Tuesday, November 5, 2024
Monday, October 28, 2024
Mahler Seven by the Tonhalle Zurich under Paavo Jarvi in ADDA Alicante
A concert program that devotes 77 minutes to a single
work is not commonly encountered. Yes, there are the symphonies of Mahler and
Bruckner and Shostakovich, but what else would commonly occupy such a length of
time? It was with some excitement that this big event was anticipated.
The bill was, without question, up to the challenge. Zurich’s
Tonhalle Orchestra is certainly one of the world’s leading orchestras, and Paavo
Järvi’s name could not be bigger in the world of conducting. This particular Mahler
Symphony, number seven, is one that I last heard in live performance in a
concert over fifty years ago on London’s South Bank. So even the torrential
rain in Alicante that surrounded this evening could not damp the enthusiastic
anticipation.
Well, did the evening live up to the expectation? Of
course it did. The performance was faultless, even brilliant at times, even if
it could be argued the Paavo Järvi’s tempo in the faster sections of the first
movement could have been a little faster. The
overall impression, however, was that the contrasted were stark but never grotesque.
This is truly sophisticated music that almost constantly surprises the listener,
and it must be expertly played to make sense. The Tonhalle Orchestra took every
challenge in its substantial stride and in this variation-like movement, one
could not even hear the joins.
Mahler 7 is a groundbreaking symphony in many ways,
not least in its structure. A first movement that is alternatively fast and
then reflective lasts for 22 minutes. Its loose variation form revisits the
same material, but Mahler’s imagination keeps the sound fresh throughout, never
in the slightest repetitive. The central section of the movement, that
momentary vision of marital bliss, does eventually disintegrate to chaos.
The finale is Mahler perhaps at his most optimistic.
The movement seems to dance several waltzes along the way, but overall the
feeling is that everyone is having a good time, even though the dance may seem
to have a strange shape here and there.
The central scherzo is a very strange experience. Mahler
more often than not uses the scherzo to be loud, abrasive, even cynical. But in
the seventh, it seems more like a bad dream half-remembered. In between two movements,
entitled Night Music, it sounds as if the composer was trying to get to sleep, then
nodded off for a short time and dreamt, and then woke up before dawn to lie
awake again. The night music movements are perhaps stranger than the scherzo,
given their placement after a grand opening and before a triumph for
conclusion. Overall, Mahler’s seventh seems like an inverted arch, with a
keystone sticking up annoyingly in the middle to stop listeners from sliding
down or up.
On a thoroughly successful evening, when the concert
received rapturous applause from its audience, I find the need again to praise
the ADDA audience for being such wonderful listeners. It’s as if this audience
actually absorbs the music.
Saturday, October 19, 2024
Paquito D'Rivera and Aaron Copland under Jost Vicent in Adda, Alicante
He also told us that a friend told him a joke about an
elephant, and that led to the composition of the piece that opened the concert,
The Elephant and the Clown. This orchestral work lasts about eight minutes and
features an array of percussion and lines that might be described as jazz riffs
played by different sections of the orchestra, especially the strings. This is
upbeat, optimistic music, which presents a sophisticated, improvised style to
larger forces.
“The Journey”, Rice and Beans Concerto followed. This
was utterly original in that it featured a quintet of soloists, playing
percussion, piano, cello, harmonica and clarinet, the latter played by the
composer himself. This combo of soloists played in concerto fashion alongside
the orchestra in the piece that mixed Cuban rhythms with jazz, with classical
forms, with African influences, and even the sounds of Chinese music, since one
of the piece’s movements was inspired by a visit to a Chinese barrio in Havana.
Antonio Serrano played harmonica and Pepe Rivero piano. Yuvisney Aguilar
clearly had wonderful time on percussion, while Guillame Latil made light of an
incredibly demanding and significant cello part, originally played in the work’s
premiere by Yo-Yo Ma.
Overall, the three sections Beans, Rice, and The Journey
made a spectacular impression on the audience, with again apparent jazz riffs
regularly racing through the scoring. But this was not “light” music. There are
really challenging sounds in this score, and many quotational references, both thematically
and texturally to the concert hall repertoire of the twentieth century.
An encore was inevitable. Another short orchestral
piece by Paquito D’Rivera filled the bill perfectly. Personally, I have never
heard his music before this concert and this experience will surely have me thoroughly
explore his works.
The other half of the contrast, in theory, came in the
shape of the Symphony No. 3 of Aaron Copland. Could this be further from the
riffs and improvisatory style of the first half? Surely this is one of the twentieth
century’s major works…
And it was here that the stroke of Josep Vicent’s
artistic direction emerged, because repeatedly in this score Aaron Copeland
uses jazz like patterns in the strings. They are not as fast, not as
advertently virtuosic as those that Paquito D’Rivera had written, but they were
there. And, well, Paquito D’Rivera might be a Cuban, but he has spent much of
his artistic life in the USA, effectively importing an émigré style and
presenting it to an American audience. But we must remind ourselves that Aaron Copland’s family were themselves emigres from Russia. So this quintessentially
American music might just have its roots elsewhere!
Copland’s Third Symphony is itself an optimistic
affirmation of individuality. Just like jazz. And by the time the theme of The Fanfare
for the Common Man appeared in the last movement, having been regularly
suggested throughout the previous three, the effect is totally symphonic. The
music seems to grow, with an idea that is bigger than its own sound.
But it is never secure in its affirmation. Modal
harmonies see to that, always suggesting a major key, but always refusing to
forget the possibility of the minor. There is always somewhere else in mind.
Both Aaron Copland and Paquito D’Rivera remind us that we are all in the mix
together, influenced by many cultures and sharing the same world.
Shostakovich’s Waltz from the Jazz Suites came as an
encore. Its surreal use of a minor key for the dance’s main theme always
surprises. Paquito D’Rivera also felt a certain surprise when the second encore
offered Happy Birthday to him to celebrate his seventy years on stage.
Tuesday, October 1, 2024
Sunday, September 29, 2024
Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton
This is a masterpiece of story-telling. It is short - about 130 pages - and tells the tale of a man living an isolated life in New England. The time is not specific, but the feel is always contemporary with the date of publication, which was 1911. The narrator met Ethan Frome in Starkfield, Massachusetts and immediately his countenance made its impression. He is described as already looking “as if he was dead and in hell.” The narrator sets about telling the story of Ethan Frome, a story that apparently is hard to extract from the laconic people who inhabit this part of New England. The structure of the novel, we are told, reflects this local habit, but by the time we are half way through, the reticence seems to have eased.
Starkfield
is a harsh place. Winters are particularly difficult, and people measure
lifespan by the number of winters they have survived. This is not a sociable
community, we are told, and people live isolated lives. It is an isolation that
in some ways is dictated by their environment. “Beyond the orchard lay a field
or two, the boundaries lost under drifts; and above the fields, huddled against
the white immensities of land and sky, one of those lonely New England farmhouses
that make the landscape lonelier.” It is thus a place where the distance
between people renders everything lonelier.
Ethan
Frome has a sick wife. She needs a home help, live-in assistance. Mattie Silver
is hired. She is young, full of life and frankly not much of a help. She is a
relative of Ethan Frome’s wife, Zelda, and so is tolerated. Ethan is attracted.
Mattie changes his life.
What happens is so important to the story that how it happens cannot be described. Let it be said that what appears to be a simple love triangle does not turn out to be so. Though reticent, these people live charged emotional lives and conflict is never far removed from the cold.
Edith Wharton’s prose is wonderfully evocative of this
isolated and inward-looking community. In her fiction, she is generally an
urban creature, wandering the society events of New York, describing the nuances
of class politics among the well-to-do. The fact that in Ethan Frome she
inhabits a quite different environment with fundamentally different people
living different lives is testament to her skill as a writer.
Dialogues and Natural History of Religion by David Hume
As ever,
David Hume comes across as a logical positivist of the eighteenth century. For
him, it seems that there are three possible positions to take on any natural
phenomenon, belief or custom. First, something may be known. Where science has
trod, where theory has been discussed and where findings have been demonstrated
and then reproduced, Hume will admit no deviation of interpretation. Everything
else is folly. Secondly, something may be widely assumed but as yet it remains
unproven. Though he regularly alludes to such phenomena, he actually rarely
analyses consequences of taking a particular standpoint, or pronounces on
whether such things, perhaps at a later date, might become known. Throughout
his pronouncements on such topics, he reveals himself to be as unquestioning of
his assumed culture as anyone who espouses religion. An illustration of this
tendency would be his regular reference to “savages”, people who don’t really qualify as human beings. These beings tend to
live in Africa, in “jungles” or even in Asia. These are, of course, my own
tongue-in-cheek words. He does not question the labels he uses, or their
existence as such. But he repeats the position and clearly sees no reason to
question it, despite the fact that it is not a “known” fact, in terms of there
existing any kind of proof – or, for that matter, even evidence.
The third
category in Hume’s thought relates to things that are unknown. Not only do
these phenomena exist outside his concept of science in that they cannot be
tested, but also, they defy description in a way that human beings can
comprehend them. It is in this third category, the unknown, that human beings
find fertile ground for their pronouncements of religion.
What is
known is adequately described by this passage: “if the cause be
known only by the effect, we never ought to describe to it any qualities beyond
what our precise the requisite to produce the effect: nor can we, by any rules
of just reasoning, return back from the cause, and other effects from it, beyond
those by which alone it is known to us.” Here the process of scientific
inference is raised to the status of a rational god, perhaps. But it is
rational…
What is
assumed but not proven is illustrated by this assertion: “I
am sensible, that, according to the past experience of mankind, friendship is
the chief joy of human life, and moderation the only source of tranquility and
happiness. I never balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of life;
but I’m sensible, that, to a well-disposed
mind, every advantage is on the side of the former.” The assertion exists because he
believes it, and can cite evidence, but he does not have proof. But equally he does
not admit belief, believing that at some point the quality may be tested and
proven, perhaps.
What is
unknown, outside of human inference facilitated by a scientific method, then
becomes explained by speculation, or invention. Human beings hold up a mirror
to the universe, and in its see themselves and interpret phenomena beyond their
understanding as mere aspects of themselves. “…there is an
universal tendency among mankind to conceive all beings like themselves, and to
transfer to every object, those qualities with which they are familiar
acquainted, and of which they are intimately conscious. We find human faces in
the moon, arm is in the clouds; and buy a natural propensity, if not corrected
by experience and reflection, ascribe, malice, or goodwill to everything, that
hurts or pleases us. Hence the frequency and beauty of […] poetry; where trees,
mountains and streams are personified, and the inanimate parts of nature,
acquire sentiment and passion. although these poetical figures and expressions
gain not on the belief, they may serve, at least, to prove a certain tendency
in the imagination, without which they could neither be beautiful nor natural…
philosophers cannot entirely exempt themselves from this natural frailty, but
have often described it to inanimate matter the horror of a vacuum […] and
sympathies, and other affections of human nature. The absurdity is not less,
while we cast our eyes upwards; and transferring, as is to usual, human
passions, and infirmities to the deity, representing him as a jealous as
jealous and revengeful, capricious and partial, and, in short, a wicked and
foolish man, in every respect, but his superior power and authority.”
Personally,
I have often wondered why, given our knowledge of the universe and our place
within it, why the religious continue to use personal pronouns and human labels
to refer to gods. “He, Father, Lord” are common: “it” and “thing” are not. In a
reconstructed terminology, “The Lord is my Shepherd” would thus become “It is a
thing”. Without the completely human dimension, the phrase becomes meaningless.
With the human dimension raised to a status of essential, the phrase no longer
describes anything that might not be earth-bound.
Hume
expands on this elsewhere: “…the great source of our mistake in
this subject, and of the unbounded license of conjecture, which we indulge, is,
that we consider ourselves, as in the place of the Supreme Being, and conclude,
that he will, on every occasion, observe the same conduct […] in his situation,
would have embraced as reasonable and eligible. But, besides that the ordinary
course of nature may convince us that almost everything is regulated by
principles and maxims very different from ours, besides this, I say, it must
evidently appear contrary to all rules of analogy to reason, from the
intentions and projects of men, to those of Being so different, and so much
superior.” He also
equates the tendency to adopt religious believe to ignorance: “…it
seems certain, that, according to the natural progress of human thought, the
ignorant multitude must first entertain some groveling and familiar notion of
superior powers, before they stretch the conception to that perfect Being, will
be stowed order on the whole frame of nature.” He does however admit that there are possibilities for
the committed: “A little philosophy, says Lord Bacon, makes men atheists: a
great deal reconciles them to religion.”
Dialogues and Natural History of Religion are a superb illustration of what
drove David Hume towards his eighteenth-century version of logical positivism.
They come here with copious notes, where the numerous classical illusions are
clarified, and where the author’s references to contemporary writers and texts,
now forgotten, are referenced.
The Children Act by Ian McEwan
Ian McEwan’s novel The Children Act is probably as close to the label masterpiece as any piece of fiction might get. Having just read David Hume’s ideas on religion, where the all-powerful takes on a human face, where rational thought is raised the status of an ivory tower, and where human prejudice regularly masquerades as potentially rational opinion, this novel provided a perfect fit to counterbalance and contextualise continued thought about these fundamental issues.
The novel
immediately introduces Fiona. She is married, her adopted surname of Maye
appearing sometime later. She is a judge. She has risen to a significant
pinnacle within her profession. Married to Jack, for who knows how long, she
shares a relationship which is both childless and lately unsteady, largely
because Fiona’s work seems to take
over her life.
She is
very thorough. The law requires judgments to be correct, justifiable within the
confines of the law, itself, especially in the UK according to precedent, but
they must also at least approach the concept of natural justice, in that they
must at least appear to be morally as well as legally justifiable. The process
of reconciling these two demands often results in conflict. Complication arises
when the subject of the legal action is a child, because, when that child is
below the age of majority, eighteen years of age, the child is not deemed
mature or responsibly enough to make up its own mind.
Fiona
specializes in cases involving children. These may be to determine custody
after divorce, protection against a malevolent parent or merely an absent one.
They may involve a care order, where a child is judged to need the safety or
stability of institutional care when parents are abusive, drug addicted,
negligent, alcoholic, or merely absent. The issues may be fairly clear, but
nothing is more complicated than human relationships. And even when these are
simple, we seek to complicate them. But when seventeen-year-old is the subject of
legal action, the situation is more complex. Especially when religion has
reared its complicated head…
Adam has leukaemia
and needs a blood transfusion. Without it, his chances of survival are limited
because the drugs that form half of his treatment only work if a transfusion is
carried out. Alan, like his parents, however, is a Jehovah’s
Witness, to whom blood transfusions are anathema, simply not allowed. The
question for Fiona to judge upon is whether the child can refuse treatment,
whether his parents are denying him a chance of life for ideological reasons
and whether the professionals involved should countermand the parents’ and the
patient’s wishes. Fiona decides to visit Adam in hospital to inform her
position. This happens against the backdrop of her own marriage failing, her husband
walking out and an approaching eighteenth birthday for Adam, meaning that then
he will be able to decide for himself what happens. She finds Adam interesting.
Adam finds Fiona slightly more than captivating.
What happens is the book’s plot, and a reader will
just have to discover it by reading the book. What I can write to conclude my
review is the fact that these issues of the correctness or rationality or
otherwise of belief come into sharp focus when ideology becomes a life and
death issue. And Ian McEwan deals with these issues in a highly complex and
transparent manner, which is also highly creative. What will always be dilemmas
without resolution are presented as such, but somehow, they are never
complicated. Decisions taken always seem justified by circumstance. What people
do scene by scene makes sense, but then overall everything is driven by the
moment, by assumption and by personal identity that we cannot control, because
it grows within us, apparently independently. Fiona approaches every situation
with a judge’s eye for the law, with an eye for accuracy and correctness.
Internally, she reveals herself as vulnerable, open to instinctive and
irrational thoughts.
What Ian McEwan does is portray character supremely
well, providing a balance between the professional, the personal, and the
social elements that contribute to make a human being. David Hume’s quote from
Bacon really does ring true, that when we become really involved in the issue,
then the case for religion strengthens. As for Fiona, life must go on. But how?