Tag: Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Leon McCawley, York Concerts, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, March 26

Pianist Leon McCawley

YORK Concerts continued its exciting and innovative series of concerts with a piano recital by Leon McCawley. The pianist is well known to concert goers at this series and his invitation to return to perform music by Scarlatti, Beethoven Chopin and Franck was eagerly anticipated, and with good reason.

As we all know, Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757) was an Italian composer renowned for his prolific output of keyboard sonatas, an impressive 555 pieces, to be exact. As a Baroque composer with a visionary eye, he was noted for his radical, innovative and fresh approach.

However, the opening Sonata in F minor, K.69, appears to be a standalone work and a rather conservative one. Leon McCawley’s performance was incredibly tender and emotionally charged, giving it a haunting quality. To be honest, it sounded (quite) like Bach. The way the pianist delicately caressed the cantabile imitations, enhanced by the subtle ornamentation, was very moving.

By contrast, the performance of his Sonata in C, K.159 positively zipped along without a care in the world. The phrasing was crisp and clear, and the elegant melodic embellishments added to the sense of spontaneity.

The opening galloping rhythms and quasi fanfare-like motifs presumably gave the work its nickname La Caccia (The Hunt). Another striking aspect was McCawley’s embrace of the music’s theatrical quality, as evident in the leaps between registers. However, it was the darker introspection of the F minor work that left a lasting impression, until we bumped into Beethoven, that is.

As far as charm and elegance go, it doesn’t get much better than McCawley’s interpretation of Beethoven’s standalone Andante Favori in F major, WoO 57. It was originally intended as the second movement for the radical Waldstein Sonata but was criticised as being too long and replaced with a short Introduzione. Given that it is about nine-ten minutes long, this was surely a good call.

Leon McCawley possesses a remarkable ability to captivate the listener. The playing was characterised by richness, nuance and warmth. Moreover, like the entire programme, the performance conveyed an expressive depth that left a profound impact.

Beethoven humorously expressed his wish that he had never composed the piece, stating, “I cannot walk down a street without hearing it”. Unfortunately, for me, it evokes the Pemberley soirée from the 1995 BBC TV adaptation of Pride And Prejudice. In this scene, Georgiana Darcy plays the piece in response to Elizabeth Bennet’s rendition of “Voi Che Sapete” from Mozart’s The Marriage Of Figaro. Amidst the romantic atmosphere, love was in the air and here too, the cantabile melody did feel like a love song.

Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 21 in C major, Op. 53 (Waldstein) is a musical masterpiece that continues to captivate audiences. The opening pianissimo was portrayed as a thing of beauty, but one with a government health warning. However, as the music progressed, the simple crescendo built tension and anticipation, leading to a dramatic and powerful climax.

What truly impressed me about this performance was the controlled elegance and precision of the playing. The dramatic shaping of the music was seamless and well-executed, without resorting to excessive virtuosity or raw power.

While the sonata undoubtedly conveys a sense of grandeur and monumentalism, it does so without the testosterone-fuelled intensity that some pianists find necessary to fully express its emotional impact.

The Introduzione: Adagio molto had a mysterious, even dark quality that created a hypnotic spell that seamlessly blended into the Rondo: Allegretto moderato – Prestissimo finale. McCawley’s playing here was simply impeccable. There was a genuine sense of majesty combined with the driving, flowing lyricism. Of course, the musical fireworks display at the end of the journey eventually erupts like a volcano, but it did so beautifully.

After a well-deserved 20-minute interval, we were treated to a programme of 19th-century Romantic music, featuring Chopin and Franck. Chopin’s Trois Écossaises, Op. 72, No. 3, were simply delightful.

Each of the three pieces exuded a charm and elegance that we associate with these popular and lively dances. No. 3, written in D-flat major, is perhaps the most well known of the set. The pianist clearly enjoyed the witty and syncopated rhythm, as well as the cheerful character of the piece.

The performance of the composer’s Berceuse, op.57 was the highlight of the second half. For me, obviously. The berceuse is a lullaby, with the left hand gently rocking the cradle while the right hand sings a series of increasingly intricate variations.

The pianist’s control was remarkable; the delicate ebb and flow of the music had a Zen-like quality. In the end, as the lullaby had sung itself to sleep, there was a feeling of absolute relaxation. The performance was simply sublime.

The performance of Chopin’s Barcarolle in F-sharp, op.60 once again projected an assured grasp of all that mattered. The rubato phrasing shaped and caressed the melodies, while the balance between the right-hand song and the left-hand rocking ostinato effectively imitated the rhythmic sway of a gondola.

While there was certainly a dramatic climax, the serene coda concluded the performance on a note of tranquillity, suggesting a sense of harmony and contentment.

The programme concluded with César Franck’s Prelude, Chorale et Fugue. Undoubtedly, this work stands as one of the great Romantic piano compositions. Franck’s ingenious incorporation of Bach-like counterpoint, coupled with the virtuosity of Franz List and his distinct French style, creates a masterful blend of musical elements.

The issue for me is that I don’t really ‘get it’. It is not one of my favourite piano works, even when it is performed as brilliantly as this. The Prelude, with its rich, searching chromaticism, technically brilliant arpeggios, the Chorale, with its rich processional quality and organ-like textures and references to Wagner’s Parsifal, obviously, left me looking inside from the outside.

 Ironically, it wasn’t until Leon McCawley’s performance of the Fugue, that most disciplined, abstract of forms, that I actually emotionally engaged with the work. Mind you, it was worth waiting for.

Review by Steve Crowther

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Flutes & Frets Duo, York BMS Concerts, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, Feb 7

Flutes & Frets Duo’s Beth Stone and Daniel Murphy

THIS rather enchanting concert by Beth Stone (flutes) and Daniel Murphy (plucked strings) could be likened to a historical musical journey from the 15th Century to the present day.

The first stop was the 15th Century and the musical station entitled Renaissance Flute & Lute. Rabanus Maurus’s haunting Veni Creator Spiritus was paired with Guillaume Dufay’s setting (originally for three voices). Beth Stone’s chocolatey flute tone was simply gorgeous.

Of the next pairing, I particularly enjoyed Guglielmo Ebreo da Pesaro’s courtly dance Falla Con Misuras, as did lutenist Daniel Murphy, whose crisp syncopated rhythms added to the music’s delicate vitality.

The performances of the Thomas Campion and Robert Johnson pieces were also rhythmically engaging and it is no surprise that both composers were professional lutenists.

This set closed with a touching duet by French composer Balthazar de Beaujoyeulx, Overture from Balet Comique de la Royne. The ballet was inspired, evidently, by the escape of Ulysses from the clutches of the enchantress Circe (from Homer’s Odyssey). And yes, the performance was indeed enchanting.

Now it wasn’t until I disembarked at the platform marked Baroque Flute &Theorbo that, despite the excellent performances and refreshing informative communication by players, I realised that the musical journey hadn’t been a particularly gripping one.

This all changed with the set of arias by Claudio Monteverdi. Take the performance of Quel Sguardo Sdegnosetto, the last one of the set, for example. Ms Stone’s flute playing really captured the pretty radical, virtuosic vocal melody, which itself responds to the emotionally descriptive poetic text. But it was the hypnotic ground bass, the closing Chaconne that sealed the deal.

Before we arrived at our final destination, Modern Flute & Guitar, we stopped off for refreshments at Eight-Keyed Classical Flute & Nineteenth Century Guitar. Diabelli’s arrangement of Louis-Luc Loiseau de Persuis’ Six Favourite Airs from Nina Ou La Folle Par Amour was brimming with wit and energy, and clearly enjoyed by both performers and ourselves.

Diabelli’s arrangement of Gioachino Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie Overture was even better and even more rewarding. Well, it is Rossini. Ps Diabelli’s transcription is simply inspired.

For me, the final set of pieces was mixed. The best of the musical bunch was undoubtedly Jacques Ibert’s Entr’acte. This popular, flamenco-inspired work had a quirky, gently bonkers quality. The opening breathless toccata was followed by an Iberian serenade before returning to a vibrant recapitulation or return. I loved it.

François Borne’s Fantasie Brillante Sur Carmen was really well transcribed, brilliant, in fact. But it soon outstayed its welcome. It was just too long. For me, the Broadway hits simply don’t work.

The earlier vocal transcriptions worked because they were creatively transformed. Here we simply had songs without words. Stephen Sondheim’s gem, Send In The Clowns, was played beautifully. But in my head I added the words; I heard Judy Collins’ 1975 version – it was originally written for Glynis Johns. So too with Gershwin’s I Got Rhythm and Hurwitz’s City of Stars.

With this in mind, the duo says that  “future project plans include commissioning new works for both the modern flute and guitar combination and also the historical flutes and lute/theorbo instrumentation”. And this has to be a good thing.

As for Edvard Grieg’s Morgenstemming (from Peer Gynt), for flute and guitar? Well, this shouldn’t have worked but, because of the utterly musical playing by both Beth Stone and, particularly,  Daniel Murphy on guitar, it did; beautifully.

Review by Steve Crowther

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on Katya Apekisheva & Charles Owen, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, January 10

Pianist Katya Apekisheva

TWO-PIANO recitals are rare enough in themselves, but this one was doubly welcome, not least because one of this pair is a frequent visitor to this neck of the woods.

Katya Apekisheva makes regular solo and chamber appearances at the North York Moors Chamber Music Festival – well worth checking out if you don’t know it – where Charles Owen has also looked in occasionally.

They revealed tireless enthusiasm in this full programme for the British Music Society of York, aligning Mozart and Brahms with three pieces from the last 80-odd years, none of them unduly challenging to the listener but requiring serious virtuosity from the duo.

Mozart wrote his only sonata for two keyboards, K.448 in D, in 1781 to play with a student. Some student! Its demands held no fear for our duo, who launched into it with brio, crisp and bright at the top, if a little light in the bass.

Its slow movement was given a lovely line, with a seductive rallentando back into the main melody on its return. The closing rondo bubbled over with wit.

This enthusiasm continued into Jonathan Dove’s memorial piece Between Friends for Graeme Mitchison, a polymathic scientist who was also a first-class pianist. It was commissioned in 2019 by this duo, whose recording will appear on the Hyperion label on March.

A gently moving intro boils up into the second of four “conversations”, staccato, nervy and energetic, doubtless reflective of Mitchison’s restless mind. The duo dealt with its rapid cross-rhythms spectacularly well.

The elegiac third conversation grew ever more intense, generating the sense of a funeral march. Jack-in-the-box snippets opened and closed the final chat, enclosing brief whirlwind passages and a multitude of offbeat accents, all over a thrumming underlay. It was undeniably exciting, brilliantly played, making one wish to have known Mitchison himself.

Nothing after the interval quite matched this for exuberance. It was good to hear Brahms’s own two-piano version of his Variations on a theme by Haydn, so often heard in its orchestral guise, although they are not exact copies of one another.

The duo managed to maintain their clarity despite challenging tempos, which allowed the composer’s facility for complex counterpoint to shine, notably in the fourth variation. The finale’s ground bass built into immensely satisfying grandeur as the ‘St Antoni’ chorale theme returned.

Depending on your view of minimalism, John Adams’s portrait of a truck stop on the Nevada/California border, Hallelujah Junction, is either wonderfully teasing or irritatingly repetitive – or somewhere in between.

While I could admire the duo’s unflagging concentration through its dense thickets of vicious accents, I found its relentless ‘surprises’ ultimately unsurprising. But the duo brought the jazz-inspired rhythms of its finale to renewed life.

Lutosławski’s Paganini Variations, built on the same theme as Brahms and Rachmaninov had done before him, proved as capricious as the original and just as busy. Like so much of the rest of the evening, there was plenty to dazzle but precious little to dream upon.

Review by Martin Dreyer

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Zoë Tweed and Mark Rogers, BMS York Concerts, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, December 6

Zoë Tweed: “Masterclass in horn technique”

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.

Review by Steve Crowther  

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on Quatuor Diotima, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, December 4

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.

Review by Martin Dreyer

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on The 24, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, November 27

Robert Hollingworth

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.

Review by Martin Dreyer

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REVIEW: Martin Dreyer’s verdict on Roderick Williams & Christopher Glynn, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, November 13

Baritone Roderick 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.

Review by Martin Dreyer

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Clare Hammond, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, 23/10/2024

Clare Hammond: “Emotional control: nothing showy, flashy”

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.

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Duo Pleyel – Richard Egarr and Alexandra Nepomnyashchaya, 9/10/2024

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.

Review by Steve Crowther

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REVIEW: Steve Crowther’s verdict on Ensemble Intercontemporain, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, York, April 17

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.

Review by Steve Crowther

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