RCM Symphony Orchestra plays Lutosławski, QEH 6 Feb 13

Lutosławski, Debussy, Roussel: RCM Symphony Orchestra, Franck Ollu (cond), QEH, London, 6.2.13

Lutosławski: Jeux venetiens

Debussy: Nocturnes

Lutosławski: Symphony No. 3

Roussel: Bacchus and Ariane Suite No. 2

Sophisticated, urbane and founded on infinite subtleties of expression: everything about Lutosławski’s music suggests that it requires mature, experienced and world-wise performers to achieve its effect. This evening it got something different, a performance from the Royal College of Music Symphony Orchestra, some members of which were not even born when the composer died (doesn’t that make you feel old?). The ensemble handled the music’s technical demands well, and the more direct approach that the young players took to the music’s expressive side demonstrated that Lutosławski’s aesthetic is not as involved or esoteric as it may sometimes seem.

Jeux venetiens opened the concert, but it wasn’t the best way to start. The piece makes extensive use of Lutosławkski’s distinctive technique of “limited aleatorism”. Those passages proved something of a hurdle for the players. All the notes were there, but they had difficulty maintaining the evenness of the texture, and the balance between the instruments was often problematic. All of the solos were excellent, but for the time being, Lutosławski’s distinctive ensemble formations eluded them.

The orchestra gradually found its feet in the following work, Debussy’s Nocturnes. The links between Debussy’s orchestration and that of Lutosławski were everywhere apparent, with the big difference that the orchestra had little difficulty in achieving what Debussy desired. The strings were on great form, and throughout the second half as well, with near ideal intonation and a unity of ensemble that many professional orchestras struggle to achieve. The Debussy really came to life in the final movement “Sirènes”, for which a female choir from RCM was squeezed onto the stage between the strings and woodwinds. Some shaky intonation and ensemble from the winds in the earlier movements was ironed out for this last movement, and the sound quality from every section brought the piece to life.

But the best was yet to come. Lutosławski’s Third Symphony opened the second half, and was undoubtedly the high point of the concert. The performance was meticulously prepared, and every player was obviously on top of the notes. Unlike in Jeux venetiens, much of the music here is loud and often declamatory, and the orchestra was able to not only give those bold, direct statements, but also find the ideal contrast between those and the more introverted and finely textured passages. The score is something of a concerto for orchestra, regularly shining a spotlight on unexpected corners of the ensemble, and whoever the composer’s attention fell on, they always came up with the goods.

That said, the strings continued to have the upper hand over the winds. The brass in the opening fanfares was just a bit too raucous, and the woodwinds occasionally struggled to keep their intonation in place, although Lutosławski makes things very difficult for them by often writing very loud passages in unison. But the highlight of the evening was the central toccata of the symphony, a complex but highly ordered polyphonic episode for the strings. Again, the strings’ ensemble and intonation was ideal here, but they also achieved a unity of timbre too, not overly dark or heavy, but focussed and crystal clear through all those polyphonic lines.

This evening’s conductor, Franck Ollu, is a new music specialist, which is just as well given the programme. His conducting of Lutosławski’s a Battuta sections (which ironically he led senza Battuta) was very detailed, as if to guide the players through every potential problem in the music. This left him looking frustrated in the ad lib passages, as he had to essentially stand there and let them get on with it. This was particularly apparent in the symphony, in which the bar lines often stop right at the music’s climax, exactly where the conductor would want to intervene the most. Fortunately he was able to have full confidence in his players to continue exactly where he left off, and to take the music in the direction it needed to go.

The concert concluded with the second suite from Roussel’s Bacchus et Ariane. There are Lutosławski connections here too, which just about justified the work’s presence on the programme. It posed few problems for the players, who gave a committed performance, although perhaps lacking a little in sensuality. But it wasn’t the right piece to end the concert, not after the excellent performance of the Third Symphony. The Roussel sounded pretty pedestrian in comparison, and I can’t have been the only person in the audience wishing the evening would end with some further utterance from the Polish master.

The weird, weird world of Pjokken Eide

 Northern Norway is much like Western Cornwall, in that when you visit you’re likely to meet people who could only possibly inhabit the distant corners of the known world. One such man is Pjokken Eide, a senior figure in the civic life of Tromsø. I was there earlier this week to cover the Northern Lights Festival and ran into Pjokken a couple of times. The Festival’s chairman is out of town, so Pjokken is standing in, styling himself the “chairman substitute”. He’s been giving speeches and introductions at a number of formal receptions, and doing so very well, but to look at him it is hard to imagine quite how he fits into the formal, and usually very boring, world of civic receptions and corporate hospitality.

It turns out that Pjokken has just retired from an amazingly varied career. He’s been involved in arts management in Bergen - and if you ever meet him, ask him to tell you the story about how he secured the funding for the Bergen concert hall, a stroke of genius. He also once ran an advertising agency – “You could always tell when an advert was made by Pjokken” somebody in Tromsø told me, and I can well believe it. Most impressively, he spent many years as head of the Norwegian Seafood Council. Here he is inspecting some of the produce (he’s the one on the right, obviously):

But throughout all this, Pjokken has also pursued a bizarre and fascinating music career. In the 60s and 70s he was a member of the band Popol Vuh. Check out this video, in which he “plays” a piano in ways that need to be seen to be believed. Pjokken described the piano to me as “top of the props: no strings, no keys - meant to be seen only from behind”. As far as he can remember, his only contribution to the soundtrack here was the tambourine, although he also played flute and trombone for the band:

He also produced two solo albums around this time and I’m delighted to report that both are on Spotify. They are psychedelic experiences both, in a gentle, folksy sort of way: 

What next? Renaissance music of course. When we met he was full of stories about this album, on which he plays Renaissance trombone, and on one track uses a mousetrap to mimic the sound of self-flagellation in a song dating back to when the plague reached Bergen:

In more recent years the checked tweed suit seems to have become a trademark. He told me that today his musical activities are limited to playing the trombone in an amateur orchestra in Tromsø. However, he marked his retirement from the Norwegian Seafood Council in 2011 with a musical spectacular that the fish traders of Norway are unlikely to forget in a hurry. As a parting gift he wrote them an anthem. As he put it to me “The song is meant to be for the entire seafood industry in Norway what You'll never walk alone is for Liverpool FC.” The lyrics, he says, are “pompous to the extreme”, and, as you’ll hear, Henry Mancini, is channelled at various key moments. Take it away Pjokken!

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Adam Fischer OAE The Creation

Haydn: The Creation

Sophie Bevan soprano

Andrew Kennedy tenor

Andrew Foster-Williams bass-baritone

Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment

Schola Cantorum of Oxford

Adam Fischer conductor

Royal Festival Hall, London, 9.1.13

It’s impossible to take your eyes off Adam Fischer. His every gesture at the podium is unique and unpredictable. He clearly lives this music, and the way that he communicates it is utterly distinctive. Fischer conducts without a score, no mean feat considering the length of this oratorio. The recitatives are none of his business really, but in each of them he stands in rapt attention, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the soloist. Occasionally he will mouth the words, seemingly in wonder at the quality of the delivery. And then he’ll turn to the audience and nod enthusiastically, to make sure we know that he likes what he’s hearing. 

Fischer’s communication with the orchestra is exemplary too. He’s no tyrant, and often tempos seem more suggested than imposed. But he has a firm grip of moods and styles. When he wants scurrying textures from the strings, for example, he’ll hunch his back and start jumping round the podium in jerky crab-like movements. He certainly has a direct line to Haydn, and especially to Haydn’s optimism, the key quality of The Creation. There were some minor flaws here, but none mattered compared to the sense of intense joy that radiated from the podium. 

The OAE appeared in a particularly large configuration this evening, with four desks of firsts and seconds. This facilitated a good balance, although the Festival Hall did some sections more favours than others. The flutes were particularly prominent, as were the bassoons, but the oboes, clarinets and trombones (with the notable exception of their lion roars) were all but lost to the acoustic. Schola Cantorum, Oxford gave a proficient performance, and responded well to Fischer’s ebullient conducting. There were occasional issues of ensemble and lack of tonal focus, but for an amateur ensemble they quit themselves well.

The three soloists made for a curious but ultimately successful combination. Soprano Sophie Bevan sang with an operatic, almost coloratura, tone, but any suspicions of anachronism were swept away by the sheer musicality of her singing. She had a few small intonation issues, especially at the top, and Haydn severely tested her technique with scale passages across the break, but these technical issues were minor concerns. Andrew Kennedy began the evening in an erratic mood, but settled into a more controlled style towards the end of the first part. He lacks tone in the lower register but his voice has plenty of character in the upper range. Andrew Foster-Williams gave the best vocal performance of the evening. His tone production was close to ideal, and the range of emotions he brought was pitch perfect: the serious passages with a light, almost ironic, edge, and the joyous passages uncomplicated and direct.

Adam Fischer’s take on The Creation was undoubtedly developed in musical environments very different to this. His opera work has put him in good stead to juggle the competing demands of soloists and orchestra. He also has a dramatic sensibility that works well here, making the most of pregnant pauses in the opening choruses, for example, but without ever moving outside of strict 18^th century conventions of taste. He’s the ideal conductor for this orchestra, and one they should welcome back at the earliest possible opportunity.  

Spira mirabilis, Kate Royal, QEH 5 Dec 12

Schubert: Spira Mirabilis, Kate Royal, Malcolm Martineau, Queen Elizabeth Hall, London 5.12.12

Schubert: Octet, An Silvia D891,
Romance in F minor (Der Vollmond strahlt auf) from Rosamunde, Abendstern D806, An die Musik D547, Rastlose Liebe D138, Nachtviolen D752, An die Nachtigall (Er liegt und schlaeft) D497, Heimliches Lieben D922, Suleika 1 (Was bedeutet die Bewegung?) D720,  Suleika 2 (Ach um deine feuchten Schwingen) D717

What to do with the Schubert Octet? It’s too long to start a concert, but it doesn’t really have the drama to conclude one. The SBC came up with an ingenious solution this evening, coupling the Octet with a mini-recital of Lieder. The result was a programme that was both balanced and varied, and one that, despite Schubert’s best efforts, didn’t go on all night.

Spira Mirabilis is a young chamber music collective that is rapidly gaining an enviable reputation. It is based in Italy and claims to take players from around the world, although almost all the names on this evening’s programme looked Italian to me. The group’s approach to Schubert is youthful in all the best senses: energetic, direct and always revelling in the continuous melodic lines that keep his music afloat. The music was elegantly phrased, shaped with subtle dynamic swells and dips, and the unique character of each movement was clearly delineated from the very first bar.

Much of the playing was very quiet, suggesting that the players are used to an acoustic environment that is more giving than the drab sound of the QEH. As a result, some of the detail in these quieter passages was lost. The acoustic may also have contributed to some balance problems, and particularly to the top-heavy sound throughout the Octet. This projected the first violin and clarinet into positions of even greater prominence than Schubert’s score suggests, regularly inviting direct comparisons between the two players. That contest was definitely won by the clarinettist, Miriam Caldarini, a player with an attractive, warm tone, narrower than some, but still an excellent vehicle for Schubert’s melodies and counterpoints.

What a joy it is to hear Kate Royal sing Schubert. Her performance this evening was emotionally charged but never extreme. She is always intensely musical, but the words always come first, and she is prepared to bring her tone down to almost a speaking voice when the texts require it. The short recital that made up this evening’s second half included a bit of everything. Beginning with An Silvia is a traditional gambit, but it does bring premonitions of a greatest hits programme to follow. Fortunately, the selections soon moved into less familiar territory.

I remember Royal having a rounder voice in years gone by, but her tone was much narrower this evening, occasionally slightly nasal, but usually powered by a warm vibrato from the very back of the throat. One of her most impressive devices is a pianissimo float up into the highest register, then back down again as if nothing has happened. She is also good at ending lines decisively and with full tonal support, although this occasionally contrasts a lack of stability at the start of phrases.

One last word should go to accompanist Malcolm Martinaeu. His name precedes him, and he needs no further praise from me. Even so, it is fascinating to watch him work. The way that he can draw all the colours from the piano that we might expect from a concerto soloist, yet without ever raising significantly about mezzo forte. And when Schubert gives him a melody, usually as an introduction or coda, he plays it musically, but never so musically as to upstage the singer. The last song on the programme Leid der Delphine is really tricky for the pianist. The singer is invited to add all sorts of rubato, and the accompanist has to follow while also dealing with a range of complex figurations of his own. It almost fell apart once or twice, but Martineau was never going to let that happen. When Royal moved out of synch with the right hand running figurations, he simply delayed the left hand responses to meet her speed, yet without ever losing the pulse. He is a performer of intense musicality, and all the more impressive for never drawing attention to himself or his work. What a pro!

Wagner Recordings: Are they all about the singing?

(image: Victor Juhasz)

There’s no such thing as a perfect Wagner recording. Either the conductor doesn’t know what he/she is doing, or the orchestra sound like they are sight reading, or (most commonly) there are singers in the cast who really shouldn’t be there. To find an exception to this rule, you have to go back to at least the early 1960s, at which point inferior audio becomes an issue. Listeners and critics have got to accept compromises somewhere, but the Gesamtkunstwerk doesn’t allow us to easily categorise even purely musical criteria into hierarchies of importance. 

Earlier this week, I was reviewing the new Götterdämmerung from Frankfurt, conducted by Sebastian Weigle. As chance would have it, the following day I edited for a journal a review from another critic of the same recording. He and I were in surprising agreement about the specifics: that the conducting and the sound engineering are excellent, that recording from staged performances aides the music’s drama, and, most significantly, that the lead singers, and Lance Ryan as Siegfried in particular, don’t give the best performances you’ll find on record.

So how, then, could our conclusions have differed so wildly? My review concludes with an enthusiastic recommendation, while his tells readers to steer well clear. Regarding Ryan’s singing, he even goes as far as to say “Where was the person with judgment and musical sensibilities, and the authority, to say “no – we cannot release this!”?”

To my ears, it would have been a great pity if that had happened, as I consider Weigle to be one of the greatest Wagner interpreters working today, and the insights he brings to this Götterdämmerung are all too rare among recent recordings. But for my fellow reviewer, and apparently for many, even most, other listeners, the flaws in the singing completely over-ride these qualities. 

I’ve often heard it said that there are two kinds of opera fans, those who are in it for the theatre, and those who are in it for the music. I’m certainly in the second category here, and I might even use flaws in Wagner’s concept of the music drama to justify my position. Wagner’s mature operas have a distinctly symphonic quality, and while this is intended to serve the higher ideas expressed through the multi-disciplinary whole, the sheer success of his greatest music as pure music deserves to be appreciated too. That dimension is emphasised by an audio recording, which focuses the attention squarely on the pit, with the vocal soloists dominating, but never leading, the orchestral performance. 

From that point of view, Weigle’s Götterdämmerung is a triumph. Not only does he present a musically convincing reading, but he also communicates it well to both the orchestra and the singers. He gives the singers plenty of space, or perhaps he just gives them plenty of rope to hang themselves, but there is never any sense that he is neglecting his responsibilities to the vocalists.

My colleague’s review advises listeners to avoid this recording and to seek out instead those by Solti, Böhm, Levine and Barenboim. I’d certainly agree that all four of those conductors have better singers to work with, but I’d also suggest that all four Ring cycles are elevated above their station by critics who prioritise the singing above all else. In comparison to Wiegle, those four conductors seem like control freaks, especially Solti, whose cycle remains the top choice for many, even those who don’t like the way he conducts it.

There are no easy solutions here, but Wagner does offer one possible way out of the impasse, via Das Rheingold. That’s the one opera in the cycle that doesn’t rely on a handful of superhuman singers in the lead roles. It’s much more of an ensemble piece, allowing a skilled conductor with an enthusiastic and well-integrated company to shine, even if they can’t afford the big names. And that’s exactly what we find with Wiegle’s Rheingold, which really is a triumph whichever way you look at it. So perhaps in future I’ll have to tone down my praise for Götterdämmerung recordings that have duff Siegfrieds, on the grounds that that really is a game changer for many listeners. When in that situation the answer is clearly to turn back to the first opera in the cycle. That way we’re much more likely to agree about the qualities, or otherwise, of conductor, orchestra and chorus, who between them rarely get the column inches they deserve in Wagner reviews.