Monday, 21 August 2017

Clapped out

I'm not sure if this is directly related to the Proms, but audience behaviour seems to be such a 'hot topic' at the moment, it might as well be in a furnace balanced on a bonfire surrounded by lava. (And since that's a fairly accurate description of being inside the Royal Albert Hall much of the time, perhaps the two are connected.)

It seems falsely linked to the increasingly tiresome 'is classical music elitist' non-issue - why try and increase attendance only to moan about the incomers when they get here? - but in fact, it strikes me that there are two entirely distinct trends going on here.

One is the general issue of people who seem to have no social self-awareness. I mean the kind of folk who talk through an entire concert, eat noisily, text, that kind of thing. I draw this out because it has nothing to do with classical music per se - it goes on everywhere. You get exactly the same thing at the theatre, cinema, other types of gig. Don't kid yourself that it's any better at a rock event because the music is amplified. Anyone who's been anywhere near the bar at, say, Shepherd's Bush Empire will know that a group who are determined to chat will literally YELL at the top of their lungs all evening to make themselves heard above the band.

This is all just rudeness. As I can't singlehandedly solve that, I leave it to one side.

I'm more troubled by what seems to exercise certain classical concert-goers in particular - that some of their fellow audience members are reacting 'wrongly' to the music. The cardinal sin here is clapping when one 'shouldn't'. Examples of bad times to clap - it is said - are: too soon at the end of a piece (for example, when the performers might be seeking a moment of atmospheric silence); between the movements of a symphony or concerto; or after every single song in a recital (when they are normally arranged carefully into 'sets').

Because we seem to now live in a world without nuance, there are those out there pretending this is a black-and-white, right-or-wrong issue. Some classical commentators have used words like 'barbaric' to describe clap-happy punters, exposing a leaning towards the internet aggression of the age, and rather forgetting their own pretensions to civility in the process.

In the real world, it bothers some, while others couldn't care less. While current practice is more reverent, many past composers would've expected frequent applause (opera is the odd genre out here, where it's still common to hold up the action and clap a great aria).


And more importantly, the musicians - who, lest we forget, the performance is actually about, not us - seem divided, too. Some don't mind it and take it as honest appreciation and encouragement; others find it off-putting and damaging to the mood they want to create. If in doubt, then, safest not to clap: but why should people be 'in doubt'? Face facts: someone who's come to their first classical recital after 50 rock concerts will find it extremely strange when the music stops and there's no applause. Especially as no-one will have told them what to expect.

That's where I'm heading with all this. For an issue that seems so divisive, I've become increasingly amazed that 99% of the time, performers and particularly venues leave it to chance. Everyone is now used to mobile phone announcements (although more of that below) and even exhortations to stifle coughing before certain chamber events. But only once, I think - as the concert was being recorded - were we given instructions beforehand to observe certain 'applause breaks'.

Why can't venues across the country - no, the WORLD - unite, and agree on a kind of handy hints sheet that can go in the front of every programme for first-time visitors, children and so on? It needs to be polite, and carefully explained. And it needs to be inclusive - don't make attendees feel gauche for not being sure what to do, or for taking a snap. It's not easy, but I'll try to get us started:

1. Please switch off your mobile phone before the concert starts. It's really important that you don't just put it on 'silent' mode. It will still interfere with people's hearing aids if you do that. Please turn it off completely.

2. If you need to cough during the performance, try and stifle it as much as possible. Take the opportunity to cough during applause if you can. Speaking of which...

3. As a rule, classical audiences don't clap between 'movements', sections or individual pieces - applause comes after a whole concerto or symphony, say, and for a smaller-scale recital, after each group of songs or pieces. It isn't always obvious when to clap - as you'll sometimes hear when a smattering of applause starts up before whoever it is thinks better of it - but take your cue from the performers. Conductors may continue holding their arms up to 'suspend' the closing notes of the piece; musicians may lower or avert their eyes as they finish. This generally means they want a short period of quiet for you to absorb what you've just heard. When they turn around, look at you and (usually) smile, that's when you clap.

4. This is one mainly for chamber and song events. If you're following words in your programme, please turn the pages as quietly as possible - and if you can last until the end of a section or piece to do so, even better. You're focused on the text, and - trust me - you don't know how loud that page turn actually is. Especially when everyone is doing it at once.

5. It's fine to take photos before a concert - and it's usually ok right at the end, too, during the curtain calls. But it's the height of bad manners to do so during a performance, especially on your phone - which will, of course, be switched off...

And venues - you're not off the hook, either. I've written the above on the assumption that the reader will get no help from you at all - but now's the time to step up! Two pleas from me:
  • Put applause breaks in the programmes - and announce them, too (not everyone buys a programme). [Wigmore Hall in London gestures towards this with cryptic asterisks between groups of songs - but why not just print '<APPLAUSE>' instead of the asterisks? Still, commendable effort, Wigmore.]
  • When you put a libretto or song texts in the programme, avoid page breaks within songs, or in the middle of verses. Even when people get used to the idea they need to turn the page quietly, they will often forget.
Leaving people guessing - as though the 'correct' behaviour, whatever that is, signifies membership of an inner circle - is the most alienating thing we can do. Putting people in the picture will bring them into the fold.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Of sound mind? - Sampson & Middleton's 'Reason in Madness'

I realise this is more of a catch-up than a write-up - life has been somewhat frantic lately, and I'm aware that I've managed to see and hear some superb stuff recently that I simply won't be able to write about. Not ideal. In particular, I made it to some wonderful recitals in the closing weeks of Wigmore Hall's season - not least their 'Serenade to Music' gala evening, which literally filled their stage to the point of near-collapse with art-song champions.

But one gig, in the last week of July, was sky-scraping, next-level stuff. It will surprise absolutely no-one who reads Specs regularly that the performers were soprano Carolyn Sampson and pianist Joseph Middleton. Apart, both are heroic: CS has a range of recent performances and recordings that earned her a nomination for Gramophone's 2017 Artist of the Year (I wrote more about this here)... While JM recently won the Royal Philharmonic Society' Young Artist Award, and features on some brilliant recent recital discs with Ruby Hughes and Louise Alder, alongside his group projects the Myrthen Ensemble, and the team assembled for a terrific disc of Britten's Purcell realisations.

But together, I think they're a textbook dream team. They're assembling a fine body of work rapidly and unerringly, with a real sense of purpose. Inquisitive and versatile programmers, the duo's approach to recital sets and releases tips its hat to the way albums are structured. (I'm sure this is a key reason that I feel such a connection to them - I see them as part of 'my' generation of classical musicians, who have enjoyed a rich musical diet and don't always tackle things in a strictly 'classical' way.) Rather than focus solely on 'complete works', themes dominate instead, allowing the pair to range across the repertoire finding comparisons and connections. Their first disc, 'Fleurs', brought together an astonishing range of flower songs, while the second, 'A Verlaine Songbook', used a single author's words to bring songs from 'hidden' composers like Poldowski and Szulc out into the limelight next to Debussy, Fauré and Ravel. (Interestingly, they have a recording forthcoming that is dedicated to a single composer - Schubert - and I can't wait to find out which path they've taken through his hundreds of lieder.)


(Photo credit: Marco Borggreve)

Of course, this wide-ranging strategy wouldn't work if the versatility wasn't as much in the performance as in the programme - and this latest recital, 'Reason in Madness', is probably their most thrilling demonstration of this to date. A survey of women in song who have reached - or breached - the limits of their sanity, we encounter Gretchen, Mignon, Bilitis, Ophelia et al as imagined by 11 different composers. The sequencing is truly deft: at face value, again it's like two sides of an LP - side 1 contains German lieder, and side 2 French mélodies. But there are several effects within effects.

Neat touches abound. For example, the opening trio of songs all feature women at the spinning wheel, a common motif for threadlike reason, about to career out of control. Equally, some of our heroines appealed to both German and French composers alike, giving a pleasing symmetry to the programme as the characters make 'mirror' appearances in both halves of the concert.

But the masterstroke of the sequencing is in the way the duo control the mood, and build the intensity. The lieder half is appropriately sorrowful and wracked - moving through heartrending Brahms and Schumann, then reaching a kind of mini-climax with Wolf's edgy Mignon settings. Then, we have a sort of 'reset'. The French sequence adds that unmistakable air of unsettling, near-chanson eroticism with Debussy's Bilitis songs an inevitable highlight - but all heading towards the tour-de-force at the close of the set: Poulenc's 'La dame de Monte Carlo'. This epic tale of a woman meeting her ruin at the gambling tables is more like a mini-opera, a perfectly dramatised 15-minute 'short' (similar to his earlier one-woman opera, 'La voix humaine').


The entire concert was bliss, but something seemed to happen in that second half to make it feel like the recital equivalent of a plane leaving the runway and soaring into the air. It's tempting to speculate that after the Verlaine songs, then a sublime performance as Mélisande for Scottish Opera, something about the French choices here powerfully ignite CS's skill at undercutting an air of innocence and light with gentle melancholy one minute, then high-octane sensuality the next. Her singing is so pure and expressive that you could hear all these emotional shifts in the voice alone, even if closing your eyes.

However, because the songs were so dramatic in nature, both performers - I count the piano in this as much as the voice - were able to fully act. JM's swooning, startling dynamics notwithstanding, CS of course had to carry most of the visual attention. And seeing someone really act in the close quarters of the Wigmore Hall is a different experience from the distance that normally exists between singer and audience in an opera house. I was locked in so closely to CS's performance, I'd have probably dived after her into the sea at the dying notes of the Poulenc.

This, I think, is the crowning element of genius in the 'Reason in Madness' programme - that the visual and musical performance coalesce into something genuinely unsettling and intensely moving. The care taken with the concept results in the cumulative power of the songs overwhelming you, in the best possible sense. A clear contender for my recital of the year.

It's fantastic news that this set will also be taking its place in the duo's ongoing series of recordings at some future date. (Given the ace acting involved, it would also make a superb performance DVD - look to something like the film of 'Winterreise' with Ian Bostridge and Julius Drake for a precedent. Are you listening, BIS Records?)

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Mind you, in other news, we have a lot to thank BIS Records for... as the next Sampson / Middleton recording to actually hit the shops is 'Lost is My Quiet', in September. They're joined by countertenor Iestyn Davies for a typically insightful range of songs from Purcell (again, adapted by Britten), Mendelssohn, Schumann and Quilter. To my knowledge, this specific set started life around the time it was performed as a chamber Prom: I was there (read more here) and it was quite something, a great atmosphere helped by a winning chemistry between the two singers. I can't wait to hear the recorded versions. (And while on the subject, isn't this one of the best classical music album covers in years? - like a rock album sleeve, but cooler!)


Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Paintbox: Pink Floyd at the V&A

Spoiler Alert: If you're a Pink Floyd fan in London's orbit, you probably know about the V&A PF exhibition and you won't need any persuading from me that you should go. Of course you should - in many ways, it's glorious and utterly epic in scope. However, I do talk below about the 'hang', for want of a better word - the way the show is put together, and a few of the surprises (positive and negative) in store. So - if you've not seen it yet and want a totally 'fresh' experience, please stop reading here, with my blessing. Maybe come back after you've been, though, and see if you agree with me.

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London's Victoria & Albert Museum describes itself as 'the world's leading museum of art and design'. A bold claim, but one that sums up very well the V&A's seemingly roving brief to highlight those areas where art and design meet, and somehow capture that tension in its historical and cultural context. I've lost count of the brilliant exhibitions I've seen there that I would never expect to find anywhere else - from Middle Eastern contemporary photography to aesthetics during the Cold War.

In 2013, the V&A mounted the extraordinary 'David Bowie is...' - a monumental survey of the Starman's career, told mostly through album art, costumes, memorabilia and, of course, music. The audio guides worked through magic* (*possibly not actual magic) that allowed them to 'pick up' an appropriate number from Bowie's vast catalogue to soundtrack whatever exhibit you were looking at. A self-curating, sympathetic playlist: Sound and Vision.

Now, it feels as if we might be witnessing the creation of a formula. 'Pink Floyd: Their Mortal Remains' is an equally huge crowd-magnet of an exhibition that works in a very similar way to its Bowie-based ancestor. So much so, in fact, that I found it impossible not to make comparisons between the two as I walked round.

What makes some musicians, for example, appropriate subject matter for an art exhibition in the first place? Their key skills are normally more evident on record or on stage. The V&A's interest in Bowie and Floyd - apart from getting trillions of people through the doors - is surely that both acts took control of visual media to enhance their artistic statements. But with very different aims.

Bowie - a solo artist - was so often his own canvas. He seemed to absorb his artistic interests into himself, moving through a succession of identities, wearing and personifying his music. This may of course have been a way of concealing his 'true' self, but he was not in hiding - some part of him was clearly flamboyant, confident and in-your-face. Pink Floyd couldn't be more different: to me, it seems they've always wanted to vanish - and their groundbreaking visuals, from which they themselves were almost always absent - allowed them to do this. (The only two albums I can immediately think of where they featured on the cover are 'The Piper at the Gates of Dawn', where they are distorted through a lens, and 'Ummagumma', where they feature in an optical illusion.)

In their early days, their live gigs featured a light show - and the first room we see plunges us into darkness save for some swirling shapes and projections, an array of posters and fliers displayed around us. Then, as we move on, the exhibition begins to take on its slightly odd shape - mirroring the band's slightly oddly-shaped career. It's in two halves, I would say: a relatively low-key, muso-friendly approach takes us up to 'The Dark Side of the Moon', when broadly speaking they were making albums as we would understand the term (however weird and wonderful). Then, with 'Wish You Were Here' as a kind of pivot, we suddenly move into Concept Floyd and the show explodes into sensory overload accordingly.

My favourite Floyd album is 'Meddle', so my heart really belongs in that first section of the exhibition: more geek than freak. With early singles pouring into my ears ('Point Me At the Sky'! Bliss!), there was one display case after another to gladden the eyes. Each album had its own nook or cranny (I'll come back to this), with relevant photos and sleeve art - not to mention a generous number of guitars - to advertise its merits and memories. It felt a bit dreamlike, as if one could walk through the pages of a scrapbook.


(My favourite Floyd album: 'Meddle'.)

Around the 'Dark Side' / 'Wish You Were Here' era, the rooms suddenly get larger. One gloriously indulgent display of instruments steps outside the chronology slightly (is it wrong to covet the drums with the hammers from 'The Wall' on them?) and introduces some interactivity, with the opportunity to mess around with the mix of 'Money' so you can fade the individual parts in and out. I would've liked a bit more of that, with some of the spacier songs. Mind you, if you'd stuck me in front of a bunch of faders and let me loose on something like 'Echoes', I'd never have left.

After 'Wish You Were Here', the show pulls off perhaps its most shamelessly engineered but, all the same, rather great visual coup. You go through a small corridor where the angle is such that it's impossible to really see what must be in the next, much larger room. Once you pass through and turn to your left, you're unlikely to be ready for a truly colossal space that feels almost aircraft-hangar like in its enormity - and in it, there's a replica of part of Battersea Power Station (the 'Animals' cover art), alongside 'The Wall' itself and, most terrifyingly of all, the Teacher from that album and film, looming malevolently with his trademark headlamp eyes. This whole section has a certain flawed magnificence - for all the ambition surrounding the 'flying inflatable pig' Animals shoot, the part of the story that stays with you is the plastic porker freeing itself from its tethers and floating off into the nearest flightpath.


(The cover art for 'Animals', taken from the V&A website. Design: Roger Waters; Graphics: Nick Mason; Realised by Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell at Hipgnosis.)

The rest of the show struggles a little to live up to this. Poignantly for the diehard fan, the Wall-building more or less symbolises the collapse of the classic line-up. The great disappearing band - represented so often visually by Storm Thorgerson's ceaselessly inventive sleeve art - were finally at the point of alienating themselves from each other.

Eventually, Pink Floyd soldiered on for some years without Roger Waters and produced some great work - but things had inevitably changed. It's jarring to see a black and white David Bailey publicity shot of the band - how can such a great photo seem so ordinary? And as if Team Floyd sensed something really vital was missing, the sleeve concepts for albums like 'A Momentary Lapse of Reason' and 'The Division Bell', and the use in concert of the circular screen showing constant animations and footage, became ever more grandiose. The rooms here are a little large for what there is to show in them - it's tempting to feel this captures the slightly more empty experience of Floyd without Waters's teeming, cynical imagination to rough up David Gilmour's more natural melodicism, and Richard Wright's and Nick Mason's smooth musicianship.

I feel like I've been quite critical of this exhibition, when I don't really mean to be. It was terrific fun, wonderfully indulgent for a Floyd fan, and you will simply be presented with one brilliant reason after another to celebrate such a wilful, strange and yet completely successful and - ironically for committed shadow-loiterers - communicative group.

I do have reservations. The V&A often seem to shoot themselves in the foot with the layout of exhibitions like this. I went on what I hoped would be a relatively quiet weekday and it was still absolutely mobbed, resulting in bottlenecks throughout the entire early part of the exhibition. 'Dark Side of the Moon' has a glass display case - obviously an exhibit of MASS interest - in a dead end of sorts, meaning that no-one could get a look at it until the bunch of folk before them had finished - yet each group were forced into blocking the other's ability to move out and around. This seems odd given how unnecessarily huge some of the spaces were later on - for example, a huge video room containing, well, nothing at all. Also, the initial room with the swirling light show was in fact so dark, it was impossible to look properly at all the art on the walls.

And one very specific point, simply because I was a little baffled by it. The Pink Floyd story is, in places, a truly sad one. Their first frontman, Syd Barrett, departed the band after succumbing to psychedelic drugs, or mental illness, or both: eventually, he withdrew from the public eye (and died in 2006). When the band fractured, it seemed like relations between Gilmour and Waters were so acrimonious that there could be no hope of reconciliation - emphasised when the 80s model of the band carried on without him. And the story now seems over for good, with the death of Wright in 2008. But - unless I overlooked something - the exhibition completely overlooks one of the most joyful episodes (for the fans, anyway) in their entire career: when the four-piece did in fact re-unite for the Live8 gig. It was a great set, and there was something honest about it - clearly not entirely comfortable, they all must have felt that the cause was bigger than them, and played a blinder accordingly. Even if everything had been sweetness and light, I don't think anyone expected some kind of permanent reunion - their subsequent careers showed that Waters and Gilmour had genuinely moved apart artistically. But as a thrilling gesture and possibly the only time that the band acknowledged that all people wanted - finally - was to see them, the blokes, play together - no concept, no artifice... it's a hard moment to beat. I missed being reminded of it.

[** EDIT ** - It turns out I did miss something! There is a video presentation right at the end (which I only managed to catch a small part of - it was packed) which I'm reliably informed features footage of the Live8 performance. This is excellent news, and makes much more sense. However, please bear in mind that I noticed nothing whatsoever signposting the fact the video included Live8, or making anything of the reunion performance at all - which in itself seems a little odd to me. All the same - if you go, that's where the Live8 reference is lurking. Thank you to Twitter pal John for letting me know - much appreciated.]

But all in all, I was reminded of so much else - which is why, despite my 'issues', I'm recommending the exhibition. Pink Floyd are one of that breed of groups who enjoyed universe-conquering success while still remaining heroically strange. This show allows you to wallow not just in their unique music, but in the arty, surreal world they created, that conveniently existed in its own right, alongside the songs. Casual listeners, proceed with caution, but proceed nonetheless. Floyd fans - you've probably been already.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Who cares: fandom, and letting go

Although I write mostly about music - and more often than not the classical variety - on this blog, I do like to try and represent all of my cultural/creative interests at least to some extent. Which is why you lucky, lucky people also get treated to my photography, say, or my occasional write-ups of art exhibitions. Television rarely gets a look-in, but anyone close to me in the real world will know I've been a 'Doctor Who' nut for all my sentient life. So it's impossible for me to resist writing about the recently-announced new Doctor... I hope you will trust me to negotiate the minefield as best as I can.

For any readers unfamiliar with 'Doctor Who'... er... well, where do I start? It's a British science-fiction TV show, broadcast on the BBC, that started in 1963. The brilliant opening premise was that the lead character (usually called just 'the Doctor', but 'Doctor Who' gets used, too) was a being, not of this Earth, whose spaceship was also a time machine. In line with the old-school BBC remit to educate as well as entertain, this meant that he - and whoever was travelling with him - could go to a distant planet in one story, then a known historical event in the next. Wherever they landed, there would be problems to be solved, wrongs to be righted, people to be saved. The possibilities were endless.

I would guess that two key decisions in the programme's early days sealed what we'd now probably call its immortality. First, there was a weekly cliffhanger - even between the end of one story and the start of the next - to keep the youthful Saturday tea-time audience in suspense for a whole week. Then, three years into the series, it became clear that the ailing actor playing the Doctor, William Hartnell, would need to retire. In possibly one of the most inspired ideas ever in the history of TV, the show's writers reasoned that - as an alien (a 'Time Lord', to be exact) - there was no reason why the Doctor couldn't have several lives, and 'reboot' himself into a new actor - at the time, second Doctor Patrick Troughton. This came to be known as 'regeneration', and because of it, 'Doctor Who' has been going in one form or another ever since. Because the current Doctor 'dies' (usually after a particularly extreme or emotionally resonant sacrifice), regenerations have always been surrounded by publicity. Equally, the next Doctor is an entirely new incarnation and the actor can bring whatever they like to the role, giving the show regular fresh starts and shots in the arm.

The version of the show as most people know it now has been going since its triumphant re-launch in 2005. One TV movie aside, it had been off the air since cancellation in 1989, but its astonishingly loyal fanbase (and I include myself here!) had always kept the show 'alive' through their insatiable appetite for video and DVD releases, novels and audio dramas, often starring original Doctors and companions.

The 'new' version of the show kept the old one's continuity - so it kicked off with the Ninth Doctor (rather than a new 'First'). Leaving aside film spin-offs, parodies and so on, there have been twelve 'official' Doctors, plus, well, an extra one. I'm going to list them because they all share the credit for the show's longevity. Also, you may notice a couple of things they all have in common.
  • Doctors 1 to 7 (the 'old' series): William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, Peter Davison, Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy.
  • Doctor 8 (the mid-90s TV movie): Paul McGann.
  • The 'War Doctor' (an incarnation between 8 and 9 that we met in flashback, so to speak): John Hurt.
  • Doctors 9 to 12 (the 'new' series): Christopher Eccleston, David Tennant, Matt Smith, Peter Capaldi.
As 'Doctor Who' mythology has grown (obviously you can build up a hell of a lot of back story in 50 years), so have people's perceptions of what the show could or should represent. Every Doctor up to and including Capaldi has been a white man. Since the Doctor is a shapeshifting alien, some folk have been asking for some time why we've yet to have a female Doctor, or Doctor of colour. And now - at last - we can put one of those questions aside for a while at least, with this week's announcement that Jodie Whittaker will take over as the 13th Doctor when Peter Capaldi regenerates his way out of the series this Christmas.


(Photo of Jodie Whittaker is by Colin Hutton, copyright the BBC.)

Changing the sex of the Doctor might not seem very controversial to a casual observer, and God knows, in this day and age it shouldn't be. Yet here we are. Reactions have been, shall we say, 'wide-ranging' - some easier to classify than others. Clearly, there is sexism in SF fandom (as there is everywhere) - those people moaning that the Doctor simply 'is' a man, without really articulating why they object, are openly sexist full stop, or struggling with a sexist impulse they may or may not be able to recognise within themselves. What doesn't help is the extremity of some of these reactions - they'll 'never watch again', or even more bewilderingly, 'their childhood has been ruined' - as if Whittaker's Doctor really CAN travel back in time and retrospectively make their young lives a misery. But not all the reactions are so easy to explain, or so clear-cut. I was interested to see responses lamenting that the Doctor would still be white. I was also curious to see far more women than I expected lambasting the gender change and using much the same language as the chaps when doing so. Luckily, by far the most numerous reactions I saw were just thrilled by the whole idea. I don't think Whitaker will want for support when she takes over.

It is a strange circumstance that a kids' TV show is expected to carry all this on its shoulders. If the writers hadn't come up with regeneration all those years ago, the issue wouldn't even be there to discuss. And because the show is so ancient, its earlier years in particular bear all the sexist hallmarks you'd rather wish it didn't - not only is the Doctor always a bloke, the companions are mostly women who had to do a lot of screaming in between having things aliensplained to them. Attempts were occasionally made to get away from this. A female Time Lord called Romana travelled with Tom Baker's Fourth Doctor, even regenerating herself from Mary Tamm into Lalla Ward. And before that, Third Doctor Jon Pertwee's first series, to my mind, is a wonderful anomaly from start to finish - longer, more complex stories overall, in some cases lasting for 7 weeks, with a scientist Liz Shaw (played by Caroline John) as the Doctor's companion - with the two characters developing a healthy mutual respect. But this was seen as a failed experiment and for the next series, the more 'traditional' Jo Grant (Katy Manning) was introduced. At least, to the writers' partial credit, the Doctor was openly annoyed by Liz's departure.

But no-one that today's show is actually aimed at are like me, getting all misty-eyed about the early 70s. Many children watching Who will just drift in and out of it as they please, and like all us 'old' fans, will probably remember 'their Doctor' - man, woman, animal, vegetable, mineral - with the most affection. People of my vintage who for some reason have been glued to this show for decades - not just 'fans', perhaps, but 'The Fans' - are surely a little different, and the ludicrous reactions to major change in the programme say, I think, far more about fandom than they do about 'Doctor Who'.

Because this is the risk, the terrible investment of being a Fan, isn't it? We put so much of our hopes, our dreams, our lives into the thing we obsess about, that we want it to go on reflecting those parts of ourselves back to us. (And this applies to anything it's possible to become geeky about - I don't want any reader getting all sneery over this devotion to a TV show, because you see EXACTLY the same thing in opera fandom, for example, or any artistic genre or discipline.) For the most seriously afflicted (and I think I've managed to largely dial myself back from this), it becomes harder and harder to actually like what you love - your vast knowledge and carefully amassed bank of opinions put you into 'judgement' mode ahead of a more simple 'enjoyment' setting... and breaking out of that spiral is so hard. There are those who haven't enjoyed a single episode of Who in about three or four years - they don't like the current showrunner, say - but still struggle on as eternally-suffering Fans. You just want to say - relax. You're clearly not a fan anymore. It doesn't matter - let it go. So easy to say. So difficult to do.

I've nearly fallen into this trap. Back when Peter Capaldi was cast (a move that itself was 'weighted' at the time against ageism accusations - Tennant and Smith had very much cemented the idea of the 'young' Doctor), there had been speculation about a woman taking over the role. For the time being, this would remain just a notion. I wrote a post, just thinking through what I made of this. First and foremost, I love the show so much that I knew if they cast a woman, I'd be totally on board - seeing what the showrunners and new Doctor would do would just be utterly irresistible. But because of my 'old fart' fan status, I also saw the issue in term's of the show's continuity - as if that matters a jot. Lalla Ward's Romana had left the show in the late seventies by going off into an alternative universe to have her own adventures. I speculated that instead of casting a woman in a role that had been played by 12 men - which could be seen as tokenistic and force her into a performance that somehow had to reflect their 'maleness' (most Doctors have had moments when they reflect or refer to older versions of themselves), how would it be if we had a spin-off following up Romana's story, which would carry none of the same baggage?

A few years down the line, I realise how daft that is. (Although I'd still watch it!) The programme makers, clearly sensing a change was long overdue, have carefully laid the groundwork for it. In a guest return appearance, Paul McGann's Doctor was offered a choice of genders to regenerate into - and in Capaldi's tenure we've had a female incarnation of the Doctor's arch-enemy the Master (Missy, superbly played by Michelle Gomez as a kind of Satanic governess), as well as a military general on the Doctor's home planet switch sexes on regeneration.

By taking that kind of care over the internal workings of the programme, the showrunners are looking after us - the old-timers, the 'Fans'. They're being nice - but listen, we don't matter. Not anymore. We're the viewers from yesterday, not today. Today's kids - all those girls, as well as boys - the Doctor belongs to them all. (S)he is TV's ultimate role model, whose sole mission is to do good wherever - and whenever - it's needed. How second-rate my old idea was - giving the woman a spin-off. How embarrassing.

Now that it's actually happening - the new Doctor IS a woman - I only have to register and acknowledge how excited I am about the whole scenario to realise that they've finally done what needed to be done. Of course, she has to be the Doctor herself - the main event, the hero. Anything else would be 'less', and nothing less will do. Jodie Whittaker is a great choice, too, I believe - yes, she's been fantastic in everything she's done so far, but she also has the Doctor-ish quality of combining a slightly off-kilter CV which prevents anyone pinning her down or stereotyping her, with a certain element of mystique: a feeling that we don't yet know what she's capable of. Rightly or wrongly, we are asking her to be a pioneer: but in fact, isn't the truth simply that she's perfect for the role?

I still don't want this to be tokenistic. I am a firm believer that creative people should be allowed to do what they like, but I hope for several things: 1 - I hope they don't fall over themselves to try and 'explain' the change: we've seen it a couple of times now, it happens, let it be 'normal', so that JW is 'the Doctor', rather than 'a female Doctor'. 2 - Keep casting women: people who refuse to get used to the idea need to get used to it. 3 - And of course, surely the Doctor will be non-white one day, too.

Only a matter of time.

Saturday, 15 July 2017

Music for a smile

A short while ago, a friend suggested I create a 'cheerful' playlist. Never one to sidestep a musical challenge, I threw myself into the task - and fairly quickly came upon some interesting conundrums ('conundra'?). Or perhaps dilemmas. ('Dilemmae'?)

As I think most people who've ever tried to write songs can testify, it comes more naturally to use the form to exorcise heartache, let off steam, or make protest. Trying to produce something genuinely happy - especially if it involves lyrics - can all too easily result in overly sentimental gloop or gush. The line between affability and naffability is a thin one.

We can all appreciate the more complex, forward-looking work of the later Beatles - but somehow bottling the brio of 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' and 'Can't Buy Me Love' ... surely these are achievements just as magnificent and unknowable.

During my researches (among both the records I owned, and beyond), I surprised myself over and over at our seemingly innate resistance to upness. How the best 'summer' songs - 'Summertime', 'California Dreamin', 'The Boys of Summer' - are actually wintry in tone, wistful, even slightly sinister. Or there's Abba, whose brightness of sound and unstoppable melody generally smuggled heroically dark and miserable verses into your subconscious.

So happy hats off to my 'Feelgood Fifteen' below. I think all of these tracks are genuine providers of fuss-free, good cheer. To me, the pop songs nail a celebratory, catchy tone but avoid flirting with teeth-clenching horror. I found an upbeat Schubert song that isn't about drinking (and seeing the slightly scary pianist Sviatoslav Richter unmistakeably rocking out during the performance is an added grin inducement). Some of the tracks, especially the instrumentals, aim to provide uplift - not only with a tune that lightens the mood, but with an energy rush - a sense of purpose. And, with one of my favourite songs of all time to finish, a gentle note of real confidence and hope.

Please enjoy responsibly!

*

Tegan & Sara: 'U-Turn'


Herbie Hancock: 'Watermelon Man'


The Move: 'Fire Brigade'


'Return of the Saint' Opening Theme


The Trammps: 'Disco Inferno'


Marc-André Hamelin: Gigue from 'French Suite, no.5' (Bach)


Elbow: 'Magnificent (She Says)'


Crowded House: 'World Where You Live'


Booker T & the MGs: 'Fuquawi'


Dietrich Fischer Dieskau, Sviatoslav Richter: 'Fischerweise' (Schubert)


Belle and Sebastian: 'Wrapped Up In Books'


AC/DC: 'Rock 'n' Roll Train'


Penguin Café Orchestra: 'Heartwind'


P J Harvey: 'Good Fortune'


Sally Timms & Jon Langford: 'I Picked Up The Pieces'



Wednesday, 5 July 2017

Soul music: 'Gerontius' at the Southbank

Let's hear it once again for the singers and players of English National Opera (ENO). Following the recent positive news that the company has now been restored to the Arts Council's National Portfolio, hopefully more stable times are ahead for the Chorus and Orchestra after what must have been a seemingly endless spell of uncertainty.

That said, the ensemble seem to have responded to ENO's behind-the-scenes issues by giving increasingly thrilling and unforgettable performances - not just as part of the regular season but in a series of 'breakout' events. These have taken them out of the confines of their home venue - the London Coliseum - and potentially to new, inquisitive audiences. They took an English version of Brahms's German Requiem on a brief tour of London churches. More recently, they organised and performed two short operas for the ENO Studio Live project: small in scale, large in ambition, 'The Day After' (read my write-up here) and 'Trial by Jury' showed off to perfection their talent, enthusiasm and versatility. Given in an auditorium carved out of a large space in their West Hampstead rehearsal studios, ENO Studio Live - which we're promised will return next year - brought a kind of rogue, maverick sensibility entirely in keeping with the company's expertise and objectives: accessible, engaging material that still stimulates and challenges the eyes, ears and mind.

Last weekend, they presented something different again: Elgar's 'The Dream of Gerontius', performed at the Southbank Centre as part of its choral festival. Part of the publicity blurb referred to its being 'staged'... which was perhaps the wrong word to pick: but more of that later.


'Gerontius' does not normally have a staging of any kind. It's a choral work, but certainly not an opera and not even really an oratorio (like the 'Messiah'). Its dramatic impetus, so to speak, is of a man's journey through death into the afterlife - namely judgement, purgatory and the promise of eternal life. (Elgar took extracts from a longer poem by Cardinal John Henry Newman for his text.) However, at the same time, it seems to combine spiritual meditation with ecstatic imagination.

In the first, shorter part, the dying Gerontius is surrounded by 'assistants' (his friends and attendants) and he is blessed by a priest. As he 'crosses over' and the work moves to its longer second section, the same double chorus return as choirs of angels and demons, and the Angel of the Agony intercedes for Gerontius's soul to pass through purgatory into heaven. Both the priest and Angel of the Agony are written for low male voice - while they could be portrayed differently, most productions cast the same person. This seems telling: Gerontius is fading into unconsciousness in part 1, and is a disembodied Soul in part 2 (he can't see the cackling demons). He doesn't look, he listens. Perhaps this is why Elgar wrote a purely choral work: it's a 'vision', but for ears, not eyes, with Gerontius seeking some continuity into the next world (at one point, he hears his praying friends' voices amid the celestial chorus).

However, he's not alone, as his heavenly guide - the Angel (not 'of the Agony' this time) - steers him towards glory. The work builds and builds until Gerontius undergoes judgement - a momentary encounter with God - in an overwhelming orchestral climax, soothed by the Angel's gentle promise to return for him when his purgatory is over. As befits this reconciliation between suffering and paradise, Elgar's music makes anguish beautiful, the contrast between moments of quiet and resounding, overlapping waves of harmony (or dissonance) keeping the listener both riveted and comforted. 100 or so minutes - no interval - felt more like ten.

I thought this performance had the feel of a real event to it - certainly it was a celebration of all things ENO. The excellent soloists were all familiar to me from ENO productions first and foremost: Gwyn Hughes-Jones (Gerontius) a winning Walther in 'Mastersingers', Patricia Bardon (Angel) so powerful in the title role of 'The Gospel According to the Other Mary' and Matthew Rose's tender Marke in 'Tristan'. Each made their mark fully on the work this evening: GHJ a sustained sense of wonder and resolution; PB's warm voice like a balm for the senses - and absolutely unforgettable work from MR, especially in his first appearance as the Priest, somehow harnessing a typically tender, sensitive interpretation to a resounding volume that seemed to make the hall itself expand.

ENO's Orchestra, under renowned conductor Simone Young, and as ever the mighty Chorus - here forming a kind of super-group with the fine BBC Singers - did what they do so well on the operatic stage: become characters as necessary (here ranging from angelic to satanic), inhabit the material as individuals or groups, while remaining fearsomely tight as a whole unit.

Finally, a few words about the 'staging', which - to be honest - wasn't. ENO didn't force any extra narrative or unlooked-for interaction between the soloists. More accurately, it was a lighting concept - conceived by the designer Lucy Carter. Essentially, the visuals were restricted to a bank of lights looming over the stage, directing precision beams or rays at various participants at crucial moments. Of course, what this actually meant was that for most of us, the experience was one of darkness, rather than light. We couldn't read the text in our programmes, which I rather liked: in the same way as when ENO Studio Live dispensed with surtitles, it forced you to focus on the words as they are sung, and surrender more fully to the music. Arguably, a more conventionally-lit 'straight' performance would have included more visual distractions than this pared-down limbo (appropriately enough).

The opening seconds were supremely effective - as a single beam shone down on Young, ready to begin... as if a sacred energy was about to be channelled through the conductor to the orchestra and singers. After that, it did take me a good 5 or 10 minutes to get used to it - but I found my efforts were rewarded. I rather enjoyed - in the absence of following a text - the way we were 'directed' to look at the chorus as they were variously characterised by ultra-violet or white light, seeming to ignite their white shirts. Tumultuous instrumental passages were accompanied by beams ranging across the orchestra. I'd be interested to know if anyone with synaesthesia in the audience felt that these colours complemented, or contradicted, what we were hearing.

But just as Gerontius is taken from life, this visual treatment took us from the concert hall. It wasn't a classical concert, Jim, as we know it. It did feel like a kind of suspension, with the swirling music pressing down on us, or propping us up.

I've seen some social media discussion since where some folk have been rather dismissive of a 'staging' (or what you will) like this. I won't name names or anything: these are all people I respect and admire, and that fact that I don't agree on this particular issue doesn't change that one iota. But the recurring themes were along the lines of: It's not an opera/oratorio - it doesn't need this kind of treatment, why do it? It was never intended to be performed this way. All stagings of choral works along these lines are hopeless. And so on.

*Sigh*. Sometimes I do think it would be nice to think in these kinds of absolutes, but I just can't do it. For a start, I think the question of how works are 'intended' to be performed is highly nuanced - particularly since you cannot assume anything about a composer's non-existent 'future' - the whole "if Mozart was around today, he'd be writing techno!" business. I like to think he would give it a go, but we just don't know. The situation is impossible to construct. Anyone writing operas before the age of recording 'never intended' us to listen at home without any acting or scenery. Anyone writing on early instruments 'never intended' us to play their pieces on modern ones. But we just disregard all of this: partly because it suits us, but partly - surely - because the music comfortably survives these variations.

If we can have concert-only performances of operas, I don't see why we can't have visually innovative versions of 'Gerontius'. We don't know if Elgar would approve or not, and it doesn't matter. Traditional performances of the work will always take place, as I hope this one will again - plenty of room for both.

ENO, in particular, looks to engage and stimulate its public. Just like ENO Studio Live presented opera with an almost punk sensibility - not just in style but in circumstance - so this 'Gerontius' touched on aspects you might associate with theatre or cinema, or perhaps a rock gig, where such lighting is the norm. This can only enhance interest from people who might not want a classical concert in pure classical concert form. Before anyone lets their pince-nez drop in horror, I'm not talking about the dreaded 'dumbing down' cliché, or starting each symphonic performance with the conductor shouting 'Good evening, Barbican!'

The way to embrace a newly-intrigued audience is, I'm convinced, not to radically change everything about what you do - but to illuminate why what you do is not so very different. ENO and co did not 'add' to Elgar's masterpiece anything that wasn't already there in the music - but they laid it out before us, gave it a new dimension, identified a way of seeing and hearing 'Gerontius' that guarantees some of us will be talking about the performance's power for some time to come. Keep doing this, ENO.

Wednesday, 28 June 2017

Shutter delight

Longer-term Spectators will know that from time to time, I post some of my photography here. To me, the blog is my 'cultural diary', so to speak - and the joy and satisfaction I get from taking photographs is as crucial a part of my artistic make-up as music, art or writing.

I love portraiture most of all, and I am very lucky to have some exceptionally game friends who are happy to play their part in front of the lens. The collaborative aspect is one of the most rewarding and liberating aspects of photography for me, since what I mainly do the rest of the time - writing - is essentially solitary. The small price I pay for 'working' with these folk is that, of course, sometimes it feels an age goes by between sessions because our busy lives get in the way.

So - I have particular cause to be grateful to Suzanne, who immediately stepped up to the task at short notice, when I realised that the deadline for a competition I wanted to enter was much sooner than I'd thought. Sharing an interest in the 60s portraiture (and bonding over a Terence Donovan exhibition in particular), we decided to pay tribute with some pictures meant to evoke a similar mood and, ideally, era. In no time at all, Suzanne - a real expert in mastering an authentic look - was coming up with 'test selfies' where she'd already nailed the outfits and even the correct make-up. I repeat: I am very fortunate in my partners-in-crime.

Whatever the competition outcome, I was thrilled with the results of the session. Here are my favourite pictures from the day - I hope you enjoy them.























Tuesday, 20 June 2017

Radio Carolyn

The Friday before I write this, Gramophone magazine announced the shortlist for its 2017 Artist of the Year Award. Everyone on the shortlist is at the very top of their field. This is a survey of recognised excellence, and it's up to us - The People - to decide who in particular stands out among such company.

I have a lot of time and admiration invested in several of the artists on the list - it includes a few of my favourites - but nonetheless, I know who'll be getting my vote: Carolyn Sampson. Allow me to become a little evangelical about this.

As you'll see from the links I include below, I've written about CS several times. I'm naturally hooked on her voice, beautifully bright, with an agile and precise technique that has perhaps meant that she's been chiefly associated with Baroque music - even though she has turned her hand to much besides. However, in the last few years, I've been following her work with increasing interest and admiration, as her versatility has come to the fore - there's the sense of an artist exploring ideas and opportunities with a kind of zeal, finding and meeting new challenges. Perhaps the key instance of this is her relatively recent move into art song - aided and abetted by the superb Joseph Middleton: the duo producing two of the finest voice/piano albums of the decade. It's also scientifically impossible to come away from one of her performances without being soothed and uplifted.


(Photo for the sleeve of 'A Verlaine Songbook' by Marco Borggreve.)

In case you haven't got round to clicking the link yet, here's the summary Gramophone itself provides in the shortlist announcement:

"Winner of the Recital Award a couple of years ago, Sampson features on no fewer than three Round 2 recordings (Purcell songs, Haydn’s The Seasons and Mozart’s Mass in C minor) and is clearly at the peak of her powers – a lovely singer and a much-loved member of any ensemble."

These are all superb discs - and you can hear selections from a couple of them below. The Purcell album is particularly fine, I think: it's a Wigmore Hall Live CD, and captures all the joyous intimacy of that venue. (Brief technical-hitch based digression: I try and use YouTube where possible for sharing tracks but hardly any of the music I needed for this post was on there - so I've just gone for broke and used Spotify throughout - apologies to anyone who might not use it or have access to it. Just buy the records! You won't be sorry.)

Purcell, 'Not All My Torments Can Your Pity Move':



Haydn, 'The Seasons: How Refreshing to the Senses':



But I'm going to assume Gramophone MUST have been restricted by word count - because CS's last 12 months have been significantly more action-packed. I realise that the magazine's focus is recorded output (rather than live concerts), so please savour her contributions to these excerpts from a marvellous recent 'Missa solemnis' and a great new recording of Bach cantatas...

Beethoven, 'Missa solemnis': 'Kyrie':



Bach, 'Weichet Nur, Betrübe Schatten - VII: 'Sich üben im Lieben':



And as if all that wasn't enough, the latest Sampson/Middleton collaboration, 'A Verlaine Songbook', also appeared within the last year. (I wrote about this magical album in more detail here.) It's impossible to pick just one highlight, so I'm allowing myself two.

Debussy, 'Green':



Szulc, 'Clair de lune':



I could go on - especially if we do widen the survey to onstage work. In Scottish Opera's recent production of Debussy's 'Pelléas et Mélisande', CS was dream casting as the doomed heroine. As someone who can radiate pure joy in her recital performances, CS channelled this skilfully into a still enigmatic but also very physical, almost mischievous portrayal that made the descent into despair and tragic conclusion of the story all the more heartbreaking. AND she managed this the same week as a glorious recital with lutenist Matthew Wadsworth (for a fuller write-up of both, go here)...

CS and JM have another irresistible recital programme up their sleeves (I can only hope this makes it to CD, as well) - it's called 'Reason in Madness' and it reaches Wigmore Hall on 26 July. Here are the treats on offer:


and, if you're in or around London at the right time, here is the handy link for you to buy your ticket. I don't need to persuade you further, do I?

But in the meantime, whether you can make the gig or not - vote Sampson!

Friday, 9 June 2017

Helpful notes

In recent weeks, when the real world has shown so much ugliness, I felt drawn towards creating a playlist where the selections would have little in common, other than their sheer beauty. Yet again, music is the balm, the antidote. I hope you enjoy these choices.

*

Ian Bostridge, Julius Drake: Schubert, 'Litanei Auf Das Fest Allerseelen'


Kate Bush: 'The Sensual World'


Dead Can Dance: 'Ullyses'


Nick Drake: 'Cello Song' [Peel Session version... with a flute instead!]


Brian Eno: 'The Big Ship'


Peter Gabriel & Sinead O'Connor: 'Blood Of Eden'


Susan Graham, Roger Vignoles: Hahn, 'A Chloris'


Joni Mitchell: 'Carey'


Nigel North: Dowland, 'Mrs Winter's Jump'


Penguin Café Orchestra: 'Music For A Found Harmonium'


Simon & Garfunkel: 'For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her'


Strawberry Switchblade: 'Deep Water'


Vox Clamantis & Weekend Guitar Trio: 'Mandatum Novum'


Martha Wainwright: 'Far Away'


Yuja Wang: Scarlatti, Sonata in G major Kk427



Sunday, 28 May 2017

Future's bright: ENO Studio Live - 'The Day After'

Regular visitors to this blog - thank you, darlings, thank you - will already be familiar with my epic admiration for the ensemble at English National Opera, and in particular its chorus. I'm not alone in this - they rightly attract awards on the world stage.

But to bring this down to a personal scale - in the time I've been going to the Coliseum, they have never let me down: not once. Whatever the opera, whatever the production, I find it increasingly impossible to imagine any group of performers being better at doing what they do. It's not just the fantastic sound they make - their skilled acting means they always appear to behave like a group of real individuals rather than a nebulous mass, yet their evident internal bond and commitment to the material makes them one of the most rock-solid, tight-knit units any conductor and soloists could wish to have in support. And without wishing to 'sentimentalise' - they don't need it - their onstage brilliance has remained undimmed throughout the traumatic business issues engulfing ENO in recent years, which must have hit them all so hard.

Now, it's time for them to have their moment, you might say, in the sun.

*

'ENO Studio Live' is the umbrella name for a new venture which allows ENO's 'homegrown' performers and directors to present smaller-scale productions away from the Coliseum, in Lilian Baylis House. (This West Hampstead venue is fascinating in itself: by day, it's ENO's rehearsal space, and in a former life, it was the Decca recording studio.) First up is Jonathan Dove's intriguing one-act opera, 'The Day After'.


I should say that I only use the phrase 'smaller-scale' to describe the dimensions of the auditorium and stage areas. The ambition on display here is planet-sized.

As soon as we enter the building, everything feels different. This has the welcome atmosphere of intimate, upfront fringe theatre: the cast and musicians are already in place, most of them tucked up in blankets, semi-visible, on the stage. None of us are more than about 11 or 12 rows away. All the rigging and stage lighting is prominent, fixed in place - almost like you'd expect if you wandered onto a film set where all the gubbins the camera conceals is suddenly right before your eyes. Instead of an elaborate backdrop, the lion's share of the chamber band is semi-concealed behind the performance space. There are no surtitles, so you have to concentrate hard at first - a move that pays real dividends. A sudden plunge into darkness, and the opera begins.

'The Day After' has its roots in Greek myth: Phoebus, god of the sun, allows his son Phaeton to drive the chariot that pulls the fiery star across the sky. Phaeton, however, isn't up to the task and loses control of the horses. The sun dips too close to the earth, causing widespread drought and devastation. The opera imagines these events from the survivors' viewpoint. The five still figures on stage come to life and discuss their plight - and are soon joined from both sides by the rest of the chorus. In an attempt to come to terms with what has happened, the wider group encourage the leads to re-enact the disaster and 'take on' the personas of the key players.

The action takes place in a kind of surreal limbo where everything apart from the underlying legend itself is modernised: from references to fashion and celebrity culture, to the gang of heroically foul-mouthed bullies who set upon Phaeton when he boasts about his dad. Ingeniously, the chariot itself is a mash-up of natural and mechanical tech: we still encounter the horses, but the machine also seems powered by fuel cans, glowing from inside with the sun's energy. The sun itself is represented by floodlights emerging from the venue's rigging.

To my mind, the effect of this is to make the action immediate, and as a result, more affecting. Everyone in every civilisation was 'modern' once. Who are we to laugh at the idea of a sun chariot falling to earth when we have managed to overheat our planet all by ourselves? ('The Day After' was originally performed outdoors, at Fort Rhijnauwen in the Netherlands, with highly elaborate visual effects but smaller vocal forces. The composer prepared a special 'full chorus' version for ENO's production.)

And crucially, the emotional depth and versatility of the performances bring the poignancy and horror home. All the soloists were remarkably adept at switching between characters. Rachael Lloyd was chameleonic as the survivor least interested in re-telling the story (she nearly spits out her rage at the futility of the exercise), transformed into Phaeton's mother. William Morgan also neatly inverted his diffident young man into the dangerously cocky Phaeton - taking the character through a horrendous rise and fall and injecting his tenor with real terror.

It's truly exciting to note that the three leads I've yet to mention are all drawn from the ENO chorus, and all gave fiercely individual, unforgettable performances. Susanna Tudor-Thomas invested her survivor with a weariness that still admitted a glimmer of hope. Claire Mitcher played, with heartbreaking poignancy, a younger woman identified with Phaeton's abandoned love. Her song asking to be remembered was, for me, one of the show's quietly powerful highlights - a rendition of understated but undeniable beauty, so sensitively sung and acted, it was as if the opera was momentarily suspended until we were all ready to carry on. Robert Winslade Anderson unleashed several chariots' worth of charisma as Phoebus, his commanding bass convincingly god-like, but not above (or below) a jittery note of panic as he realises his terrible mistake.

The score felt dizzyingly, restlessly imaginative. As far as I know, there's no recording, so I'm relying on memory from the one listen - but exciting, propulsive motifs illuminated the story: Phaeton's journey east to find Phoebus has him travel through the 'music' of several countries, and one extraordinary moment had four of the soloists simulate an echo, 'travelling' up the voices, register by register. James Henshaw conducted, and as he's ENO's chorus master, perhaps it's no surprise that he created such a successful sonic blend where the voices had the edge, but were punctuated and challenged by the orchestra at every turn. (Particular shout out for timpanist William Lockhart, who - hidden from our view - seemed possessed by the spirit of John Bonham and ignited the evening with roof-threatening rhythms.)

A huge amount of credit should also go to director Jamie Manton (who also took the striking publicity photograph), designer Camilla Clarke, lighting designer Tom Mannings and movement director Jasmine Ricketts... between them, they have created a highly specific universe where the build in visual intensity matches that in the music. It's a testament to the gritty, burnt, decaying feel of the props, and costumes that the real-world nuts and bolts of the venue interior are soon forgotten.

Being so close to the action only brought into focus the sheer authority and class of the chorus, who not only created a glorious wall of sound, but also moved so hypnotically. The intimacy of the venue made the electricity of the performance almost palpable - whether having some of their colleagues out front as soloists somehow made the link even stronger, I can only speculate, but the connection and interaction between leads and chorus looked and felt invincible from where I was sitting. Even though the opera takes us (literally and figuratively) into very dark areas, the overall experience - vibrant, urgent, exhilarating - shone brightly indeed.

*

IMPORTANT: At the time of writing, there are still two evenings left in 'The Day After's brief run. If you can go, you really should. Click here for the page you need on ENO's website.

The second in this year's brace of ENO Studio Live productions is the Gilbert & Sullivan short comic opera 'Trial by Jury'. It's also coming up fast: you can find details here.

A few final thoughts: ENO's original mission was - and is - to make opera widely available and accessible - hence the commitment to performance in English translation, for example. For anyone even vaguely tempted to dismiss opera as 'elitist', 'posh', 'exclusive', 'difficult', or 'old-fashioned'... any of these endlessly daft ideas that somehow seem to keep resurfacing - look more closely at ENO Studio Live.

The venue had a buzz closer to the feeling I associate with rock gigs - and the volume felt a bit more like that, too (although of course no-one required amplification). There was something almost renegade about it - the rough-at-the-edges surroundings, the wit and inventiveness, the obvious joy taken by the ensemble in bringing something to life entirely from within themselves.

If any ENO management were to read this...? I would counsel you: ramp up the ENO Studio Live activity and advertise the living daylights out of it. Target the young, students, the fringe theatre crowd. Someone who sits in the ROH stalls for 'Turandot' may not get this, but someone who stands in the yard at the Globe will. Get some of it broadcast or recorded - I would like to have seen BBC Radio 3 here, or even (depending on the opera) BBC Radio 6 Music. Time to get all this in-house brilliance out of the house.

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Music to remember

How important is music to our lives, to our memories? And how do our lives, past and present, shape the way we listen to music?

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Ever the trendy young thing, I went to my first-ever rock concert in my early teens: Genesis. Of course, this was not their early days featuring Peter Gabriel wandering around the stage dressed as some kind of alien allotment. I won tickets (I forget how) to Wembley Stadium to see the chart-slaying Phil Collins version of the group touring the 'Invisible Touch' album.

Perhaps this applies to many of you, but when a gig like this is your first taste of live music, it gives you a lot of strange ideas. I was bitten by the bug, and soon started seeing more bands with my pals, but I had to find out, agonisingly slowly, almost one show at a time:
  • Most gigs are, in fact, indoors.
  • Someone has gone in and taken all the seats away.
  • Not every band is going to play for about two-and-a-half hours.
  • Most concerts draw fewer than 70,000-odd people. Some of them just draw odd people.
Because I was a nipper, my gig companion on this debut venture was my hapless Dad. I wasn't fazed by this in the least - I wasn't in the least bit troubled that this might be 'uncool', and I think I realised even at the time that being 'uncool' wasn't really a problem at a Genesis concert. Different story for my Dad, though. I hadn't come into my natural birthright of a complete run of Beatles and Stones original vinyl, because both my parents appeared to have slept through the entire 60s - instead, all the great records I 'borrowed' from my father were the previous, crooner generation: Frank Sinatra, Johnnie Ray and, my favourite, Nat King Cole.

So, to my shame, I was grateful for Dad's company but thought 'Land of Confusion' might be an uncomfortably literal way of describing his experience. How wrong I was. He loved every minute. He would turn to me and say brilliantly Dad things, like "If you decide you're going to listen to this sort of thing, the louder the better." One of his cricket mates "also liked Genesis, so he knew it'd be all right". ('Dad Rock' is a term often used with a sneer, but of course it implies that the music it describes can cross generations.) And finally, the most Dad moment of all, suggesting we nip out through the encore to beat the crowds back to the station.

As far as I know, he hasn't voluntarily listened to a note of Genesis since. But I read this back, and think - yes, it was a superb concert, the band were all-conquering, but what I really remember about it, is that I was there with, and because of, my Dad. You don't always bond over familiar things - it can happen when you share something new, unusual, strange and powerful. When I play Frank and Nat, I think of my Dad's generation, what he enjoys, what he stands for. When I play late Genesis, I think about being with my Dad, and how great that is.

*

A few years back, I was in a band for a bit. Some of the people who were in the band might be reading this - and I know they won't mind my saying that, for a fair bit of the time, the whole thing was a pain in the rear end. Yes, we had our share of 'personnel issues' - not so much a 'revolving door' line-up as an empty lift-shaft - but many ragged amateur combos go through that. We had a slightly odd line-up - no bass but TWO keyboards, like a kind of 'Double Doors', at our most 'stable' - and our fortnightly rehearsal was just out of the way enough to be a hassle for ALL of us to get to. Sigh. It's amazing we lasted as long as we did.

Or is it? We all chipped in songs we had written, and there was perhaps one I wrote that I would still stand by now. The band liked it, and I was touched at the time with how they threw themselves into the arrangement. In particular, my fellow keyboard player - a really gifted musician, I should point out - had worked out a piano part so accomplished that I didn't need to play at all - just focus on the singing. And while nothing ever came of it, I got to experience that adrenalin rush of singing my song, with my friends behind me, creating a noise between them that buoyed me up, made my vocal feel like it was an aeroplane leaving the runway. We might have been in a shed on an industrial estate, but we were being MAGNIFICENT in a shed on an industrial estate. Music started it, and in a way, the music we all tried to agree on, sort out and play... well, that ended it, too. But the memory of that performance, and how we all tried to give each other the same support, chips away at my recollections of the hassles and horrors, note by note.

*

My entry into serious opera-going began with 'Nixon in China' at the 2012 Proms. But I had a couple of brushes with the form years before, on the cusp of my twenties. One was seeing a production of 'Eugene Onegin' which seemed saddled with a poor English translation ("There goes a shepherd!"). But I also ventured into the Royal Opera House gods for a production of 'Turandot', with a girl I had met at university.

We were never destined to 'go out' in the normal run of things - she was a visiting student from overseas - but that doesn't mean I didn't regard her as absolutely wonderful. The ROH provided its old-world, pre-refurbishment glamour, but it couldn't match my companion's splendour on that evening, our joint eagerness for the shared, new experience, her curiosity, her conversation. Opera can provide overwhelming drama, but that night - thankfully - it could only give joy. To this day, I cannot subtract joy from my experience of opera, my constant impulse to take only positivity from music.


*

On the subject of Promming, some of you may also know that I watched the entire Ring Cycle, conducted by Daniel Barenboim in 2013, from the Royal Albert Hall gallery with a chap called David, a work colleague of Mrs Specs with a secret double life as a Wagner nut. It's a matter of record how powerful these performances were, and the impact they had on the audiences that made it to the Hall for the whole week. But of course, the 16 hours or so of actual opera was a mere fraction of the overall time David and I spent together - queuing, eating, queuing, drinking, queuing... and then finally getting into the sweltering heat of the hall itself.

By the end of the week, it felt like we had been on the musical equivalent of a kind of survival course together - and in David's case, during Act III of 'Die Walküre' after one Pimms too many, it was literally like that. (It is a little strange to be concentrating on Wotan and Brunnhilde one minute, only to be dimly aware that the person standing next to you is slowly slipping to the floor. 'Overcome by emotion!' I assumed at the time.) But the point is - before 'Das Rheingold', we were mates. After 'Götterdämmerung', we were blood brothers. I doubt there was a topic in our twin musical universes we hadn't covered, and much more besides. He probably knows some of my darkest secrets and I've simply forgotten I told him in a fog of heat fatigue and leitmotifs.

If David and I had met in any other circumstances, we may well still be friends. There are some areas of our lives where we're irreconcilably different, of course. But the Ring experience cemented the nature of the bond we share - a ceaselessly good-natured mesh of intuitive understanding and musical codewords, a happy meeting point between telepathy and bewilderment.

*

Greater love hath no woman than to attend a Billy Bragg concert with a migraine. But this is what Mrs Specs did for me - in the early days, she's happy to admit, when she was possibly still trying to impress me a little. She didn't tell me, of course, until afterwards (I'm not a monster) but I can only imagine, with some guilt, how a stridently-bellowed 'Between the Wars' must have affected someone who could barely focus between paracetamols.

A better experience for us both followed with the Buena Vista Social Club gig at the Royal Albert Hall (again). Both mad about each other as well as this music, we came to the gig on equal terms - a sound we both adored, neither of us bestowing it upon the other. Still learning how to be a couple, this was one of the concerts that taught us to dance with each other, shed self-consciousness, give in to happiness.

The audience ended up in a very genteel form of disarray, as people half-forgot to orbit their seats, and began to cut some rug in the nearest available proper space. During a closing slow song, Mrs Specs dropped into a seat on the end of a row, and I contentedly just sank onto the staircase where I was, leaning against her legs, head level with her lap, her hand resting on my shoulder.

*

You will all have read that, earlier this week, a suicide bomber struck at Manchester Arena, as fans were leaving an Ariana Grande concert. I can only add my sympathy and support to anyone affected, as I can't begin to imagine what any of them are going through. I was moved to see various comments across the media - 'normal' and social - highlighting that this was a musical event (and specifically one that would attract the young) and expressing bitter regret that something designed to give pleasure and encourage unity should be shattered in this way.

I nurture the hope that in the recovery process, music will play an inevitable, invaluable part. Ariana Grande was of course horrified by the attack and has cancelled dates out of respect - however, I truly believe that the bond her music creates between her fans will be crucial to what helps them get past any lasting fear or terror. What the terrorist sought to ruin, will in fact be instrumental in aiding the healing - the polar opposite of his aims.

I also recalled the remarkable book 'Being Dead', by Jim Crace, which takes as its starting point the violent death of its central couple, but then deliberately sets out not to 'resurrect' them, but to restore the vividness of their lives through stories and recollections.

And then I simply kept recalling. Music, sounds and events dotted through my life, that somehow add up to something indestructible... its power to create, shape and energise. To bring to life friendship, love, harmony, belonging, and hope.