Craven Faults: “Navigated rural map using loops, symmetries, images bleeding in to each other to create this inspired journey”
I MUST start off with a confession: I’ve never heard of Craven Faults. Well, actually that’s not true. I know the Craven Faults System in the Yorkshire Dales, having done a lot of hiking around Malham etc, and this, basically, is what we saw on screen.
Starting out with a pastoral loop of sheep safely grazing, we were transported over a monochrome, bleak and overcast landscape (as it often is in this part of the Yorkshire Dales). The way Craven Faults navigated this rural map using loops, symmetries, images bleeding in to each other to create this inspired journey was – for me – simply unique.
In front of the screen was an impressive modular synthesiser with a million leads and sockets (patch cables); the artist’s electronic orchestra. I assume the artist was the enigmatic Craven Faults himself. Not sure why, but he reminded me of Jeremy Corbyn (no insult intended), and his gentle, calm modus operandi never drew any attention to himself. Even his response to the spontaneous audience appreciation only drew an unassuming waft of the hand.
The ambient score(s) drew inspiration from Krautrock; Tangerine Dream and particularly Kraftwerk. The visual as well as musical parallels with their 1974 hit Autobahn – Wir fahr’n, fahr’n, fahr’n auf der Autobahn – are striking. But there were the obvious echoes of minimalism – cellular repetition, ostinati, electronic looping and, possibly, Harrison Birtwistle.
Although not from God’s own country, this great Lancastrian composer used musical layers when composing. He talked about an analogy with the construction of the stone walls that feature so powerfully in these rural landscapes.
To be sure, the patchwork of musical layers in this score is not hewn out of the rock face, but those layers are there nonetheless: invariably rooted in square four-beat phrases, the musical base upon which the repeating motives are superimposed. And then the magic happened.
Without any warning, the artist at work became part of the film, and in real time. Like bubbles released into the air, these real-life images floated into being and disappeared. We had the introduction of vintage colour images. It was genuinely transcendental. OK, spookily other-worldly then.
If the performance had ended here, I would have described the composition as a work of genius, but it didn’t. Instead we had a kind of psychedelic kosmische imagery signing-off that put me in mind of Stanley Kubrick’s finale of 2001 A Space Odyssey.
It was either a transformation too far or, at 10.50pm, past my bedtime. Nevertheless, Craven Faults is a truly remarkable artist with something distinct and significant to say.
Who’s conning who? Emily Carhart’s Fay, Jack Mackay’s Hal, centre, and Stuart Green’s Truscott in a scene from York Settlement Community Players’ Loot. Picture: John Saunders
THE monochrome cover to York Settlement Community Players’ programme for Joe Orton’s dark farce Loot takes the form of a death notice. Rest in Peace Mary McLeavy. Born 1916, called home 1966. Remembrance services will be held: 18th – 27th February 2025.
For “Remembrance Services”, read performances that raise Orton’s scandalous, scabrous first farce from the grave, directed by the “young (and probably) angsty” Katie Leckey with brio and brains, fresh from completing her MA in Theatre-making at the University of York.
Already she and lead actor Jack Mackay have made their mark on the York theatre scene with their company Griffonage Theatre, latterly swapping the roles of hitmen Ben and Gus for each performance of Harold Pinter’s menacing 1957 two-hander The Dumb Waiter at Theatre@41, Monkgate, last July.
Jack Mackay’s Hal, trying not to look alarmed in Loot. Picture: John Saunders
Now Mackay forms part of another “double act” on the wrong side of the law: bungling thieves Hal (Mackay) and Dennis (Miles John), in essence representing Orton’s lover Kenneth Halliwell and Orton, in Loot.
Sixty years on from its Cambridge Arts Theatre premiere, when Orton deemed the play to be “a disaster” and the Cambridge News review called it “very bad”, it remains a shocking play. Not shockingly bad, but a shock to the system, still carrying a content warning.
It reads: “The show contains adult themes and offensive language (including sexism and xenophobia). There are also sexual references and references to sexual assault (including rape and necrophilia) and references to smoking on stage.” Sure enough, Stuart Green’s inspector, Truscott, hiding behind his smokescreen of being “from the Water Board”, smokes without fire, never lighting his pipe.
Emily Carhart’s nurse, Fay, and Miles John’s arch thief, Dennis, in Loot. Picture: John Saunders
Loot remains an iconoclastic play, even angrier than those Angry Young Men that preceded him, John Osborne, Harold Pinter, Kingsley Amis, John Braine, Alan Sillitoe, John Wain, et al. You might call it ‘odd’, or ‘strange’, but its audacious humour tugs persuasively at your arm, its attacks on convention beneath its conventional farce format landing blows on those cornerstones of the state, the (Catholic) church and the police force, as well as undermining the nuclear family.
It makes you ask what has changed since the 1965 premiere, as Leckey highlights in her programme note, drawing attention to the continuing prevalence of violence, racism, homophobia and misogyny.
She quotes Orton, who wrote “I’m too amused by the way people carry on to give in to despair”. There, in a nutshell, is the role of comedy, to home in on the warts and all and laugh at our failings and foibles. The bigger shock here is that we have not moved on, but on second thoughts, in the week when every new Trump utterance trumps the last one, maybe not.
Loot director Katie Leckey
Orton was once castigated for his play’s immoral tone, but it is the behaviour that is immoral, not Orton. Don’t shoot the messenger. Laugh, instead, at our failure to clean up our act, especially those in authority.
Leckey has not edited Orton’s text, letting it stand or fall in all its bold affronts, not least on life’s ultimate taboo: death. Preceded by Ortonian fun and games by a six-pack of support players, from a drunken priest (James Wood) to an excitable nun (Xandra Logan), Loot begins with an open coffin. Inside rests the aforementioned Mary McLeavy (a dead body played by a live actor [Caroline Greenwood] with Orton irreverence). Today is her funeral.
In the room, designed with kitsch Sixties’ detail by Wilf Tomlinson and Richard Hampton, matched by Leckey’s soundtrack, are widower Mr McLeavy (played with suitable befuddlement by Paul French) and Mrs McLeavy’s nurse, Fay, (Emily Carhart in her impressive Settlement debut). She may wear a cross, but Fay has an unfortunate of seeing off her husbands, seven in seven years, and now she has her eye on Mr McLeavy.
Eyeball to eyeball: Stuart Green’s Truscott carries out a close inspection in Loot. Picture: John Saunders
Enter Mackay’s Hal, who protests he is too upset to attend the funeral, and John’s Dennis, whose heart is lost to Fay. Rarely for a farce, there is only one door into the sitting room, but a second door is all important: the cupboard door, behind which they have hidden their stash from a bank job.
A glass eye, a set of teeth and the constant movement of Mrs McLeavy’s body will follow, involving the cupboard, the coffin and the stash, in classic farce tradition, with rising irreverence and desperation as the investigations of Green’s Truscott mirror the impact of Inspector Goole in JB Priestley’s An Inspector Calls, written 20 years earlier, but this time with humorous results.
Green, in his Settlement debut after returning to the stage in 2023 from an hiatus, has spot-on comic timing, a twinkle in his eye and the over-confidence of Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Paul French’s Mr McLeavy, left, Stuart Green’s Truscott, Jack Mackay’s Hal, Emily Carhart’s Fay (seated) and Emily Hansen’s Meadows in Loot. Picture: John Saunders
Mackay and John evoke the Sixties in looks, acting style and attire, playing to the Orton manner born as the hapless thieves, somehow negotiating their way through a farce with a farce with aplomb and insouciance.
York Settlement Community Players in Loot, York Theatre Royal Studio, until February 27, 7.45pm nightly except February 23, plus 2pm matinee, February 22. Age guidance: 16 plus. Box office: 01904 623568 or yorktheatreroyal.co.uk. Post-show discussion tomorrow (21/2/2025).
TAKING part in pre-show and interval Orton-style vignettes, devised by James Lee, are: Xandra Logan (Sister Barbara); Chris Meadley (Sergeant Timothy Carruthers); Victoria Delaney (Mrs Edna Welthorpe); Helen Clarke (Edith, the church organist); James Wood (Priest) and Serafina Coupe (Keith Kevin O’Keefe).
Xandra Logan’s Sister Barbara and James Wood’s inebriated Priest in an interval vignette in York Settlement Community Players’ Loot at York Theatre Royal Studio. Picture: John Saunders
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.
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.
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.
THIS excellent York Concerts series continued with a really attractive programme of Mendelssohn, Busoni and Richard Strauss.
It opened with Mel Bonis’s Le Songe de Cléopâtre, op. 180. To be honest, the only thing I knew about the composer was that her actual name was Mélanie, publishing her works under the gender-neutral name of Mel Bonis in an attempt to avoid the inevitable prejudice against women composers.
But the performance of this wonderful crafted miniature clearly revealed a composer of real stature and individuality. As the title implies, the work is inspired by the influential Egyptian queen, Cleopatra. And there did seem to be a programmatic element, a response to the strong, seductive qualities associated with this historic femme fatale.
I could clearly hear the impressionistic influence of Debussy, although the rich orchestral swells suggested the music of Wagner. Maybe. The string tuning was not always on the money (the auditorium was pretty warm), but lovely flute and clarinet playing stood out and the overall performance convinced.
Taking centre stage for Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto no. 1 in G minor, op. 25 was third-year university music student Alexa MacLaren. Not surprisingly, there were some early signs of nerves but the introduction was nevertheless simply exhilarating.
I loved the overall charm of the playing, the sparkling passagework dispensing with the unnecessary dramatic showmanship. Attention to detail was ever present. The playful nature of the Presto finale was instinctively captured by Ms MacLaren, as in the rhythmically crisp articulation – far from easy at this very lively tempo and sparkling scale passages.
But it was the lyrical passages, the singing melodies, particularly in the tonally radiant E major Andante, which stayed with me. The phrasing, expression and avoidance of sentimentality worked beautifully. The rapturous response from the capacity audience was genuinely touching.
Ferruccio Busoni is a towering figure in ‘modern’ music. His music breathes the contrapuntal sound world of J S Bach – the great Fantasia Contrappuntistica on an unfinished fugue by Bach is a remarkable homage to the great man, just as much as it breathes the “air from another planet”.
Busoni was a friend of Arnold Schoenberg. He also had a close relationship, both personally and professionally, with Gustav Mahler. And it was Mahler and the New York Philharmonic who gave the first performance of Busoni’s short Berceuse élégiaque for orchestra, op.42 in 1911.
The Berceuse is an atmospheric, contemplative work and John Stringer’s insightful reading allowed it the space to gradually unfold. I was struck by the subtlety of the instrumental timbres and gently jarring (major and minor) tonalities and harmonic patterns.
The performance created a dream-like world, drifting through a quite unique musical landscape. The dark, elegiac intimacy surely was a response to the death of his mother. Indeed, the score itself is headed by the enigmatic words “A man’s cradle-song at his mother’s bier”. A bier is the stand on which a corpse or coffin is placed (I had to look this one up).
A slight whinge before turning to the Strauss: the slightly surreal amplified call to refrain from taking photos is a good thing, but then having a photographer taking shots from the rear of the auditorium with a camera the size of a mini Hubble telescope ain’t – it’s distracting.
So, from one master of atmospheric orchestration and colour to another, Richard Strauss’s tone poem Tod und Verklärung (Death and Transfiguration). The musical narrative depicts the death of an artist.
As the man lies on his death bed, thoughts of his life pass through his head: his childhood innocence, the struggles of his manhood, the attainment of his earthly goals and finally the mother of all transfigurations “from the infinite reaches of heaven”. A bit like Elgar’s Dream Of Gerontius composed 11 years later – both 19th-century Europeans and Victorians were obsessed with death and mysticism.
The work opens with quiet pulsing strings and timpani suggesting life, the living, but its irregularity of beat suggests a slowly failing heartbeat and the imminence of death. John Stringer’s orchestral instincts were well served here, generating a quiet, unsettling musical moment of unwanted familiarity. There were telling flute, oboe and string contributions.
The second movement was absorbing, with the heartbeat theme threading the musical narrative together, culminating in a brilliant full orchestral manifestation with the brass (trumpets and trombones) articulating a new idea. The ending was quiet and bleak.
I found the third movement really engaging as the dying man’s life is played out: aims, aspirations and failure to achieve them. The performance became appropriately agitated, tormented and explosive.
The moment of death and transfiguration was effectively evoked; a climax of dramatic glissando strings followed to an eerie, unearthly quiet gong calls and a low sustained C in the bowels of the orchestra itself.
The transfiguration begins with the whole orchestra pianissimo, fine horn and (celestial, what else?) harp playing leading to the “true and ultimate heavenly paradise”.
Another really fine outing for the University Symphony Orchestra, admirably directed once again by John Stringer. On a personal note, I hope to see the day when Mr Stringer decides to include some of his own impressive compositions into these programmes.
But the final word belongs with final-year student Alexa MacLaren; an exceptional young pianist at the start of a clearly promising career. We wish her well.
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.
JakoJako: “Perpetually adjusting the various sound modules”. Picture: Katja Ruge
AS the auditorium lights diminished, our focus was immediately locked into an illuminated JakoJako, aka Sibel Koçer, sitting at the modular synthesiser, headphones on, zoned in and calmness personified.
It was fascinating to see the performer-composer perpetually adjusting the various sound modules. Like a micro-electronic orchestra with these modules (instrumental tools): firstly, sliders – allowing pitches to slide between notes like glissando in string instruments; secondly, switches – kind of router selection circuits (putting me in mind of my Hornby train set functions); thirdly, panels – e.g. voice panel, and fourthly, patch cables – cables connecting sections of the synthesiser, such as oscillators.
OK, this may be a long-winded window into the tech side, but it is important to describe the ‘interconnectivity’, which is the core of JakoJako’s performance and compositional journey. We see it as well as listen to it; the performance is, in its own way, musical theatre.
The performance began with a kind of distorted electronic vocal prologue that brought to mind mildly ominous instructions from Tolkien’s Mordor. Little did I know at the time that Sauron would indeed become manifest later that night. Although this was distinct and effective, it was not really used again, which seemed a pity.
The main body of the performance was one of modulating layers of slowly unfolding sounds. I loved the melodic simplicity, familiar electronic transformations, for example pizzicato strings, echoes of the Caribbean steelpan drums.
What might be termed ostinato figures in classical terminology were used throughout; beautiful melodic loops, sometimes syncopated, always rhythmically transforming. Quite often they would surface, for want of a better term, from the depths of a ‘harmonic’ sound world into prominence. These looping melodies had a relaxing timeless quality.
I think the term ‘minimalism’ is a good one to describe the music and, just maybe, the influence of Philip Glass or Steve Reich can be felt. But it is the continual evolution or variation of these elements that makes the music so enriching. There was also a sense of fun.
The overall impression was of beautifully crafted interconnecting, layering musical moments to create a patchwork quilt of sound; musical clouds drifting by. Meditative, hypnotic and very distinct.
