Direction of travel - Copland, Bartok and Bernstein in ADDA, Alicante

It is rare for a concert program to hang together as a unit both musically and intellectually. But the latest program from the ADDA orchestra in Alicante under the direction of Josep Vicent achieved this dual goal, and a whole lot more as well. 

There were many themes, but the enduring intellectual idea was surely the experience of the immigrant in the United States of America. The composers represented, Copland, Bartok and Bernstein, all had immigrant experience in their private reality. Copland’s family originated in Russian Lithuania, Bernstein’s in Ukraine and Bartok, of course, was himself Hungarian, but resident in the United States when he wrote his last piano concerto. Eugene Goossens, who provided the theme for the Copland variation that opened the program, was British, but he spent many years in the United States, and also in Australia. And, of course, Bernstein’s masterpiece, West Side Story, was set amongst the Puerto Rican immigrant community living in New York.

Immigrants can often feel like outsiders, excluded from local culture and therefore in search of their own identity. And this feeling of detachment, perhaps not exactly estrangement, came across musically in the works chosen. I found the musical similarity, not in the notes, but in the overall concept, of the second movement of the Bartok, the Copland Quiet City and the Somewhere theme from West Side Story a tightening thread that bound these works together.

Gentle but slightly dissonant string tones characterize Bartok’s night music, which can be described as “eerie dissonances providing a backdrop to sounds of nature and lonely melodies”. The third piano concerto’s second movement is in this style and forms the emotional heart of the peace. Bartok was not only exiled when he wrote this music, but also ill and penniless. No wonder the harmonies suggest unsettled, insecure feelings.

In Quiet City, Aaron Copland tries to depict New York at night, when a clearly lonely young Jewish man blows a trumpet through the silence. The answering call of the cor anglais is like an echo, but it seems to recall a former life now lost, rather than a playback of current experience. And then to Bernstein and Somewhere which, in the orchestral suite, concludes the piece with an unsettling clash of harmonies, suggesting not only estrangement from community, but also death.

Now these musical and intellectual threads, so beautifully drawn together by this orchestra’s perfect playing, did not arise by chance. This wonderful musical experience was clearly thought through by the inspired artistic director at ADDA, Josep Vicent. And not only did it work, but he created one of the most memorable concerts I have ever had the privilege of attending.

We started with a short piece, the Copland contribution to the Jubilee Variations. Eugene Goossens provided the theme, and ten other composers wrote one variation each. We heard just the one by Aaron Copland, two minutes of the composer being his most American.

Then the Bartok piano Concerto No. 3 followed, featuring Jose de Solaun as soloist. To describe this performance as memorable would do it an injustice. The understanding and communication between director, soloist and orchestra was palpable in a work that can sometimes not knit together. In this performance it came across as a perfect unit, perfected by the playing. The slow movement was particularly memorable. The pianist then played two solo pieces by Debussy as encores for an adoring audience.

Quiet City by Aaron Copland opened the second half. Josep Vicent placed the solo trumpet high on the balcony at the side of the stage and its answering cor anglais on the opposite side of the auditorium. It was a theatrical masterstroke, serving to emphasize the separateness and the loneliness of being a member of a minority amidst a sprawling and perhaps oppressive city.

And then the rip-roaring suite from West Side Story by Leonard Bernstein allowed the orchestra to show off its virtuosity, an opportunity that the ADDA orchestra grasped with abandon. But this piece, despite its mambo, despite its big band jazz, despite its finger clicking, is eventually tragic. Star-crossed lovers die and the loss is deeply felt in the music, to such an extent that a piece that in theory arouses and excites, eventually deflates with its gut-wrenching sadness.

And then the direction really came into its own. Josep Vicent had chosen to include two encores and they provided yet another layer to the musical and intellectual threads. First, he chose to repeat the mambo with just a little audience participation. This was the lollipop that again got the audience rocking. But then, we had the funeral march from Beethoven’s seventh symphony, a reminder perhaps of the tragedy that we befell the immigrant community in West Side Story. It was a memorable evening, including pop music highs, loneliness and estrangement, loss, and death, but its real triumph was the artistic direction that created it. And under that direction, surely the ADDA orchestra, via its superb playing and its inspired programmes, can already claim to be at the pinnacle of achievement.

Óscar Esplá – music in context

Some artists seem to be inextricably linked to places. Henry Moore’s legacy is in Leeds, where he studied, but was not born. Barbara Hepworth’s is in Wakefield, where she was born but did not live. And what about Picasso? There is Malaga, when he was born, Barcelona where he lived, but what about Paris, where he did much of his memorable work? Nuremberg equals Durer, South Kensington is Lord Leighton, a Paris suburb is Gustave Moreau, Zaragoza is Goya, Figueres is Dali, Stockholm is Milles, perhaps. The list includes the better known juxtaposed with the less familiar, deliberately.

All the examples above are painters or sculptors. What about writers? There are many associations, but not so many museums dedicated to a life and its work. Spain, for example, has Blasco Ibañez in Valencia and Miguel Hernandez in Orihuela, sites chosen here for their geographical and contemporary relevance.

But what about composers and musicians? Again, there are associations, but only a few dedicated museums. There is Puccini in Lucca, Tartini in Piran, Beethoven in Vienna and Mozart in Salzburg, for instance. Bayreuth is more Wagner’s memorial rather than record. Perhaps the relative paucity of permanent exhibitions dedicated to non-visual artists reflects the fact that painting and sculpture occupy space, whereas writing and music occupy time. The dramatist Shakespeare is a crossover who occupies both space and time, and he has a museum of sorts, but Shakespeare is always a special case.

In Alicante, the main road linking the waterfront to the centre of town is called Avenida Óscar Esplá. I had walked the street many times before I realized it was named after a composer. He was born in Alicante and lived there as a youth, before heading off to Barcelona to study engineering. He then turned to philosophy and finally music. But as an adult in the nineteen thirties, like many other Spaniards, he fled Franco’s internationally tolerated brutality. He was a dedicated teacher and active composer, but, as the Zaragoza pianist, Pedro Carboné, pointed out in his discussion of the composer’s work at this week’s concert, even in his hometown one would be hard-pressed to identify recognition of his achievement, apart from the name of that street. After decades of neglect, a week of concerts in Alicante’s ADDA concert hall offered the chance to hear his music and perhaps to reassess the significance of this neglected composer. Pedro Carboné gave the first of these concerts, alongside an extensive discussion of the man and his work. Pedro Carboné is himself a noted exponent of Esplá’s music, having recorded volume one of Esplá’s complete piano works for Marco Polo in 1998.

The music must precede the life. The achievement must be the starting point of any discussion of the man. As Carboné explained, Óscar Esplá was a deceptively complex composer. A surface gloss of apparently conventional harmony, simple lines and miniature forms initially suggest populism. Anyone who listens, however, knows within seconds that this first impression is quite false. Óscar Esplá’s principal inspiration probably did come from folklore, the folk music of the region which is Alicante. It is known throughout Spain is the Levante region, the place where the sun rises, known for its brilliance, its light, its colour and, significantly, its contrasts, mountain to sea, near desert to tropical garden, remote campo to sophisticated cities. For those outside Spain, incidentally, Alicante is a long way from what is generally termed ‘flamenco’. That was the inspiration of Manuel de Falla in Andalusia. Now Esplá and de Falla are near contemporaries, with de Falla the senior by ten years. They both started composing in their teens, and even began their careers with similarly inspired impressionistic piano pieces.

Superficially, there is a similarity between the unexpected features of flamenco and the scale that Esplá developed to use as the basis of the folkloric Levante. What they share is the almost blues-like modification of a couple of notes in the diatonic scale, changes that confuse the ear between conventional major and minor keys, classifications that actually don’t apply unless your aural expectations are fixed in what you already know. Others at the time did similar things elsewhere. Bartok used a Bulgarian scale in his early work, Debussy his whole tones, Vaughn Williams his modes and Schoenberg his everything equally. The scale, for a composer, has a similar effect to a painter’s palette, and throughout history there have been individual painters and schools associated with particular groups of colours and their use. Music, though it is often overlooked, has the same colouristic characteristics and these, sometimes, are based on the scales used to express the musical language.

In Valencia, when we think of colour and painting, we automatically think of Sorolla. His principal museum might be in Madrid, and he may well be known outside Spain for the work he created for New York, but Sorolla’s oeuvre is of Valencia, of the same Levante coast that extends south to Alicante. At first sight, Sorolla and the style he founded may appear sweet, rather populist, trite, somewhat kitsch and sentimental. But that would be a misinterpretation.

Impressionism is always close by, but so is expressionism in a form where the dreams are pleasant, never frightening. But there is also the simultaneous realism and experiment of Singer Sargent. The subject matter, however, remains folkloric, domestic in its Spanish outdoor form, depicting a long-suffering but apparently docile peasant contentedly living alongside comfortable middle classes and usually less than ostentatious aristocracy. Anyone who knows Spanish history will understand both the ironic and illusory nature of this apparent harmony. This art has a surface gloss, and apparent ease, but the vivid contrast of colour reflects not only the quality of Levantine light, the montane and plane, the arid and the lush, but also a potential for spontaneous combustion in the social tinderbox, where the traditional equals poverty and insecurity and the modern implies capital, exploitation and wealth for the already well shod, though, it must be admitted, this political dimension is never explicit in Sorolla’s work.

In music, colour may be sensed via harmonic contrast as well as via the scale chosen to communicate. The latter, in Óscar Esplá’s case, continually confuses major and minor, constantly prompts the listener to review the perspective, to flip between emotional states, perhaps to see two sides of every argument. It is sound that conveys a natural cubism. Pedro Carboné was keen to point out how Esplá was always trying to insert colour through the use of chromatic harmony, shifts of rhythm, divergence in the material, inserted deliberately to push the listener onto another, only sometimes parallel path with its own unique view.

But there is another element at work. Pedro Carboné repeatedly offered examples of how Esplá’s writing for the piano was holistic in that its effect has to be experienced in its totality, but also how it relies on the juxtaposition and superimposition of often trite material, in itself less than memorable. He played several examples where the left-hand figure was heard in isolation and then the right, sequentially. Separately these two musical lines provided little that was memorable and less that was individual, but played together they intermingled to invoke colour, contrast, even counterpoint. But that counterpoint is never expressed in the linear form with which we are familiar in Bach and others. It is present more in the sense of it creating a flow of repeated ideas, like a sequence of photos from an album that seem at first sight to be random but are later recognized as chosen.

At this time, the early decades of the 20th century, other composers were also experimenting with similar processes of juxtaposition. In Mahler we abruptly move from one view to another, mix the mundane with the sophisticated, but in general we do it sequentially, again like a sequence of scenes in a film with eventually a linear plot. In Ives, however, we are often presented with these different experiences superimposed to reflect the confusion of everyday life, to mirror how easily human senses can resolve apparently conflicting experience, but it remains a resolution that requires active participation by the listener. In the music of Óscar Esplá, we have the mix of the mundane and sophisticated, but we also often have them superimposed rather than sequential.

Earlier, Alicante was cited as the land of not-flamenco, but Alicante definitely is the land of the town band. Every town has one. These are not the brass bands of northern England, though they are often similarly linked to particular types of economic activity. These are symphonic bands, with woodwind as well as brass and they often march through towns in the frequent festivals. It is common to have three or four bands playing simultaneously in a procession within the hearing of a spectator, the individual pieces perhaps nothing more than the duple rhythm of the Valencian pasodoble.

But two or three at the same time conjures up the kind of musical experience that Ives was imagining when he heard a brass band walk past the string section in a different key, playing different and completely unrelated music. Here also we have an illustration of what Pedro Carboné was demonstrating with Óscar Esplá’s simple but contrasting left- and right-hand parts in his piano music. The different bands are not playing different kinds of music. They are not playing complex harmonies. The idiom of each piece is popular, even populist. But heard at the same time, two or three bands produce the kind of oral confusion of stimuli that everyday life often creates, a melee the listener’s mind must actively interpret.

Here we have, at long last, the essence of Óscar Esplá’s music. Above all it features coloristic effects of harmony and rhythm, mirroring the contrasts of the Levante region and its brilliant light. We have the popular and folkloric, but not simply as ends in themselves, or even used as deferential gestures. In Esplá’s music, these elements merge like simultaneous marching bands to reflect the complexity of everyday oral experience. But, above all, as in Sorolla’s painting, there is a sense of beauty, of impressionistic engagement with the attractive surface of life, whilst also perhaps acknowledging the unspoken tensions that pervade everything.

Recalling Óscar Esplá’s contemporaries in Spain reveals the niche, for that is what we must accept on his behalf, into which his music fits. Manuel de Falla was steeped in Andalusia and nationalism. His music often resorts to big statements on broad canvases. He never left his folkloric inspiration behind, but he always put his audience’s ear into his work, always strove to address the popular. Frederick Mompou is more similar to Esplá in style, but perhaps not content. Like Chopin, Mompou was a grandiloquent miniaturist. His music is generally simpler than Esplá’s, deliberately and intentionally simple, it must be said, but essentially backward looking. Mompou’s world is Chopinesque, an individual romantic response to the world of experience. Its understatement is its strength, but understatement is not a characteristic of Óscar Esplá. Roberto Gerhard, like Esplá, had to leave Spain under the dictatorship. Always more interested in the atonal, even serial technique, Gerhard’s music often sounds deliberately modernistic, seeking to extend Schoenberg’s ideas and as a result becoming internalized in the individual creator’s mind rather than recalling the aural world we inhabit. Esplá’s music is often atonal, but it becomes so via techniques of juxtaposition and superimposition and therefore by musical accident, not by ideological design. Joaquin Turina is also a prime candidate for comparison. Turina’s main musical influence was found in France, but his roots were solidly in Spain’s earth. He differs from Óscar Esplá, however, in his more conventional harmonies and his use of familiar musical forms. Also, Turina rarely superimposes simultaneous material in an expressionistic or impressionistic way.

So, what is it that characterizes this music of Óscar Esplá? First and foremost, the place he knew best is depicted here, its contrasts of light, landscape, campo and city, popular and elite culture, clashing, sometimes confused aural experience that must be deciphered. There is musical impressionism in that the material is often deliberately evocative of experience, flitting from scene to scene with immediate jump cuts, often indeed superimposing images to accomplish, if nothing else, a reflection of the complexity and colour of experience. There is also conflict, but it is the implied conflict we encounter in Sorolla’s painting. It is the conflict of potential rather than current difference, where elements coexist, but at the touch of a flame could ignite. In the music of Óscar Esplá, the conflict is not ongoing, but its threat is always there. This is amplified by his musical scale’s confusion of major and minor. Through it, we are constantly reminded that things might be capable of change, that there exist different perspectives, all of which are valid.

If there is expressionism also in this music, then we might do well to carry some images of Chagall in our head. Nothing is threatening. Life in the village goes on. But the head might be green, or upside down. And the bride and groom may just be floating through the sky while the guests ignore them. It’s colourful, it’s dreamlike, but it is disorientating, sometimes disconcerting.

Above all, Óscar Esplá’s music, at least in the ears of this listener, is most reminiscent of Ravel. Now this is a name that is significant in many ways. Ravel has achieved deserved international and lasting recognition for his original music, but the corpus of his work is far from extensive. He dabbled with the sonata and string quartet, but his reputation is built on his piano and ballet music, often written in the forms that he invented to invoke particular experience or emotional states. For me, Óscar Esplá’s music, if it needs a context, is best approached via the inspiration it shares with Ravel. Esplá’s technique of juxtaposition, however, extends and amplifies these elements and perhaps renders them more vivid as a result.

So surely it is time for Óscar Esplá, the one-time engineer and philosopher who became a composer, to take his rightful place, at least alongside his contemporaries such as de Falla, Gerhard and Mompou in Spain’s musical tradition. He was an exile in Belgium. Manuel de Falla went to Argentina and Gerhard to Britain, so there is nothing unique about his exile. Just as Weinberg is appearing from the deep shadow of Shostakovich, it is surely time for Esplá to emerge from the umbra of de Falla and Turina. His music is unique and, in its own way, revolutionary.

On Tuesday 14 September 2021 in ADDA, Pedro Carboné played movements one and four from Suite Levante, Three Movements for Piano, the Sonata Española and the Berceuse from Cantos de Antaño. On Wednesday 15 September, Marisa Blanes played the first three movements from books four and five of Lírica Española, and La Tarana from Cantos de Antaño, alongside similarly evocative and contemporary works by de Falla, Ernesto Halffter and Julian Bautista.

 

Day by A. L. Kennedy is a complex at times perhaps over a complex novel about an individual’s experience of and response to war. It is set in the Second World War and crucially, its aftermath. It is a novel where the reader is presented with time shifts, changes in point of view and altered conscious states so quickly that only a slow, almost forensic progress seems possible. Though there is much to praise about the book’s non-heroic, matter-of-fact but at the same time respectful approach to its subject matter, it occasionally obfuscates rather than clarifies.

Alfred Day is the book’s eponymous principal character. He hails from Staffordshire, in the English Midlands, a place where coal mining meets ceramics factories, all within a recognizable older rural England. Alfred’s accent is working class and is often expressed phonetically, a practice that intends to preserve the sound of his voice, but often hides his complexity of meaning.

Alfred joins the Royal Air Force and becomes a gunner on a Lancaster bomber, the kind of airman who would sit alone in his glass cage trying to shoot down the fighters that came to attack the lumbering bomber. It was not a role that was often pensionable, and the regular deaths of Day’s colleagues are catalogued in all their gruesome reality.

But what is interesting about Alfred Day’s experience of war is his detachment from it. High up in the sky, his job is to defend a payload of bombs which, if the mission is to be a success, will be dumped anonymously by his aimer colleague on Hamburg, or whatever city might be the target today. The bombs are effectively dumped at random, despite their professed aim., all hitting targets that might or might not have been intended. In today’s jargon, this is where collateral damage becomes the objective. It is interesting in our language how carpet bombing is not the bombing of carpets.

Meanwhile, the airmen themselves must find ways of working together. They also must find ways of talking about what they do without ever really recognizing how gruesome or risky it will be. This often leads to a variety of euphemistic language, where expletives reign, but where expression is often lacking. The relationships made were often short-lived of necessity and, though they also had to form a team that could work together, it is generally the distance between the men that defines their fraternity. This aspect of Day is handled sensitively, even vividly throughout.

Alfred Day does find Joyce, a devoted and sincere partner. The presence of the ‘now’ in wartime seems to heighten their relationship. Neither partner seems to dream of life beyond the moment, whilst apparently constantly referring to it. War takes the relationship, as it does many others. It even seems to take the present, because when they were together it was war that dominated their thoughts, though their actions were timeless.

Alfred is eventually shot down but survives and spends time and the prisoner of war camp, where surprisingly he is quite well treated. But after the war, after his own liberation, he takes a position as an extra in a film about wartime prisoner of war experience. This later reconstruction of a reality he has in fact lived is interleaved with real experience, and for this reader, it was this juxtaposition that was the least convincing part of the novel. These different scenarios, before the war with its abusive family life, during the war flying missions and visiting Joyce, after the war on a film set, are often mixed together in a heady brew of complex flavours. Training the sense to discern location and time can be challenging. In one way, this is the book’s charm, but for many readers the experience may prove merely confusing.

Day is a moving book, but a book that does not give up in sensations easily. It is always challenging for the reader and is, nevertheless, fulfilling, though apparently never in a direct, uncomplicated way.

Fumiaki Miura plays Mendelssohn and Mozart with ADDA, Alicante - undertstated perfection

 

“Less is more” is an expression that I have often heard when I have proffered criticisms of the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Usually these words follow a criticism of mine where I use Mozart as an example of the predictability of the machinations of Classicism when contrasted with the fluidity and personal expression of nineteenth century Romanticism, or indeed the wholly personal world of twentieth century music. I have not usually given the Classical era a great deal of credibility, generally finding its products elegant, but rather repetitive and lacking in intellectual challenge. After an evening with Fumiaki Miura in ADDA, Alicante, I now understand the term “less is more” somewhat better.

Fumiaki Miura, without doubt, is one of the premiere rank of soloists currently populating the world’s concert halls. And it is rare, amongst this group of international superstars, to encounter a musical personality like that of a Fumiaki Miura, a talent that displays understatement, apparent humility and much reflection.

Fumiaki Miura’s program with the ADDA orchestra looked conventional. He opened with Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro Overture and then played Mendelssohn’s famous violin concerto. More Mozart opened the second half, but this was the less than familiar Little Night Serenade, K525. A stirring but entirely controlled performance of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony finished the evening. But the originality in this program came from Fumiaki Miura’s role.

It has become commonplace in recent years for a soloist also to conduct. And on this evening that is what happened. Fumiaki Meera conducted the overture and the symphony, whilst he was both soloist and conductor in the concerto. The difference, and it was a crucial difference, came in the Mozart Little Night Serenade the start of the second half.

In K525 Mozart wrote a dialogue between two orchestras. It is neither a grand work not a serious dialogue, but it remains a small orchestra effectively being a soloist in front of a larger band. So here Miura Fumiaki was leading a small group of soloists, playing himself and directing at the same time. This was wholly original. And the piece itself worked beautifully, as did the director’s choice of treating all the small orchestra as soloists of equal stature. Hence my observation of humility.

And so, on an evening where nothing on the printed programme naturally appealed or excited this particular audience member, Fumiaki Miura’s performance and direction became the memorable aspect of a memorable concert. It must also be said that Fumiaki Miura’s own playing of the Mendelssohn concerto was rapturously received by the audience and the orchestra alike. His tone high up in the violin’s range is both sweet and accurate, with none of the occasional metallic timbre that can sometimes intrude in that upper register. His playing was also undemonstrative, displayed none of the pyrotechnics that are often associated with big name performers. This was music in its purest, wholly communicative form.

As an encore, the orchestra offered a short piece of Mendelssohn, more like chamber music for orchestra than a rousing lollipop to end an evening. This too worked beautifully, and an understated but thoroughly virtuosic evening of Classicism and early Romanticism delivered surprises throughout, as well as beautiful music. For this concert goer, this less was surely more.

Claus Peter Flor and Milan Symphony and Chorus in Verdi's Requiem, ADDA, Alicante

A performance of Verdi’s Requiem is more like a visit to an awe-inspiring monument than the experience of a piece of music. It’s a work that completely engages its audience from its very first hushed tones. In some ways, the experience feels like intimidation. This is a work that grabs a listener and demands to be heard, almost shackles its audience to its reality. Though the work is in many ways episodic, an intensity is maintained throughout. Thus, pinned to their seats by this barrage of sound and emotion, an audience hears every detail of this towering edifice. Perhaps it’s not an experience to be savoured weekly, but once heard, it will never, never be forgotten.

Personally it was decades since I last heard that his Requiem in concert before this performance by the Milan Symphony Orchestra and Chorus under Claus Peter Flor in ADDA, Alicante. I will never forget the first performance I heard, which was a student performance in the main hall of the Royal College of Music in London in the early 1970s. It remains an experience that I can still vividly recall, so clearly does it live on in the memory.

The orchestral playing by Milan Symphony Orchestra under Claus Peter Flor on this occasion was perfect. One had the impression that this partnership might just have performed this piece before! And, though mentioned last, the four soloists also had a good night. Camela Reggio, Anna Bonitatibus, Valentino Buzza and Fabizzio Beggi seemed individually and collectively to delight in the concentration and completely silent way that the all the ADDA audience listened to the performance, prompting the soloists to seek out all possible operatic details in these truly operatic parts.

This was a memorable performance of an unforgettable monument of a work. The evening did end with something of a surprise which, I think, will be remembered vividly by many. After the usual curtain calls, the extended warm applause that has become the hallmark of this ADDA audience, there were many who had noted that, though the chorus master, Massimo Fiocci Malaspina, had taken a bow and duly acknowledged the achievement of his charges, Claus Peter Flor did not specifically ask the chorus to take its own individual bow.

So, after the conductor and soloists had said their goodbyes for the evening and the leader of the Milan Symphony had led the orchestra of stage, the chorus began to disperse. There were many in the ADDA audience who had noted the special contribution of the chorus to the evening’s success and it was at this point that they showed their appreciation. There followed a completely spontaneous and deeply felt round of applause specifically for the chorus who stopped leaving the stage took time to bow. They seemed to be very appreciative of the recognition. This performance of Verdi’s Requiem will live a long time in the memory for all kinds of reasons.

Campogrande, Prokofiev and Dvorak in Alicante

The placing of the world premiere alongside establish repertoire is not itself unusual. What was unusual about ADDA Sinfonica’s latest concert was the fact that the contemporary piece that started the concert was arguably the most musically conventional item on the programme.

Nicola Campogrande’s music paints wholly recognizable shapes in never jarring colours. It seems to live in familiar landscapes, often vistas that are reminiscent of film on television music. This is in no way a criticism, but I do think it is an observation that informs an approach to his style. His second symphony “A New World”, follows a conventional four movement structure, but diverges by not pursuing formal development and also by having the finale presented as a song. The whole piece lasts just fifteen minutes, which was about the time devoted to a discussion between the composer and Josep Vicent, the orchestra’s artistic director, at the start of the evening.

Nicola Campogrande explained that he began the work because he felt that the world needed a change, a new direction, clearly toward a greater amount of tolerance and cooperation, rather than division and conflict. A friend offered to write a poem that became the symphony’s finale. The message, if such a work can be summarized, is that we can build a better world if we simply accept what we are, where we are, and share things like music and singing.

Nicola Campogrande’s “A New World” proved to be as gentle on the ear as in its message from within the text. Again, this is not a criticism. We respond to suffering and pressure in our own individual way. It was, after all, Vaughan Williams, a favourite composer of mine, who responded to the carnage of the First World War with the Pastoral Symphony, a work that presents precious little played forte and boasts three slow movements. Piero Bodrato’s text presented a positive vision that we were invited to share, at least for the length of the piece. Stephanie Iranyi’s soprano voice proved perfect for this text and music.

The First World War link is important, because of the work that followed. Prokofiev’s First Violin Concerto was written in 1917 and its premiere had to be postponed because of Russia’s Revolution. Conceived in an era of conflict, this is another work that seems to commemorate via suggestion a vision of a different world. But Sergei Prokofiev’s imagination lived in a truly individual and ethereal universe, which only occasionally seems even to reference the terrestrial. Twenty-year-old Ellinor D’Melon’s playing as via a soloist captured every aspect of this masterpiece. She was delicate and brash, soothing and acerbic, loud and soft, always perfectly expressive. Alongside Josep Vicent’s perfect balance in the ADDA orchestra kept the piece overall a musical whole, while allowing the soloist to shine. It was indeed a memorable performance of arguably the greatest of all violin concertos. Ellinor D’Melon’s encore lightened the mood considerably. She offered Henri Vieuxtemp’s Variations on the Yankee Doodle, a piece that allowed her to show off in the conventional concerto style that the Prokofiev masterpiece largely denied.

There is perhaps nothing new to say about Dvorak’s New World. But at the end of the 19th century, this work referenced the still revolutionary Wagner, included folk tunes in serious music and used orchestral colours and power that many audiences might have found challenging. Above all, the New World of the title was itself in reference to the idea of freedom from Europe’s feudal shackles and staid empires. The performance, as ever with the ADDA orchestra, was full of expertise and enthusiasm, a perfect mix to make even the familiar memorable.

There was a little encore, of course. Bernstein’s Mambo from West Side Story is a roof raiser. Thankfully the roof stayed on. Just.

El balcón en invierno by Luis Landero

El balcón en invierno by Luis Landero is beautiful, if at times frustrating book. It could all be said much more simply, succinctly and perhaps with greater immediate power. But if it were written that way, it would lose what becomes its special and elegant appeal as a repeated motifs, by simple virtue of their repetition, actually take on the flavour of what the writer clearly intended to communicate.

Ostensibly an autobiography, El balcón en invierno often feels like a novel, a surreal experience couched in a style that approaches magical realism. Long before we reach the end of the book, its characters have attained for the reader the near mythical status they hold for the book’s narrator, ostensibly a child of the extended family described.

We are pitched into a world of memories. This remembered world is that of a college educated, Madrid resident, mature man, who still wants to be a professional jazz guitarist. Every element of that sought after and pursued identity would have been beyond not only the experience or even capability of the family that raised him, it would be beyond the limits of their encultured imagination. Guitarists certainly existed in this reality, but jazz was recorded music, internationally marketed and reliant upon participation in an economic system that was unknown to this community. It would have been unimaginable for the grandparents, so vividly recalled from the experience of times shared. It’s a measure of how much change can be foisted from outside on a mere generation of human existence that the grandson viewed as normal that which was beyond the imagination of the parents.

The principal character of El balcón en invierno was raised in a rural community in western Spain, near Badajoz in Extremadura, not far from the Portuguese border. The families in that area shared a common approach to life. They were all different, but they were all dependent on a local economy rooted in the soil, in agriculture, in small holdings, in the processing of the products of that soil and the servicing of the needs of the community. Ambition extended only as far as the next village. And it is this all embracing, all encompassing, almost closed, repeated and repetitive way of life that forms the backbone of nostalgia the stiffens the entire book.

But not for this writer the repeated daily responsibilities of chicken coop, the tending of goats, the drawing of water, the pruning of vines, the tethering of cattle, the leading of donkeys. Not for him the preparation of gazpacho, the making of bread, the stirring of an olla bubbling with cocido over a wood fire, the kneading of dough or the grinding of flour. Not for him the cutting or pressing of grapes, the picking of oranges, the drying of tomatoes or figs, nor the harvesting of nisperos. For him, the enduring ambition was to become a jazz guitarist. And that would require visiting a city. A city! A what? And for what would you need all that schooling, all those lessons and exams and prices of paper they call qualifications, when not one of them shows you how to milk a goat, make cheese or butter or press an olive?

And it is this access to schooling, to an education that certainly existed in his grandparents’ time, that truly offered the means of transforming a life and, by accessing it, the process that would end a lifestyle. Schooling was probably a commodity not accessed by grandparents and parents alike, because it could contribute nothing to the necessities of a life that was all demanding in its essential tasks. But, as the schooling also demonstrated, it was also something of a self-reproducing prison, which retained relevance only within its own, shrinking walls. There was a life elsewhere and it was beginning to invade.

In less able hands, the reliving of rural life via nostalgic images could have become a mere romanticized fantasy, a lost imagined ideal world which, in reality, was hard, unforgiving, often short-lived and, when truth be admitted, far from ideal. The reader is often walked through the recalled reality of this existence, but the lists of objects, of foods, of daily tasks might just have been culled from someone else’s nostalgia. But in the hands of Luis Landero, the processing of lists becomes a cultural experience, a filled-out landscape, rather than an ego-trip down memory lane.

El balcón en invierno’s beauty is not in its sensitivity, its compassion. Its message, however, is that the lives become what time and circumstance conspire to arrange and that, in the end, we may idealize only the life we have not lived. The one we have lived, on the other hand, becomes the mundane, the challenging struggle that life has always been, even that ideal, remembered, reimagined rural existence for those who lived it. Read it in Spanish, but ignore the fact that there are many old, archaic words. Just go with the flow and appreciate the contrast that the author draws between nostalgic imagination and brutal reality.

Europe Since Napoleon by David Thomson

 

Some time ago and in relation to a different book, I wrote a review that in essence began, “Occasionally, just occasionally, one comes across a book so impressive, so scholarly and so communicative that it leaves a reader both in awe of its achievement and completely rewarded by the experience of reading it.” I did not expect to encounter another book in the near future to which that description might also apply. I have done just that, and my life is immeasurably richer as a result.

The title, Europe Since Napoleon, communicates what the book addresses. This is not a history of the United States, Asia, China, South America or Africa. Europe is the focus, but the vision is in no sense myopic. During the period in question, history of course documents that some European powers were imperial powers, claiming ownership and rule of colonies across the globe, indeed on every continent. There was also the detail of two World Wars, which have been granted that title because the conflict was near global in scale. Hence Europe Since Napoleon addresses many aspects of history, politics and economics that relate to the global interests of the European nations and, as such, this book, at least in the opinion of this reader, becomes more of a Eurocentric view of world history, rather than a narrower discussion of a specific continent. And it must also be added that any Eurocentrism arises nearly out of the focus, and not from any form of bias or sense of superiority.

There is a problem with the book’s title, however. Europe Since Napoleon implies that it might begin at the end of the French Imperial era, but Europe Since Napoleon begins by analyzing the circumstances and events that allowed Napoleon to assume power. We start, therefore, with the discussion of pre-revolutionary France and the revolution, itself, because it was out of these events that the arose the opportunity for Napoleon to assume power.

The Napoleonic Wars, the peace, reform, revolution, socialism, labor, economy, Russian expansion, nationalism, the creation of Italy and Germany, the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune all pass by and we have yet to complete half of the book’s two centuries of coverage. Of course, there follows the Berlin Conference, the partition of Africa, the lording it over the rest of the world to shape it into European advantage zones, the Great War, another revolution, boom, depression, strike, greater war, atomic bombs, the Iron Curtain, the suggestion of international cooperation, the rise of science, the nuclear age and the molecular age.

Of course, Europe Since Napoleon, like any summary work cannot even address the claim of being comprehensive. But in his book, David Thomson regularly illustrates how the big issues of the day re-drew the map, forged new alliances, created opportunity and transformed people’s lives. The author wrote over 400,000 words spanning almost 1000 pages and at the end provides a thorough bibliography of works he has no doubt read to provide greater depth across most of the issues covered in the book.

But the real strength of Europe Since Napoleon is not its coverage, nor its description of the events it lists, but its narrative. Throughout David Thompson resists the temptation merely to list facts, opting instead for a fluid, narrative style that does, it has to be said, assume a modicum of prior knowledge. But what if the reader gains from this apparently stylistic ploy is quite brilliant contextualization, synthesis and thereby understanding. This is a thousand-page history book that is simply a joy to read, from page one to page 946, to be precise, not counting the appendices.

And, if the foregoing were not enough praise, the author’s final observations, written in the 1960s are ostensibly predictions of where the human race may go over the following decades and it is nothing less than revelatory. Not only does David Thompson have a bigger view of history, but he also demonstrates a true intellectual vision that is both breathtaking in its scope and exciting in its optimism. Reading this vision sixty years on, one can only ask the question, how on Earth did this happen, how on earth did we end up here? And, after reading this book, the one thing that history has taught us repeatedly, is that we may catalogue, describe and understand, but also that we should not predict, and we should not take anything for granted. History is a guide, but never repeats itself, never returns us to the familiar. That is how it happened. What a superb book!

English Bread And Yeast Cookery by Elizabeth David

 

At almost 500 pages, Elizabeth David‘s English Bread And Yeast Cookery is quite a read. It’s also quite mis-titled, but more of that later. But it is a cookbook, so why would one want to read it from cover to cover? Surely reference is its prime function? The answer simply is that this cookbook is written by Elizabeth David and the writing is exquisite, the erudition thoroughly impressive and the advice probably faultless. This last point has to be qualified with “probably”, since it is highly unlikely that anyone except Elizabeth David herself might put every one of these recipes to any sort of practical test. Even she did not do all of them, but when she has not already tried out a recipe, she actually tells the reader in her text and admits she is speculating.

This is a text littered with items grabbed from historical cookbooks where the writer has merely copied what went before, sometimes despite its advice being demonstrably nonsensical. It is also littered with gems of verbosity from the past, where writers might offer such advice as “agitate the receptacle aggressively” rather than “beat it”. And some of the older recipes seemed to have been designed for armies, so great are the quantities and might start with and instruction such as “take a bushel of flour”.

Written in the 1970s, this text was obviously already familiar with supermarkets, but not with fast food in quantities as it currently surrounds us. This allows a contemporary reader to reflect on just how much the average diet might have changed in the last fifty years. Elizabeth David is, for example, not fond of restaurant pizza, which she seems to judge as having the same qualities as hardboard panelling. Precisely what she would have made of O’Muffins or Macbuns or similar I have no idea, but I bet I could guess.

But pizza recipes in the book on English bread? Well, this is part of the problem with the book’s title because not only does it regularly visit Scotland, Wales or Ireland, it also gets on a ferry to France, Austria, Italy or even Russia or the United States and elsewhere. It seems that the 1970s was more willing than now to admit international influences and sharing, without ever once using vacuous and meaningless terms like “fusion” or “world food”. If it’s not from the world, where on earth is it from? And as for “fusion”, this particular reviewer regards much of it as a con, leading to confusion.

The author spends much time in space explaining the details, even the intricacies of flours, grains, milling, grinding and sifting. There is a superb historical section that dips into the techniques, technology and technicalities of breadmaking. And in doing so, Elizabeth David explodes many myths which have remained mythical until today. She points out that much of brown bread on sale is coloured with molasses, not whole wheat grain, and that many recipes that specify whole grains often extract the germ and pre-cook it before adding it back to the flour. She also describes how commercial bread was in her time often aerated or pumped with extra water or even chalk to add volume, bulk and profit. Here Elizabeth David looks in immense detail at conventional yeast risen bread, flat breads, sweet breads, (not one word!), muffins, pikelets, crumpets, fermented butter cakes, griddle breads, sourdough, soda bread and many other delectable concoctions of flour, water and rising agent.

In the process, she dispels many myths, such as the oft quoted need to throw away half of a sourdough starter, advice I have read many times, many times indeed. Personally, I have in the past tried to follow such recipes, but when it came to “divide it into two and throw half away”, I was always stumped into inaction, because I never knew which half should be discarded. If it’s the case that the sourdough starter’s volume would be too big otherwise, then “make less” ought to be the instruction. Isn’t it obvious?

But then there are a lot of myths, many of them sourced in religion about bread. Man may not live by bread alone, but maybe it is all right for women. Bread of heaven, but not from my oven… There are many more, some of which made it into these pages. But with breadmaking, there is room for myth, since the process is often wholly unpredictable, so quantity, so temperature, or so procedurally sensitive that it is impossible to predict the results which will be produced even by following exactly the same recipe, a point that Elizabeth David regularly makes throughout the text.

And, of course, that is precisely why the mass-produced loaf was baked on an industrial scale, in order to try to achieve the regularity and uniformity that the modern consumer sees to crave. But no two vegetables are exactly the same shape and the shape has nothing to with the taste. Elizabeth David’s English Bread And Yeast Cookery offers the perfect cure to this disease of expected uniformity. Mix it, wait, cook it and see. Do it again, and it will probably be different. Now isn’t that a recipe for an interesting life! It is most certainly an interesting book, but don’t try to eat it all at once.

Cakes And Ale by W Somerset Maugham

 

Cakes And Ale by W Somerset Maugham is a profoundly surprising book. Written in 1930, the novel begins its story in the Edwardian age prior to the First World War. It comes, therefore, with the inevitable expectation that it will depict English society as a rather stuffy, perhaps dusty entity, full of flock wallpaper and aspidistras, tired after so many years of Victoria, but not yet woken up to the new world that the war so painfully introduced. But this is precisely where expectations could be wrong. In fact Cakes And Ale takes a rather liberated view of British society’s values, pokes fun at stiff convention and generally offers no moral judgment where other writers would surely lay on the presumption.

Cakes And Ale carries the subtitle The Skeleton In The Cupboard, without being absolutely clear whose skeleton is described, while the book certainly does not list many cupboards. One must presume that what is being referred to is the relationship between the privileged character William Ashenden and Mrs. Rosie Driffield, the wife of a novelist. Their time together begins when Ashenden is a boy, at least in his own eyes, and concludes many years later by which time both characters have reinvented themselves several times. It is a relationship that starts in platonic fascination, graduates to physical adulthood and concludes in seeming admiration at distance.

But overall, this relationship is allowed to blossom without the judgment on might expect it to receive, so skeletons remain hard to justify or identify. Equally, it could be Mrs. Driffield‘s long-standing obsession with a certain Lord George, but eventually this turns out to be sincere and long lasting. Mrs. Driffield certainly liaised with enough men to create several skeletons, but they would not have been in cupboards.

We follow William Ashenden from a self-identified childhood through adolescence and into adulthood. He too wants to become a writer and at least initially it is Mr. Driffield the novelist who interests him. At one stage, Ashenden laments the burden of having to describe his own experience in the first person. All writers, one supposes, love to inhabit that special heaven which allows convenient detachment and can put words into anyone’s mouth and feelings into anyone’s experience. Being merely oneself can be utterly restricting.

We first encounter this life while he is visiting his uncle on the south coast, in Kent to be precise, where Driffield the writer and his wife Rosie have moved in and are in the process of causing quite a local stir. General opinion is that Mrs. Driffield is rather common, a bar maid or of that ilk, and the suggestions are that she does not need classes in anatomy.

The moral indignation of the chattering classes is apparently unanimous. Mrs. Driffield puts herself about, especially in the direction of Lord George who is no lord, and the judgment is that anything in trousers is deemed of interest to her. And the indignation is not related to class, since the servants of the household where Ashenden stays are as vehement in their opinions as the boss, until they meet the sad Rosie, that is, and then their tone changes, for some reason.

Maugham has such a lower-class people drop their aitches and modify their vowels to such an extent that one wonders how they manage to say so many apostrophes. But Rosie Driffield thoroughly captivates the young lad. He becomes infatuated with her though he doesn’t realize it at first. For him, it’s merely growing up.

But the relationship changes from one of curiosity and interest to one of physicality and sex, but never does Somerset Maugham have either Ashington or Rosie regret what they are doing. Guilt seems not to be a destination in the London where they meet. They are merely human beings being human. And this is what is so surprising about the book.

Rosie eventually runs off with Lord George to the United States, where he makes a fortune and she becomes as respectable as she can possibly be first in New York and then in Yonkers, atop a significant fortune, which all goes to show something at least.

Though it is not explicitly stated, the United States is portrayed in the book as a land where moralizing attitudes and gossip have no place. Both Lord George and Rosie have moved there and have lived their lives unaffected by social judgment. Back home in England, where one expects judgment to be available by the stone, physical life continues to be denied, but not in Cakes And Ale. The fact is that Rosie has risen above criticism, but one must assume that she can only continue in that life out of Albion. Perhaps it was her skeleton after all.

 

Orchestra La Scala Milan under Riccardo Chailly in Alicante's ADDA

 A program juxtaposing two first symphonies has to invite comparison. When those first symphonies are those of Ludwig van Beethoven and Gustav Mahler, arguably at either end of the nineteenth century German Romantic tradition, then that comparison must include considerations of what happened to the style, if indeed it ever existed as an identifiable entity.

The orchestra, La Scala, Milan under its conductor Riccardo Chailly, has a tradition with Mahler symphonies, and this is very much the tradition of its conductor. Ricardo Chailly, the program noted, has over 150 recordings to his name and he also has recorded a complete Mahler symphony cycle with the Leipzig Gewandhaus. ADDA’s audience thus expected a lot from the evening. There was no disappointment.

Beethoven’s First Symphony was premiered in 1800. Stylistically, it is rooted in the tradition that Haydn and Mozart had created in the previous century, but from its opening, Beethoven’s first is different. While we now label the earlier era as classical, Beethoven’s first surely heralded the era of Romanticism, where the expression of individual emotions rather than structural integrity was to be the focus of artistic intentions.

The structure is there from the previous classical era. Sonata form is evident in the first movement and elsewhere. The fast, slow, minuet and finale format is preserved, but the principal keys, which still dominate the work, arrive more by suggestion than by statement and the minuet is barely danceable because its character is that of the modern scherzo. The very word implies a musical joke, perhaps a piece of trivia included to express personal feelings and reflections.

This is thus a work that represents a revolution of symphonic thinking, but this revolution was not a break with the past, more its extension and amplification into new territory. And though Beethoven’s orchestra was large for its era, it still comprised only double winds and no trombones or tuba. What characterizes the music, however, as so often in Beethoven, is the possibility that the inspiration came from the composer’s memory of dance tunes and popular music, reworked and remodelled into “serious” form.

And so to the link. At the end of that nineteenth century, Gustav Mahler announced another stylistic revolution with his first symphony, whose most noticeable difference from the Beethoven was immediately the size of the orchestra employed. There are four movements again. But now the movements pay only lip service to the formal structures of sonata form, which, like Beethoven’s introduction of the tonic, is via suggestion rather than statement. The placing of the slow movement third rather than second began with Beethoven, so this was nothing new.

But what Mahler did that was revolutionary was to incorporate folk-like melodies into the symphonic argument and render that argument largely textural. Here, the composer seems to want to explore the range of sonorities that these large forces could generate. But despite the composer’s reputation for deploying large forces, these sonorities are only rarely loud or brash. These contrasts are textural and coloristic, clearly intended to convey to the listener the quality of an experience, rather than its narrative.

A contemporary listener can only imagine what an audience in central Europe made of a slow movement that juxtaposed a funeral march based on a French children’s song with passages that derived from Jewish Klezmer dance music.

Perhaps the finale is a little too meandering and perhaps its triumphal end is overblown. But who cares? And this performance, under the watchful eye of Ricardo Chailly, was wonderfully detailed. Here we heard all the sonorities and all the dynamic changes in intricate and vivid detail. Everything seemed to make sense, even those passages where the composer seemed to delight in the tangential. The use of rubato was obvious, but never overdone. Everything made musical sense to the extent that during the first movement this listener heard the progress as a walk through scenic countryside! It is a work I have heard many times before but with Riccardo Chailly’s vision and supremely masterful reading, I now can’t wait for the next performance.

And what about the comparison, Beethoven to Mahler, mentioned at the start? Beethoven arguably invented the individual’s experiential centrality in the symphony. No longer was the form a rigid frame that had to contain certain elements. In his first symphony, Beethoven had not yet fully divested himself of the need to conform, but the innovations he introduced were well developed in Mahler’s time. By the end of that nineteenth century, the individual’s emotions and feelings had become the point of the exercise, not mere suggestion and in Mahler’s first, we meet the composer, not the structure. In fact, the whim of the composer’s intention was about to prompt others, following the current extension of harmonic complexity, to call again for the imposition of structure. There was a tradition, but perhaps by the century’s end, there was nowhere else for the style to go. And, if we were to accept popular tunes into the symphony, why not make folk culture central to the argument? A new era dawned.

Franck, Walton and Rachmaninov to open ADDA's new season

 The first concert of a new season prompts an air of expectation. A cursory glance of the program suggested nothing particularly special, excepting, of course, the anticipated and always delivered excellence of this orchestra, conductor and auditorium. Billed were a nineteenth century tone poem by an often-overlooked genius, a viola concerto, perhaps the best known in the repertoire and an ultra-late Romantic symphony in all but name, all pieces where familiarity, at least of style, suggested few surprises. How wrong can a concert goer be?

Cesar Franck’s Le Chasseur Maudit is, put simply, a painting in sound. Or perhaps it is film music without the film. It’s a tone poem, that abstract form that the nineteenth century invented to allow a composer to display aural emotional interpretation to project onto the scenes of a story. The very idea of the tone poem is Romanticism enshrined. Cesar Franck’s pictures are painted with broad, free brushstrokes, but in heavy paint which texture is the surface. The thick orchestration adds drama to the musical story, which was always vivid and clear, if a tad literal.

William Walton’s Viola Concerto followed with Joaquin Riquelme as soloist. Here the textures were light, the musical language suggestive of emotion, rather than the painting of pictures. In a beautifully reflective first movement, the soloist apparently is reading from a personal diary while the orchestra, here and there, adds its comment. The compositional skill is so great that this really is a conversation between soloist and orchestra, their contributions equal, their weights different.

There’s a real burlesque of a scherzo to follow and then perhaps an over-long finale that sometimes reaches for the grandiose, but memories of the first movement’s vulnerabilities always keep the music’s feet on the ground, while its upturned face searches for clouds.

Joaquin Riquelme’s playing was both virtuosic and quietly spectacular throughout. His sympathetic and informed interpretation of the substance of the piece was matched perfectly by Josep Vicent and the ADDA orchestra. At times, it seemed that the soloist was engaged in conversation with the orchestra, but it remained a conversation that was completely intelligible and never dominated by either party. The viola’s understated presence is very easily drowned by orchestral intrusions that are too loud and, apart from a couple of woodwind passages in the first movement, this trap was consistently and skilfully avoided. The audience reception was beyond rapturous. Joaquin Riquelme offered a contrasting encore, being an allemande from a Bach suite.

And then we met Sergei Rachmaninov, but the Rachmaninov from late in his life, at a time when he no longer needed to write music the merely pleased an audience. Not that he ever did! But his Symphonic Dances stand out from the rest of his orchestral writing in that they are more abstract, less prone to indulge in sugary sweetness.

On this occasion, the piece came across as autobiographical. Perhaps the intense rhythmic sound of the opening pages is a reference to the first symphony? This would explain why the rhythm disappears from view. There were passages that were reminiscent of the second piano concerto. There were others those seemed lifted from the second symphony. And, with such a big and varied orchestra, why did the composer include a solo piano part? Certainly, it was not to fill out the harmonies. Surely this is self-referential? And there was another section where the piccolo featured above percussion. Surely this was a memory of Petrushka? And what superb orchestral playing this was, coupled with precise and insightful interpretation that imbued every section of the peace with sense and meaning.

There were two encores, one unexpected, one almost the Adda signature tune. The slow movement from Dvorak’s New World is an unusual encore. but it did provide a superb contrast to the big sound that had preceded it. The Danzon number two by Marquez is now so familiar to the Adda audience that it is almost included de rigueur. But superbly so. Two lollipops of quite different flavours.

But without doubt, the Walton Viola Concerto and Joaquin Riquelme’s stunning performance will live long in this concert-goer’s memory.  

Contemporary music in ADDA

 

As a prelude to their forthcoming season of orchestral concerts, the ADDA orchestra of Alicante under their inspired and clearly inspiring conductor and artistic director, Josep Vicent, offered a programme of contemporary music free of charge to its subscribers. Perhaps this might have been a chance for the players to loosen their fingers, lips and hands before embarking on their new season. If that were the case, one wonders how many other orchestras in this world would rise to such a curtain raiser if it involved learning a full programme of complex pieces unfamiliar to them, some of which they might never play again!

And so we were presented with four works, three of which were composed recently, and a fourth that was premiered in the 1950s. Here we had four composers, all of whom presented their own, very personal and mutually contrasting musical languages. Just like the label “classical music” is useless as an indicator of style, given that it apparently spans close on a thousand years of art from Leonin to Lim, one must also insist that “contemporary music” is about as much use, being nil. There are clearly almost as many styles of contemporary music as there are composers of it. And the idea was illustrated beautifully in this programme, which seemed to take its audience on a journey from a strange place back to their musical and physical home. The term “brilliantly conceived” certainly applies to the choice of programme.

We began with Metastasis by Yannis Xenakis. In theory, this is a representation of the mathematics of architecture as music. It is a piece where dynamic, texture and line are conceived to illustrate an emotional response to the parabolas of Le Corbusier’s Phillips Pavilion, a building that has no straight lines, no right angles and thus an inner space that surely disorientated. Al least until you got used to it… which is a useful phrase for anyone who might feel “frightened” or “dismissive” of contemporary music.   

Xenakis used sketches of the building’s form to create a musical score, drawings whose shape determined the notes to be played. Like the building, the musical representation might take some a while to appreciate, its glissandi and sustained space-creating string murmurings punctuated by flashes of percussion and eyerolls of woodwind. But familiarity with the piece, at least for this listener, mimics what I feel looking up towards the ceiling of any great building. How far does it go? Is what I see mere illusion, or is it stone, concrete or glass? Xenakis, by the way, was the civil engineer on Le Corbusier’s project. In the 1950s. he was the bloke with the slide rule.

Second on the bill was Mosaicos de Arena Errante by José Javier Peña Aguayo, a graduate of both the Julliard in New York and Valencia University. In form, this world premiere was the evening’s ground breaker. It was an orchestral piece featuring, concerto-like, a brass quintet, a Puerto Rican bomba group and a dancer. The brass quintet was Spanish Brass, no less, the bomba group comprised Marina Molina, Daniela Torres, Ambar Rosado and the dancer-choreographer was Isadora López Pagán. I mention these names in recognition of the massive contribution they all made in the realisation of this piece and, indeed, making it a convincing musical and theatrical experience.

I will ignore the programme notes and try to describe what I took from the piece. For me it was a narrative which told of the realisation of identity. Oppressed by history, slavery and colonialism, the people who formed the central idea of the piece fund themselves disorientated in a new place. They could not make sense of their role, their lack of status or their surroundings. Memories of their African origin regularly surfaced, but these were broken by the oppression of circumstance and strangeness of surroundings. This was depicted by broken lines, irregular harmony and techniques such as the brass players blowing through the instruments rather than making notes. The dancer, meanwhile, presented angular contortions that mirrored distortions of sound and, presumably, pain of suffering.

Gradually, however, memories of past grew stronger, perhaps more relevant, and identity is rediscovered. The rhythms of an African past begin to dominate. The rhythms take over and impose their needs on the sound, prompting the dancer to become both more expressive and more animated, but also celebratory. The culmination was a glorious, complex, but utterly accessible rejoicing in rhythm. A people had found themselves again.

David Moliner’s Figuratio I - Mein logos came next. This was a percussion concerto performed by its composer. The soloist also contributed vocally to emphasise particular aspects of the music. Essentially, this came across as a fast, slow, fast structure, where the percussion was virtuoso in style throughout. There were some wonderful moments in the quieter sections when thin mallets made sounds of distant bells, thus creating landscape. The orchestral percussion players were heavily involved as well, at one point to the extent that string players holding a tremolo could not be heard above three percussion players combined. But this is a minor criticism of a work that banged with vitality.

The evening’s second world premiere was the symphonic poem, Alí y Cántara by Oscar Navarro. At times, stylistically, this music could have been written in the late nineteenth century, at least in its harmonies. But there were Middle Eastern shapes here too, just the right side of cliché to avoid evoking images from Hollywood’s technicolour Panavision era of spectaculars.

The piece followed a narrative provided by the story of Ali and Cántara, ancient lovers who, according to the legend, combined to name the city of Alicante. The piece’s sections described episodes of the story impressionistically, but also vividly. And what developed was something remarkably familiar to the audience and yet expressed in a new language. Festivals in this part of the world often involve the re-enactment of legendary battles and rulers. Moors and Christians are what they are called and the musical language of Alí y Cántara increasingly evoked the sounds of street festivals, but in a more subtly nuanced form provided by the orchestral textures. But by the end, the musical statement was noticeably located in the wind instruments and percussion, and, for a while, this orchestra sounded like a symphonic band. It was musically the most conventional work of the evening, and also provided the most direct, accessible narrative. And it worked beautifully.

Rapturous applause prompted Josep Vicent to offer two encores. John Williams’s Theme from Schindler’s List was followed by a local favourite, Danzon No2 by Arturo Marquez. Out of six composers represented, five are still alive, Xenakis have died in 1997. His music, as with everything else in this wonderful evening, is very much alive.