THE recital opened with Eugène Bozza’s En Forêt. This was written as an examination piece for the Paris Conservatory in 1941, and it showed.
The demands in this virtuosic work are considerable, and Zoë Tweed treated us to a masterclass in horn technique covering: agility, range, lip trills, hand stopping, fast tonguing, control of extreme registers and glissandi.
I thought it took a moment or two for Ms Tweed to get into the groove, but maybe it was my ear getting acclimatised to the natural harmonics. But the performance showed that En Forêt works perfectly fine as a duet. It was atmospheric and full of life and the piano accompaniment was quite impressionistic. The obligatory call and response hunting calls or tropes added a sense of fun, for me anyway.
In complete contrast to En Forêt, Jean-Michel Damase’s Berceuse is a short, relaxed affair. I thought the performance was enjoyable, but the piece itself didn’t really contribute much to the programme. And to be honest, the same could be said of Charles Koechlin’ s 1925 Sonata for Horn and Piano (1st Movement). The performance did deliver a simple, even quite serene Moderato (sounding more like a traditional Andante).
Sat in between the two was the more interesting Tre Poemi: Lamento D’Orfeo by Volker David Kirchener. The piece is Romantic, well, in its character anyway, but embraced a modernistic style regarding both horn colour and technique. This was evident right at the opening, Ms Tweed pointing the bell of the horn at, or into the open piano lid, with the effect of using the piano’s soundboard and sustaining pedal to lengthen the horn notes.
The duo closed the first half with a fabulous performance of Paul Dukas’s Villanelle. This too was written as an exam piece, but the technical challenges – stopped notes, fast scales, playing without valves using natural horn techniques – were secondary to the piece of music itself.
I absolutely loved the delightful sharing of the musical spoils, warm and sunny with ripples of brilliance. This was easily the most rewarding horn and piano work in the programme.
Astor Piazzolla’s Ave Maria proved to be a cosy introduction to the second half with fine playing from both performers. Wolfgang Plagge’s Monoceros is a piece for solo horn about the legendary unicorn, an animal everybody has heard about but mercifully never seen.
Zoë Tweed delivered an evocative, technically flawless performance; the cute ending depicting the unicorn disappearing into the legendary mists was just lovely. However, I found the piece itself pretty underwhelming; each to our own, I know.
The programme closed with York Bowen’s Horn Sonata, Op. 101. This is a seriously well-crafted work, which in itself is rewarding. Of the three movements, it was the energetic Allegro con Spirito finale that really impressed.
The players were clearly relishing the challenges; wide interval leaps with an evenness of tone (horn) and dazzling ‘orchestral’ textures (piano). What stayed with me was the distinctive timbre of the horn’s low register.
There was a touching mother (Karen Street) and daughter (Zoë Tweed) signing-off, Epilogue. The work was a composed as a tribute to the Prologue in Britten’s Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings.
This concert clearly demonstrated what an exceptional performer Zoë Tweed is. But without doubt the best and most satisfying contribution came from pianist Mark Rogers’ playing of the two Schumann selections from Kinderszenen, Op.15 and Waldszenen, Op. 82. Well, it is Schumann after all, and Mr Rogers played them beautifully.
Quatuor Diotima: String quartet programme that took no prisoners. Picture: Michel Nguyen
A STRING quartet programme of Janáček and late Beethoven that takes no prisoners is both a compliment to the audience and a mouth-watering prospect. It did not disappoint, and for starters it added an unexpected bon-bon.
Schoenberg’s early Presto in C, written in the mid-1890s before he went off-piste, proved a delightful Haydnesque romp in rondo style. Delivered with panache, it was made to sound much easier than it is.
The second of Janáček’s two quartets, Intimate Letters, which was the last of his chamber works, was completed in 1928 a few months before his death. Astonishingly volatile for a man in his seventies, its emotions represent the culmination of his ten-year infatuation with a young woman less than half his age, Kamila Stösslová, as seen in his 700 or so letters to her.
Many of its most telling interjections occur in the second violin, and Léo Marillier certainly milked them for all they were worth, notably in the second of its four movements. The ensemble retained a decisive edge, bordering on the acidic, by minimising its vibrato – until the finale, where leader Yun-Peng Zhao brought a warmer tone to his high-lying melody.
But generally biting accents allied to ultra-smooth but sudden tempo-changes made this relationship an exciting, rollercoaster affair.
It was a treat to hear Beethoven’s String Quartet Op 130 in B flat with its original finale, the Grosse Fugue (often referred to as Op 133 and played as a separate piece). Some of the audience at its premiere in 1826 were nonplussed by this giant ending, which followed the fifth-movement Cavatina without a break (Beethoven obliged with a new finale a year later, only slightly shorter).
Stravinsky called it “more subtle than any music of my own century”. Either way, it’s a big listen. But this group made it as easy as it can be: the fugue subjects emerged with miraculous clarity, which was achieved mainly through extremely tight rhythms.
The Diotimas are unusual in that their leader appears to make no eye contact with his colleagues, but they listen to each other intently and their voices ebbed and flowed in and out of the texture. With tension almost at breaking point towards the end, the two principal themes made a triumphal final appearance, now fully reconciled to one another. Everest had been climbed, a very special moment.
At the opening of the work, there had been seamless alternations of fast and slow, revealing Beethoven in two minds. Both here and later, it was the Diotomas’ fearless, unapologetic stance that shone through. Some of the humour of the Andante might have been less forceful, but the two German dances were properly balletic and came as a welcome relief.
The Cavatina, a unique title in chamber music since it is normally a short song, was sublime, reminiscent of the variations at the end of the ‘Harp’ quartet, Op 74 which are also in the warm key of E flat. But it was the Grosse Fuge that took the breath away.
THE 24 has grown. When first taken over by Robert Hollingworth, it was largely a choir of graduate students. It has since been amalgamated with the university’s chamber choir and grown to its present 33 members, a size that arguably takes it beyond the usual ‘chamber’ dimensions.
It appeared here with strong support from Ampleforth College Chamber Choir and Huntington School Secret Choir. The menu, served to a full house, was a nourishing pot-pourri ranging from the Renaissance to the present day, all a cappella.
Johann Christoph Bach belonged to the generation before JSB and is widely considered to be the great man’s most talented forebear. The double choir motet Lieber Herr Gott, dating from 1672, has a continuo part but was given here unaccompanied.
Its opening phrase says “wecken uns auf” (wake us up), an apt injunction given that the start was something of a scramble. But it settled into a comfortable stride after its central tempo-change.
In contrast, Alonso Lobo’s penitent motet Versa In Luctum (Turned To Mourning) was much more shapely. For Alma Redemptoris Mater, by his Spanish compatriot and almost exact contemporary Victoria, the school choirs joined the fray, bringing the total to more than 70 voices. Yet the blend was excellent and Hollingworth had the singers in the palm of his hand.
In two madrigals by Thomas Tomkins, we heard the 11 members of the UK’s only MA course in solo-voice ensemble singing, a vivid sextet in Oft Did I Marle (marvel) and a gorgeously mournful quintet in Too Much I Once Lamented.
Either side of the interval, The 24 was back at full strength. It revelled in the lush harmonies of three of Schumann’s double-choir songs, Op 141. The last two had elements of prayer, both ending with ‘Amen’ cadences, but the last – a setting of Goethe’s Talismane – was much the most effective, delivered crisply but with a tender final plea.
There was exciting propulsion in Gibbons’s O Clap Your Hands and transparency in Tavener’s Hymn To The Mother Of God. Less telling were motets by Kenneth Leighton and Joanna Marsh, although the latter – a setting of Julian of Norwich’s All Shall Be Well – had a welcome sense of triumphal love at its close.
In this exalted company it came as a surprise to hear the calmly confident account of Stanford’s Justorum Animae (The Souls Of The Righteous) delivered by the Ampleforth choir under Roger Muttitt, with ‘non tanget illos’ – the torment of death ‘shall not touch them’ – given special emphasis and the peaceful ending beautifully floated.
With the combined forces reassembled, Elgar’s orchestral Go, Song Of Mine was never going to emerge with much clarity, although its ending was forceful enough. Will(iam) Campbell’s take on Vaughan Williams’s much-loved hymn-tune to Come Down, O Love Divine, however, was lovingly handled, starting out in left field and gradually moving towards more traditional harmonies, as the tune gained shape: a variation in reverse. It made an amusing end to a thoroughly invigorating evening.
BaritoneRoderick Williams: Revelled in the full house at the Lyons
IT IS rare for a song recital to contain only songs in English, still rarer for all the composers involved to hail from the British Isles. But then a recital by baritone Roderick Williams is never going to be run-of-the-mill, still less when a pianist of Christopher Glynn’s talents is at his side.
The occasion was enhanced by the presence of the highly promising young soprano Caroline Blair, who took part in six numbers.
From the moment he appears, Williams gives the impression that there is nowhere else in the entire universe he would rather be, such is his charisma. Before he has even opened his mouth, the audience is at ease and eager. Needless to say, he faced a full house at the Lyons and clearly revelled in that fact.
Six John Ireland songs formed his opening set and included two of the composer’s three settings of Masefield, the incomparable Sea Fever and the vernacular Vagabond (it has no definite article). The former was truly noble, delivered almost as recitative, with deliberately uneven pacing but never losing momentum.
Soprano Caroline Blair: Took part in six numbers
Glynn, as so often elsewhere, seemed to follow him instinctively: they were a tight duo. Vagabond might have been a touch more carefree, in the manner of Vaughan Williams’s Songs of Travel, which appeared later here.
But the finest song of the Ireland set was Youth’s Spring Tribute, the barely suppressed ecstasy of its opening blossoming into a huge climax with April’s sun, before petering into a serene conclusion. It was a good counterbalance to Housman’s sombre, autumnal We’ll To The Woods No More, heard earlier.
Masefield was also the creator of The Seal Man, which brought forth arguably the finest ofRebecca Clarke’s many songs, now thankfully enjoying something of a revival. Williams treated it as an operatic scena, generating terrifying resonance at its climax, before the tragic drowning of the young girl. It was powerful indeed.
Blair had opened her account with Clarke’s setting of Yeats’s The Cloths Of Heaven, giving it firm, intelligent focus.
Two songs each from Ina Boyle and Joan Trimble contributed an Irish flavour, with folksong never too far from the surface, even in Boyle’s Straussian setting of George Russell’s The Joy Of Earth. Another Ulsterman, Charles Wood, known almost exclusively for his church music, in fact wrote many settings of Irish Folksongs, here well represented by I’d Roam The World Over With You, a strophic song with attractively varied accompaniments in each verse.
Pianist Christopher Glynn: Delivered handsomely. Picture: Gerard Collett
Both the Irish ladies had also shown a flair for piano writing, which Glynn delivered handsomely. Our duo’s bold, exciting approach to Tewkesbury Road gave the lie to Michael Head’s reputation as a composer of delicate miniatures.
Williams’s superb ability to deliver a smooth legato underlined Vaughan Williams’s talent as a melodist in his Songs of Travel, never more so than in Whither Must I Wander?. The vagabond emerged as a character in his own right, if perhaps not quite as overawed by the “infinite shining heavens” as he might have been. But the contrast between the two verses of Bright Is The Ring Of Words was truly intense, the one strong and confident, the other gently wistful.
The evening ended with four songs by Williams himself. The first, the duet Prima Materia, uses single Latin words “derived by Catherine Wilson from the Jungian concept of alchemical diagnosis”. Here the patient (Blair) and the therapist (Williams) were at comical cross-purposes, neither seemingly listening to the other until subsiding into suspicious ‘conjunctio’. It required considerable facility from Glynn’spiano.
Two Wendy Cope poems, both fanciful and parodistic, made an amusing intro to the cleverest setting of the four, the duet Sigh No More, Ladies. As a composer, Williams has as much of a feel for the piano as he does for voices, if not more. Blair showed remarkable composure and a mezzo-like timbre that is extremely appealing.
We had also heard several settings of The Salley Gardens – by Ireland, Clarke and Gurney – but they were outclassed by Britten’s setting with its rueful postlude, heard as an encore. It rounded off a thoroughly rewarding evening, all of it crisply conveyed in our own language.
I THINK I should preface this review with a huge sense of gratitude to French musicologist Jérome Dorvial, who discovered and researched the music of composer Hélène de Montgeroult and introduced this remarkable body of work to pianist Clare Hammond.
Hélène de Montgeroult has a quite remarkable CV: an aristocrat who married a Marquis, carried out secret diplomatic missions to London, was arrested but kept her head by improvising an emotional set of variations on the Marseillaise. De Montgeroult was a radical and this was very evident in the advanced language and Romantic style of these studies.
The first study (No. 62) sounded Chopin-esque – a beautiful right-hand melody crossing over a rippling accompaniment, almost like a love duet. The sensitivity of Ms Hammond’s playing was exemplary.
No. 67 had echoes of Mendelssohn’s Songs without words. The swirling accompaniment feature was still present, but the soaring melodies were more animated. No. 104 was characterised by quickly articulated, rhythmically driven playing. To be sure, these works are pedagogical, but they are musical gems first and foremost.
No. 110 and back to Chopin. The shaping of the gorgeously ornamented bel canto melody was sublime. In No. 111 it was Schubert, for me anyway. Forceful, driving and a great way to sign off.
Dorvial described de Montgeroult as the “missing link between Mozart & Chopin”, and listening to this insightful performance of the studies, it is hard not to see why.
Despite declaring that she “once felt the soul of Beethoven in Bonn”, Cécile Chaminade’s music positively eschews any radical trends. She said of Debussy that “his music is to my ears . . . well, grey, a bit grey”. And yet I did feel the soul of Debussy in the opening Impromptu Op. 35, No.5.
And, when performed as wonderfully as this, I am sure he’d have been as thrilled as myself. The Etude Romantique, Op. 132 was a delightful rollercoaster ride full of joy and dazzling brilliance.
Here the influence of Chopin was so palpable, it could have been an homage to the great man, but I also heard a snapshot of Wouldn’t It Be Loverly? from My Fair Lady. Maybe.
What struck me when listening to Ms Hammond’s performance of the two Fauré Nocturnes was how technically demanding they are. In the Nocturne No. 8 in Db major the rhapsodic melody sang quite seamlessly in and out of all three registers, producing a gentle but intriguing experience.
The opening Nocturne No. 12 in E minor could not have been more different. Talk about the cry of a tortured soul, this was it. But you cannot have the dark – the anxiety was palpable – without the light, a sensual, rich-flowing tenderness, and, mercifully, Clare Hammond’s interpretation expressed both.
I have never heard Beethoven’s Sonata in C# minor, Op. 27, No.2 (“Moonlight”) live and Ms Hammond’s performance was just remarkable. It is easy to forget how radical the first movement is. It completely turns expectations, the laws of thermo-driven dramatic precedents, on their head.
We still get the same structural blueprint, but it is transformed into a Zen-like meditation. The playing was hypnotic and the thread mercifully maintained through the diminished 7th chords to the close.
The second movement Allegretto, which Liszt christened “a flower between two chasms”, was charm personified; the music danced. Ms Hammond’s adherence to Beethoven’s dynamic and articulation markings were integral to this. The syncopated rhythms of the Trio delivered contrast rather than any dramatic intent.
This, of course, belongs to the blistering helter-skelter drive of the closing Presto agitato with its now familiar sudden dynamic and expressive gear shifts. What really struck me here was the emotional control: nothing showy, flashy. There was an understated control.
The performance as a whole, and this final movement in particular, reminded me of the great Richard Goode’s approach to the Beethoven Sonatas. The youthful exuberance of the opening Allegro con spirito of Mozart’s Sonata in D, K. 311 was brilliantly refreshing.
Clare Hammond: “Evoking the musical imagery of a storm”
The playing was crystal-clear with the dynamic shaping of the driving semiquaver passages and the tapering-off of the musical phrases impeccably nuanced: a distinctive feature of the recital as a whole.
The central G major Andantino con espressione was just lovely: delicate with a dream-like quality. The longer Rondeau: Allegro returns to the exuberance of the opening movement. The young Mozart’s evolving powers of expression are evident here, as are the characteristics of the Mannheim style of composition: sharp dynamic and textural contrasts. The playing had a natural, instinctive flow; it oozed panache.
I was really struck by Clare Hammond’s performance of Clara Schumann’s Drei Romanzen, Op.21. They really are standout pieces; wonderfully crafted miniatures with a depth suggesting a larger canvas.
The influence of Brahms was obvious, particularly in the opening Andante with its ‘sombre Brahmsian melody’. By contrast, the short Allegretto: Sehr zart zu spielen did indeed bring out the delicate, playful nature of the ‘light-hearted semiquavers’. The closing Agitato proved to be a quite an energetic signing off. Impressive piece, impressive performance.
Then, out of nowhere, American composer Jeffrey Mumford dropped in to say hello. I really like Jeffrey Mumford, who says: “Being a black composer is itself a very subversive act because you offend both sides.” And I really like his music. The compositions invariably have beautiful aphoristic titles – such as tonight’s Of Ringing And Layered Space.
Clare Hammond performed the first of these five movements, Jenny – for pianist Jenny Lin, which delivered a static, dream-like atmosphere. Yes it was (quite) complex and modern – whatever that means now, but seductive and very accessible.
The recital closed with another set of five studies: Chopin’s Etudes, Op. 25, Nos. 1, 2, 4, 11 and 12. No.1 (‘Pollini’) is a study focusing on arpeggios and tone colour. Ms Hammond’s light-touch legato playing was, unsurprisingly, impeccable – the beautiful right-hand melody singing out of and with this gorgeous accompaniment.
No. 2 (‘The Bees’) came across buzzing with a continuous stream of rhythmic cross-accents – right-hand quaver triplets counterpointed with left-hand crotchet triplets and syncopation to great effect. The moto perpetuo legato playing, with very little pedal support, was flawless.
No. 4 (‘Paganini’) came across as delightfully quirky: left-hand leaping staccato quavers accompaniy the right-hand singing melody. In No. 11 (‘Winter Wind’) the lefthand was dominated by a dotted rhythm march with the right hand chromatically covering much of the piano keyboard. This was, amongst other things, an exercise in sheer stamina. It also (surely) referenced the famous Revolutionary Study.
The set and programme ended with the seriously challenging study No. 12 (‘Ocean’). As with No. 2, we heard cross-rhythms, syncopation, loud, dramatic sforzando accents. It came across as also richly contrapuntal.
Clare Hammond’s playing did indeed evoke the musical imagery of a storm, the pianist clearly relishing the unrelenting, almost elemental nature of this remarkable study.
Review by Steve Crowther
A footnote:
WE know that Liszt was a dedicated lover who had many relationships. We know he was attracted to Chopin’s lover, Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin de Francueil, aka George Sand, which never bodes well. We know that Chopin had dedicated these Op. 25 Etudes to Franz Liszt’s mistress, Marie d’Agoult. And, after having just listened to Ms Hammond’s tortuous, passionate performance of the final C minor Etude, “the key of pathos”, I think I can see why.
Duo Pleyel: Richard Egarr and Alexandra Nepomnyashchaya
Duo Pleyel –Richard Egarr and Alexandra Nepomnyashchaya (fortepiano), Mozart’s Real Musical Father, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York
I THOUGHT Duo Pleyel’s programme title, Mozart’s Real Musical Father, was a bit of a stretch, but it turned out to be an inspired one.
The pieces in the programme were composed between 1772 and 1786 and showcase the early developmental years of the piano duet, as well as musically documenting the unlikely, or rather, little known, friendship between Mozart and JC Bach [German composer Johann Christian Bach, youngest son of Johann Sebastian Bach].
Bach was a major composer at this time and clearly a major influence on the young Mozart, but his music seems to have been relegated to the second division by both history and fashion. So the chance to hear these two sonatas was very welcome and illuminating.
Both performances displayed the relative simplicity, elegance and immediacy we expect from the reactionary style galant, a modern style that gives primacy on melody and harmony overcomplex counterpoint. But the works were very different in character.
The Sonata in F, op 18, no.6 was indeed “full of unbridled fun and playful virtuosity”. The music positively zipped along with the players knocking ideas back and forth; the communication between the two came across as simply instinctive. A real feature throughout the concert performance.
It was also inspired, resulting in creative decorative enrichment and even ‘unwritten’ cadenzas. Was this genuinely an in-the-moment thing? I don’t know, but it sounded like it.
Having said that, I actually preferred the Sonata in A, op 18, no.5. It just radiated with tenderness. And who wouldn’t be seduced by those gorgeous extended cadences.
The concert opened with Mozart’s early Sonata in D K.381. What struck me here was the dramatic exploitation of the contrasting register and dynamics. It was almost symphonic – loud ‘orchestral’ tuttis etc. But then Mozart was not only an instinctive ‘operatic’ composer, it was also in his DNA.
Richard Egarr is not only an exceptional musician, he is also an excellent communicator, albeit a slightly whacky one. A self-confessed Trekkie, who performs regularly “all over the planet”, presumably Earth, he engages with the audience in a singularly unique manner.
There was an early window (after the Mozart) into the pedalling on this distinguished 1848 Pleyel piano with a parallel drawn with the state-of-the-art IPhone16. He even threw in a reference to Karl Marx just for good measure.
I suppose the standout performance must have been Mozart’s Variations in G, K 501. The theme had echoes of The Magic Flute; the ‘miserable’ 4th variation was so engaging with heartfelt, touching exchanges.
But it was the signing off – the incredible use of the piano’s sordino lever, leaving the music disappearing into the mist – that was so telling. Haunting and quite magical. As indeed, was the playing in the Adagio of the Sonata in Bb, K. 358 where it just melted into the ears.
The musical chemistry between Richard Egarr and Alexandra Nepomnyashchaya was palpable and the concert performance sounded like a shared intimacy. This was further enhanced by the natural charm and communicative skills of Mr Egarr himself, who included the audience as a genuine part of the concert experience.
Ensemble Intercontemporain: “The Rolls-Royce of contemporary music performers“
YorkConcerts presents Ensemble Intercontemporain, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, April 17
ON Wednesday evening, the Rolls-Royce of contemporary music performers, Ensemble Intercontemporain, performed an extraordinary programme of music by Martin Suckling, Thomas Simaku and Olivier Messiaen.
The concert opened with Martin Suckling’s Visiones (after Goya), an inspired response to a specific drawing from Goya’s unique, if somewhat unsettling, Witches and Old Women Album. The Visiones depicts an intimate dance between a possibly inebriated old couple with another chap looking on, or rather on the floor looking up. The image seems to have an uncomfortable erotic edge, perhaps sex in old age.
Anyway, to Mr Suckling’s work. In response to the Goya sketch, Visiones (after Goya) has three instrumentalists, cello, clarinet and piano, and three sections. In the first part, the clarinet and cello dance, serenade each other in ‘repeated microtonal lyrics’.
The percussive piano creates distance and commentary. The effect is very distinct, haunting and not a little spooky. Yet there is intimacy and it is this, as well as the superb playing by Martin Adámek (clarinet) and Renaud Déjardin (cello), that draws you into this sound world.
There is also a genuine warmth of engagement. This is particularly obvious in the second section ‘lullaby’ before the dance becomes ritualistic. The third section is a kind of distorted recapitulation; a memory, a nightmare. Maybe.
The piano (the imperious Dimitri Vassilakis) now sings the song, the clarinet has the role of ‘soft multiphonics’ commentary whilst the cello lets rip to very dramatic effect. The dance returns but now transformed. To be sure the piece was, like the Goya, unsettling. But it was true to the artist’s multi-layered complexity, and beauty. The performance was illuminating.
I had a bit of an issue with a2(b) for violin and cello by Thomas Simaku; not with the forceful piece itself, nor with the thrilling performance by soloists Jeanne-Marie Conquer (violin) and Renaud Déjardin (cello), but with the extensive programme note.
OK, the instrumental explanation of a2 (a due) was fine; it made perfect sense. However, the dramatisation of opposites – a response to the ‘remnants of the wall in Bernauer Strasse’, a tale of contrasting cities, of brutally conflicting ideologies representing oppression and freedom in 1945 Berlin – did not.
To be fair to the composer, he clearly stated that the musical and extramusical could not be separated; they are two aspects of the same song. But for me the piece did not (and could not) deliver an image of complete opposites: because the most striking and distinguished aspect of Simaku’s music is its mastery of an organic, cellular and uniform musical language. The uncompromising, almost violent, gestures and mood swings worked perfectly well on and in their own terms.
However, the piece was jaw-droppingly good and technically seriously accomplished. I thought the fast, driving conclusion with its spent, exhausted epilogue was very effective indeed. The performers were on top of their game, and they needed to be.
Just one minor whinge before the interval: what was it with the photographer taking shots from the back of the auditorium? It was distracting and utterly unnecessary.
After the interval we were treated to the most illuminating performance of Messiaen’s Quartet For The End Of Time. For what it’s worth, the balance of the opening Crystal liturgy didn’t seem quite even, but given the quality of performers and the excellent acoustic, this is more likely due to my ears waking up again after the 20-minute break.
The second movement Vocalise, for the Angel who announces the end of time, was sublime. The control needed and delivered by clarinettist Martin Adámek was extraordinary. The effect was otherworldly, visionary; beautiful, delicate but definitely bleak.
The Interlude was an utter, quirky delight. Were there echoes of Shostakovich? I thought so. Possibly. Renaud Déjardin and Dimitri Vassilakis’s performance of Praise To The Eternity Of Jesus was the best live version I have heard.
Nothing quite prepares you for this experience; it was so hypnotic, so compelling. I think this is due to the piano ‘accompaniment’ which came across so powerfully. At first, a pulse, a heartbeat, gradually driving the cello song with almost hammer-like intensity before they melt into ecstasy, resolution. Quite extraordinary.
The Dance Of Fury, for the seven trumpets, was technically perfect. It delivered a unity of purpose and energy. Edge-of-the-seat stuff. The penultimate Tangle Of Rainbows…was brimming with physicality. It both looked back, specifically to the second Vocalise, as well as to the future and the final movement in particular. The performance of Praise To The Immortality Of Jesus, was simply divine.
Angela Hewitt: “A multitude of subtleties and a sensational technique”
PIANIST Angela Hewitt played preludes and fugues, framing examples by Mendelssohn, Shostakovich and Barber with the original master himself, J S Bach. These bare facts mask a multitude of subtleties and a sensational technique. She held her capacity audience spellbound.
Most performers are ill advised to open with an address, just when the punters are all agog with anticipation. But her words were delivered so graciously, with wit and charm, that we were delighted to hear her insights. And she was insistent on no applause until the interval, a smart decision that helped everyone’s focus.
In mid-career Mendelssohn made a deliberate study of Bach’s counterpoint, which resulted in his six Preludes & Fugues, Op 35. The first of these swerves between E minor and E major. Hewitt made a stunning moto perpetuo of its prelude, before robustly highlighting the fugue subject in a majestic crescendo to its climactic chorale.
Shostakovich was another composer to hold Bach in reverence and he wrote a full set of 24 Preludes & Fugues, Op 87 in 1951. The spare textures of the F minor fugue, No. 18, are ideally suited to Hewitt’s style and its counterpoint emerged with immense clarity.
Even more incisive was the demanding fugue that concludes Barber’s piano sonata, its relentless cross-accents dazzling at high speed.
Hewitt had opened with the earliest numbers from the Book I of Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier, a handful more than the programme had promised – perhaps she was in the zone and forgot herself. No-one minded in the least, quite the contrary. Her ability to give differing degrees of prominence to contrapuntal lines, even as many as three or four, remains one of the wonders of her intelligent approach to Bach.
The last of Bach’s six partitas (dance suites in all but name), BWV 830 in E minor, is one of the towering monuments of the keyboard repertory. The crispness of her rhythms was especially apparent here.
After a rhapsodic Toccata, with a fine central fugue, the Allemande was phrased with particular subtlety, so that the succeeding Corrente, taken at some pace, had a jack-in-the-box flavour by comparison; the abrupt Air was brisk too.
The stately Sarabande was deeply melancholic, its dotted rhythms making it taut, even edgy. There was room here for a touch more serenity. After a witty Gavotte, the Gigue, even with the jagged intervals of its fugue, was remarkably balletic, further testament – although none was needed – to Hewitt’s prodigious dexterity, both mental and physical.
As an encore, she wound down with the very first of Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, in E major, generating a wonderful cantabile.
Maxwell String Quartet: George Smith, violin, Colin Scobie, violin, Elliott Perks, viola, and Duncan Strachan, cello
Maxwell String Quartet, BMS York Concerts, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, March 8
WELL, the performance of Haydn’s iconic Quartet in E-flat major (Op.20 No.1) was breathtaking in its flawless technique, balance and engagement.
The opening lengthy Allegro seemed almost effortless in both the technical demands and instrumental interplay. The music is so intelligent, radically so, and the Maxwell String Quartet’s playing reflected and thrived on this.
The minuet (placed second), with its enigmatic trio, was thoroughly enjoyable. I loved the viola’s role in joining the party late and harmonically directing the listener back to the minuet via the back door of F minor. The Presto finale was bristling with vitality, rhythmic syncopations and rolling modulations. A great signing off.
But it was the Affettuoso e sostenuto which lingered. This is a quite extraordinary movement of real emotional depth and the performance delivered.
Quite extraordinary too, were the Quartet’s wonderful transcriptions or ‘impressionistic and sensitive reworkings’ of traditional Scottish Folk Worksongs. These were drawn from and inspired by explorations of traditional music drawn from “Scotland’s hardworking societies”: fishing, tweed and wool making and so forth.
The Quartet played these with as much care to detail – nuanced phrasing and insight – as they had brought to the Haydn. I liked the democratic reversal of violin leads too.
These were prefaced by a Scottish tune underpinned by a bagpipe cello drone aimed at irritating the ghost of Mendelssohn. The great man evidently disliked the traditional instrument. A nice touch.
Mendelssohn’s magnificent Quartet No.6 in F minor (Op.80) was written in response to the death of his beloved sister Fanny in May 1847. The choice of key here, F minor, deliberately reinforces the emotional tension since there will be greater tension on the strings.
This was helpfully explained by cellist Duncan Strachan, whose engaging, informative vocal commentary throughput the concert added a welcome layer of inclusivity and engagement.
The raw emotion was evident from the start of the Allegro vivace assai. The musical narrative was convincingly propelled forwards (echoes of late Beethoven Op.95) and right on the edge, leaving this listener feeling unsettled yet gripped.
The Allegro assai exploded in the same dramatically driven, angst-ridden direction. Not sure why, but I heard pre-echoes of Tippett, maybe the String Quartet No.2. Anyway, the stabbing, brutal syncopations here reinforced the mood of anger and despair; the dramatic shock being even greater as this is not what we expect in a civilised, traditional scherzo. Whilst in the contrasting trio section, the violins play a haunting, ethereal melody over cello and viola octaves.
Mercifully there was some respite in the form of the poignant Adagio. Here the playing captured the mood of tenderness, sadness and loss. But it is the calm before the musical storm and the closing Finale once again ripped forwards. The movement culminates in the first violin ratcheting up the already palpable tension to a thrilling, if decidedly defeated, conclusion. Quite something.
And that should have been that. Just spontaneous appreciation in the form of loud applause. But no, the Maxwell Quartet gave us an encore, two in fact. Back to Scottish folksong. Both beautifully played and very well received. It’s just that they unnecessarily diminished my experience of their remarkable performance of the Mendelssohn.
Harriet Burns & Christopher Glynn, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York
THIS was almost the recital that never was. Aboard a train from London that broke down in Peterborough, pianist Christopher Glynn arrived half an hour late by taxi. There was compensatory wine on the house for punters before eventually soprano Harriet Burns opened zestfully with three unaccompanied folk-songs, which I took to be Scottish.
With return trains to be caught, that left barely an hour for the announced programme of Schubert and English settings followed by Strauss’s Four Last Songs. Inevitably this had to be seriously abridged, although no announcement was made about what was to be omitted. The duo warmed in with Schubert’s ‘An Sylvia’, crisply delivered, and hit full stride with his ‘Frühlingsglaube’ (Faith In Spring) where the soprano’s duplets were impeccably counterpointed by the piano’s triplets.
The only other Schubert to survive the butchery was ‘Der Einsame’ (The Recluse), which was beautifully restrained, evoking the pleasures of solitude, not least through the lovely legato produced by Burns.
Otherwise we were left with two cuckoo songs, Ireland’s ‘Earth’s Call’ and Gurney’s neo-Elizabethan ‘Spring’, both of which use the bird to conjure that season. They were the highlight of the evening, voice and piano echoing and embracing one another.
Christopher Glynn: Train broke down en rioute to York
Vaughan Williams’s Four Last Songs, settings of poetry by his second wife Ursula, deserve to be heard in their entirety. Here we had to be content with an effectively intimate account of ‘Tired’. Glynn’s whirlwind pianism in Stanford’s setting of Whitman’s ‘Joy, Shipmate, Joy!’ brought the first half to a suitably ecstatic close.
A very brief interval – the lights remained dimmed – allowed Glynn to change out of his jeans into a full suit. Strauss’s Vier letzte Lieder were not what they should have been. But it was not the fault of the performers. The composer goes to considerable lengths to graduate his response to the first three songs, settings of Hermann Hesse, so that when he reaches the fourth, Eichendorff’s ‘Im Abendrot’ (At Sunset), the analogy between twilight and approaching death is crystal clear.
The soprano’s bravest efforts to build the necessary atmosphere were annihilated by ignoramuses who insisted on applauding after each song. York audiences should know better. Even so, there were some lovely individual moments from both performers, although Burns was inclined to expand and contract her sound too regularly on longer notes. Glynn’s piano was impeccable, not least in the touching interlude before the last verse of ‘While going to sleep’.
Let us hope that this duo will soon be invited back and perhaps even offered beds for the night. We might then hear the Strauss cycle again and the Vaughan Williams one in full, along with plenty of Schubert, of course. They – and we – deserve nothing less.
