore.
What she did with Bartók's Romanian Folk Dances defied belief and as she landed from a final leap with a joyous "YEAH!" we could do nothing but scream, clap and stomp for more.
An astonishing evening of pure joy, mischief and magic, polished off by a duet encore (with star violinist Thomas Gould) of Bartók's Pizzicato.
We wandered off into the night ten years younger and ready to party.
If you ever get the chance to see Kopatchinskaja in action, DO it! Maim a relative or kill a friend if you have to but go see her. It's the best piece of advice I'll ever give you.
Sunday, March 02, 2014
Old School Spiffy
This time around they gave us Vivaldi and Ferrandini, with Sally Bruce-Payne singing stunning alto in Vivaldi's Stabat Mater and Ferrandini's 'il Pianto di Maria'.
Boffo all round.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Ovation for an Empty Stage
I know you're sick of me gushing about the Britten Sinfonia but I've been waiting for this one for a long time.
As my own special birthday treat and to kick off Ben Britten's 100th birthday week, the BrittenSinf staged a concert that could have been programmed just for me.
No Jackie Shave this time around; instead, regular collaborator and guest director/leader Pekka Kuusisto took the reins for what he billed as a new kind of programming.
And it was.
But before we get to that (and my regular BritSinf fashion notes) here's something that Robyn and Eric are going to love.
No pre-concert lecture and chat this evening. Instead, a pre-concert concert in honour of Ben and Peter's lifelong educational crusade. We got to the theatre early to find the stage filled with a couple of hundred six to twelve year old kids from local villages, all in their school uniforms and noisily and chaotically excited.
They've spent all summer with the Britten Sinfonia, writing and rehearsing a tribute to Ben for his century and this was it.
They called it "Darkness and Night" and it was musically influenced by the final piece in this evening's concert, Britten's glorious Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings. The kids wrote the words, based on getting to sleep, dreams, nightmares, their impression of stars, galaxies, nebulæ and auroræ and finishing with sunrise. The Britten Sinf wrote and arranged the music.
So … Out goes any syrupy impression of cute kids' choirs. In comes an octet of the Sinfs: violins, violas, cello, bass and the lovely Lettie on horn, two vocal conductors for the kids and we start with a 400 year old polyphonic piece by Tallis before launching into the new stuff. The Brits have rearranged Tallis like John Adams and the kids are somehow able to keep up with the polyrhythms.
I can only assume it's because the kids are so young and not drilled into rigid conformity, but the Brits have written and arranged some seriously modern and difficult stuff and the kids are natural and PERFECT. They're bang on with all the cross rhythms, challenging and bizarre key changes, tempo changes (often different sections of kids at different times) and weird chromatic scales and harmonies that would send most "straight" musicians screaming to the hills.
Forty minutes of breathtaking pyrotechnics later comes the inevitable standing ovation. I remember Ben Britten and Peter Pears visiting my school when I was a kid and playing some weird shit but these kids took it all in their stride. Amazing! There may be hope yet for music education. Ben must have been grinning in his grave.
Right … Back to fashion:
As ever, the Britten Sinfonia relish the challenge of twisting "formal black" until it squeals. Best female of the evening goes to the second viola in a three-quarter-length diagonal cut wizard's cape with skin-tight black velvet leggings and strappy kitten heels.
Best male is split between tenor Mark Padmore in an immaculate midnight tux with black open-necked shirt, and Pekka himself in open black cardie, black tee-shirt, black baggy trousers and what look for all the world to be old-fashioned black wrestling boots.
Suffice to say, the clash of silk, lace, velvet, stripes, ruffles, trousers of all lengths and styles, dresses and skirts that could have been designed by aliens and shoes that definitely were means it's just another Britten Sinfonia gig.
Before we start, Pekka introduces things with a chat about the programme. He wants us to forego applauding until the interval and the end, even though - (giggles all round) - the stage will be empty both times. He wants the programme to read as one narrative.
We oblige.
Here's the programme in case anyone out there is as passionate about this stuff as me:
Nico Muhly: Three Songs for Tenor and Violin (with drone from orchestra);
Bartók: Fourth movement (the pizzicato one) from Quartet No.4'
Britten: "Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal" (the 'missing' piece of Serenade for T, H&S);
Erkki-Sven Tüür: Lighthouse;
Judith Weir: "I Give You The End of a Golden String" (Premiere);
Nordheim: Partita für Paul (solo violin with other violins invisible in the wings and the the soloist wandering off to leave an empty stage while still playing).
Interval - drinkies - chatties
Nico Muhly: Material in E-flat for violin and drone;
Bartók: Third movement from the 4th quartet (the lovely elegiac slow movement);
Berg: Kanon (arranged by Schnittke for violin and orchestra);
Pärt's Cantus in Memoriam of Benjamin Britten
George Crumb: God Music;
Britten: Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings (with Stephen Bell playing the "out of tune" natural harmonic first and last movements on a battered old valveless eighteenth century horn that looks like a short length of brass piping got cramp, and the rest on his beautifully engraved modern horn. Shiny!).
So … we have the brilliant Mark Padmore on tenor, Stephen Bell on horn, Pekka Kuusisto on violin, Caroline Dearnley on cello and the rest of the gang moseying in and out and looking sexy as hell.
The stage is all black and in keeping with Pekka's theme for the evening the musicians wander on and off as they're needed (beautifully choreographed), some walking around while they play. For the Crumb piece, the violins and violas sit cross-legged on the floor and play tuned wine glasses with their bows while the cello goes ape (luscious). Musicians play both on and off stage. There are five-string double basses (cool). The girl duct-taping the wine glasses to the floor in the interval gets her own round of applause (she came on in all black with hundreds of pieces of duct tape hanging off her clothing and methodically stuck all the glasses down), while Pekka arranged the music stands and gave me a lovely mischievous grin when he caught my eye. I think they're getting used to the baldy guy who cries a lot block booking the same front and centre seat season after season.
Anyhoo … I won't gush in my usual manner; suffice to say it was the gig of the year by a long way (in a brilliant year) and I wish I could find a woman who loves hardcore modernist music as much as I do because I want to SHARE this amazing stuff (and get laid)!
Next BrittenSinf gig features Patricia Kopatchinskaja, so expect me to sport a stiffy.
Nighty-night.
As my own special birthday treat and to kick off Ben Britten's 100th birthday week, the BrittenSinf staged a concert that could have been programmed just for me.
No Jackie Shave this time around; instead, regular collaborator and guest director/leader Pekka Kuusisto took the reins for what he billed as a new kind of programming.
And it was.
But before we get to that (and my regular BritSinf fashion notes) here's something that Robyn and Eric are going to love.
No pre-concert lecture and chat this evening. Instead, a pre-concert concert in honour of Ben and Peter's lifelong educational crusade. We got to the theatre early to find the stage filled with a couple of hundred six to twelve year old kids from local villages, all in their school uniforms and noisily and chaotically excited.
They've spent all summer with the Britten Sinfonia, writing and rehearsing a tribute to Ben for his century and this was it.
They called it "Darkness and Night" and it was musically influenced by the final piece in this evening's concert, Britten's glorious Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings. The kids wrote the words, based on getting to sleep, dreams, nightmares, their impression of stars, galaxies, nebulæ and auroræ and finishing with sunrise. The Britten Sinf wrote and arranged the music.
So … Out goes any syrupy impression of cute kids' choirs. In comes an octet of the Sinfs: violins, violas, cello, bass and the lovely Lettie on horn, two vocal conductors for the kids and we start with a 400 year old polyphonic piece by Tallis before launching into the new stuff. The Brits have rearranged Tallis like John Adams and the kids are somehow able to keep up with the polyrhythms.
I can only assume it's because the kids are so young and not drilled into rigid conformity, but the Brits have written and arranged some seriously modern and difficult stuff and the kids are natural and PERFECT. They're bang on with all the cross rhythms, challenging and bizarre key changes, tempo changes (often different sections of kids at different times) and weird chromatic scales and harmonies that would send most "straight" musicians screaming to the hills.
Forty minutes of breathtaking pyrotechnics later comes the inevitable standing ovation. I remember Ben Britten and Peter Pears visiting my school when I was a kid and playing some weird shit but these kids took it all in their stride. Amazing! There may be hope yet for music education. Ben must have been grinning in his grave.
Right … Back to fashion:
As ever, the Britten Sinfonia relish the challenge of twisting "formal black" until it squeals. Best female of the evening goes to the second viola in a three-quarter-length diagonal cut wizard's cape with skin-tight black velvet leggings and strappy kitten heels.
Best male is split between tenor Mark Padmore in an immaculate midnight tux with black open-necked shirt, and Pekka himself in open black cardie, black tee-shirt, black baggy trousers and what look for all the world to be old-fashioned black wrestling boots.
Suffice to say, the clash of silk, lace, velvet, stripes, ruffles, trousers of all lengths and styles, dresses and skirts that could have been designed by aliens and shoes that definitely were means it's just another Britten Sinfonia gig.
Before we start, Pekka introduces things with a chat about the programme. He wants us to forego applauding until the interval and the end, even though - (giggles all round) - the stage will be empty both times. He wants the programme to read as one narrative.
We oblige.
Here's the programme in case anyone out there is as passionate about this stuff as me:
Nico Muhly: Three Songs for Tenor and Violin (with drone from orchestra);
Bartók: Fourth movement (the pizzicato one) from Quartet No.4'
Britten: "Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal" (the 'missing' piece of Serenade for T, H&S);
Erkki-Sven Tüür: Lighthouse;
Judith Weir: "I Give You The End of a Golden String" (Premiere);
Nordheim: Partita für Paul (solo violin with other violins invisible in the wings and the the soloist wandering off to leave an empty stage while still playing).
Interval - drinkies - chatties
Nico Muhly: Material in E-flat for violin and drone;
Bartók: Third movement from the 4th quartet (the lovely elegiac slow movement);
Berg: Kanon (arranged by Schnittke for violin and orchestra);
Pärt's Cantus in Memoriam of Benjamin Britten
George Crumb: God Music;
Britten: Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings (with Stephen Bell playing the "out of tune" natural harmonic first and last movements on a battered old valveless eighteenth century horn that looks like a short length of brass piping got cramp, and the rest on his beautifully engraved modern horn. Shiny!).
So … we have the brilliant Mark Padmore on tenor, Stephen Bell on horn, Pekka Kuusisto on violin, Caroline Dearnley on cello and the rest of the gang moseying in and out and looking sexy as hell.
The stage is all black and in keeping with Pekka's theme for the evening the musicians wander on and off as they're needed (beautifully choreographed), some walking around while they play. For the Crumb piece, the violins and violas sit cross-legged on the floor and play tuned wine glasses with their bows while the cello goes ape (luscious). Musicians play both on and off stage. There are five-string double basses (cool). The girl duct-taping the wine glasses to the floor in the interval gets her own round of applause (she came on in all black with hundreds of pieces of duct tape hanging off her clothing and methodically stuck all the glasses down), while Pekka arranged the music stands and gave me a lovely mischievous grin when he caught my eye. I think they're getting used to the baldy guy who cries a lot block booking the same front and centre seat season after season.
Anyhoo … I won't gush in my usual manner; suffice to say it was the gig of the year by a long way (in a brilliant year) and I wish I could find a woman who loves hardcore modernist music as much as I do because I want to SHARE this amazing stuff (and get laid)!
Next BrittenSinf gig features Patricia Kopatchinskaja, so expect me to sport a stiffy.
Nighty-night.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
More Stuff About Shoes and Noses
Yup: Britten Sinfonia night again. The launch of their new season and I took my usual seat, front and centre, from which vantage point I - as per - took notes for all you shoe fetishists out there.
Nothing quite so outrageously "fuck me" as Alina Ibragimova's shoes from last time around, but this evening's prize went to Jacquie Shave for imprisoning her feet and calves with what I can only describe as a stiletto heeled, gladiator sandal-themed creation that had somehow got pimped by a bondage shop.
Sexiest feet of the night, however, went to Clare Finnimore - principal viola - in black ballet pumps, for constantly twining her feet and ankles around one another and her chair legs in a surprisingly erotic manner. Of course, the fact that she's adorably cute didn't hinder the effect; nor even that she was wearing what appeared to be short clown trousers and a baby-doll nightie in black-on-black stripes.
As usual, the Sinfonia's women took the "black formal" theme and undermined it every which way they could, from Caroline Dearnley - principal cello - in a mountain of lace layers that would have made Stevie Nicks grind her teeth in a jealous rage, to Miranda Dale - 2nd. violin - clad clingingly in a beautiful empire line black velvet gown with a wide satin band under the bust and a diamanté brooch front and centre. With her hair up in strict 20's style she looked glam and gorgeous.
The only non-black item on display was a crimson silk Nehru-collared blouson, wrapped around the increasingly rotund figure of star oboist Nicholas Daniel as he strutted his stuff like a somewhat chubbier Mick Jagger and monstered the fiendishly virtuosic insanity of Nicholas Maw's "Little Concert for Oboe".
Oh, and a mention too for Jacqueline Shave's bonkers mane of red-blonde hair that has now grown bigger than she is and had its own little private party during the gig.
Anyhoo … enough fashion notes, other than to say that the women of the Britten Sinfonia sport a wonderful and exceedingly attractive collection of noses; something I'd not noticed until this evening. I mean, I'd noticed that they had noses, but not that they were so darned attractive … er.
As for the music?
The Sinfonia are renowned for their consistently wonderful programming and this evening gave us a premiere from Chicago-based Brit Anna Clyne (one of whose pieces launched this year's Last Night of the Proms), the Maw oboe piece, Mozart, Haydn and Stravinsky in a delightful mash-up.
This is the band of course, who regular readers might recall recently made gloriously melodic music from - among other things - items of furniture, glass and water, and whose leader has just returned from a free-improvisation concert in a cave on the remote Faroe Islands and is currently working on a piece for violin and the sounds made by Antarctic ice recorded underwater. Which is one of many reasons I love them: they are refreshingly, deliberately and deliciously "different."
They kicked off with Stravinsky's Three Pieces for String Quartet, with Jackie, Miranda, Clare and Caroline putting on their own little fashion show and hitting the tricky Stravinsky pieces with verve and not a little wit. A real grin-inducer.
Next up came Anna Clyne's "Within Her Arms," a beautiful and elegiac string piece that built and ebbed like waves and was both unashamedly gorgeous and very modern; you could tell that her heart lies in electro-acoustic tape pieces even though the stage was filled with lush acoustic strings only. Lovely.
A short coughie break while the piano was wheeled onto the stage and then the dashing Dejan Lazić delighted us with Mozart's Piano Concerto No.12 in A Major (K414) with a small chamber orchestra in support. He has affected a Lisztian dangly forelock and delights in hunkering down with his nose almost against the keyboard, Bill Evans style for the fast passages and then throwing his head and arms back at the end of each thrilling run so that the floppy forelock flies back in a graceful arc. All very Romantic and Byronesque. His piano playing wasn't bad either. Bravos all round at the end.
Interval. Drinkies. Chatties.
The pink glasses and crimson torso of Nick Daniel launched us into the Nicholas Maw piece, with horns and woodwind added to the strings. A beautiful melodic line transferred piece by piece from the strings to the oboe before a fiendishly fast, serial-based and almost free-jazz recitativo and a boffo, grandstanding final movement that saw him exchanging rock-star poses with Jacqueline Shave. Fully deserved encores.
Last up: Haydn. While we wouldn't normally expect such "popular" classical composers as Mozza and Haydn from the Brittens, they choose the more non-traditional of traditional pieces and the finale was Haydn's wilfully bizarre, six movement, 60th Symphony: "il Distratto."
This piece of gonzo weirdness is chock full of jokes and the band were obviously having a ball … exchanged smiles of delight, fiercely furrowed brows and alarmed glances gave the impression that they were flying by the seats of their collective pants, but as ever they were fantastically tight and together. Fiddlers' elbows got a serious seeing-to in the hilariously over the top speed-freak fourth and sixth movements. Inevitably a few folk got caught out after the false climax of the fourth movement and burst into spontaneous applause, much to the giggling delight of orchestra and audience alike.
A gleeful, helter-skelter show-stopper of a finale that blew the roof off and made us cheer and clap until our arms dropped off and then stamp our feet.
This is only the opener in a fabulous season. Next Britten Sinf gig in four weeks' time. Expect hyperbole and fashion notes.
Toodle pip!
Nothing quite so outrageously "fuck me" as Alina Ibragimova's shoes from last time around, but this evening's prize went to Jacquie Shave for imprisoning her feet and calves with what I can only describe as a stiletto heeled, gladiator sandal-themed creation that had somehow got pimped by a bondage shop.
Sexiest feet of the night, however, went to Clare Finnimore - principal viola - in black ballet pumps, for constantly twining her feet and ankles around one another and her chair legs in a surprisingly erotic manner. Of course, the fact that she's adorably cute didn't hinder the effect; nor even that she was wearing what appeared to be short clown trousers and a baby-doll nightie in black-on-black stripes.
As usual, the Sinfonia's women took the "black formal" theme and undermined it every which way they could, from Caroline Dearnley - principal cello - in a mountain of lace layers that would have made Stevie Nicks grind her teeth in a jealous rage, to Miranda Dale - 2nd. violin - clad clingingly in a beautiful empire line black velvet gown with a wide satin band under the bust and a diamanté brooch front and centre. With her hair up in strict 20's style she looked glam and gorgeous.
The only non-black item on display was a crimson silk Nehru-collared blouson, wrapped around the increasingly rotund figure of star oboist Nicholas Daniel as he strutted his stuff like a somewhat chubbier Mick Jagger and monstered the fiendishly virtuosic insanity of Nicholas Maw's "Little Concert for Oboe".
Oh, and a mention too for Jacqueline Shave's bonkers mane of red-blonde hair that has now grown bigger than she is and had its own little private party during the gig.
Anyhoo … enough fashion notes, other than to say that the women of the Britten Sinfonia sport a wonderful and exceedingly attractive collection of noses; something I'd not noticed until this evening. I mean, I'd noticed that they had noses, but not that they were so darned attractive … er.
As for the music?
The Sinfonia are renowned for their consistently wonderful programming and this evening gave us a premiere from Chicago-based Brit Anna Clyne (one of whose pieces launched this year's Last Night of the Proms), the Maw oboe piece, Mozart, Haydn and Stravinsky in a delightful mash-up.
This is the band of course, who regular readers might recall recently made gloriously melodic music from - among other things - items of furniture, glass and water, and whose leader has just returned from a free-improvisation concert in a cave on the remote Faroe Islands and is currently working on a piece for violin and the sounds made by Antarctic ice recorded underwater. Which is one of many reasons I love them: they are refreshingly, deliberately and deliciously "different."
They kicked off with Stravinsky's Three Pieces for String Quartet, with Jackie, Miranda, Clare and Caroline putting on their own little fashion show and hitting the tricky Stravinsky pieces with verve and not a little wit. A real grin-inducer.
Next up came Anna Clyne's "Within Her Arms," a beautiful and elegiac string piece that built and ebbed like waves and was both unashamedly gorgeous and very modern; you could tell that her heart lies in electro-acoustic tape pieces even though the stage was filled with lush acoustic strings only. Lovely.
A short coughie break while the piano was wheeled onto the stage and then the dashing Dejan Lazić delighted us with Mozart's Piano Concerto No.12 in A Major (K414) with a small chamber orchestra in support. He has affected a Lisztian dangly forelock and delights in hunkering down with his nose almost against the keyboard, Bill Evans style for the fast passages and then throwing his head and arms back at the end of each thrilling run so that the floppy forelock flies back in a graceful arc. All very Romantic and Byronesque. His piano playing wasn't bad either. Bravos all round at the end.
Interval. Drinkies. Chatties.
The pink glasses and crimson torso of Nick Daniel launched us into the Nicholas Maw piece, with horns and woodwind added to the strings. A beautiful melodic line transferred piece by piece from the strings to the oboe before a fiendishly fast, serial-based and almost free-jazz recitativo and a boffo, grandstanding final movement that saw him exchanging rock-star poses with Jacqueline Shave. Fully deserved encores.
Last up: Haydn. While we wouldn't normally expect such "popular" classical composers as Mozza and Haydn from the Brittens, they choose the more non-traditional of traditional pieces and the finale was Haydn's wilfully bizarre, six movement, 60th Symphony: "il Distratto."
This piece of gonzo weirdness is chock full of jokes and the band were obviously having a ball … exchanged smiles of delight, fiercely furrowed brows and alarmed glances gave the impression that they were flying by the seats of their collective pants, but as ever they were fantastically tight and together. Fiddlers' elbows got a serious seeing-to in the hilariously over the top speed-freak fourth and sixth movements. Inevitably a few folk got caught out after the false climax of the fourth movement and burst into spontaneous applause, much to the giggling delight of orchestra and audience alike.
A gleeful, helter-skelter show-stopper of a finale that blew the roof off and made us cheer and clap until our arms dropped off and then stamp our feet.
This is only the opener in a fabulous season. Next Britten Sinf gig in four weeks' time. Expect hyperbole and fashion notes.
Toodle pip!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
What Sunday Afternoons Are For
Splendid day today: down in Suffolk with mum and her jazz mates; good real ale and this bunch of elderly reprobates (hi, guys) playing jazz at il Fascisti.
Here's Django's "Nuages." Enjoy …
Here's Django's "Nuages." Enjoy …
Tuesday, March 05, 2013
More Post-Gig Euphoria Concert Notes
Written Sunday night.
Tonight at Norwich's Theatre Royal I heard what has to be the most beautiful piece of modern music yet composed.
But before that … let's get the pervy stuff out of the way first.
Alina Ibragimova. You know her from all the bodily fluids splattered over many a past post. Alina is not just the greatest violinist of her generation - and with the staggering virtuosity of the latest generation, by definition the greatest to have yet lived; she is also - through no fault of her own - one of the world's most truly beautiful women.
This evening she hit the stage in a clingy, strappy black, crushed silk top and a long skirt of sheer scarlet silk no thicker than the air. Her perfect feet were encased in piano-black stilettos with pure white soles with a shiny black triangle at the apex of the ludicrously pointy toes (I was ten feet away; you can't help but notice these things).
She dances. I mean she moves on stage like a modern dancer while she plays. It's not a conscious thing like Steven Isserlis's ludicrous Robert Plant impersonations; it's like the music is playing her; sometimes she'll stay stock still, balanced on her stilettos and frowning fit to bust - and this girl can frown like nobody else - but most of the while she's prowling the stage in that sheer, transparent and VERY clingy silk like some semi-naked blood-red dæmon caught up in St.Vitus' dance.
Hoo, boy!
Right … Deep breath …
The Britten Sinfonia (yes, them again) are famously the most exciting chamber orchestra in this or any other universe, and infamously, the most wilfully outrageous programmers of music ever.
This evening, they took great delight in presenting us with a typically dissonant juxtaposition, the music ranging from the twelfth century to a piece so new that the composer started writing it in January and finished it during rehearsals. Tonight was world premier night.
First up: darkness. Pitch.
Pérotin's Viderunt omnes. The first time the world had ever heard four part polyphony. This piece exploded into being on Christmas day in 1198 in Notre Dame de Paris and it sounds as shocking and modern today as it must have done then. Especially as it's pitch bloody black and suddenly we find the singers are up in the gods behind us.
Okay, so that's a fairly predictably unpredictable opening from these guys … except that the peerless punks of modern classical music have now been augmented by their brand, spanking new vocal ensemble, the Britten Sinfonia Voices. Led by the deputy director of The Sixteen (if you know who I'm talking about you know it's going to be good) who has been let off the leash of their strictly mediæval diet and allowed to play with the modernists, the result promises to astound, and if this evening is anything to go by, to produce ear-semen in copious quantities (more of which later).
Before the echoes have died away and while we are beginning to applaud wildly, the elfin smile of Alina Ibragimova hits the stage and the lights go up to reveal a tiny fragment of the Sinfonia, grouped around a beautifully decorated period harpsichord.
Bach's First Violin Concerto.
On any given night of my life I would kill to see and hear Alina play Bach. This evening it's just part of the warm-up and it's brilliant. Breathtaking, delicate, perfectly poised and as startlingly uplifting as a Saturn Five rocket in the rectum. They play it as if it's brand new and it sparkles.
So already we've jumped five hundred years in two short pieces. Now comes the latest offering from Latvian Ēriks Ešenvalds, who's hiding backstage with the flu and whose ink is not yet dry on the manuscripts littering the music stands. Modern music does not get any more modern than this, nor does it get any more beautiful.
I kid you not; I gasped, sobbed and the tears just flooded my fat face in an unstoppable stream. It's not available on record yet as he only finished writing it in rehearsals and this is the first time anyone's heard it in public (including him).
People think of Gorecki and Pärt when they think of Baltic music. Well if you like that stuff, but find it a teensy bit slow in places, try Ēriks Ešenvalds; this piece is vaguely (yet not at all) like all your favourite moments from Gorecki and Pärt at once, only way more interesting and with a LOT more going on. And it truly is the most startlingly beautiful piece of modern music I have ever heard.
It's called Aqua and its three movements deal with liquid water, ice and steam. It involves five occasional tables, several glasses of water, some innovative yet not gimmicky weirdness, the Britten Sinfonia and the Britten Sinfonia Voices. It's only twelve minutes long. Put like that it doesn't sound much but when you hear it (and I'm going to make damned sure you do) you're going to rush right out and buy it and let it lift your life like it's lifted mine.
He's currently working on a much longer piece based on the northern lights. If this is what he can do with water, then I can't wait to hear what the aurora inspires in him.
"Ēriks Ešenvalds" … Have that tattooed somewhere you can see it so you don't forget.
Right … Interval. Booze and chat and the delighted realisation that I am not the youngest person in the audience this evening; there is a smattering of college kids and twenty and thirty-somethings. About bloody time they caught on.
The second half starts with more Bach: "Komm, Jesu, komm" (stop sniggering at the back).
Now the Voices are pared down and Eamonn Dougan (for it is he) has arranged them thusly:
Two basses at the extremes of stage left and right, then slightly in from them, two tenors, then two mezzos and two sopranos innermost, flanking cello, double bass and a charmingly baroque chamber organ in the middle.
The result of this vocal placement - especially for me in my regular third row centre seat - is revelatory. Eamonn has arranged the Bach to emphasise the counterpoint by not simply splitting the parts to stage left and right, but splitting each singer's parts and breaking them up in an insanely complex manner so that they're constantly swapping and changing.
The effect made my ears orgasm. Sorry, but it did. Ear semen all over the place.
Nuff said. The Sinfonia are never predictable and just a little thing like that can transform an already sublime piece into aural heaven.
But now for the main event:
Back to Latvia and this time Pēteris Vasks (quick digression: I love Apple Macs … I can effortlessly type in those little doohickeys from Latvian, Czech, Greek, Japanese, whatever, without thinking about it and without all the MS DOS crapping around with inserting symbols … message ends).
Anyhoo … Vasks is from the generation before Ešenvalds; the generation who grew up under Soviet rule and his Concerto for Violin and Strings simply reeks of deep spiritual darkness, yearning for banned Latvian folk tunes and revolutionary hope for the future (the piece is sub-titled Distant Light). Alina fled Russia when she was ten and can play this stuff raw and bleeding. It's an incendiary combination and she chose this very carefully as the focal point of the evening.
The piece starts slow; deeply longing and passionate with a glowing spirituality. Alina recently recorded the whole of Bach's Sonatas and Partitas using no vibrato (God knows how she managed it but she did it live, too), but she possesses a vibrato that can bypass your eyes and rip floods of tears right from your very soul itself and this piece calls for just that, and she delivers it in spades.
It builds. And I mean it BUILDS. Yearning turns at length to euphoria before sudden bursts of incredible virtuosic madness break in and then Alina is let loose at last with several long improvised passages, each more astonishing than its predecessor.
Holy crap! She's writhing around like a madwoman, the most incredible violinist of her generation going absolutely batshit crazy; her bow in tatters, she uses any tiny moment between lines to rip the shreds from it and fling them aside before diving headlong back into the mælström. Her beautiful golden hair is flailing wildly, caught up in the static from her bow as more and more of her bowstrings get torn away. I've never heard playing like it and I imagine nobody else has either. She's possessed! The latest Chinese players have insane technical skills drilled into them, but they have no feeling. Nothing compared to this. Alina has lived this music: its emotions, its politics, its yearning passion, its pain and she is playing out of her skin, improvising it all. It's a cathartic, unbearably intense, soul-baring scream.
No two versions of this music are ever the same and we're being treated to something transcendent. Apologies for going into hyperbole orbit but this truly was astonishing. I don't know how long I held my breath but if it were not for the final, gorgeous slow movement I'd have had a heart attack.
And at the end in the afterglow, Alina lolled like a rag doll over her gorgeous 1775 Anselmo Bellosio violin - or what was left of it - panting for breath, her hair a complete fucking mess and the rest of the orchestra emotionally and physically trashed.
Now THAT'S music!
The audience went predictably berserk, leaping to our feet and shouting and screaming like a bunch of teenagers.
So all in all a delightful evening of passionate intensity and incendiary virtuosic brilliance.
And now it's gone and I want it back!
They're about to announce their next season's programme so watch out for more of this crap.
Monday, January 21, 2013
WTF Monday - The Great Osberto Parsley
Well probably not, but what a magnificent monicker he had.
Osberto Parsley's biography is written out in full on a plaque on the side of the column that bears this lovely memorial in Norwich Cathedral.
Fifty years a chorister and choirmaster at the Cathedral; born in the first year of Henry the Eighth's reign, when the place was still a monastic institution, Osberto Parsley sang in the choir through almost the entire Tudor monarchy: Henry VIII, Edward VI, Jane Grey, Mary and Elizabeth, a time of ridiculous religious shenannigans that saw many a composer or singer imprisoned or worse. Ah, monarchy and religion … mass murderers par excellence.
So let's hear it for the Great Osberto Parsley.
Here's one of the many songs he would have sung (John Browne's Stabat Mater). He'd have also sung all of Thomas Tallis' and William Byrd's music, both in Latin and English as he straddled - and mercifully survived - Mary and Elizabeth's religious schism, but Browne is one of my all time faves so that's what you're getting.
Enjoy! And whenever you hear music as beautiful as this, remember the name of Osberto Parsley.
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Beethoven - Year One
Garbled witness statement …
Ms.M. I wish I had N's power over words but I don't, so pray excuse the following:
Hokay … Deep breath.
Just home. Rather large tumbler of Islay malt.
Here goes …
Ego, compos mentis (well kinda) have just witnessed something that's going to hit the world of classical music like an H bomb.
D'you remember that Glenn Gould moment that Bach had in the fifties? Suddenly the world woke up and saw the light?
Murray Perahia took the ball and ran with it and then came Angela Hewitt; the world's greatest interpreter of Bach's keyboard music?
Remember that?
Well this evening I was sitting not ten feet from Angela Hewitt when she did for Beethoven what Glenn Gould did for Bach.
I mean it.
Let's set the scene:
What was always going to be an exciting evening: The incomparable Britten Sinfonia (the best chamber orchestra on the planet bar none and I'll kick the shit out of anyone who argues with me) launch their season with a programme of Wagner, Sibelius and Beethoven, featuring Angela Hewitt on piano.
So far, so wonderful.
First up: the pre-show chat. Angela talks us through the two Beethoven pieces she'll be playing: the youthful and exuberant second piano concerto (actually the first he wrote) and the majestic pinnacle of the fourth. She discusses Czerny's notes on how Beethoven taught him and how Beethoven actually played and developed the pieces. How most players begin the fourth with a flat G-major chord, while Czerny relates that Beethoven played it as an arpeggio, echoing his interpretation of the piece as Orpheus strumming his lyre in preparation for the third movement's struggle to calm the Furies and rescue Eurydice.
She fesses up that - after twenty-three years of playing the fourth with other conductors - tonight is her debut conducting Beethoven from the piano and she's nervous as hell.
Then she tells us how having had to learn and understand the parts for the whole orchestra has transformed her awareness of the piece, in much the same way as her two glorious accounts of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier (one after years of study and interpretation; the next after having toured the pieces for two years solid) revealed truths that nobody had previously dreamed of.
Angela was lucky enough to begin her concert career just when the 'authentic period instrument' movement exploded on the music scene. The slushily over-romantic interpreters of Beethoven and Mozart were elbowed aside by the new puritans, but this had the knock-on effect of making the music leaden and dull. In the decades since, musicians and historians have worked wonders in bringing us closer to Beethoven's true meaning and I (and many others) felt that Paul Lewis had fulfilled old Ludwig's dreams with his recent recording cycles.
Then this evening happened.
It started innocently enough. The Sinfonia hit the stage; as ever, frighteningly youthful and this evening led by the precocious child, Thomas Gould (the Guardian rightly calls him "staggeringly virtuosic"); they launch into the only piece Wagner ever wrote that can truthfully be called lovely: the Siegfried Idyll.
And they are perfect. I wouldn't have expected anything else. If anyone's going to make Wagner move me to tears it's going to be the Britten Sinfonia and they didn't disappoint.
Then some jigging of chairs as Angela's glorious Fazioli is wheeled centre stage and its wheels locked. They've removed the first row of seats this evening, to fit the orchestra on stage, so my usual third row; just left of centre seat is now second row and I can see every expression on Angela's face as she plays.
Oh, before that: I hope you're reading this, Robyn. You can tell your asshat at the Philharmonic who moaned at you for playing in trousers a few weeks back that the second violin with the Britten Sinfonia (the fabulously named Beatrix Lovejoy) played this evening in open-toed black stilettos, slit-bottomed, calf-length tight capris and a Nehru-collared blouse with see-through sleeves. Wear what you like and fuck'em.
Anyhoo … Back to the action:
Angela Hewitt hits the stage in (during the pre-show chat she wore - somewhat disarmingly - boots, black tights, a miniskirt and a frumpy cardie) a purple peacock gown that must have a thousand micro-pleats around the hem, and deep turquoise, kitten heeled, fuck-me shoes. Whooee! Apologies for all the fashion stuff but my gay gene must be kicking in.
Beethoven's second piano concerto is - like Chopin's first - his "Here I am, world! Fuck you: I'm FANTASTIC" teenage show-off piece-de-resistance. Where most recordings I have of it start with a dull blast from the orchestra, the Britten Sinfonia under Angela Hewitt are as refreshing as a bucket of iced water in the face on a hot day. They spring into the piece like new-born lambs and bring it to life as if it's the first time I ever heard it.
When the piano comes in it is a revelation. I offer huge apologies to all the musicians who have gone before, but frankly: what the hell were you doing? THIS is how to do it! THIS is the teenage Beethoven waving his cock in the air and yelling "Come and get me, laydeez!"
It's genuinely astonishing! Sprightly like never before, yet muscular where it matters, and Angela's coquettish eyebrows and unconscious grins of pure delight only enhance the experience.
People say it's Beethoven's "Mozartian" piece, but while the orchestration is certainly reminiscent of Mozart, the piano is pure Beethoven, filled with the unbounded joy of a staggering virtuoso who has been given one of those new-fangled fortepianos to play with and has shown the world just what it can do. It reminds me of Chopin's first in that both pieces show what happens when teenaged boys become the best musicians on the planet. No restraint. Balls to the wall brag and bluster and utterly magnificent.
It is a new world being born.
Then the cadenza … After the airy delights of spring, Angela hits us in the face with Beethoven's 1806 cadenza; the last of the three he was know to have written. I've never heard it played with such venom. Suddenly, in the midst of little Ludwig's boyhood fantasia we get Beethoven at the height of his powers, yelling at his younger self that THIS is how a piano should be played! Holy fuck!
Whew! The interval comes and we know we have been treated to something special. What we don't know is that the second half will blow all that out of the water.
In the meantime, I'll add this little piece of advice: always order your interval drinkies before the concert; that way, you can take your time getting to the foyer and they'll be waiting there for you without having to queue. I mosey into the foyer late and simply pick up my cognac from its reserved spot. Yum.
Hi to the lovely couple who chatted to me all through the break.
Right … The second half.
Back to the Britten Sinfonia. This time whetting our appetite with a piece I've only heard a few times: the "Scene With Cranes" from Sibelius' music for the somewhat macabre play "Kuolema".
Once again I am moved to tears. Once again everybody gets the chance to cough themselves silly while the piano is wheeled back to centre stage. Once again the purple peacock dress floats from the wings to rapturous applause.
Angela Hewitt has taken Bach's keyboard music to places nobody ever dreamed. She has played Beethoven's fourth piano concerto constantly on stage for twenty-three years. This year, however, she has to conduct it, too. She has had to re-learn the piece from scratch, studying and understanding every note that every member of the orchestra plays. The rehearsals have been the most vigorous of her career, leaving her aching from head to toe. She has re-evaluated Beethoven's greatest piano work from the ground up.
And now she lets it loose upon the world.
All I'll say is that Angela's touring this for the season (tonight was her debut) and the finale in London will be live on Radio 3. If you love Beethoven, listen in because it's going to change your life. Really!
I had to physically stop myself from crying out loud more times than I can recall. The finale had me biting my lip so hard I've got a smegging blister on it now from trying to stop myself screaming my joy to the rafters.
In the year that I was born, Glenn Gould woke the world up to Bach. This evening, Angela Hewitt gave Beethoven his Glenn Gould moment. This is Beethoven, Year One. Brace yourselves. Things are going to get amazing.
Ms.M. I wish I had N's power over words but I don't, so pray excuse the following:
Hokay … Deep breath.
Just home. Rather large tumbler of Islay malt.
Here goes …
Ego, compos mentis (well kinda) have just witnessed something that's going to hit the world of classical music like an H bomb.
D'you remember that Glenn Gould moment that Bach had in the fifties? Suddenly the world woke up and saw the light?
Murray Perahia took the ball and ran with it and then came Angela Hewitt; the world's greatest interpreter of Bach's keyboard music?
Remember that?
Well this evening I was sitting not ten feet from Angela Hewitt when she did for Beethoven what Glenn Gould did for Bach.
I mean it.
Let's set the scene:
What was always going to be an exciting evening: The incomparable Britten Sinfonia (the best chamber orchestra on the planet bar none and I'll kick the shit out of anyone who argues with me) launch their season with a programme of Wagner, Sibelius and Beethoven, featuring Angela Hewitt on piano.
So far, so wonderful.
First up: the pre-show chat. Angela talks us through the two Beethoven pieces she'll be playing: the youthful and exuberant second piano concerto (actually the first he wrote) and the majestic pinnacle of the fourth. She discusses Czerny's notes on how Beethoven taught him and how Beethoven actually played and developed the pieces. How most players begin the fourth with a flat G-major chord, while Czerny relates that Beethoven played it as an arpeggio, echoing his interpretation of the piece as Orpheus strumming his lyre in preparation for the third movement's struggle to calm the Furies and rescue Eurydice.
She fesses up that - after twenty-three years of playing the fourth with other conductors - tonight is her debut conducting Beethoven from the piano and she's nervous as hell.
Then she tells us how having had to learn and understand the parts for the whole orchestra has transformed her awareness of the piece, in much the same way as her two glorious accounts of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier (one after years of study and interpretation; the next after having toured the pieces for two years solid) revealed truths that nobody had previously dreamed of.
Angela was lucky enough to begin her concert career just when the 'authentic period instrument' movement exploded on the music scene. The slushily over-romantic interpreters of Beethoven and Mozart were elbowed aside by the new puritans, but this had the knock-on effect of making the music leaden and dull. In the decades since, musicians and historians have worked wonders in bringing us closer to Beethoven's true meaning and I (and many others) felt that Paul Lewis had fulfilled old Ludwig's dreams with his recent recording cycles.
Then this evening happened.
It started innocently enough. The Sinfonia hit the stage; as ever, frighteningly youthful and this evening led by the precocious child, Thomas Gould (the Guardian rightly calls him "staggeringly virtuosic"); they launch into the only piece Wagner ever wrote that can truthfully be called lovely: the Siegfried Idyll.
And they are perfect. I wouldn't have expected anything else. If anyone's going to make Wagner move me to tears it's going to be the Britten Sinfonia and they didn't disappoint.
Then some jigging of chairs as Angela's glorious Fazioli is wheeled centre stage and its wheels locked. They've removed the first row of seats this evening, to fit the orchestra on stage, so my usual third row; just left of centre seat is now second row and I can see every expression on Angela's face as she plays.
Oh, before that: I hope you're reading this, Robyn. You can tell your asshat at the Philharmonic who moaned at you for playing in trousers a few weeks back that the second violin with the Britten Sinfonia (the fabulously named Beatrix Lovejoy) played this evening in open-toed black stilettos, slit-bottomed, calf-length tight capris and a Nehru-collared blouse with see-through sleeves. Wear what you like and fuck'em.
Anyhoo … Back to the action:
Angela Hewitt hits the stage in (during the pre-show chat she wore - somewhat disarmingly - boots, black tights, a miniskirt and a frumpy cardie) a purple peacock gown that must have a thousand micro-pleats around the hem, and deep turquoise, kitten heeled, fuck-me shoes. Whooee! Apologies for all the fashion stuff but my gay gene must be kicking in.
Beethoven's second piano concerto is - like Chopin's first - his "Here I am, world! Fuck you: I'm FANTASTIC" teenage show-off piece-de-resistance. Where most recordings I have of it start with a dull blast from the orchestra, the Britten Sinfonia under Angela Hewitt are as refreshing as a bucket of iced water in the face on a hot day. They spring into the piece like new-born lambs and bring it to life as if it's the first time I ever heard it.
When the piano comes in it is a revelation. I offer huge apologies to all the musicians who have gone before, but frankly: what the hell were you doing? THIS is how to do it! THIS is the teenage Beethoven waving his cock in the air and yelling "Come and get me, laydeez!"
It's genuinely astonishing! Sprightly like never before, yet muscular where it matters, and Angela's coquettish eyebrows and unconscious grins of pure delight only enhance the experience.
People say it's Beethoven's "Mozartian" piece, but while the orchestration is certainly reminiscent of Mozart, the piano is pure Beethoven, filled with the unbounded joy of a staggering virtuoso who has been given one of those new-fangled fortepianos to play with and has shown the world just what it can do. It reminds me of Chopin's first in that both pieces show what happens when teenaged boys become the best musicians on the planet. No restraint. Balls to the wall brag and bluster and utterly magnificent.
It is a new world being born.
Then the cadenza … After the airy delights of spring, Angela hits us in the face with Beethoven's 1806 cadenza; the last of the three he was know to have written. I've never heard it played with such venom. Suddenly, in the midst of little Ludwig's boyhood fantasia we get Beethoven at the height of his powers, yelling at his younger self that THIS is how a piano should be played! Holy fuck!
Whew! The interval comes and we know we have been treated to something special. What we don't know is that the second half will blow all that out of the water.
In the meantime, I'll add this little piece of advice: always order your interval drinkies before the concert; that way, you can take your time getting to the foyer and they'll be waiting there for you without having to queue. I mosey into the foyer late and simply pick up my cognac from its reserved spot. Yum.
Hi to the lovely couple who chatted to me all through the break.
Right … The second half.
Back to the Britten Sinfonia. This time whetting our appetite with a piece I've only heard a few times: the "Scene With Cranes" from Sibelius' music for the somewhat macabre play "Kuolema".
Once again I am moved to tears. Once again everybody gets the chance to cough themselves silly while the piano is wheeled back to centre stage. Once again the purple peacock dress floats from the wings to rapturous applause.
Angela Hewitt has taken Bach's keyboard music to places nobody ever dreamed. She has played Beethoven's fourth piano concerto constantly on stage for twenty-three years. This year, however, she has to conduct it, too. She has had to re-learn the piece from scratch, studying and understanding every note that every member of the orchestra plays. The rehearsals have been the most vigorous of her career, leaving her aching from head to toe. She has re-evaluated Beethoven's greatest piano work from the ground up.
And now she lets it loose upon the world.
All I'll say is that Angela's touring this for the season (tonight was her debut) and the finale in London will be live on Radio 3. If you love Beethoven, listen in because it's going to change your life. Really!
I had to physically stop myself from crying out loud more times than I can recall. The finale had me biting my lip so hard I've got a smegging blister on it now from trying to stop myself screaming my joy to the rafters.
In the year that I was born, Glenn Gould woke the world up to Bach. This evening, Angela Hewitt gave Beethoven his Glenn Gould moment. This is Beethoven, Year One. Brace yourselves. Things are going to get amazing.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Sigh …
Lol Coxhill's died. Another hero down …
The man was a jazz diva and one of the nicest people on the planet.
He'd famously jam with anyone, including me, but he was at his very best playing solo.
And yes, one urban myth at least is true: he WAS the inspiration for Joni's beautiful "For Free."
Our loss; Heaven's gain.
The man was a jazz diva and one of the nicest people on the planet.
He'd famously jam with anyone, including me, but he was at his very best playing solo.
And yes, one urban myth at least is true: he WAS the inspiration for Joni's beautiful "For Free."
Our loss; Heaven's gain.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Hello. My Name Is Dive And I'm A Pastaholic.
Fuck, I'm fat!
Hokay, time for an intervention. Time for all of my more reasonably proportioned body parts to gather round and gawp in disgusted awe at my utter rotundity.
Holy shit … I wouldn't look out of place in a Mid-West strip mall, shopping for cheese in a spray can. Not being one for mirrors and only having a top view of the corpulent crisis going on in my midriff I had been only vaguely aware of the effects of rampant inflation … until this weekend.
Last Sunday, given the choice between Easter church service and traditional family roast dinner, I sensibly opted for neither and instead moseyed on down to the studio to make an unholy racket with my disreputable friends (or at least one disreputable friend and my equally disreputable little brother).
Phil has gone all gadget-happy and spent his groats on one of those new fangled moving picture screens (an Apple eye patch I think he called it). Anyhoo, he propped the thing up on an amp while we spent a pleasantly unproductive afternoon busking old songs that none of us could really remember and songs that none of us actually knew … pretty much par for the course.
It would appear that the piratical eye patch captured some of the shambolic mess on video. The upshot of which is that I caught sight of myself standing sideways on to the camera and screamed like a girl.
Fuck, I'm FAT!
As a friend has since put it: “Most people would simply opt for conventional gender reassignment, but you? You have to be different. I mean the man-boobs were bad enough, but how the hell did you manage to get yourself pregnant?”
I took a screen grab of my planet-shaped pregnancy and stuck it on the fridge door with a big red sign that simply states “DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!” I have another sign on the kitchen door which reads “Don’t even think about it. Turn around one-eighty and get your fat, ugly arse into the gym, lardboy!”
On an unrelated note, Nokia recently took over the company I used to use to post all my music on my blog and - to improve their service - are pulling the plug on the whole thing. So if anyone clicks on my old music tracks all they'll get is a bunch of Swedish incompetence and no noise whatsoever.
Whilst the more culturally advanced among you might consider that an improvement, I'm a sadistic bastard, so here's some of last Sunday's cacophonous crap to annoy the hell out of you and to remind me to lock myself out of the kitchen.
Knowing myself pretty well, however, I predict that dieting will be a non-starter and will be replaced by the simple expedient of never again standing sideways on to a camera.
Toodle pip.
Hokay, time for an intervention. Time for all of my more reasonably proportioned body parts to gather round and gawp in disgusted awe at my utter rotundity.
Holy shit … I wouldn't look out of place in a Mid-West strip mall, shopping for cheese in a spray can. Not being one for mirrors and only having a top view of the corpulent crisis going on in my midriff I had been only vaguely aware of the effects of rampant inflation … until this weekend.
Last Sunday, given the choice between Easter church service and traditional family roast dinner, I sensibly opted for neither and instead moseyed on down to the studio to make an unholy racket with my disreputable friends (or at least one disreputable friend and my equally disreputable little brother).
Phil has gone all gadget-happy and spent his groats on one of those new fangled moving picture screens (an Apple eye patch I think he called it). Anyhoo, he propped the thing up on an amp while we spent a pleasantly unproductive afternoon busking old songs that none of us could really remember and songs that none of us actually knew … pretty much par for the course.
It would appear that the piratical eye patch captured some of the shambolic mess on video. The upshot of which is that I caught sight of myself standing sideways on to the camera and screamed like a girl.
Fuck, I'm FAT!
As a friend has since put it: “Most people would simply opt for conventional gender reassignment, but you? You have to be different. I mean the man-boobs were bad enough, but how the hell did you manage to get yourself pregnant?”
I took a screen grab of my planet-shaped pregnancy and stuck it on the fridge door with a big red sign that simply states “DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE!” I have another sign on the kitchen door which reads “Don’t even think about it. Turn around one-eighty and get your fat, ugly arse into the gym, lardboy!”
On an unrelated note, Nokia recently took over the company I used to use to post all my music on my blog and - to improve their service - are pulling the plug on the whole thing. So if anyone clicks on my old music tracks all they'll get is a bunch of Swedish incompetence and no noise whatsoever.
Whilst the more culturally advanced among you might consider that an improvement, I'm a sadistic bastard, so here's some of last Sunday's cacophonous crap to annoy the hell out of you and to remind me to lock myself out of the kitchen.
Knowing myself pretty well, however, I predict that dieting will be a non-starter and will be replaced by the simple expedient of never again standing sideways on to a camera.
Toodle pip.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
One For Speedway.
Speedway posted a nice video today of Eric Clapton and Wynton Marsalis doing a big band Noo Orleans version of one of my favourite old blues songs.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
I know most of you have heard all this crap too many times over the years, but Speedway seems to think you need to be able to read music and have a natural ear to be able to play.
Well musical blindness and deafness never stopped me, so I say pick up a guitar and go for it, girl. It's never too late to start playing the blues (especially in this economic climate).
Here's a completely different version of the song: The Blind Willies (Michael and me) inspired by a Pinetop Perkins '78 record of "44 Blues" just for Speedway.
Sorry about the drop-out in the middle; very old and fragile tape recordings tend to do that.
The Blind Willies
Friday, December 16, 2011
Rejoice!
Watch out this weekend for the first cookery post in a long time, plus the best and the worst from the office Christmas Bake-Off.
In the meantime, kick your festive ass into gear with a glorious seasonal "Live From Daryl's House".
The Blind Boys of Alabama come to visit and spread some seriously righteous Gospel cheer.
Consider this your Christmas card this year. If I could send it to everybody I would. So many high points and "Oh, wow" moments. "Go Tell It On The Mountain" is a real rouser and "Midnight Clear" so beautiful it hurts, but the whole episode is a heartwarming seasonal hug.
Enjoy!
In the meantime, kick your festive ass into gear with a glorious seasonal "Live From Daryl's House".
The Blind Boys of Alabama come to visit and spread some seriously righteous Gospel cheer.
Consider this your Christmas card this year. If I could send it to everybody I would. So many high points and "Oh, wow" moments. "Go Tell It On The Mountain" is a real rouser and "Midnight Clear" so beautiful it hurts, but the whole episode is a heartwarming seasonal hug.
Enjoy!
Sunday, December 04, 2011
A Song For Sunday Evening
I'm doing bugger all today.
I drove over to Phil's for lunch and he cooked an amazingly good Thai dish that would have made a great cookery post if I had bothered to take my big girls' camera (but I didn't).
Now I'm just faffing, avoiding doing the ironing and snacking on sashimi tuna while I wait for the Earth to die screaming, or bedtime, whichever turns up first. I'll take either.
While I wait - and as it's the season for such things - I'll recommend my favourite non-Classical album of the year so you can ask Santa for your own copy.
This year it's "Arco Iris" by fabulous fado singer Amina Alaoui, on ECM (yay for Manfred Eicher). She's taken traditional Portuguese fado, folk songs from Andalusia, Arabic music from her native Morocco and a jazz mentality. She has put together an astonishing band and recorded the most wonderful album of 2011. Hypnotic, sensual bliss.
ECM 2180. Santa should have a few copies left. Here's a track to be going on with …
Enjoy.
I drove over to Phil's for lunch and he cooked an amazingly good Thai dish that would have made a great cookery post if I had bothered to take my big girls' camera (but I didn't).
Now I'm just faffing, avoiding doing the ironing and snacking on sashimi tuna while I wait for the Earth to die screaming, or bedtime, whichever turns up first. I'll take either.
While I wait - and as it's the season for such things - I'll recommend my favourite non-Classical album of the year so you can ask Santa for your own copy.
This year it's "Arco Iris" by fabulous fado singer Amina Alaoui, on ECM (yay for Manfred Eicher). She's taken traditional Portuguese fado, folk songs from Andalusia, Arabic music from her native Morocco and a jazz mentality. She has put together an astonishing band and recorded the most wonderful album of 2011. Hypnotic, sensual bliss.
ECM 2180. Santa should have a few copies left. Here's a track to be going on with …
Enjoy.
Monday, November 21, 2011
WTF Monday - Poor, Poor Purcell
For fuck's sake, what was going on in the sculptor's mind? Did he hate Purcell that much?
At least the authorities placed it right opposite New Scotland Yard so it stands a good chance of being blown up by terrorists. Put it way up on your list of things to avoid seeing in London.
Purcell is worth so much more …
I can never resist the opportunity of posting Andreas Scholl videos, especially "What Power Art Thou" (the second one) with it's devastating "Let me"s in the "Let me freeze again to death" line.
At least Purcell's glorious music lives on even if the sculpture sucks fat, hairy arse.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Breakfast With Daryl
Go on. Click this link. You know you want to.
What could be finer than having Daryl and his band play you their new album live as you sit in your own chair sipping coffee?
That's just what I did before heading out into the world this morning, and I'm much happier for it.
Enjoy … and also discover a strange factoid about Brian Eno.
What could be finer than having Daryl and his band play you their new album live as you sit in your own chair sipping coffee?
That's just what I did before heading out into the world this morning, and I'm much happier for it.
Enjoy … and also discover a strange factoid about Brian Eno.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
A Fifty-Three Year Old Man Writes …
A huge thank you to Speedway.
I awoke this morning to find I was fifty-three years old.
Aww, crap …
I was somewhat surprised that I didn't start screaming as soon as consciousness allowed, but no; my reaction was more of a "meh …"
Oh, well, what the hell. Another year closer to blesséd oblivion.
And so, stumbling around the house like a zombie with a half-grown Frank Zappa moustache, and groaning like Grandpa Simpson I arrived at the downstairs Mac, coffee in hand, to find a birthday greeting from our Speedway in my email inbox.
Of course I clicked on the link. What unalloyed delight!
I've admired the genius of Florence Foster-Jenkins for many a decade, but to be woken and serenaded by her on my birthday was … well, let's just say that this is probably the best thing an opera buff living on his own can wake up to in the morning, so my gratitude overflows copiously in Speedway's general direction.
I laughed so hard at the high notes that I couldn't eat breakfast.
And I dare say Mozart giggles in his grave whenever anyone plays this.
Here's how it SHOULD be done: the beautiful (even in that Star Trek wig) Diana Damrau giving it to Dorothea Röschmann's Pamina in Colin Davis' glorious adaptation of die Zauberflöte at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden (the one with Simon Keenlyside as Papageno - a regular rainy Sunday DVD treat over at my house … come on over).
I awoke this morning to find I was fifty-three years old.
Aww, crap …
I was somewhat surprised that I didn't start screaming as soon as consciousness allowed, but no; my reaction was more of a "meh …"
Oh, well, what the hell. Another year closer to blesséd oblivion.
And so, stumbling around the house like a zombie with a half-grown Frank Zappa moustache, and groaning like Grandpa Simpson I arrived at the downstairs Mac, coffee in hand, to find a birthday greeting from our Speedway in my email inbox.
Of course I clicked on the link. What unalloyed delight!
I've admired the genius of Florence Foster-Jenkins for many a decade, but to be woken and serenaded by her on my birthday was … well, let's just say that this is probably the best thing an opera buff living on his own can wake up to in the morning, so my gratitude overflows copiously in Speedway's general direction.
I laughed so hard at the high notes that I couldn't eat breakfast.
And I dare say Mozart giggles in his grave whenever anyone plays this.
Here's how it SHOULD be done: the beautiful (even in that Star Trek wig) Diana Damrau giving it to Dorothea Röschmann's Pamina in Colin Davis' glorious adaptation of die Zauberflöte at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden (the one with Simon Keenlyside as Papageno - a regular rainy Sunday DVD treat over at my house … come on over).
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Dancing With The Dead
After yesterday's miserable post I cheered up considerably on the way to work when Radio 3's deliciously munchable Sara Mohr-Pietsch played me Aram Khachaturian's Valse from his Masquerade Suite.
Now THAT'S Halloween music!
Play this LOUD, close your eyes and picture if you will a dark and dusty after-hours circus run by Tim Burton. The crowds have all gone home and now here come Jack Skellington and the Corpse Bride leading a mad Valse, followed around the ring by the shambling, lurching, delirious, drunken and happy dead. If this music doesn't make you want to whirl 'til you're giddy then I hope your soul gets eaten by spiders while you sleep.
I had completely forgotten this brilliant piece of music existed but it kept me happy all yesterday, picturing the denizens of Halloween Town spinning ecstatically into oblivion.
Of course most dead people can only count up to three which is probably why they stick to waltzes.
I checked my CDs when I got home and sadly I couldn't find Masquerade. The only two Khachaturians I own are the ballets Spartacus and Gayaneh.
So as I'm in the mood for some more Armenian madness, pull up a chair and cock an ear to that gloriously romantic, sugar-syrup confection, the heartbreakingly beautiful Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia (only spoiled - if you're old and English - by the baffling image of Peter Gilmore hamming it up astride the deck of a sailing ship and sporting a pair of muttonchop whiskers bigger than his head in The Onedin Line, a magnificently silly 1970s drama serial for which this was used as the theme tune).
This one, however, is the same version I have, conducted by the great man himself.
I'll skip the Sabre Dance and go straight to the other great Halloween special Khachaturian wrote: that chilling (it still makes me shiver) Adagio from Gayaneh that was used in 2001 A Space Odyssey and again for the spookiest parts of Aliens. When it reaches half way through, "that" theme starts up for the first time and it makes me want to hide behind the sofa with Sigourney Weaver in a vest … er …
So here's to the mighty Aram Khachaturian, Armenia's greatest son, king of unintentional Halloween music and lush romanticism.
Thanks for cheering me up.
Now THAT'S Halloween music!
Play this LOUD, close your eyes and picture if you will a dark and dusty after-hours circus run by Tim Burton. The crowds have all gone home and now here come Jack Skellington and the Corpse Bride leading a mad Valse, followed around the ring by the shambling, lurching, delirious, drunken and happy dead. If this music doesn't make you want to whirl 'til you're giddy then I hope your soul gets eaten by spiders while you sleep.
I had completely forgotten this brilliant piece of music existed but it kept me happy all yesterday, picturing the denizens of Halloween Town spinning ecstatically into oblivion.
Of course most dead people can only count up to three which is probably why they stick to waltzes.
I checked my CDs when I got home and sadly I couldn't find Masquerade. The only two Khachaturians I own are the ballets Spartacus and Gayaneh.
So as I'm in the mood for some more Armenian madness, pull up a chair and cock an ear to that gloriously romantic, sugar-syrup confection, the heartbreakingly beautiful Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia (only spoiled - if you're old and English - by the baffling image of Peter Gilmore hamming it up astride the deck of a sailing ship and sporting a pair of muttonchop whiskers bigger than his head in The Onedin Line, a magnificently silly 1970s drama serial for which this was used as the theme tune).
This one, however, is the same version I have, conducted by the great man himself.
I'll skip the Sabre Dance and go straight to the other great Halloween special Khachaturian wrote: that chilling (it still makes me shiver) Adagio from Gayaneh that was used in 2001 A Space Odyssey and again for the spookiest parts of Aliens. When it reaches half way through, "that" theme starts up for the first time and it makes me want to hide behind the sofa with Sigourney Weaver in a vest … er …
So here's to the mighty Aram Khachaturian, Armenia's greatest son, king of unintentional Halloween music and lush romanticism.
Thanks for cheering me up.
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