Coincidental chat

I do like a coincidence. Especially one involving friends and strangers. I should perhaps warn you now that this is something of a self-indulgent blog post. So, a couple of Saturdays ago I was in London for a concert by the Orchestra of St Paul’s (OSP). This classy chamber orchestra played Bartok, Beethoven, Lipatti and Mozart, in a concert in LSO St Luke’s. If you’ve never been there, then go. A peaceful, musical oasis on Old Street, it’s a gorgeous former church in which the modern concert hall fittings are juxtaposed with the old bare brick walls. You can see the trees through the large windows. But I digress. I was there for OSP, out of both musical curiosity and friendship. I know the orchestra’s principal cellist, Morwenna Del Mar, and the conductor and OSP founder Ben Palmer. Personal ties aside, this classy chamber orchestra is definitely worth a listen.* One of the several young ensembles around at the moment – the Aurora Orchestra and Spira Mirabilis are just two others in the limelight – OSP’s calling card is playing with ‘pure tone’, that is no vibrato, on modern instruments. No surprise then that the orchestra’s patron is the man who pioneered this practice, Sir Roger Norrington. And there was an intriguing item on the programme that night: the UK premiere of the Concertino in the Classical Style by Dinu Lippati. It turned out to be a rather fun suite-like work with touches of dreamy Bach and playful Haydn, all played with sparkle by pianist Alexandra Dariescu.

Cut to the following weekend. Victoria Park, Hackney. It’s Field Day, an alternative festival packed with hipsters. The line-up included Metronomy, Sleigh Bells and Beirut. As the sun came out, people lounged in front of the main stage, drinking beer and cider. Quite a different crowd from last Saturday. You can probably see where this is going, although perhaps not the surreal twists. Off we go. In the queue for the toilets with my friend Orla, a Prince-William-mask-wearing man asked if I would be his Princess. Hmm. Well, no, I said, smiling. But then we got chatting – it was a long queue – and it turned out he was French, with a wacky sense of humour: ‘I’m Clement, like the weather; you’re Orla, like the Mexican wave; and you’re Rebecca, like the Mexican wave as well.’ Readers, you might have possibly guessed from this blog, that I have a soft spot for all things French. But that’s not the coincidence. Nor is the ‘surely-not moment’ the fact that it turned out one of his French friends worked for the same Bristol-based animation company that Orla used to work for. No, the real coincidence was odder than that. We went over to chat to his friends in French/Franglais/English. ‘What do you do?’, Alexandre and Yann asked me. ‘I’m a classical music journalist.’ ‘Wow. [I might have imagined that bit.] Actually, we went to a really good concert last week…’

Thank you for indulgence. 

* It seems to me a good rule of thumb not to review concerts given by your friends – even if you keep your professional distance, how does the reader know that you have? Is that glowing review genuine? Or have you gone the other way and become overly-critical in the name of even-handedness? And that’s before considering your friendship and the effects a review could have on that. Acknowledging this, and given that this is a personal blog and not a professional review, let me just say, honest, guv, this orchestra, its conductor and principal cellist are definitely names to watch. 

Culture vulture

Tra Nguyen (piano)
At the 1901 Arts Club, Exton Street, London

A tiny shoebox-shaped salon with a Steinway grand piano at one end; heavy gold curtains, and chairs upholstered in plush red; the strains of Waterloo Station in the background: the 1901 Arts Club is an intimate, nostalgic venue. Schubert, Schumann and Raff – not spot on datewise, but at home in this intimate settting – were on the programme, performed by the thoughtful, warm and moving – if not always dazzling – pianist Tra Nguyen.

Nico Muhly • Owen Pallett
Barbican, London

I’m clearly not New-York-kooky-cool enough for this ‘alternative-classical’ evening. Missy Mazzoli’s sea-inspired orchestral opener washed right by me; Owen Pallett’s Violin Concerto had its hypnotic moments; Nico Muhly’s Cello Concerto: piquant, energetic, but shouldn’t composer John Adams get a credit? And all those fabulous musicians left underused by the song-led second half, which became more hyperactive teenage-boy-in-a-bedroom exploring sounds than anything more profound.

Death of Klinghoffer
ENO, London 

John Adams’s opera tackling the true story of a disabled American Jewish man who is pushed overboard by Palestinian terrorists, hijackers of a cruise ship. Controversial for giving both sides of the story, the London premiere only took place this year, 11 years after the world first saw it in Brussels. Yes, I agree it’s an important work, it’s important for composers to tackle tough, contemporary subjects. But where was the drama? It might be more in the Passion or oratorio tradition than an operatic one, but JS Bach’s two Passions are gripping and compelling. There was snoring in the seat next to me at ENO.

Into the Abyss
Watershed, Bristol 

Another controversial subject: the death penalty. The always-fascinating filmmaker Werner Herzog turns his telling eye to this thorny matter, exploring a case of triple homicide. He’s anti the penalty, so am I. Yet this was a well-balanced documentary, and it was hard not to believe the woman, whose brother was a victim, when she said, somehow, on his murderer’s death, there was a sense of closure. Disturbing.

In Darkness
Watershed, Bristol

Too many dark films lately: this is another film based in truth, the story of Polish Jews who end up hiding in the sewers, kept alive by one man. A shocking story, but somehow the film was less than the sum of its parts.

The Kid with a Bike
Watershed, Bristol

Beautifully made, superbly paced film from the Belgian Dardenne brothers. A young boy, Cyril, is rejected by his father and sent to a home. Cyril asks a local hairdresser to look after him at the weekends, and a poignant relationship unfolds, bringing hope in the face of violence and the human capacity to inflict cruelty. Unsentimental and clear-eyed. One of the best films I’ve seen this year.

Aurora Orchestra
St George’s, Bristol

The youthful, dynamic orchestra-of-the-moment on tip-top, ear-opening form. Strauss’s Metamorphosen was the showstopper: rich, heartfelt and turning those note-spinning passages into something inexorable and devastating. Mozart’s grave C minor Adagio and Fugue opened the concert; his chic Parisian symphony followed the Strauss. Bernstein finished it all with a flourish.

King Lear
Tobacco Factory, Bristol

Shhh. Don’t tell anyone. This was the first time I’d ever seen Shakespeare’s King Lear. (Spoiler alert.) The Earl of Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out?! Unbelievably gruesome. After a slow first half, the Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory’s cast picked up the pace, giving a moving, grim performance.

Death’s Cabaret
Bristol Old Vic 

I liked the unusual concept: two halves featuring first a mini-concert by a string quartet, who then, in the second part, play in a ghost story told by a single narrator, who also stars as a solo cellist. Shame then that the story was so cliché-ridden. Distinctly un-spine-chilling.

Life and Fate

I'm just about to start reading Vasily Grossman's Life and Fate. It's 855 pages long, with a battle map to start, and an 8-page list of the 'chief characters' at the end. On the backcover, Tolstoy's War and Peace is recommended as further reading. I could be a while.

Knowing it all

The Encyclopedia Britannica is to breathe its last in print form. From henceforth, the many-volumed reference bible will only be available online. Will it survive the effects of the omnipotent Wikipedia? Or did it gain something from its very physicality? Its unignorable presence on the shelves of schools and libraries? I had a wonderful Russian flatmate when I lived in France who always said that, when she had her first home, her first child, she'd make sure that she had an Encyclopedia Britannica. It'd be a symbol of aspiration, of hunger for knowledge and learning, a demonstration of the breadth of human understanding. From A to Z, it'd give her child the skeleton of what a grown-up should know, an appetite for exploring elsewhere. I wonder if you can get that sense of knowing what you should know from an online version? Or will its two-dimensionality hide it from us, leaving only a vague sense of what it is that we don't know?

Fraught memories

Time for some homework for this month's BBC Music Magazine podcast. Top of the list is a fabulous new recording of Beethoven and Berg Violin Concertos from violinist Isabelle Faust, the Orchestra Mozart and conductor Claudio Abbado. Berg's luscious, hyper-Romantic piece was written in 'The Memory of an Angel'. Commissioned by the violinist Louis Krasner, its emotional world has a tragic inspiration, the death of an 18-year-old friend of Berg's, Manon Gropius. Berg himself died just eight months after finishing it; he wasn't alive for the premiere, in Barcelona with Krasner. Here's an old recording of Krasner with Anton Webern conducting:

My other blog...

Sometimes, when I'm not blogging here, I'm bundling up my thoughts for a blog with a different purpose - work. Writing about music is of course a pleasure, although it can be pretty hard work too. Here are links to a few of the posts I've written for BBC Music Magazine.

Violinist Alina Ibragimova made a wonderful impression with her Js Bach/Vivaldi/Biber concert in Bath; The Plight of the Page Turner: one of the most nerve-racking tasks in music?; My top nine symphonies; a review of Mozart's Don Giovanni from the Met; the glorious Gould Piano Trio at St George's Bristol; Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito from Aix-en-Provence; Natalie Dessay stars as Violetta in Verdi's La traviata; the First Night of the Proms; Stephen Hough's strange sonatas recital; Beethoven from the Budapest Festival Orchestra; Cellophony: what do you call a group of eight cellists?

That's all for now folks!

I wish it were me…

A hammock on a balcony; a woman with long brown hair lounges in February sun of genuine warmth, reading her book, listening to the strains of music playing inside, every so often gazing at the panoramic view from Royal York Crescent over Bristol. A little moment of contentment.

The Transfiguration Window

What does a window do? It keeps us warm. It lets us see. It shows us what would otherwise be hidden. It lets in the light.

I’m not religious, but even to me the sacred metaphors seem to echo pretty loudly. And I also know that the stained glass of churches and cathedrals are some of the most beautiful windows around, mesmerising creations in glowing colours. Think of the breathtaking medieval glass at King’s Chapel in Cambridge, the Rose window in Notre Dame. Or, my new favourite, the stunning arch window in Durham Cathedral unveiled just over a year and a half ago, made by Thomas Denny.

The first thing that hits you is a bright burst of white light, a brilliant strip that runs down the centre of the window. Glass in orangey amber hues edges it, with purple-blue at the edges. Peer a bit closer, and you see people. Small figures with delicately edged faces populate the window, scenes from the Bible played out in flickering light.

Like Van Gogh's paintings, The Transfiguration Window has a compelling power that comes into its own when you're standing there in front of it – it's a piece of art that's full of vivid life. Perhaps it's because the confluence of religious meaning and artistic means couldn't be more apt. This window depicts Christ becoming radiant; it quite literally transfigures the light.

Park Street, Bristol

The Artist

*Smiles*, *waves*, *winks*. *Thumbs up* for The Artist!

The Birthday Boys

Where and when is it set? The chilly climes of Antarctica, 1910-12.
Who is in it? The five main characters are the real men who lost their lives on the fateful expedition to the South Pole: Petty Officer Edgar (Taff) Evans; Dr Edward (Uncle Bill) Wilson; The Owner: Capt. Robert Falcon (Con) Scott; Lt. Henry Robertson (Birdie) Bowers; Capt. Lawrence Edward (Titus) Oates
What happens? You already know the ending:  the trek was doomed, the Norwegians beat the Brits to it, Oates goes outside 'and may be some time'. The magic of this book lies in the telling.
So how is it told? Five narratives, each from a different perspective, each compelling in its own way. We don't know which is the most accurate, but then when do we in life?
What are the best bits? Apart from its wonderful blend of fact and fiction (the imagining of the 'truth' behind some of the famous photographs from the voyage, for example), it is Bainbridge's gift for description, and her metaphors that are captivating.
Here's a touching, vivid moment, amid the slog of a three-man, 19-day trek to Cape Crozier. Undernourished, frostbitten, weary, the explorers still found time to appreciate the surroundings, writes Birdie:
'It wasn't all misery. On one of our halts we lay spread-eagled on the ice and stared up at a sky blazing with the glory of the most wonderful aurora I'd ever witnessed. I groaned beneath the splendour of those silken curtains, yellow, green, and orange, billowing at the window of the heavens.'

The soul of a city

At the heart of Bristol lies the harbour. I know this because a sign on the side of one of the hideously bland new blocks of flats that flank the waterside tells me so. A sign that claims this historic area for its own, and, even more grandly, says these abodes are helping to create a 'soul' in the centre of the city. Well, they've got the right place, but – I'm sorry – the harbourside doesn't need the help of these architectural soggy tissues to enrich its personality. This city already has that. Take a look at the signposts on the otherside of the walkway for a hint of what really makes Bristol tick. Porto Quay, Bordeaux Quay, Hanover Quay. Yes, voyages. Ships, sailors, foreign countries. The port has formed Bristol’s soul. And like any soul, there is both dark and light within it. That spark of adventure, spirit of daring is there – it was from this West Country city that John Cabot sailed to America (thinking it was Asia); but there’s also the other side – Bristol was one of the homes of the slave trade, this dirty money providing the means to build mansion-like houses for wealthy owners, as well as – more problematically for us now – fund schools, almshouses, and aid hospitals and churches. Bristol’s history is bound to the water. Of course, that's not true now. The harbour no longer welcomes trading ships, no longer has that buzz and exchange of goods, languages and tales. But Bristol is still a city of creativity and exploration. It's home to the BBC's Natural History Unit, the crucible for Concorde, the backdrop to countless hot air balloons. That's why I get infuriated every time I walk past that marketing board, and smile when I read the quay names. Yes, they're named after Bristol's twin cities rather than the places which boats set sail for on a regular basis, but they point to one of its most valuable qualities.