Double door: Raf and O's 'Portal'

Some of my very favourite artists are those who I feel create their own universe of sorts, a unique sonic environment that allows their music to sound not just 'great' but also unmistakeable. I suppose the most widely-known band I think manage this consistently is Radiohead, but my personal pantheon would of course include many of those artists that I try to bring to your attention on a semi-regular basis: Matt Howden (aka Sieben), Jo Quail, Shadow Biosphere, Trembling Bells... and in this post, Raf and O.

Raf Mantelli and Richard 'O' Smith make up the duo. There is a certain division of labour - Raf provides vocals/guitar, and 'O' the drums - but both share responsibility for the astounding array of synthesised treatments and effects in which the songs bathe and breathe. The overall impression is a kind of suspended animation, a blissful limbo.

In a fictional dream, I imagine two practice rooms, ideally within a building placed in near-future Ballardian isolation. In one room, you can play and hear only 'organic' music - there are no amps, pedals, nothing but acoustic instruments. In the other room lies every piece of electronic musical equipment imaginable - synths, samplers, sequencers, speakers. Raf and O have the keys to both rooms, and they make the music you can hear in the connecting corridor. Natural and unnatural sounds blend, clash - or sometimes simply pass each other by, hiding in the corner of one's ear.

So it's highly fitting for my SF mental wanderings that the sublime new album by Raf and O is called 'Portal'. I think it's their most sophisticated and successful exploration so far of the space between pop music - as we generally know it - and experimental electronica. At times it approaches sound-art in its willingness to take the listener beyond routine riffs and rhythms and into an aural atmosphere. One of the things I love most about the record is its unhurried confidence: every idea is given the right amount of room, no more, no less. If a song needs to glide, weightless, it does. If a rhythm is fascinating in itself, it's worked through in layers until the cycle feels complete. While if a tale can be told in under two minutes, the song stops.

The pair's particular talents are well in evidence. There's Raf's glorious and incredibly versatile voice, which seems to touch on so many possible reference points - an Italian answer to the breathy intimacy of a Gilberto or Hardy, a range to match a Björk or Kate Bush, a sinister chill calling to mind Claudia Brücken in the early days of Propaganda (that other band so obsessed with the human and mechanical)... but she never really sounds like anyone apart from herself. And there's 'O''s hyperactive percussion, seemingly fed through circuitry as if real blood was flowing through a drum machine, as crucial in the colour it adds, as much as the drive.

But throughout 'Portal', there's a sense that Raf and O also know exactly when to rein in these tendencies, and the material emerges all the stronger for it. The magnificent 'Worms' spurns vocals altogether, as 'O' kick-starts an immediate, infectious motorik beat, before the brilliantly patient, restrained build-up gradually unfolds. Two startling tracks find Raf using something close to spoken word: we hear Italian as well as English in the crisp, hazy-rap delivery of 'Drunk' where the voice provides the rhythm; while in 'Automatons', she intones science fiction imagery as 'O' (I assume!) brings the robots' metallic clang alive with brittle, scattershot strikes.

The Shakespeare setting 'Sonnet 62' must be one of the loveliest songs they've ever recorded. The arrangement is sparse and delicate, allowing the gorgeous melody to fill the space - but still decorated with flickering electronica, as if the Bard's words have broken through time thanks to some future technology.

It's very difficult to choose highlights from such a consistently winning record. David Bowie fans will lap up the cover of 'Win' (originally from 'Young Americans'). Raf and O have a deep affinity with Bowie - as one of the original musical universe makers and connoisseur of the alien - and have already covered 'Lady Grinning Soul' to great acclaim. (You can find it on the previous album, 'Time Machine'.) The fragile 'imposter soul' of 'Win' makes it a perfect fit, drifting seamlessly into the otherworldly 'Portal' aesthetic.

And in a masterstroke of sequencing - who says the album format is dead? - Raf and O include a live track, 'Echoes', towards the end of the disc. Such is 'Portal's overall restraint that this brilliant song bursts from the speakers in a sudden rush of energy, as if the 'other' soundworld has finally stormed the gateway into this - until the final song 'Magic' reins the power back in.

Speaking of seeing Raf and O live - if you're in London you have the chance to do so very soon. On Friday 22 July, they launch the album with a gig at St James the Less Church in Pimlico. To my enormous annoyance, I can't make it, but I would dearly love as many of you as possible to attend as my representatives. Excitingly, there are a range of enticing ticket deals - so please follow this link to check them out, and get along if you can. They are a superb live band - as entrancing to watch as to listen to - and it'll be fascinating to hear how they bring 'Portal' to life. I hope I get the chance to do so myself before long.

In the meantime, there's a digital EP available which previews two tracks from 'Portal', along with two collaborations with electronica legend Robert Logan (who is also playing at the album launch). Bending and shaping Raf and O's distinct sound through his own box of tricks, the Logan tracks remind the listener that, once through the portal, there's more than one possible direction of travel. For the curious, this is a very rewarding way to spend £3 - head over to Bandcamp to take action. And if you can't make the launch concert to buy the album there, you could succumb to the temptation to pre-order 'Portal' itself - the door's wide open.

Opera North circular: Wagner's 'Ring' at the Southbank

Finally, it was here - so long-awaited, it felt like we had booked our seats while still in nappies, learning ourselves how to use tools and fire. But at last, Opera North were in London to perform their production of Wagner's entire Ring cycle at the Royal Festival Hall.

I only mention London specifically, of course, because it's my patch and those are the performances I attended. But in fact, ON have taken on the mammoth task of touring the cycle around several other cities too - mostly their normal haunts, but I think we southerners were included as this was such a special occasion. ON are a well loved and respected company, so it was a privilege to have the chance to see them on my home turf.

The creation of this Ring cycle was epic in itself. You get the impression, I think, of a company that knows how to strike the exact balance between ambition and good sense. Starting in 2011, ON did one Ring opera a year, completing the set with 'Götterdämmerung' in 2014. Presumably this allowed them to spread the effort - not to mention budget - and take the time to completely nail how they wanted to present each instalment (I'll talk more about what the production involves below). Because believe me, by the time we saw them power through the whole cycle in a week, they were match fit: the singers and particularly the orchestra seemed, to a person, energised, tireless, in command.

(Forgive me for not going into a full summary of the plot, or addressing the themes of the cycle in any great detail here - it would take up so much of this post, and it's easy to find that sort of background online. I wrote a little bit more along those lines after seeing Barenboim conduct the Ring at the Proms in 2013 - that post is here, if you'd like to read it.)

ON describe their version of the Ring as a 'dramatic performance for the concert hall'. I rather like this, not least because Wagner was very keen on using particular labels for his work that avoided calling them 'mere' operas: for example, "Gesamtkunstwerk" for a 'complete/all-embracing artwork', or "Bühnenweihfestspiel" for 'Parsifal', a 'festival play to consecrate the stage'. I like to imagine there should be a long, single word in German for 'dramatic performance for the concert hall', should anyone want to suggest one...

But more importantly, the description is 100% accurate. For those of you who haven't seen any photos of the production: there's no pit - the entire orchestra is on stage. In front of the orchestra runs a relatively narrow platform for the soloists, with a row of chairs. On the back wall, there are three large screens. These screens are in constant use: they show the surtitles - and also, when helpful, add a brief summary of the action, or name new characters if several appear at once, so there's no chance of anyone getting lost. Behind the text (and throughout), the screens show the relevant terrain for the on-stage action: forest, sky, water, flame.

Every potential or apparent limitation of this set-up was turned into a virtue. I felt that in the absence of sets, the projections were a genius idea. (I've heard it said that some Wagner buffs prefer concert-style performances of the Ring, since it's quite hard to stage without at least some elements appearing ridiculous.) To ON's credit, they didn't try to depict in any kind of crystal clear way the splendour of Valhalla, say, or a full representation of Fafner in dragon form. Instead, in these two instances, we saw mist-shrouded peaks and the hint of a scale-ridden, indistinct face. The mix of abstraction with constant motion on the screens meant that the visual 'motor' was always running: something to occupy our eyes without actually distracting from our focus on the performers - and one highly successful effect of this cycle, by bringing the players out of the pit and lining up the singers level with them, was to keep our attention firmly on the music.

The visual inventiveness wasn't confined to the screens. What might've first appeared to be co-ordinated concert attire was in fact a character-driven dress code. There were some visual 'quick wins' - such as the shimmering blue dresses of the Rhinemaidens - as well as razor-sharp, lower-key touches. Wotan's smart waistcoat and tails getting more dishevelled as his grip on authority weakens; Fafner running his bright red tie through his fingers as he bleeds to death from his wounds; Brunnhilde adding a single shooting glove and bovver boots to her concert dress; Siegfried's naive machismo captured in his bow tie undone around his open neck, like a groom elated to survive his stag night.

The stagecraft and direction also elevated simplicity into sophistication. While the soloists mostly 'sang out' at the audience (as in a 'normal' concert set-up), they also fully, physically acted their roles. So, characters in conversation with each other were actually standing side by side, singing at us. This seemed a little odd for a matter of minutes, but it's incredible how quickly you simply lock into it. Clearly, projecting the voices straight into the audience was was the best option for the sound; but also, movements which might otherwise have appeared artificial - for example, one person handing an invisible drink to the other meant they each had to 'give' and 'take' with arms out towards the house - seemed natural and unforced, because they were in total mutual support with the music. Our buy-in to this style of performance meant that it could be used increasingly boldly - Siegfried's murder was a stark, nightmare moment, with Hagen thrusting outwards and Siegfried, next to him, instantly arching forward in agony.

This slight distancing also heightened the tension - particularly in the love duets, where the characters, having sung their passion to us, were only then released, to come together and embrace. In many cases, following a death, the victim simply crossed their arms over their chest and retreated to a chair, in darkness. In fact, the chairs themselves were pressed into prop service, as Alberich slithered across them when grappling with the Rhine's wet rock.

We were lucky enough to have seats close to the stage, and witness just how skilful the acting on display really was. All the soloists continued to face outwards and (re)act when not singing (this is not necessarily the case in concert renditions) - allowing them to flesh out their characterisations. Some of the finest examples of this physical acting came from Wolfgang Ablinger-Sperrhacke as the god of fire Loge in 'Das Rheingold', seasoning his ambivalent body language with constant flame-like rippling of his fingers; Robert Hayward's agonised Wotan and Lee Bisset's terrified Sieglinde in 'Die Walküre', Richard Roberts's grotesque agitation as Mime and Jeni Bern's remarkably natural stop-start movements as the Woodbird in 'Siegfried', and in 'Götterdämmerung', Andrew Foster-Williams seemed to make Gunther almost shrink into himself with guilt and horror.

And this is to take nothing away from the singing, which felt so strong to me throughout the ensemble that it seems almost unfair to single out individuals. There are a few performances I feel I should mention, however. Kelly Cae Hogan was a triumph as Brünnhilde - not afraid to show (and sing) vulnerability and tenderness but unleashing the fury when required - again, the expressiveness in her face as well as her voice made the character - who undergoes the most extraordinary change, from virginal warrior to passionate mortal lover and ultimately, a conflicted mix of the two - vivid and true.

Johl Pohlheim managed to make Alberich both intimidating and pathetic, combining an ingratiating, twisting physical presence with a threateningly strong delivery. It strikes me that these two performances in particular are those where the soloists could develop the characters over several of the operas - possibly not a coincidence. To me, the most outstanding 'one-off' was Mats Almgren as Hagen in 'Götterdämmerung', willing to make his voice somehow evil - an unflinching, hideous portrayal (this is a huge compliment, by the way) - no less impressive after he had played Fafner in two of the earlier operas. (Several of the singers inhabited more than one role, lending some interesting perspectives - for example, Giselle Allen's superb characterisations of Freia and Gutrune draws the connection between the two as women used ruthlessly as pawns in the men's games, and James Creswell's apparent implacability helps bring about his downfall as both Fasolt and Hunding.)

My closing words of admiration, however, are reserved for ON's orchestra, conducted by their outgoing music director Richard Farnes - who has clearly chosen something of a monumental project as his company swansong. Again, with our close seats, we would've been happy to let Wagner's music overwhelm us - but the level of detail Farnes drew from the players was astonishing. I've never been so acutely aware of the percussion intricacies the work demands, for example (I wonder if timpanists have to make a will by law before tackling 'Götterdämmerung'?) - not just because I could see what they were doing, but I could really hear it. I've never appreciated quite so sharply how the strings and horns balance the texture and melody. I've never been able to pick out the recurring themes/motifs so easily. The operas felt like one thrilling rollercoaster ride after another, surely much shorter than their actual mammoth running times. Though we stumbled out of 'Götterdämmerung', reeling, elated but also exhausted... I would happily do it all again this week.

Which, remotely, one sort of can. As I type, 'Das Rheingold' is actually in progress for the last time in the tour, at the Sage Gateshead. BBC Radio 3 are broadcasting the whole cycle from the Sage live this week, which means they will also be available to listen on BBC iPlayer Radio for 30 days afterwards. The Leeds performances were also filmed for streaming later in the year (when more details about this are available, I'll spread the word).

Please try and experience this Ring cycle in some shape or form if you possibly can. It's a stunning artistic achievement in its own right. But I think it also demonstrates how Opera North - not an outfit with unlimited resources - can meet a challenge as vast in scope as the Ring head-on and make it work using innovation, creativity and flair. And crucially, by giving the orchestra and (in 'Götterdämmerung', the scene-stealing chorus) such prominence, they've demonstrated to audiences their utter confidence in the excellence of their company. (I'd like to think the board of English National Opera could learn a few lessons from this: how to treat singers and musicians with the respect they deserve, and how there are more artistic responses to financial realities than merely cuts.)

In future, I'll respect Opera North's generosity in bringing their Ring cycle to me, by making more of an effort to travel to see them. Roll on their Puccini double bill and 'Billy Budd' productions towards the end of the year. Tickets already booked.

(The images in this post I believe are all copyright Opera North, drawn from their own Ring website, Sage Gateshead and the Southbank Centre.)

Spexit - to a new culture

As a rule, I try to keep what I add to social media - as well as what I take from it - positive and non-political. (The former often necessitates the latter!) It should be for the good things in life - which for me, as you know, are mostly cultural and especially musical. It's about making connections, not severing them: sharing love, not spilling hate.

This week, it's more difficult than usual to stay true to those aims. Full disclosure: I voted Remain in the referendum on whether or not the UK should stay in the EU. I will always believe that collaboration, partnership, openness and tolerance contribute more to the greater good than separation, division, mistrust and insularity. In the aftermath of the Brexit vote, it seems likely there will be dark political and economic times ahead, but this is not my field - I do not want to downplay the fear and disappointment many feel, or unwittingly patronise anyone by commenting on it. I feel we've been subjected to cartoonish, media-distorted personality-driven campaigning. But I'm also aware that rational people, from left and right, north and south, young and old - no matter who's currently yelling at who - got behind both sides of the EU question. Simplifying the divisions in our nation will do nothing to heal them. To my mind, it's now up to whoever leads us into this uncharted territory to guide us through it. I wish them, and us, luck.

Part of all this does fall within my 'remit', however. Not so much can we cope with the outcome - more can we neutralise the poison of the campaign? Racism has always existed, and always will - along with sexism, homophobia and any type of prejudice that involves a group of people turning their fear of another group into hate and rage. This has the unfortunate outcome that, however reasonable or thought-through a Leave voter's intentions might be... for one inglorious day, they are siding with the racists. On the same page. Tarred, ironically, with the same brush.

How easy has it been to look across the Atlantic recently and feel the US is gripped by madness: the rise of Trump, the failure to tackle gun crime, the venom of the Christian far-right? But surely most of us realise that the overwhelming majority of Americans want no part of this lethal arrogance. Will mainland Europe or the rest of the world now extend us the same courtesy? Will they realise that many of us wanted no part in this - by which I mean holding a referendum at all, let alone Leave or Remain? Or will they just see the buffoonery and sloganeering?

Well... THAT is not my society. Spexit. If I'm dragged kicking and screaming out of the EU, I will have to bear the consequences along with the rest of my fellow Brits. But I am still European. And - as a citizen of the internet - I, like you, am global. There are no borders here.

Against a political and economic background - where I can more than likely achieve nothing - there is a cultural aspect to this - the need I feel to express the kind of Britain I want to live in: inclusive, welcoming, multi-faceted. Take today's Pride celebrations as an example of what we can achieve when we take a collective decision to reject prejudice. Many of us, I'm sure, already lead very cosmopolitan lives - but perhaps some of us don't, or could do more.

How many people do you know from elsewhere in the EU, who you work with, or come into contact with, every day? There's never been a more crucial time to make them feel welcomed and valued.

I think with admiration about some musicians I support and who have become friends (real and 'virtual'), who have found receptive audiences for their work abroad, who have forged collaborations across Europe accordingly, and who have encouraged other overseas artists in turn, in projects both on the continent and back in the UK. Or there's a writer from France who has come to this country, immersed herself in its influences and produces unique work as a result. And then I think - what more could I have done to help these people? To show my appreciation for their open-mindedness, their inclusiveness? How could I have given those projects more support? Why do I write so much about UK - hell, London - events when I'm lucky enough to have people reading Specs from much further afield?

What have the countries in the EU (and elsewhere) done for your cultural life? Plenty. It doesn't matter - music, movies, art, architecture, food, design, sport, technology - whatever your thing is, consider the borders those ideas and activities have crossed. Spread the word. Start a blog. Start a club. Go to the library (if it's still open). Educate yourself. Learn a language (I'm going to try and pick up my German studies).

I realise this now feels very small. None of this will restore a currency's health, bring back a lost job, or ease a negotiation. But the issue of who we are, rather than what we are, has arisen - and will Remain. Our island may drift further from the mainland. But we, the people in it, have the power to reach outside our perimeter, and start bridge and tunnel repairs. Now.

Shot in the dark: Massenet's 'Werther' at the ROH

This could be one of the 'fastest' blog entries I've ever posted. Only yesterday, I was at the opening 'night' (in fact a matinée) of Massenet's 'Werther' at the Royal Opera House. (The production, originally directed by Benoît Jacquot, dates back to 2004.) More normally, I happily let a performance of anything - not just opera - bubble around in my head for a while, percolating, until I feel ready to write about it. This time, though, I came home desperate to get started at the keyboard, brain fizzing, fingertips tingling. One evening later, here we are.

Partly, I think this is because I might have a fighting chance of encouraging you to go. Normally, these pieces are retrospective (depending on when I go myself and when I get time to write the posts), but as I type, you have five more chances to see it. Tickets on sale here, and take note that 27 June is the cinema relay night, should you not be able to go to the ROH in person. However, I will be including 'spoilers' below, so if you're not familiar with 'Werther' and would prefer to see it 'cold', please stop reading here with my blessing, and make the trip. Then come back and see if you agree with me!

The plot (based on a novel by Goethe) is broadly as follows. Werther is a young man who seems to be a poet (we're told quite late in the opera that he has translated verses) but otherwise little is said about his situation and he seems to have no ties. He's well enough liked in the town of Wetzlar, but regarded as melancholy. Charlotte is the mayor's daughter, and the eldest of a small army of siblings she now helps her father bring up. She promised her dying mother that she would marry the eligible Albert, who is away as the opera opens. Werther takes her to a ball, and promptly falls for her. Albert, however, returns that night. Charlotte had more or less put Albert out of her mind (he's been gone six months, after all), but on hearing that Albert is back, she explains the situation to Werther, who falls almost instantly into suicidal despair.

Three months into Charlotte and Albert's marriage, Werther is in fact still moping about the place, lamenting his situation. Against the background of golden wedding celebrations for the local minister, Werther again confronts Charlotte, who tells him he must leave Wetzlar - not for ever, but basically to sort himself out. Fatally, she suggests he come back at Christmas, but Werther declares he will leave for good. Albert, who has already guessed that Werther is in love with Charlotte, takes his self-imposed exile as confirmation.

Charlotte receives passionate letters from Werther which draw her love for him to the surface. At Christmas, Werther does indeed return but after a further anguished encounter, Charlotte manages to resist him once again. Werther leaves, but sends word to Albert asking to borrow his pistols for a long journey. On hearing this, Charlotte grasps its meaning and rushes to Werther's flat - where he lies bleeding after shooting himself. He hears Charlotte confess her love for him, then dies in her arms.

This was my first encounter with 'Werther', and it felt markedly different to any other opera I've seen. It has a modern psychological aspect to it, where action is sacrificed to soliloquy and conversation - the plot tends to move forward between the acts. But the story never feels static, as the music puts paid to any hint of dramatic inertia. It's a masterful, as well as beautiful, score: even on first hearing, it seemed possible to discern how Massenet was manipulating the moodswings of the piece, eliding the gloomy accompaniment for Werther into relatively upbeat surrounds, illustrating how his despair will come to infect everyone and everything around him. (Werther makes a speciality of killing celebrations stone dead: the ball, the golden wedding, even Christmas.) Realist touches also add punctuation: the jangle of horses, the church organ. Under Antonio Pappano, the ROH orchestra really seemed to get under the skin of the music - a rich, full sound that somehow conveyed a sense of the 'knife-edge', as the characters teeter on the brink.

I've suggested that it's an opera of the mind, taking to extremes the idea of bringing the 'internal' to the surface or exterior. We tend to hear the characters' inner thoughts articulated and dramatised, between actual events that we don't see. But there seems to be plenty more going on in terms of reversals, opposites and switches.

In the same way that the music blurs light and dark, there's an ironic clash of genres in the extent to which the opera pushes its comic aspects (it reminded me a little of 'Romeo and Juliet' in this respect). Apparent incidentals, like the mayor's drunken pals Johann and Schmidt - whose larking about lasts a lot longer into the story than is strictly comfortable - seem to symbolise not so much 'freedom' as abandon, release - something denied to Werther and Charlotte.

The brilliant opening of the opera - July, but to the sound of Christmas carols - turns out to foreshadow a major, chilling plot point. But at face value, at first encounter, it unsettles while it charms: something wrong is happening here. And at the close of the tale, Werther's death in fact leaves a supposedly happy marriage intact - a classic comedy ending - had Charlotte not finally tipped over into acknowledging her love for the other man.

Werther's dying is in itself notable. The lovelorn noble tenor part - the convention/cliché suggests he'd have a much better chance of surviving the opera than Charlotte. But then Werther is an odd character all told. Something of an anti-hero, he seems weak-willed, a bit pathetic - I've seen various comments (across social media and in various articles) vexed at how off-putting a romantic lead he is.

It seems to me that Werther is, in fact, the opera's villain (which is why he dies, and the married couple survive). I don't mean a baddie in the 'mu-ha-ha', 'panto-Scarpia' vein: I mean the more subtle kind of wrong-doing where the perpetrator is convinced they're actually right. He blackmails Charlotte emotionally with threats of suicide from the outset, but instead hangs around to haunt her in this world instead. He pleads love for her again three months into the marriage - what can he be expecting? - and seems to admit defeat by leaving the town. But no - he writes ardent love letters to Charlotte, making it impossible for her to forget him (rather than the other way round). Still re-buffed on his Christmas appearance, he only then goes through with the suicide - but even in his dying breath he ensures that a guilt-ridden Charlotte will visit his grave, casting a permanent shadow over the marriage.

Talking of shadows, the staging makes brilliant use of light/dark effects. The castbook notes point out that the settings reflect the opera's tone by getting more dark and dismal as the opera goes on, but I think this is a bit of a modest summary. On the bright July set of Act 1, Werther first appears as a shadow against the door - from that point on, the management of light and space increase a claustrophobic sense of the doom closing in on Werther. Darkness begins to fall in Act 2. By Act 3, he is trapped in the drawing room (or similar) of the house - when Charlotte escapes his clutches into another part of the building, he seems unable to give proper chase, flailing in the single location, and eventually leaving thanks to a shaft of light from the side of the stage. Finally, as he lays dying in Act 4, he almost seems to fill one side of his flat, which is compressed into a small box within the set. As the opera ends, all is black apart from a candle flame - a single focal point, possibly to express the small hope that survives of Charlotte moving on with her life.

(Fire and energy from the two leads. Photo by Bill Cooper - copyright to the ROH.)

The leads are, well, extraordinary. In or out of character, Vittorio Grigòro can be a born showman and Joyce DiDonato exuberance itself - so what brilliant casting to let them loose on this brooding, thorny, inward-facing piece. Two utterly committed, serious performances (not that I'd expect otherwise!): vocally, they pulled out all the stops when appropriate but could totally convince in quieter dynamic mode, to give us 'thinking aloud', interior monologue, uncertainty, anguish. I had the sense that they were directing their energy and fire into making Werther and Charlotte real, angsty, 3D. VG's Werther cannot keep still, pacing, reeling, struggling against his own nature. JDD's Charlotte is a gloriously physical performance, from twirling when playing with her younger siblings, through constant fidgeting as she waits in the house, to fighting Werther off ... even through to moving him around and hauling him up when he's at death's door. As opera demands, it was 'proper' acting, writ large: generous gestures, enormous impact.

Please go to one of the remaining performances if you can. The music will stir your soul, the singers break your heart ... and the ideas lodge themselves in your subconscious. A superb achievement.

All-time classic: Enescu's 'Oedipe'

Oedipus's wanderings are still not over. This has been the first run ever for Enescu's 'Oedipe' at the Royal Opera House, although this production dates back to 2011, shown at the Brussels opera house La Monnaie / De Munt.

Certainly, take a look at almost any article or review about 'Oedipe' and it's normally described along the lines of a forgotten / overlooked masterpiece. But how do masterpieces get forgotten or overlooked? As I mention later, some of this opera's demands are unlikely to have helped - there is some strange instrumentation to deal with, one female role is forbiddingly unusual and the part of Oedipus itself is a colossal undertaking for the male lead. Mainly, though, this production left me wishing desperately for some kind of speedy revival or commercial release.

First, a run-through the Oedipus story, for those not (yet) familiar with Greek myth. Laius and Jocasta - king and queen of Thebes - are childless. An oracle tells Laius that if he has a son, the child will kill him: so when Jocasta later gives birth to a boy, their joy is short-lived as Laius realises he cannot let the infant live. He arranges for a shepherd to expose the baby in the mountains.

The shepherd, however, doesn't know his Greek myth either. Unable to bring himself to follow Laius's command - instead he passes the child on (seemingly through some kind of ancient-world Shepherd Adoption Network) until eventually the boy is brought up in the royal house at Corinth, by king Polybus and queen Merope. They name him Oedipus - which means, more or less, 'club foot' - after the ankle injuries he sustained when exposed.

Oedipus seems to have a disaster-free adolescence - until, as a young man, he's taunted by a drunk for being illegitimate. His royal 'parents' simply deny the claim when confronted, so he asks the oracle which, as usual, dodges the question but tells him he'll kill his father and marry his mother. (On the plus side, though, his resting place will be sacred to the gods. One suspects this would've been 'scant' comfort.) Terrified into action, he leaves Corinth - thinking, of course, that he's a danger to Polybus and Merope.

On his travels, fate begins to stack the cards against him. He encounters a travelling party at a crossroads, and after a bit of road rage, the driver tries to run him over. Oedipus bests the group, though, and kills them - including the driver: Laius. Then he encounters the Sphinx, the mythical creature holding Thebes in a reign of terror, feeding on anyone who cannot solve her riddles. Wanting to save the city, Oedipus solves the riddle, killing the Sphinx - and the Thebans reward him with the throne, plus the widow Jocasta's hand in marriage.

Of course, Oedipus and Jocasta have no idea they're committing incest. For some years, they live in peace, raise a family and enjoy the affection of the people. Then, a plague befalls Thebes. Jocasta's brother Creon consults the oracle (uh-oh), and returns with the news that Laius's killer is in the city - once the murderer is found and exiled, the pollution will leave with him. In true tragic style, Oedipus begins the slow tortuous process of finding himself out. The seer Tiresias more or less tells Oedipus outright he's the guilty party, which only causes the king to rail at the prophet and accuse Creon of treachery. When the baby Oedipus's possible survival and the circumstances of Laius's death come to light, Oedipus has an inkling that he may be the killer - but still doesn't realise the true extent of the horror. In a deliciously cruel twist, a messenger arrives to announce Polybus's death. At least, Oedipus temporarily thinks, the prophecy was false. He decides not to return to Corinth just in case he can still cause harm to Merope - only for the messenger to 'reassure' him he was adopted.

The final pieces of the puzzle in place, Jocasta commits suicide in shame, and Oedipus blinds himself, before going into exile, with daughter Antigone as his guide. With his sins finally expiated, Oedipus reaches Colonus, where Theseus, the Athenian king, welcomes him and treats them kindly. Meanwhile, chaos reigns back in Thebes as Oedipus's two sons - who were supposed to share rule of the city - fall out, with Eteocles banishing his brother Polynices. Hearing about this, Oedipus curses them both. Creon arrives to try and talk Oedipus into returning to Thebes (so he can die on its soil), followed by Polynices, but Oedipus rebuffs them and goes to his grave in a kind of transfiguration, conferring the divine protection foretold by the oracle onto Athens.

(Slight digression: Although the opera ends at that point, the myth doesn't. Once the sons kill each other in battle, Antigone makes plans to defy Creon's order not to give Polynices a proper burial. Creon arranges to bury Antigone alive in a cave, despite the fact that she's betrothed to his son, Haemon. Tiresias urges Creon to give Polynices the appropriate rites and rescue Antigone, or he will lose his son. But Creon is too late. Antigone hangs herself in the cave, and Haemon kills himself over her body, which in turn causes Creon's grief-stricken wife Eurydice to commit suicide. After his merciless treatment of all the other characters in the story, Creon is left to live alone with the consequences of his actions.)

Possibly that was quite detailed for a 'summary', but it was only while typing it that I realised - if you leave any of it out (and I've still glossed over a few details), you fail to get across the almost exquisite detail of the traps the gods have laid for Oedipus. Every step he takes - not only in his attempts to beat the prophecy but also to do good to others - in fact draws him closer to the inevitable.

The key account of the Oedipus story is in Sophocles's 'Theban' plays. 'Oedipus the King' starts with the plague on Thebes, with the back-story spilling out as Oedipus hunts for the culprit. 'Oedipus at Colonus' cover the events outside Athens. 'Antigone' tells the final part of the story I placed in brackets.

Greek tragedies were normally written in trilogies (the only one surviving complete is Aeschylus's 'Oresteia'), and performed together with a fourth, more light-hearted 'satyr' play afterwards - presumably to give the audiences a chance to pull themselves together. But although there are three Theban plays, they were all written separately, out of storytelling order ('Antigone' is the oldest) and belonged themselves to different groups. Inconsistencies apart (for example, the main one Wikipedia points out is that Creon assumes rule of Thebes at the end of 'Oedipus the King' rather than Oedipus's sons), their overall narrative is coherent enough for them to be normally published and discussed together.

It was impossible to head out to see 'Oedipe' without recalling 'Thebans' - Julian Anderson's superb opera which premiered at English National Opera in 2014. The libretto was by playwright Frank McGuinness, who precision-tooled all three Theban plays into one blistering evening. My first visit to ENO, 'Thebans' introduced me to a couple of my favourite singers, and more importantly, ENO's world-class company. Knowing the importance of the spoken chorus in Greek tragedy, Anderson had written brilliantly for their singing descendants, here playing the citizens of Thebes. Regular visitors to the Specs blog will know my enthusiasm and admiration for ENO's chorus has fired on all cylinders ever since.

Anderson and McGuinness also kept the storytelling firmly modern by playing with the chronology - arranging the action as 'Oedipus the King' / 'Antigone' / 'Oedipus at Colonus'. This worked on a number of levels: the Antigone tale is so unbearably bleak that it almost prohibits the necessary catharsis, while ending with 'Colonus' meant the audience left at a relatively positive point in the story, undercut with the melancholy knowledge of what was to come. I also felt it was a neat nod to the fact that ancient audiences never saw these plays 'in order' either.

So, with a head full of the legend (Classics & English degree, you see) and a successful operatic adaptation fresh in my mind - how would I find this new version of the myth? I'm delighted to say that it still thrilled and surprised me, not just with the inventiveness of the staging but also - thanks to some astonishing casting - with the extraordinary, exemplary performances.

Enescu's opera (premiered in 1936) is epic in scope, following the composer's decision to cover Oedipus's entire life from birth to death. This was a dramatic masterstroke. It allows the opera to close with the 'Colonus' story, giving the character his final blessing/purification and the audience the necessary release. Equally, it puts onstage, in the early acts, some of the most crucial and exciting incidents in the 'Oedipus the King' back-story. (The Greek tragedians had to make use of the 'messenger speech' convention, where all the most visceral or surreal off-stage action is usually reported to the audience by a terrified minion.) We now get important early glimpses at Jocasta and Tiresias in particular - enabling the singers in those roles to build their characters more fully - and see the fateful encounters with Laius and the Sphinx dramatised.

The production (directed by Àlex Ollé and Valentina Carrasco) opens with a startling coup de theatre, as initially an ancient frieze appears to cover the curtain. As the opera begins, the figures in the frieze start to move - it is in fact populated by the Act 1 cast and chorus. Unsettling and atmospheric, it summarises in one illusion so many relevant themes - nothing is what it seems; we think we can see, but our eyes deceive us (Tiresias is blind, but is the 'seer' - and upon seeing the truth, Oedipus blinds himself); you might be a moving, thinking being, but is your fate also 'set in stone'?

A programme note tells us that the staging deliberately avoids setting Oedipus in one fixed time, so the opera moves him through the ages, as if he's a universal 'everyman'. I actually think this over-simplifies some of the subtleties of the production. On the surface, we have Act 1 in an ancient setting, people and place caked in clay. Act 2 begins with a modern-dress Oedipus leaving Corinth, and encountering Laius's car at a crossroads marked by the cones and flashing lamps familiar to us from present-day roadworks. Oedipus then meets the Sphinx, which in the myth has a woman's head, lion's body and eagle's wings. Here, she lies waiting in the cockpit of a grounded warplane. Act 3 retains a military feel but with men and women alike kitted out in the dark, dusty shades of martial law and contemporary warfare. Finally, at Colonus, we seem to be free of any specific date-line, except the Athenians appear in all-white 'modern' suits - which I'll come back to.

But in the event, time seems to ebb and flow throughout the production: it's not cut and dried. In the crossroads scene, the fight is unarmed, old-school. The Sphinx's plane seems too old for the militia guarding Thebes (suggesting her inhuman longevity, perhaps). The 'clay' onlookers remain, inscrutable, during the modern acts, and worlds collide when Creon's Theban gang, still in ragged, earthy garb, invade the 'enlightened' space of Colonus, where perhaps the white-suited Athenians represent purity or paradise.

The theme of light versus darkness (sight versus blindness, truth versus lies) informs the whole presentation. Overall, there is gloom, because the illumination is carefully managed. Laius's vehicle headlights dazzle from the back of the stage - as Oedipus is about to fall prey to the prophecy - ironically foreshadowing the blinding beam from the same area which Oedipus walks into at the end of his life. Torches on hi-visibility jackets turn the roadworks men into identical unidentifiable ciphers. Swooping searchlights around the Sphinx's plane add to the 'checkpoint' atmosphere. Oedipus is cleansed of his sin in a shower of light from above.

Enescu's score - thrilling and fascinating - also feels a little suspended, rooted in the post-Wagner 'music drama' idea that the music should track and support the characters and story (rather than break up easily into showcase arias), but with modernist nods towards the contemporary - like the musical saw keening at the death of the Sphinx. The Sphinx is also given vocal effects to emphasise her otherness - brilliantly sung by Marie-Nicole Lemieux, lasting in the mind long after her dying cackle. It must take a good deal of artistic bravery to display a voice so clearly attractive and versatile, then be willing to make it alien and horrific as required. Watching her slowly wake and rise in the cockpit (behind the propeller, slowly starting to turn) is real edge-of-the-seat stuff, and you're almost sorry when Oedipus solves the riddle. Lemieux, as she starts to convulse, stops the propeller with her hand before crumpling.

There's no denying that sheer star-wattage lights up the stage, too. Sir John Tomlinson inhabits Tiresias with that unstoppable, authoritative 'boom' and undimmed charisma. Sarah Connolly was in beautiful voice as Jocasta, bringing colour and variation to a character mostly heard in distress (giving up her baby, then imploring him later on - as her adult husband/son - to let things be). A consummate stage actor, beyond the sound, she allowed us to see how time glides by, making Jocasta the loving mother, then willing bride and finally distraught victim.

(Sarah Connolly as Jocasta, Johan Reuter as Oedipus. Photograph from ROH site, by Clive Barda.)

But overall, the evening belonged to bass-baritone Johan Reuter as Oedipus. I first heard him when he gave an unforgettable account of Barak in the recent ROH production of Strauss's 'Die Frau ohne Schatten' - he is able to sing with tremendous weight and power while appearing completely 'natural' and unforced. Every conversation and movement convinces, feels realistic. The role is also a tour-de-force in terms of stamina and consistency, as Oedipus is at the centre of everything from Act 2 onwards. JR seemed vocally and physically untroubled by this, his Oedipus at Colonus almost regenerated, renewed by the holy light.

I'm sure this will be remembered as one of the year's key performances - itself surrounded and enhanced by so much brilliance. I don't think any night was filmed, sadly, so am not expecting a DVD. However, it was broadcast on the radio - so, if you're in a region where you can use BBC iPlayer Radio, you can find the recording here for the next three weeks (after the date on this blog post). Please, if you can listen - do.

New haunts

Time for Specs to don his photography hat again. With a couple of stand-alone 'assignments' alongside my current longer-term project (the latest portraits for that featured in my recent post, 'Picture this'), I've been enjoying one of my busiest ever periods with the camera. I feel particularly lucky that as time has gone on, not only are my 'photo-army' of friends still happy to take part in front of the lens, but their collaborative input has increased. I love it when the models themselves come up with styles or locations - it puts me in different situations/modes - even realms, to some extent, and keeps me on my toes: more reacting, more creating, more improvising, and hopefully more improving.

Al and I had already talked about a number of things we wanted to try on our second session (the first is here). Since we're likely to link together photos from, say, three outings overall, we held over certain characteristics from the first shoot - one of the outfits, plus the use of a brutalist location. Al had already lined up a second dress, off-white, that would tone perfectly with most of the stone we encountered while countering it with a floral motif - and she also suggested making even more this time of the 'Hair'! We discussed the possibility of doing portraits that had an otherworldly feel, a sense of the eerie and off-kilter.

Even in the more 'normal' photos, I sometimes used some soft focus or muted colours to ensure that the image in the picture was never an exact match for what the eye might see alone.

We used a wooden post as a handy framing device - in tandem with Al's cascade of hair, it makes her facial expression difficult to read - as if just looking in on us?

I didn't want Al to be explicitly 'witchy', or alien, or a ghost. She's still wearing heels and a modern watch. However, I did want to convey a sense that she might not be all she seemed. Moving at times away from a brutalist location to more timeless backgrounds, we shot poses where she seemed to need contact with the structures, as if they were supplying some kind of energy...

(For the shot below, we couldn't help but think of the Japanese horror film 'Ring'. I also wanted that sense of slightly inhuman movement for the following shot - the leg just visible as well as the arm to give the idea she has to work her way around the location, drawing power from it, rather than just walking.)

Another theme was the use of doors, windows - or sometimes just apertures and wall markings - to suggest a transition from 'elsewhere'. The more surreal, the better - for example, the door in the shot below is well below Al's actual height...

...while here, in one of my favourite pictures from the whole day, I climbed up to get an unnaturally high vantage point and allow Al to seemingly emerge from the ground.

An obliging set of steps down into (or up from) the river gave us perhaps our strangest images. (Luckily, I don't think you can tell that a group of atmos-puncturing tourists were buzzing around us at the time, making a racket and taking pictures of me taking pictures of Al... I'd be interested to hear what they tell the folks back home when they get round to showing them those snaps!)

Finally, every shoot has its happy accidents: the next shot is a simple out-take - Al wasn't posing and I snapped it without thinking - while you can see how the elements came to our aid for the portrait below. Thanks to Al for her brilliant part in the proceedings.

Frozen in time: 'The Dark Mirror'

Layer upon layer, like snow.

First layer - Schubert

Schubert's 'Winterreise' is arguably the greatest art-song cycle ever written. But it got off to a famously rocky start. The composer found 12 poems from Wilhelm Müller's sequence and set them - only to discover the other 12 later on (which is why the overall sequence of the cycle differs from the Müller original). He performed the first batch of songs enthusiastically to a gathering of utterly baffled friends, who couldn't find a way into their overarching melancholy. At the time, Schubert said they were his best work, and that the group would come to like them as much as he did.

'Winterreise' ('Winter Journey') is sung in the persona of a traveller, walking away from the town where he lost his true love. (This isn't opera, so for once she isn't dead - but has moved on, making a good marriage to someone else.) Song by song, he appears to 'progress', but how far he actually gets is not clear: in a state of existential despair, he addresses landmarks, objects or natural phenomena that all drive his thoughts ruthlessly back to his ex: from the weathervane on her house, to the postal delivery from the town; from the snow in the meadow where they walked, to a falling leaf (like his hope) and a cold, grey morning (like his heart). Finally, he meets a mysterious hurdy-gurdy player, and suggests they travel together, playing his songs.

The appearance of the hurdy-gurdy man could mean 'death' or 'journey's end' - it feels impossible to separate the searing angst of 'Winterreise' from Schubert's knowledge that he was dying while working on it. But of course, the words are Müller's, not Schubert's - and it seems more likely (given the droning nature of the instrument and the lyrical reference to how 'everything keeps turning') that the traveller must, in fact, keep going for ever. I also think there's a strong implication that the hurdy-gurdy player is hanging around in the same place, as if the traveller has got nowhere. After all, the cycle can easily withstand modern/psychoanalytical interpretations - for example, whether the journey is in fact all in the protagonist's mind. It's also - I believe - gender-blind (we know the lost love is a woman, and there was 'talk of marriage' - so, while by convention, the protagonist has to be a man, I can't find a clearly-stated reference to the traveller's sex). This is perhaps reflected in the increasing number of recordings by women - mezzo Alice Coote's rendition (recorded live at the Wigmore Hall with Julius Drake) would easily be one of my desert island versions. [EDIT, some months later: I've since changed my mind slightly about this - I now think it more likely that the 'voice' of the piece is definitely male, and that women performers approach it like a 'trouser role'. It seems to be part of loving 'Winterreise' that one constantly keeps re-thinking it - so no bad thing.]

Second layer: Zender

While the original version of 'Winterreise' - voice and piano - marches deathlessly on, it seems to be one of those masterpieces that compels artists to get under its bonnet and tinker with it. Perhaps it's human nature to want to understand or explain how perfection can occur. (The other examples that leap to mind are Bach's works for solo violin or solo cello, constantly cropping up in versions on other instruments because their magnetic pull is too great for musicians to resist.) To my limited knowledge, 'Winterreise' - or parts of it - has been arranged for solo piano, piano trio, string quartet ... and, here, chamber orchestra.

Zender's arrangement dates back to 1993. Before hearing it, I wondered to what extent it would be a 'deconstruction' or dismantling of the original, but I think it is in fact a work of ardent respect. Instruments are used where appropriate to create sound-effects. Elements here and there feel tweaked and tampered with, but the most deliberately obvious 'sabotage', for shock value, are the few moments where the singer gives full vent to their anguish, departing from the melody into a cry or roar.

This is probably one reason why the key influence on the piece for me is Weill/Weimar, with moodswing winds and accordion providing that distinctive, sinister allure. It's a perfect match for 'Winterreise', with its queasy, nihilistic beauty... that placing of resolve, even humour alongside a knowing fear or despair.

(This image is by Tristram Kenton / Lightmap.)

Third layer: Jones, Bostridge

At the Barbican Theatre, then, for 'The Dark Mirror', a production - or perhaps 'realisation' - of Zender's 'Winterreise', directed by Netia Jones and performed by tenor Ian Bostridge, with the Britten Sinfonia, conducted by Baldur Bronnimann.

The stage is almost bare, but for a tree on one side, and the orchestra on the other. Central is a huge, black rectangle (defined at its edges by small bright lights), with a platform crossing it at an angle. As the first song, 'Gute Nacht', begins - stretched into agonising sparseness - a spotlight slowly illuminates IB, sitting on a chair near the top of the platform. He sings with his face still in shadow, until delivering the first of Zender's jarring howls - when he turns to face the audience, and we can properly see he's in black tie, with white face make-up rendering his features gaunt and eyes cavernous. Bleached-out footage of a howling wolf plays behind him in the white of his spotlight. The effect is genuinely chilling, and the silent audience are hooked from that point on.

Bostridge has an especially close relationship with 'Winterreise'. I believe he has sung it for at least as long as he's been a professional (just over 20 years), performed and toured it with a number of pianists, and recorded it twice: a recital performance with Leif Ove Andsnes on piano, and some years before that, in a film - a kind of extended classical version of a 'pop video', semi-dramatised with sumptuous visual effects and an incredibly youthful-looking IB, already nearing his mid-30s, accompanied on piano by Julius Drake. (It's available on DVD in a bargain package with his recordings of all three Schubert song cycles, should you fancy a look.) Most recently, he's written an entire book devoted to 'Winterreise', with the revealing sub-title 'Anatomy of an Obsession'.

Bostridge is a 'love him or hate him' singer (I'm in the former camp), who makes a beautiful sound but sometimes chooses not to - in moments of high intensity or stress in a performance, he'll unleash an uglier timbre or increase his already hyperactive stage movements. I'm all for this - I can't shake the feeling that Schubert would've approved of someone giving themselves up so completely to the euphoria/tragedy of his lieder that (a) they look like they might need medical attention afterwards and (b) they seem to not care less about whether you like what they're doing or not. So detractors might see him as 'mannered' or 'aloof', but if so, I regard this as completely performance-enhancing, and tend to sit enthralled at his recitals.

Netia Jones (who combines video art with her live stage direction), recognising the vice-like grip 'Winterreise' has on the singer - and in particular seizing on the existence of the 1997 film - has created a concept that will only work with IB at its centre. Once we get going into the cycle proper, the bare rectangle on stage reveals jagged black divisions that look like cracks, as excerpts from the film are projected behind our 'live' Bostridge. The man himself goes through three outfits, which seem to carry personas with them: the cabaret singer of the opening; then - in a brilliant visual coup - he appears in the same outfit we've been seeing him wear in the film projection; then, finally, he emerges in modern white tie.

Jones weaves cleverly-shot new footage into the backdrop, so that not only does the IB on stage look up (as well as back) at his younger self, he 'enters' the film to confront him on-screen. This highlights an element of bravery in Bostridge's performance: clearly, he is not by any means 'old' - but he must be well aware of the startling difference between the 'boy' in the video and the artificially-aged character he is now portraying.

This doesn't serve to make one want to put Bostridge in a care home - it's more to do with emphasising how much of his life has been consumed by 'Winterreise'. We're led to infer that Bostridge cannot escape the piece and has more or less become one with it, even absorbed into it. (This idea of finding autobiographical aspects in one's repertoire reminds me again of Alice Coote - specifically her excellent recital 'Being Both', which used some gloriously-sung Handel to convey the effect regular playing of both male and female roles had on the performer's identity.) In his third 'character', he has music on a stand as a prop - which he deliberately fumbles and drops, drifting from being rooted to the spot, into his more usual, mobile performance style. Has he fully 'become' the traveller, always destined to sing the same cycle, over and over? He makes his way through the Britten Sinfonia, half-onstage as if a character themselves, waiting in the wings - and in superb 'voice' throughout.

I felt that Jones did brilliantly by her leading man. With Bostridge there in the flesh, it felt like she could focus on bringing the themes alive visually around him. The evening was flamboyantly cinematic, conjuring up the Weimar effect as film noir, with IB frozen in searchlights, or trapped in broken-shard images: Orson Welles might've been pleased to see his Third Man get together with his Lady of Shanghai in this way. Equally, the English surtitles were projected within the screen rather than above it, in arresting upper case - impossible not to think of those great Saul Bass title sequences for (among others) Hitchcock... which inevitably made me think about 'Vertigo', that ruthless study of a man drawn into re-living part of his life...

I suspect one could go on finding associations like this - for example, was the single tree on stage (which Bostridge didn't really acknowledge) a nod to Beckett's Godot, where the travellers never get anywhere, and one never arrives?

This kind of thing - references to other media outside the work being performed - comes with risks attached and can fall flat. But I felt that 'The Dark Mirror' admirably escaped the potential clichés and pitfalls of 'trying to make the work relevant to a modern audience/culture', and the cliches that sometimes entails. Instead, it did a great job of showing just how many of our contemporary visual and musical techniques are relevant to 'Winterreise' and its unending greatness.