The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra with Narek Hakhnazarayan under Vasily Petrenko in Dvorak and Tchaikovsky at ADDA, Alicante

Mixing the familiar with the less familiar is a common programming tool. The popular work brings them in, and you broaden the audience’s taste - or even surprise them! - with the less well-known. That seemed to be the theme underpinning the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra’s approach to their concert in Alicante under Vasily Petrenko. Honorary Scouser, Vasily Petrenko, presented a Czech concerto and a Russian symphony by household names, Dvorak and Tchaikovsky, but whereas the cello concerto of the former is performed perhaps daily, the Manfred Symphony of Tchaikovsky rarely makes it onto the concert platform. It would seem to be a matter of resources and costs, because the work lasts for almost an hour, needs a large orchestra, including two harps and an organ, and also the composer conveniently provided lower cost alternatives in his last symphonies, which are easier to stage. In over fifty years of concert-going, this was my first Manfred.

Soloist in the Dvorak was Narek Hakhnazarayan. Now this work is so well-known, it is hard to find surprise in its delivery. What one can do is marvel at the remarkable control, married to perfect expression and phrasing demonstrated by a Narek Hakhnazarayan. Our soloist used to be a BBC New Generation Artist and he clearly has good relations with other British institutions, such as the RPO. Only in his early thirties, he is already in receipt of a national honour from his home country, Armenia. He must have played the Dvorak Concerto many times, but his approach displayed a freshness and vitality that completely won over this Alicante audience.

But what really caught the audience’s attention was the soloist’s choice of encore. There was even a ripple of applause at his announcement, and then he started playing the finale of the Suite for Solo Cello by Gaspard Cassado. Much less well-known than his near contemporary, Pablo Casals, Cassado was a composer as well as a cellist. He mixed the identifiable Spanish with late Romanticism, and enough contemporary hard edge to make his music much more than mere lollipop. Casado’s music is still not heard very much, and almost not at all outside Spain. Narek Hakhnazarayan was inspired in his choice, as well as in his playing.

And then we moved on to Tchaikovsky’s Manfred. The program notes referred to Berlioz and a desire to produce a programme symphony. Also mentioned was the fact that it was originally Balakirev’s idea. But this is quintessential Tchaikovsky, mixed with the dark heroism and mysticism of Byron’s heroic poem.

The result is a symphony of conventional shape and form, with four movements, complete with scherzo and slow movement in the interior. And does this work feel different from Tchaikovsky’s other symphonies, given its programmatic brief? The answer is “yes”, absolutely yes. But all the compositional characteristics of the composer are there, certainly recognisable but perhaps developed in a different way from what we are used to.

The Manfred Symphony is a perfect example of how good a composer Tchaikovsky was. Not only is Manfred convincing as absolute music, even for those who have no knowledge of Byron, but the skill is such that elements of the story’s narrative become clear via the music. There is a personal style in evidence, there is no doubt about that, but there is also the intellectual subtlety of writing to depict something else, something from some other imagination, reinterpreted. Tchaikovsky’s Manfred is an exciting, exhilarating piece that should be experienced as often as his fourth, fifth and sixth symphonies.

Surprise, surprise – Bergmann and Baldeyrou play Sibelius, Weber and Franck in ADDA, Alicante

Surprise, surprise might seem an incongruous title for the review of a concert which seemed to offer a-middle-of-the-road programme. Sibelius’s Finlandia began the evening – it often does. Call Maria von Weber’s Clarinet Concerto is not played in concert as much as it should be, but its inclusion raises no eyebrows. César Franck’s Symphony in D Minor, again, is not played very often, but it’s a work that everyone knows about, though for most concert goers it's hardly commonplace. So, given the familiar appearance of the program, what was surprising?

Well, the personnel were unfamiliar. We had our regular band, our ADDA orchestra, but our guest conductor was the Norwegian Pune Bergmann, who was making his debut in this hall. His entrance provided the evening’s first surprise. Rune Bergmann is a big man, but he is also quite amazingly jovial, his smile appearing to stretch right across the string section. It seemed like the celebration of Finland’s identity was being directed by a laughing, Norwegian mountain, laughing out of the sheer joy of the music, I hasten to add. Musically there were no surprises here, just our usual quality.

The second surprise came with our soloist, Nicolas Baldeyrou. Few concert goers ever hear a clarinet concerto. For most who do, it’s probably one written by Mozart, with Weber’s work coming a distant second in the list.

Now Weber’s Clarinet Concerto was doubly surprising. First the playing of Nicolas Baldeyrou was nothing less than outstanding. His understanding of the music alongside his wonderful communication with conductor and orchestra made this performance of the work I have heard in recordings and broadcasts innumerable times something completely new. Especially surprising was the slow movement, which times reached pianissimos that were on the limits of hearing, and as a result, all the more dramatic and poignant. This performance will live for ever in the memory, so beautifully crafted and played that it became a completely new experience.

The ADDA audience does tend to bring soloists back on stage for another bow. We are used to demanding an encore. But this ADDA audience’s reaction to Nicolas Baldeyrou was special. The communal recognition that this with something special was almost tangible. The demanded encore was given, and it was again a surprise.

It was the Habañera from Bizet’s Carmen, arranged for clarinet and orchestra. And it was more than a showpiece, more than a lollipop to quieten the crowd. Faultless playing, communicative ensemble, again combined to create a new, surprising experience from what was immediately familiar.

A symphony in name, Cesar Franck’s D Minor has only three movements, two of which are marked allegro, thought you would never know it. Not really a master of orchestration, Franck seems to have concentrated on the storytelling. The musical lines evolve like the narrative of a novel, so that this symphony becomes more like a tone poem than an argument. And, after living in the world of minor keys for most of its duration, the long first movement surprisingly, and without warning, suddenly finds its conclusion in a major key. It’s all quite baffling, like a believer questioning a faith that suddenly returns, dispelling doubt.

And yes, there was an encore. Rune Bergmann again turned to the audience and again smiled that broad grin. “Edvard Grieg La Mañana”, he said. It was the first piece of classical music I ever heard, but it wasn’t  in Spanish.

Normal People by Sally Rooney

Sally Rooney’s Normal People is a hugely successful and very widely read novel about millennials. It concentrates on the relationships that develop in a group of school graduates as they transition from school to university, concentrating on and then majoring in their sex lives. It does this not to the exclusion of all else, but its preoccupation is overt and is as all-consuming for the reader as it probably was for the characters.

At the novel’s core are the ongoing, developing, changing, breaking, tortuous, steamy, lustful, intellectual, repeated, animal though never committed relationships between Connell and Marianne. They are from Sligo, went to school together and then migrated together to Trinity College, Dublin. So much for their similarities.

Amongst the differences one is of paramount importance. Connell is male and Marianne is female, a contrast that sees them come together fruitfully and often in combination to qualify several of the adjectives that described their relationship in the last paragraph. Important amongst the differences, but largely unexamined in the novel, is the fact that Connell is working class while Marianne is middle class. Connell’s academic interests are in literature, whilst Marianne specialises in politics though, it must be recorded, largely without focus, except for occasional side-forays into issues related to the Middle East. Both high-flying students seem to spend more time sleeping that is not sleeping and drinking that is drinking than they devote to reading, or indeed the thought of it.

Connell’s mother cleans for Marianne’s household and apparently is not overpaid. Strangely, though we never learn many of the details, neither Connell nor Marianne has a father in attendance. Connell’s mother might just have got pregnant on a short fling of youth, while Marianne’s father died, presumably some time ago, because she never really shares a memory of him. Whether this common heritage might have had some psychological effect on either of the two adolescents, we never learn.

Connell and Marianne come together, drift apart, take up with others, break off, re-encounter. It’s rather a procession at times. What seems to form a thread is that both always seem to be more worried about how their behaviour affects themselves rather than others. Noone ever seems to know what they themselves want, though everyone seems to get precisely what they ask for. There’s plenty of booze, plenty of sex, a change of personnel and more of the same. There’s an excursion to Sweden with stereotypical kinky photo shoots, more bust ups, arguments, reconciliations which never seem to refer to the past and occasionally there seems to be a kind of sincerity, though all without speech marks.

All pretty normal, perhaps, but always engaging.

Thirty-Five Poems by Herbert Read

Thirty-Five Poems by Herbert Read, I repeat

Stavesacre – a larkspur plant or its seeds

Benison - benediction

Sodality – fellowship, concgregaion, association for chairty

Cincture – belt or girdle

Lanthorn – lantern

Herbert Read, in the veritable slim volume, starts in the First World War. He is not particularly well known as a war poet, but he has been honoured as such. For him, it seems that the confrontation with daily horror led not only to the recognition of the absurdity of conflict, but also an appreciation of its political futility.

… Our victory was our defeat

Power was retained where power had been misused

And youth was left to sweep away

The ashes that fires had strewn beneath our feet.

 

The poetry is often rooted in the tangibly real, so much so that it sometimes seems to deny the possibility of an imagined ideal.

 

… Now chaos intervenes

and I leave not gladly but with harsh disdain

a world too strong in folly for the bliss of dreams.

 

He was a noted anarchist and was politically and philosophically sophisticated. But sometimes the simplest argument is stronger.

… your god has not this power. Or he would heal

the world’s wounds and create the empire

now left in the defeated hands of men.

 

He does not, however, appear to be an atheist overall. He does allow himself occasionally to inhabit a heaven he often seems to deny.

 

This good achieved, then to God we turn

for a crown on our perfection: God we create

in the end of action, not in dreams.

 

There is only reality, however. The experience of that reality, in all its natural beauty is here. It presents experience which is worth recording merely for what it is, But reality, also, just might not be the only thing we might encounter.

 

Fate is in facts: the only hope

an unknown chance.

We got rhythm – Josep Vicent and the ADDA orchestra in Ravel, Adams and Reveueltas

Concert programs nowadays are often themed. Sometimes the idea is obvious, sometimes trite, but even attempting to present such a program is preferable to a parade of pop classics. Sometimes real imagination has gone into the selected words, and the link may not be obvious. Whether or not the works chosen by Josep Vicent in last night’s ADDA concert in Alicante were consciously selected to illustrate a theme of the rhythm of popular dance, as transformed by composers who did not take instructions literally, is irrelevant. But that was the theme that came across to this captivated listener.

The evening potentially was a challenge for those concertgoers who live mainly in the repertoire already known to them, but no one attending this concert went away in any way challenged. Indeed, everyone left enlightened by the experience.

The ADDA orchestra opened with Ravel’s La Valse. Now this is a regularly misunderstood work, not least originally by those who commissioned it! It still suggests a dance, which is what it is. And yet, it isn’t. It might start like a dance, but it ends like a nightmare. It’s a waltz dreamed up by a composer at the height of his imaginative powers, and it is a thoroughly surreal work, not at all what it might seem at first hearing. In fact, this is one of those works that seems to change with repeated listening. First impressions retain the sweet theme. Later familiarity stresses the dissonant clashes.

Using a large and powerfully scored orchestra, a gentle dance theme transforms into a war-like threat, literally a nightmare of oppression, all delivered with a smile as the dagger goes in. If I have a criticism, which I don’t, I might suggest the work’s power is best delivered by not interpreting each phrase manneristically. When the line of the waltz predominates, the side-roads of the musical argument, the diversions that give the piece meaning, are rendered all the more powerful. In this performance, Josep Vicent chose to stress every phrase, almost to isolate it. And beautiful it was, certainly exciting, but the whole experience possibly suffered because the side-roads became the main route. The orchestral playing by our resident ADDA orchestra, as ever, was breath-taking.

And then we heard Absolute Jest by John Adams with the Casals Quartet as soloists. This is a work where John Adams takes well-known Beethoven and reinterprets it by interleaving it with his own material, ostensibly to re-create childhood experiences of his hearing the late quartets of Beethoven so often.

Now it must be remembered the Beethoven regularly used dance rhythm in his work. Like Ravel in La Valse, he often stretched these rhythms into musically interesting but absurd forms. And in Absolute Jest this double take adopts a third layer as John Adams interleaves his own material that both contrasts with and complements the original. The effect is utterly surreal. It’s like encountering the familiar in a place you have never visited. As in La Valse, these are not familiar phrases in a changed context, they are memories of the familiar where almost nothing makes sense, as in a dream. Apart, that is, from the rhythm, which, like a home key for Haydn, keeps reasserting itself and thus keeping the strangeness of the experience at home, rendering the whole doubly surprising.

As an encore, the Casals Quartet played the second movement of Beethoven’s Op135. It is a piece that Absolute Jest featured prominently amongst its quoted material. Standalone, it’s a piece that reminds an audience of just how revolutionary a composer Beethoven was. It is a piece that hardly exists. What is the theme? What is the harmony? All four players, like characters in Chekhov, seem to play only the subtext of a plot, and yet it comes together because insistent rhythms create lines. It is perhaps the most intangible thing Beethoven wrote.

And then, in the second half, we heard a real rarity. Silvestre Revueltas wrote film music for The Night of the Mayas. Paul Hindemith presented some of the music as a suite, and then José Ives-Limantour reassembled the material to form what might be seen as of four movement symphony. Using popular dance rhythms and re-imagined pre-Columbian sounds, Revueltas produced music as surreal is the Ravel that began the concert. The difference for a European audience was that the waltz form was familiar, but the dance forms and rhythms in the Revueltas were not. Here Mayan dances are presented and convince musically, despite the fact that neither the composer, nor perhaps anyone else, knew what they had sounded like. It is possibly patronising to say that, however, because Mayan culture is still very much alive!  

Convincing, however, it was. Extended passages where the percussion stood alone with only minimal commentary from the orchestra were perhaps the most memorable, simply because they were so different from what had gone before. And always we had the rhythm, that essential quality to which to evening had seemed to be dedicated.

As an encore, Josep Vicent and the ADDA orchestra offered the final part of Ravel’s Bolero. Another popular form, another rhythm, a three in a bar complicated by a composer who knew how to stretch the imagination! Another surreal image wrapped in incessant rhythm. Brilliant.

The familiar seen and heard anew – Ivan Fischer, Francesco Piemontesi and the Budapest Festival Orchestra in Schumann, Dohnanyi and Strauss

 

Some time ago, Hillary Hahn played the Sibelius Violin Concerto in Alicante’s ADDA hall in a way that I described as utterly new. Though I had heard the work many times, at least hundreds, this performance opened my eyes anew to its qualities, many of which I had clearly hitherto missed. The same quality of experience applied to Francesco Piemontesi’s interpretation last night of the Schumann Piano Concerto.

It’s a work I have perhaps heard not just hundreds, but thousands of times. Frankly, I don’t have much time for Robert Schumann for reasons I won’t go into. Let’s just say that I tend to tolerate his music’s presence on concert programs without really seeing the point. I tend to find his music over-planned, too self-conscious, perhaps over-eager to present a facade. I admit that he may not be the only artist at fault in such areas!

After Francesco Piemontesi’s performance of the Piano Concerto, however, I feel I may have just been missing the point over the years, or perhaps it might be that the norm in performance is to splash the canvas of interpretation too liberally with respect and too little with humanity. In the hands of Francesco Piemontesi, there was hardly a phrase of this piece that was not “interpreted”. Now sometimes that’s a euphemism for “over-played” or “over-done”. In this case, it meant the use of subtle dynamics, changes of pace, nuances of touch, all designed to bring the music to life. The overall effect was to render the solo part conversational, even personal. I doubt there was a member of the audience who did not feel that this was a personal occasion, shared only by themselves and the soloist. The sense of communication was all-pervading, with the orchestra and soloist never in conflict, always cooperating to create musical sense. And what orchestra playing it was!

Ivan Fischer and the Budapest Festival Orchestra seemed to weave in and out of the textures of the piano, never conflicting, never competing and never overwhelming. And so, by the end, I felt literally as if I had heard the work for the first time, so different was the experience from my expectation.

The Budapest Festival Orchestra under Ivan Fischer began the concert with a performance of Dohnanyi’s Symphonic Minutes. Though less of an innovator than Bartok and perhaps less melodious than Kodaly, Dohnanyi shares the same heritage and his music, witty, sumptuous and yet also neo-classical deserves to be played more.

The second half of Richard Strauss presented a pair of tone poems, Don Juan and Till Eugenspiegel sandwiching The Dance of the Seven Veils from Salome. These two tone poems demand superb orchestral playing and coordination, and right from the opening bars of Don Juan, it was obvious that the Budapest Festival Orchestra both relished and warmed to the task. The result was stunningly vivid, spectacular and exhilarating. Salome’s dance was colourful and deliberately graphic. Then came a masterstroke.

At the start of the evening it was noticeable that Ivan Fischer had placed the basses at the back of the orchestra. This seem to create a balanced, even orchestral texture, through which detail was only enhanced. For Till Eulenspiegel, Ivan Fisher moved the horn section to the front to sit like a quartet of soloists around the podium. The effect was to amplify Till’s pranks, enhance the story and render the performance ultra-vivid, almost surreal.

An encore also broke the mould. Instead of an orchestral lollipop, three members of the Budapest Festival Orchestra played a piece of traditional Hungarian peasant string band music. Here were the quarter tones and strange harmonies of the type that Bartok, Kodaly, Dohnanyi and others had tried to record, in their estimation before they disappeared. Here they were alive, well and rapturously received. It really was an evening of surprises.

A triumph of programming - ADDA Symfonica with Ivan Martin under Yaron Traub play unfamiliar Scriabin and Tchaikovsky

Much thought nowadays is devoted to the construction of concert programmes. A mass audience, almost by definition, is dictatorial. The old favourites are always safe, and the need for posteriors on bucket seats often demands repetition of the hackneyed, the overplayed lollipops of popular taste. But there is also another side to programming these days, an approach that explores the repertoire and, at least, for part of the concert, challenges an audience to listen without expectation, or pre-judgment. Usually this is done by including a contemporary piece alongside a cobwebbed standard. Sometimes, as in last night’s concert in Alicante’s ADDA auditorium, it is achieved by exploring the lesser known, less played works of well-known names. It is rare, however, for a whole concert to be devoted to such less well-known early works.

In an all-Russian program, the ADDA orchestra under Yaron Traub played two works, written just three decades apart in the nineteenth century, Scriabin’s Piano Concerto from the 1890s and Tchaikovsky Symphony No.1, Winter Daydreams, from the 1860s. The truly inspired element of the programming was the shared significance of both these works in the careers of their creators.

Both works are seen as early works, written before the development of the composer’s mature style. In the case of Scriabin, of course, we could discuss precisely what that might have been at some length. Both works have become labelled as breakthrough works, in both cases the creator’s first orchestral success - again in Scriabin’s case this might be debatable! But together, they offer an audience a terrific insight into how these creative minds developed by locating, essentially, where they started from.

Scriabin’s Piano Concerto was written to show off his own virtuosity. It does sound rather like Chopin, even conservative in outlook, given that this style was already half a century old by the 1890s. The composer scored the piano to play close to continuously throughout piece, and there are a couple of places where the orchestra drowns the soloist, but then he would do that later in Prometheus, wouldn’t he? And here there’s no real cadenza, no real opportunity for the soloist to take centre stage, which is strange, given the composer’s self-serving motivation. Orchestration, at this point in Scriabin’s career, was clearly not a strong point, but the integration of soloist and orchestra in the work was its forward-looking aspect. Ivan Martin’s performance was beyond perfect and it was his contrasting encore of baroque trilling.

Winter Daydreams, the Symphony No1, was Tchaikovsky’s breakthrough work. Unlike Scriabin, at the same age, Tchaikovsky showed in this early work much that would become his mature style. There is even a passage for horns in this work which sounds like it came straight out of Nutcracker. And again, unlike Scriabin, Tchaikovsky’s regular use of long lines of theme give this work almost the feel of a novel with a linear plot. All the strong contrasts and outbursts, which were later to characterize his writing, are here already formed, part of the composer’s language.

It is a great program that can surprise through assumed, but misunderstood familiarity.