The Sixteen Harry Christophers Kings Place 15 May 2013

Bach: Motet “Komm, Jesu, komm!”

Bach: Mass in G BWV 236

Bach: Motet: “Furchte dich nicht”

Bach: Mass in A BWV 234

The Sixteen, Harry Christophers (conductor), Kings Place, 15 May 2013

Bach’s Motets and smaller Masses are the odd ones out. Unlike his more numerous cantatas and his more famous passions, they do not help the listener to follow their structure through the alternation of arias and chorales. Nor do they fit easily into the forms of Protestant worship that characterise most of Bach’s other religious works. All of which makes programming them tricky. But Harry Christophers has come up with an effective format, a two-part concert in which each half begins with a Motet and is followed by a Mass. The choice of works on this evening’s programme fits the format particularly well, the Motet “Komm, Jesu, komm!” a bracing opener and the Mass in A a work with an appropriately monumental conclusion to end. And the differences between these two works and the other Motet, “Furchte dich nicht” and the other Mass, in G BWV 229, are sufficient to make for a satisfyingly diverse evening of music.

Hall One at Kings Place has a resonant venue but it’s hardly a church, and so a lot of this music can sound recontextualised simply by the acoustic. The hall affords the music a warmth, but never obscures the detail. In this context, The Sixteen sounds more like a group of soloists (which, of course, it is) than a homogeneous choir. The individual voices always come through, which both aids the counterpoint and instils a sense of humanity in the music, with the musical personality of each singer contributing something to the whole. Christophers fielded eight singers, divided into two choirs in the Motets and singing two to a part in the Masses. Given the calibre of vocal talent on display here, it was little surprise that both the choral singing and the vocal solos were all excellent. Many of the details that the exceptional acoustic allowed us to hear demonstrated just how fine the choral singing was. The top notes from the sopranos (Grace Davidson and Julia Doyle) for example, not a quality that Bach’s music usually shows off, were delicately placed and beautifully controlled in their timbre. Balance between the sections was always good, and diction was admirably clear throughout. The vocal solos in the Masses were also impressive. No weak links to speak of among the soloists, but the finest individual performance of the evening was from bass Ben Davies in the Domine Deus of the Mass in A. His voice is commanding without being overpowering. He has a distinctive tone and clear diction, and he is able to project admirably without exceeding the bounds of the Baroque aesthetic. Definitely a name to look out for.

Is it written in stone that the Orchestra of the Sixteen should be a period instrument band? Would the choir’s eminence in Renaissance repertoire be compromised if they were to be heard with modern instruments in Baroque and Classical music? I only ask because the orchestra this evening was not the equal of the choir. The instrumentalists played well as individuals (for the most part, there were a few ropey solos) but the group didn’t really gel as an ensemble. The wide range of timbres available to period instruments, especially the strings, requires a real unity of intent for the ensemble to cohere. I’d hesitate to call this group a scratch band, but they clearly don’t play together very often. Perhaps, under the circumstances, a modern instrument group would meet the challenges better – in the Masses that is, the continuo group (theorbo, chamber organ, violone and cello) was ideal in the Motets.

Christophers’ readings of these works balanced smooth legato flow with just enough accentuation to give the music shape. His tempos are generally fast, but never rigid, and the vocal phrases are always elegantly shaped. Christophers has a rare ability to make Bach’s music sound intuitive, and always more emotional than intellectual. The way he handles final cadences is particularly effective, slowing down at just the right moment in the cadential preparation so that the final chords seem at one with the preceding music, yet unquestionably conclusive.

This was a performance to a high standard, and as such invites comparison with the very best. Christophers’ approach to the Motets resembles Gardiners, but Gardiner has the upper hand in terms of the elegance, grace and precision of his (larger?) choir. On the other hand, Christophers seeks a more monumental sound with this music, more reverential and more flowing. The problems of intonation and ensemble in Christophers’ orchestra, although minor, are the difference between this and the superior orchestral accompaniments on Masaaki Suzuki’s recordings. But then, it’s always unfair to compare a live performance with a commercial recording. Leaflets in the foyer on the way out invited contributions towards a new commercial recording of this repertoire. One incentive to donate is that we will then be able to compare like with like. There is certainly a huge amount of musical potential in these readings, and Christophers has some original ideas that could make their recordings genuinely distinctive. If the orchestra gets the chance to sort out the problems with their ensemble between now and then, these could prove to be very fine recordings indeed.

Will Gregory’s Moog Ensemble, Hall One, Kings Place, London 10.5.13

Will Gregory’s Moog Ensemble, Hall One, Kings Place, London 10.5.13 (GDn)

Squelch, plop, huge swell out of nothing; the language of the Moog is already well-known to anybody with an interest, so doing something new with this retro technology is quite a challenge. Will Gregory’s approach is to assemble a group of about ten similarly enthusiastic Moogists to perform a mixed concert of new and old works. Gregory himself is an affable compere, and he mercifully spares us the details of the technology onstage, but from his brief introduction it consisted of about half a dozen Moogs of different designs, one or two other early keyboard synths and a bass guitar for good measure.

Hall One at Kings Place is a versatile space, but I’m not sure it was ideal for this concert. The whole point of the Moog is that it can project keyboard lines through the surrounding noises of a rock concert. Presenting the instrument in an acoustic that could easily accommodate the finer delicacies of a spinet, for example, made that quality irrelevant, and brought out a number of acoustical artefacts that did neither the hall nor the technology any favours. And the sheer number of these instruments on the stage laid bare their many practical problems: the sound of ten highly amplified Moogs tuning up simultaneously is pretty grim.

That said, the quasi-classical atmosphere of the setting was ideal for the repertoire. The first half consisted mainly of popular classics, each Moogified to within an inch of its life. The Moog’s ability to project individual lines made the Renaissance and Baroque selections effective. A Gabrieli Canzona was given fairly reverential treatment, although it was a shame the players didn’t explore the potential for antiphonal Moogs here. Then came Brandenburg Three, a fitting homage to Walter/Wendy Carlos, whose pioneering work had inspired the whole project. Doing the concerto complete was a risky strategy, but having Adrian Utley (of Portishead fame) jamming some crazy electronic noises over the Adagio second movement prevented it from becoming monotonous. One of the most interesting pieces in the first half was the final movement of Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time, with Utley playing the cello solo on his mini Moog over an all-Moog accompaniment. The instrument’s round diapason sounds and its wide dynamic range made it almost seem like an ondes martenot. Sadly, the idea was much better than the execution. Utley had his left hand on the gain throughout, but couldn’t quite get the dynamic swells to contour the phrases as precisely as the music needs.  The first half concluded with Bacharach’s South American Getaway, an ambitious piece given the rhythmic accuracy it needed to grove. It seems churlish to complain about issues of ensemble or passage work in a Moog concert, but the sheer number of keyboardists on the stage, often playing in rhythmic unison, did mean that the inevitable, if only occasional, finger slips often stood out.

Will Gregory’s Moog Ensemble was founded seven years ago to premiere The Service of Tim Henman, to which the second half of this concert was devoted. I’m assuming the title is intended to sound quasi-liturgical, a reference perhaps to the reverence in which Henman was then held. He isn’t any more, of course, but a sense of nostalgia for the days of Henmania prevented this bizarre work from seeming passé. Henman appears in the work through a film of him on court. Individual shots of him serving, returning, jumping and running are slowed down to the point that the images often seem almost static. They are accompanied by music that is considerably more frenetic. After the various homages in the first half, the musicians return here to their home territory: hard-edged minimalism - did I mention that Graham Fitkin was among the players? – and trancy synth pop  of the kind that made Gregory famous as one half of Goldfrapp. Most of the music (for which no composition credit was given, but I’m guessing it was predominantly by Will Gregory) consisted of funky, squelchy riffs, often on loops, with the players overlaying melodies or repeated treble patterns.

The disjunction between sound and image induced a range of curious emotions. Watching Henman’s motions being satirised by the slow motion photography led occasionally to sympathy for him, a common response to his performances back in the day. And the fact that Henman had been chosen as the subject seemed calculated to increase the sense of English whimsy surrounding the whole piece. But in the quieter sections (movements?) there was a keen sense of poignancy about the music, often surprisingly understated and quite charming in its own way. But those were exceptional moments of calm in an otherwise loud and abrasive score. Interesting as the piece was, it went on far too long – but hey, that’s minimalism for you.

Ruthless Jabiru Australia House 9 May 2013

Leah Kardos: Kick (premiere)

Brett Dean: Carlo

John Adams: Shaker Loops

Ruthless Jabiru, Kelly Lovelady (conductor)

Australia House was the ideal venue for this evening’s concert, given as it was by Ruthless Jabiru, London’s all-Australian chamber orchestra. In fact, the venue itself turned out to be first of many discoveries in store. The building sports an elegant reception hall, all domed ceilings and pillar-lined arcades. The acoustic is very good, warm and immediate, but not distractingly resonant. There’s some noise pollution from a road at the back, but that’s easily solved (although at a cost). Otherwise this is a fine venue for chamber orchestra concerts, and one well worth bearing in mind given the paucity of halls with acceptable acoustics for classical music in London.

The first thing to say about Ruthless Jabiru is that they play to a good professional standard, and even in London, where orchestral standards are as high as anywhere, they are more than capable of holding their own. This should come as no surprise though, given that every member of the orchestra is a professional musician, many holding positions in major UK orchestras. Even so, it is an unusual setup, and there was some challenging repertoire on the programme, but thanks to the professionalism of all involved, the risks paid off.

Ruthless Jabiru is the brainchild of conductor Kelly Lovelady. As well as directing the musical side of things, Kelly runs the orchestra pretty much single-handed, so a large proportion of the credit for this evening’s success should go to her. At the podium, she is a proficient, no-nonsense conductor, with excellent baton technique and a clear commitment to giving every cue in the score. She was perhaps a little rigid at times, but her ability to stay in control of these complex works was always impressive.

The concert opened with a new work, Kick, by Leah Kardos. This is Ruthless Jabiru’s first commission, and it was a great opener. Kardos uses a small palette of string textures, including long vibratoless pedals, tremolos and portamento slides, and integrates them into a tightly structured and impressively focussed work. The textures are relatively straightforward, but all are effective, and the ensemble is always used to impressive and idiomatic effect. In some ways, the piece even seems too tightly structured, its timbral and gestural coherency making the focus on the pitch centre D seem unnecessary. But there is stylistic diversity here too. About half way through, the solo viola introduces a modal/pentatonic folky melody that is then passed around the sections. This is a curious addition to a work that otherwise relies on texture-based ideas, but somehow it fits.

Brett Dean’s Carlo was the most musically substantial work on the programme. The piece takes a madrigal by Gesualdo as its starting point, with the music then diverging in several directions at once, using all 15 string players as soloists and also adding in live samples and a tape track. This is an ambitious work for any ensemble, and must have taken the lion’s share of the rehearsal time. But they pulled it off and the performance was compelling. The electronics were loud, not excessively so, but more prominent than usual for an orchestra and tape piece. The four speakers were ideally placed around the audience to give the quadrophonic effect. The unrelenting difficulties of Dean’s string writing did begin to wear down the players towards the end, with a noticeable fatigue setting in and depriving some of the later sections of their full impact. But on the whole this was an excellent reading, and of a piece that we should hear far more often.

I’m not a big fan of John Adams, and to my ears his Shaker Loops seemed trivial when heard directly after the Brett Dean. But I’ll concede that there was strong coherency to the programme and, much as it pains me to say it, significant aesthetic links between the two composers’ works. The player fatigue at the end of Carlo continued into the opening of Shaker Loops, with Adams’ simple consonant harmonies laying bare some occasional intonation problems. But Adams has a great way of picking up the momentum, with a series of long accelerandos. Kelly handled these very well, keeping the ensemble together while pushing forward. As it turned out, the Adams was the most conventional, and probably the oldest, piece on the programme, and while the music isn’t really to my taste, it made a more fitting conclusion than any of the Mozart or Beethoven a less adventurous conductor may have been tempted to end with.

Ruthless Jabiru is a relatively new orchestra currently finding its niche in London’s bustling music scene. That means that every concert they give must be a clear statement of intent. This evening’s concert was certainly that, presenting a new commission alongside two other works by living composers. Musical standards are high, and the enthusiasm of all the musicians on the stage was abundantly clear to the audience. The orchestra now has a clear musical identity, and its future looks very bright indeed.

Could Classical Music survive without Snobbery?

It’s fun to laugh at snobbery. So fun that’s it’s easy to forget what an insidious effect it has on classical music. Last week, the 2013 Proms programme was published, leading to this bizarre response from Stephen Pollard in the Express, who argues that the whole two month festival is fatally compromised by the inclusion of a single event featuring urban music.

Pollard voices opinions about the relationship between classical music and other styles that we rarely hear, but that inform the thinking of many in the classical music world. He argues that rappers and DJs are not “real musicians”, because they lack “years of practice”, “skill”, “intelligence” and “a basic concept of genuine music”.

Classical music continually finds itself on the defensive. Perhaps that’s fair, given that it must defend a still-generous public subsidy denied to almost every other genre. A sense of self-worth is crucial, and so we collectively and unconsciously fit together all of the reasons we think classical music is great into a matrix of value judgements. Those in the know share these values, so they don’t often get discussed, but they revolve around the facts that classical music is: notated, professionally produced, intellectually challenging, and, possibly most importantly, part of long, long tradition.

But look what happens when they are applied in the negative to other musical styles. It is easy to find any other music wanting if these are your only value criteria. And looking at them in the abstract, there is nothing self-evident about these value judgements. Notation has an important function in the music that uses it, but that function stops short of elevating the resulting sounds above other musical discourses. The professional status of classical musicians has its artistic benefits, but in social terms it can be seen to distance, even insulate, the culture from the society it ought to serve. And as for historical continuity, any young German or Austrian composer will tell you that working within a culture so saturated with great historical figures isn’t exactly conducive to creativity.

An idea of cultural superiority pervades the classical music world, and although the arguments above give some idea of the values that are seen to elevate the music, the reasons why it even needs to be elevated remain obscure. At one end of the spectrum it might be rationalised simply as personal taste, but that seems like dangerously complacent thinking when at the other end we find a range of unpleasant ideas about cultural supremacy.

Fortunately for us, many musicians in recent times have addressed these issues head-on. John Cage is perhaps the most important example, a composer who wanted us to think differently about music, so took a few key pieces out of that matrix of assumptions to see how the rest would fare. His introduction of chance into both the composition and performing spheres reduced (I’d hesitate to say removed) compositional decision making, setting his music adrift from intentionality and historical continuity.

All this began in the 1950s, but it’s still controversial, not least because of the uncertainly it introduces into the status of the music that most of us would like to continue thinking of as ‘classical’. Earlier this year, the composer Daniel Asia wrote an article for Huffington Post in which he rubbishes Cage’s legacy. The article generated a lot of debate, with Tim Rutherford-Johnson among the more articulate and perceptive critics of Asia’s argument (his articles on the subject here and here). But I’d like to suggest that Daniel Asia did John Cage a favour. Reading Asia’s comments it is clear that Cage’s music offends his traditional views of what music is. And so all those underlying assumptions come to the surface: Cage eschews harmony which “has been central to Western music for over a thousand years, and it is one of the glories of Western Civilization”. “...melody or motive is rarely present.” And his music fails to engage the mind.

How perfectly Daniel Asia encapsulates the thinking that John Cage sought to move away from. In doing so he demonstrates exactly why Cage’s music is so important. Cage himself said little against traditional musical values (the quote that “Beethoven was wrong” is a rare exception), he just wanted to show that an alternative was possible, an alternative way of thinking about sound and an alternative value system for treating it as art. Many have accepted his invitation, but the radical sound art that has since resulted, all the happenings and gallery instillations, sit apart from the classical music world, and rarely seek its approval, or even its money.

And when they do seek its money there’s hell to pay. Last year, Norwegian avant-garde improvisational music group Supersilent toured the UK on funds from the Arts Council. Norman Lebrecht protested that they didn’t deserve the money because...they don’t rehearse. Of course, that is exactly the point of an avant-garde improvisational music group, but as far as Lebrecht is concerned, musical value is dependent upon (presumably amongst other things) serious rehearsal time.

Clearly, there is no point in trying to adjust the values that we think make classical music great. All those notions of depth, sophistication, insight and even authenticity have accrued over a long period and stand up well on their own terms. But today there is a lot of music at the edges of what we consider classical, and some of it is out to challenge those assumptions. More importantly, most music today is not “classical” in any sense and is produced and enjoyed by people who have no interest in classical music’s value system. The whole idea that classical music is superior in any sense to any other music is a shaky intellectual construct at best. Most in the classical music world are intent on preserving that belief, shared within the community, if not beyond. Paradoxical thinking is required to maintain the logic of the argument, but classical music as a culturally-superior art form remains a viable concept. But if commentators are intent on bolstering its status by reversing its values and then projecting them onto other musical traditions, it doesn’t stand a chance.

Andrew Davis, BBCSO, Barbican 12 April 2013

Jonathan Lloyd: old racket (premiere)

Brahms: Piano Concerto No. 1

Tippett: Symphony No. 4

Andrew Davis: conductor

Stephen Hough: piano

BBC Symphony Orchestra,

Barbican, London, 12.4.13

The BBC Symphony Orchestra has been brave, and possibly even visionary, in programming a cycle of Tippett Symphonies under Andrew Davis. These are works that get occasional outings, and none can be considered unduly neglected, but the general attitude to them is usually one of grudging respect. But both orchestra and conductor brought enthusiasm and insight to Tippett’s music this evening, and showed just why he deserves an honoured place in the repertoire.

The Tippett Four was coupled with a new work from Jonathan Lloyd and the Brahms First Concerto played by Stephen Hough. Lloyd’s old racket was commissioned under the Royal Philharmonic Society Elgar Bursary scheme. The history of this scheme is fascinating: it uses the royalties that the Elgar family has accrued from Anthony Payne’s completion of the Third Symphony to commission works written in a style of which Elgar may have approved. In this day and age, that’s not necessarily a virtue, but, as Anthony Payne himself has demonstrated, stylistic studies in the spirit of Elgar can produce worthwhile results.

Even so, Lloyd’s old racket is a frustratingly unambitious work. It is quite an achievement to set a string orchestra against a string quartet that is tuned a quartertone sharp and produce results that still sound like Elgar. The piece has a promising opening, the string quartet playing alone and offering a zesty scordatura tone with their raised pitch. But the rest of the work is based on a four note motif that quickly loses any interest or appeal, especially as it appears in every single bar. Lloyd injects a quirky humour into the score, and continually frustrates any sense of tonal centre through quartertone portamento slides at the ends of phrases. Basing a 15 minute piece on a single four note motif would stretch the imagination of any composer, and Lloyd’s invention fails to justify the premise. On the other hand, he does fulfil the curious and anachronistic terms of the commission, which requires a rare talent.

Stephen Hough is undoubtedly one of the finest pianists of our age, but sadly he wasn’t on form this evening. His Brahms First was full of wrong notes, ragged passage work and misfiring interjections. Some of the most crucial passages were fluffed, including the launch into the finale, which was a real shame. Even more frustratingly, his genius at the keyboard did occasionally shine through. The way that he can lead the ear down into the mists in the piano’s lower register, for example, or the way he can turn the mood around in a split second, introducing a new idea as if he’d thought of it on the spot. Hough’s muscularity was also very much in evidence, as in the eruption from the piano that concludes the first movement coda, which was a real treat in this performance. Despite the fact that his fingers clearly weren’t doing what he wanted of them, Hough was still prepared to take risks. Nothing here was workaday, nor was anything ever predictable. But technically the performance just didn’t add up. No doubt he’ll be back to his brilliant self when he returns to perform the Brahms Second Concerto next month.

There were no such concerns with the Tippett, which was given a legendary performance by Davis and the BBC forces. Davis is really in his element with this music. He has an innate feeling for its sensibility, a small part of it English pastoral, a much larger part anarchic. The orchestra performed throughout with clarity and passion. The piece is a real workout for them, with the spotlight pointed on every section at one stage or another. The strings coped well with the fast, scurrying music in the earlier sections, the woodwinds were suitably brash and austere later on. Each of the virtuosic turns from the brass soloists was well handled, and the tuned percussion were able to integrate their flourishes and extended runs into the orchestral texture without ever sounding like mere decoration. Rather than use a recorded voice for the breathing, a live “breather” was employed, and to excellent effect. He was able to bring a surprisingly musical sensibility to the part, which calls for a range of dynamics, and also benefits from the changes in timbre a live breather can bring. It’s not an underperformed work, the Fourth Symphony, but it is all too rare that it is presented in a performance of this quality. The respect in which Tippett is held in this country, and beyond, could well be transformed into a real passion for his music if it was always performed to this high standard.

This performance was broadcast live and is available to hear online until 19^th April at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01rrck3

Dausgaard, Fray, Philharmonia play Beethoven and Bruckner

Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 3

Bruckner: Symphony No. 3

Thomas Dausgaard, conductor

David Fray, piano

Philharmonia Orchestra,

Royal Festival Hall, London, 11.4.13

Every cloud has a silver lining, and concert-goers disappointed that Kurt Masur had pulled out of this evening’s concert due to ill health will have found a large measure of consolation in the fact that his replacement was the wonderful Thomas Dausgaard. Even so, from an interpretive point of view, this entailed a shift to the far end of the spectrum. Where Masur embodies the old-school values of robust and weighty orchestral warhorses, Dausgaard is an advocate of the more modern slick, no-nonsense approach. But they both excel in the same repertoire, so it was only the orchestra that had to make a major adjustment. The audience was in for an equally memorable evening, albeit one that finished a full quarter of an hour earlier than advertised.

Dausgaard only really came into his own in the second half, and in the first he diligently followed pianist David Fray in Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Given the minimal communication that Fray offered, and the erratic tempo changes he often employed, this did mean that the conductor had to stay on his toes. Fortunately, Dausgaard’s professionalism shined through, and against the odds, the orchestra followed every idiosyncrasy that Fray threw at the piece.

An array of contradictions surround David Fray and his piano playing. From his publicity photos, you’d imagine him to be a tall, well-built man, when in fact he is a short and slight twenty-something. His posture at the piano is very Glenn Gould: he sits at a small stool hunched over the keys in a serious manner. Yet his playing is surprising louche, with slow trills, throwaway phrase endings and some erratic, even arbitrary sounding, rubato. His attack is quite definite, with each note picked out with precision and focus, yet his phrasing is almost always based on a smooth, even legato. It’s an approach that suits Beethoven’s Third, for the most part, imparting heroic qualities to the first movement, valuable structure to the second, and a sense of surprise to each of the contrasting episodes in the finale. He lacks subtlety though, rarely varying his articulation and only adjusting dynamics through emphatic crescendos or sudden shifts. There was some delicacy in the slow movement, but precious little poetry. The finale was the best part of this performance, and here Fray demonstrated how he could vary attacks within a single phrase to bring out structurally significant notes. But this was a proficient performance more than it was an imaginative one, and for the most part was lacking in interpretive insights.

Which made Dausgaard’s Bruckner 3 all the more revelatory. It is fashionable these days to take Bruckner fast, to not linger on the climaxes or the caesuras, and to avoid sentimentality at all costs. Dausgaard approaches the music in a similar manner, but there are big differences and they are all for the better. Dausgaard brings a chamber music sensibility to Bruckner. So clarity of line is paramount, and he has little interest in expansive climaxes and codas. But, unlike many latter-day Brucknerians, he’s interested in the poetry and strives to bring out the beauty in every phrase. So, at the opening for example, the music grows out of nothing and the trumpet solo has a wonderful atmospheric distant quality. True, he does then go on to bulldoze a couple of the grander tuttis but the elegance that he brings to the rest of the movement more than compensates. As ever, the Philharmonia strings really excelled in their unity and tonal beauty, which allowed Dausgaard to take the second movement fast, while retaining its slightly dispassionate elegance. The scherzo was the real highlight of this performance. Dausgaard went to extraordinary lengths to shape every phrase, freeing up the meter to allow each of the dance episodes its own, often rustic and always highly characteristic, identity. The finale too was fast, and perhaps a little too fast. But again, the precise shaping of each phrase, the carefully graded crescendos and the always clear orchestral textures allowed the music’s structure and its poetry to come through with clarity and elegance. Some may view Dausgarrd’s Bruckner as controversial or antithetical to the composer’s wishes (I suspect Kurt Masur would be of this view) but the coherency of his approach cannot be questioned. Nor indeed can the intensity and the dramatic power that he draws from the symphony, even when working in what is essentially a chamber music idiom.