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HENRY PURCELL – Semi-Opera “Dioclesian (The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian)” 1690
Libretto by Thomas Betterton
The Queen’s Closet / The Tudor Consort
Music and Ensemble Director – Gordon Lehany
Tudor Consort Director – Michael Stewart
Stage Director – Jacqueline Coats
The Hunter Lounge, Victoria University of Wellington
Saturday. 31^st May 2025

In 1985, forty years ago at Wellington’s Erskine College, Victoria University’s Early Music School organised, staged and performed (on period instruments) Henry Purcell’s 1690 “Dioclesian (The Prophetess, or the history of Dioclesian)”. It must have created a sensation at the time, though it took a while for memories of the earlier occasion to be sufficiently “jogged” so that this recent undertaking of the work by the capital’s “The Queen’s Closet” and “The Tudor Consort” ensembles could be properly regarded as a “revival” rather than a “first” for Wellington. In terms of impact and excitement it seemed to add even more lustre to the present occasion!

I well remember writing, in a February 2022 review, of a Queen’s Closet’s production which (to quote) “brought to life a world of musical and dramatic expression we don’t often get to experience in such a vivid and well-rounded way” – this was an enterprising representation of an historic “opera contest” in London in 1703 between four composers, each setting music to the same libretto and one emerging triumphant. The libretto was “The Judgement of Paris” the work of playwright William Congreve (he of “The Way of the World” fame), and of the four composers one John Weldon (1676-1736) emerged the victor by popular vote – though the Queen’s Closet cannily used excerpts from ALL FOUR composers’ efforts, thus giving us a richly-endowed “overview” of the original occasion’s range and scope – a splendid achievement!

As I’d expressed the hope that we would hear more along these lines from the Queen’s Closet, I was delighted to hear of the ensemble’s plans to present one of Henry Purcell’s earliest works for the theatre, his “semi-opera” (not through-sung) “Dioclesian” which bore the full title of “Dioclesian (The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian”. I did some “ferreting around” (mostly on-line, though the New Grove Dictionary of Opera was also of some help) and managed to glean some idea of what was in store for us. One of the pleasures I keenly anticipated was the involvement of Jacqueline Coats as the stage director, as I had previously enjoyed her work in other productions – though I was annoyed by not being able to find my copy of the programme for “The Judgement of Paris” to check whether she was involved, as my review didn’t mention her name! – details which come back to bite the reviewer!

I also couldn’t remember having previously been to the “Hunter Lounge” at Wellington’s Victoria University, but it turned out to be an excellent venue for the type of presentation accorded Purcell’s work. As with the “Foxglove Ballroom” location for “The Judgement”, this one seemed to fit the presentation like a glove, and with that all-important aspect of the music “being made in the same space as the audience”, ensuring our direct, cheek-by-jowl contact with both singers and musicians. A definite bonus in this case was the presence of a screen at the rear of the stage onto which was projected various images (all very seventeenth-century comic-book-like which raised numerous chuckles and titillations as the evening progressed)), and gave us some idea of the opera’s progression through the scenes and acts as they were played and done.

I remember feeling at first somewhat perturbed at what seemed to be a lack of a printed programme for audience perusal, something which I remember at “The Judgement” helped “take” me right into every aspect of the presentation, providing a wealth of background information regarding the actual contest, a synopsis of the opera’s plot, a cast list, and the titles of the individual numbers and their composers. Consequently, I knew exactly “where” I was at every step of the way through a work I simply knew very little about at that stage.

Here, at the Hunter Lounge, we were “helped out” by the presence of a narrator, Adam Neilson, who readily engaged our attentions with his wry delineations of the various plot-and-character convolutions, even though the complications of what the Grove Dictionary called the story’s “dramatic absurdities” tended to result in more confusion than elucidation on my part regarding both just “who was who” and “what she/he/they were doing”. At the time I felt a NEED to know just WHAT was happening and WHO was singing – but now, in my present state of post-event contemplation what’s staying with me most strongly is the “esprit de corps” feeling generated by the interplay between singers and musicians under the direction of Gordon Lehany and further emphasised by Jacqueline Coats’s production.  Ostensibly a story about a power struggle in ancient Rome, the absurd story-line with its portrayal of the whims and passions, cupidities and cruelties of people vying for the power that leadership brings, and their infliction of the same upon steadfastedly struggling humanity in general seemed to ironically mirror similarly ego-driven, pathologically unempathetic tyrants self-fashioned as rulers all around today’s world, and with the “prophetess” as much a schemer and manipulator as those whose fate she attempts to sway.

Whatever Purcell himself thought of the story, his efforts on its behalf brought him success, and the approval of no less a figure than John Dryden (for whose libretto he was to write the music for another opera, “King Arthur”). So, without a programme to hand I simply “went with” the presentation as best I could, and though detail wasn’t always clear to me as to what was exactly happening, the verve and commitment of the singing and playing never let my interest go elsewhere. I would have liked to have known at the time who the singers were (some of the faces I knew, but certainly not all of the names) and precisely what their characters were for the sake of the story-line. (Being one of the world’s least computer-savvy individuals, I’ve completely failed to notice the Queen’s Closet’s “past performances” page when first writing this review, and am thus posting the link accordingly –  https://thequeenscloset.net/may-june-2025/! ) However, Purcell’s music ultimately triumphed “on the night”, and there were many delights along the music’s way – without going through the whole work, item by item, then, I have these highlights of mine to offer……

First, the players (whom I’m able to name, thanks to their instruments!) – with their bracing sounds the Queen’s Closet players always delight, and this evening’s performance was no exception. The ear picked up on and relished the tanginess of the different timbres, as well as the excitement of the sudden surges of momentum – such as the Gigue-like energies unleashed during the Overture proper’s solemnities (No. 3) before the voices come in, and then, the brass (Chris Woolley and Andrew Weir) and timpani (Ben Whitton) vigorously supporting the singer’s “Come, show your instruments of war”. There was gaiety and charm aplenty from the oboes (Sharon Lehany, Rebecca Grimwood and Luka Reardon) and bassoon (Craig Branfield) supporting the alto voice at “let the soldiers rejoice”, and more festivity at “To Mars let ’em raise” , making a beautiful contrast of feeling with the recorders (Gordon Lehany and Luka Reardon) and joining the cellos (Jane Young and Tomos Christie) in accompanying “Since the toils”. The “Dance of the Furies” was amusingly described in one review I read of a performance elsewhere as “Dance of the Mildly Irritated”, though the strings here (Gordon Lehany, Henry Nicholson, Antonia Grant and Sara Kádas, violins and Miru Shimaoka, viola,) managed with the cellos to generate a suitable amount of “furious buzz” with their figurations! More charm, this time of a melancholic sort, came from the oboes, bassoon, ‘cello, guitar (Peter Maunder) and harpsichord (Michael Stewart) in their instrumental reprises between the tenor’s wistful “What shall I do?” verses, a mood that was then “whisked away” by the nimbly animated “Butterfly Dance”, the dancers equipped with delightfully lepidopteral effigies on the ends of sticks, wings  flitting energetically to the strings-and-winds-led music.

Apart from a slight purple patch during the Act IV chorus “Let all rehearse” (ironically apt at that point!)  the brass let fly with spiritedly and well-rounded fanfares as required, both martial and celebratory (with Gordon Lehany picking up a trumpet at one point and sounding a fanfare solo) – while as the other end of the expressive spectrum was the grace and charm of the Act V country dance. More delightful contrast was generously provided by the lusty Bacchanals, strings and winds propelling the dance forwards with gusto. Towards the end, as the vocal trio sings “Triumph Victorious Love” in honour of amatory order being justly restored between the opera’s principals, the orchestral playing struts its stuff with the soloists, then with a reprise of “Let all rehearse in lofty verse” the full ensemble joins with the singers to reinforce the lovers’ happiness in the most resplendent and appropriately brilliant-sounding way!

And then, there were the voices! – buoyed along by the instrumentalists’ marvellous accompaniments, the Tudor Consort singers certainly gave their all in both a vocal and theatrical sense, whether solo, in duo or trio, or as an interactively-detailed chorus, and making the most of their opportunities as they arose. I found it difficult, in the heat of the dramatic action’s cut-and-thrust, to properly and fairly ascribe which character did or sang what, and so am reluctant to attempt to “match up” the names – as, in Sullivan’s “The Mikado”, the Lord High Executioner KoKo famously sings when listing his victims for execution – “The task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to YOU!” – but these were the singers: sopranos, Chelsea Whitfield, Genevieve Gates-Panneton, and Erin King; altos, Alexander Granville, Andrea Cochrane and Kassandra Wang; tenors, Herbert Zielinski, John Beaglehole and Philip Roderick; and basses Joshua Jamieson, Keith Small, Mark Bobb and Thomas Whaley.

I couldn’t fault the choruses or the ensemble numbers in terms of their vocal characterisations and general stage-presence concerted utterances such as in “Praise the Thund’ring Jove”, “Let all Mankind the pleasure share” and the bolstering of the solo “To Mars let ‘em raise”, which all fell upon our ears with appropriate alacrity!  Especially lovely was the 4-part “Let the Priests with Processions”, and later, in Act Five came the ear-catching, beautifully-pointed and somewhat canonic  chorus “Begone, importunate reason” (for me, a highlight!). The smaller ensembles, trios and duos, brought out the singers’ theatricality to entertainingly risible degrees, while the various solos were taken in ways that integrated their characters satisfyingly into the musical flow of the work, some in  a “larger-than-life” manner , which contrasted well with other, more thoughtful and circumspect portrayals.

All of this was refracted through the keenly-modulated stage direction of Jacqueline Coats, and the typically thorough and expertly crafted drilling of the voices by Michael Stewart, the Tudor Consort’s director. However, to the Queen’s Closet director Gordon Lehany goes the credit for instigating and overseeing the production’s excellent musical cohesiveness and period-style efficacy – everything suitably proportioned, flavoursome and communicative – an insightful and enjoyable amalgam of scholarship and insightful reinterpretation.

 

 

 

FRANZ JOSEF HAYDN – The Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross (1786-7)  Image: Bernd Ritschel

Camerata
Anne Loeser – Music Director and Concertmaster

St Peter’s on Willis St. Church
Te Aro, Wellington

Saturday, 5^th April, 2025

Co-founder Director of Wellington’s Camerata chamber orchestra, Liz Pritchett, eloquently marked the occasion of the group’s tenth anniversary when welcoming the audience at St.Peter’s-on-Willis- St. Church. to its first concert for 2025, paying tribute to the various efforts of people over the years of the ensemble’s activities in maintaining the ongoing success of the venture. She then introduced Concertmaster Anne Loeser to the platform to begin the evening’s programme, one heralding the liturgical year’s oncoming Easter celebrations by featuring a single work, Franz Joseph Haydn’s “Seven Last Words of Our Saviour on the Cross”, while also continuing the ensemble’s ground-breaking  survey of the composer’s orchestral works.

Haydn wrote this work in 1786 responding to a commission from the Bishop of Cádiz for a work to solemnise the Good Friday service the following year at the Oratorio de la Santa Cueva (an underground church in the Spanish city). The work rapidly became popular, being performed on its publication in its original orchestral guise almost simultaneously in Vienna and Bonn – and later in Rome, Berlin and Paris – in fact, so much so that the composer not only adapted the work for string quartet, but also approved a version for solo keyboard which had “turned up” (Haydn apparently edited the proofs of what was probably the work of an enterprising music publisher!). A decade later, inspired by hearing a further adaptation of the work for choir and orchestra by the Passau choirmaster Joseph Freiberth, Haydn decided to go one better and produce his own choral version, which was completed in 1796.

The work, with its self-explanatory title, consists of seven slow movements, one for each of Christ’s seven utterances while on the Cross. They’re often called “sonatas” or “meditations” with the seven individual pieces framed by a slow orchestral introduction and a concluding “Presto con tutta la forza” which depicts the earthquake described by Matthew’s Gospel at the moment of Christ’s death. Here, Camerata used, of course, the original orchestra version, one which forged something of a link with that first performance in Cadiz by having a speaker (Gregory Hill) intone beforehand each of the seven statements by Christ quoted in the various Gospels. Haydn described in a preface to the work something of the structure of the original service, consisting of each of Christ’s utterances, a discourse on its significance, and then the corresponding piece of music – fortunately we were spared the longeurs of such an arrangement on this occasion!

The work’s dark, D Minor introduction, Maestoso ed Adagio, straightaway engaged our attention, with the players’ fully-voiced and deep-throated sounds generating a real sense of impending tragedy and sorrow, and throwing into relief the more consoling F-major sequences before the opening’s inevitable, inescapable return. The mood actually lightened with the first of Christ’s utterances to be reflected in the music’s phrasings – “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do”, the tones  conciliatory and stressing the idea of mercy and forgiveness even in the face of betrayal, mockery and abandonment merely hinted at here by the occasional intimation of darkness.

Similar sentiments coloured the exchange between Christ and the repentant thief via the words  “Today, you will be with me in Paradise”. Major and minor key sequences readily brought to us the drama of the encounter, with forceful attack by the strings on the high exposed notes, followed by the reprise of the opening reaffirming Christ’s positive recognition of the sinner’s repentance.  In a different context was the great and touching tenderness which came over the music for the following “Woman, behold thy son”, where Jesus enjoins his mother to regard her vigil’s companion John the Apostle as her son in his place,  the “held” chords at the phrase-beginnings and the two-note answerings especially affecting, as were the even more plaintive  interactions between strings and winds in the music’s development.

With the dramatic “My God, my God, whv has thou forsaken me?” the level of angst and anguish was suddenly heightened, though with the music’s exhortations reiterated in a major key, having the effect of “humanising” the suffering, the solo violin passages concentrating one’s concept of a single person’s ordeal with its exposed quality, extended by the cello’s and others’ solo lines. And how piteously Haydn then honed in on this suffering in the following “I thirst”,  firstly by the poignant use of pizzicato notes as a background to the words, then forthright repeated-note patterns suggesting the suffering Christ’s extreme duress, as the heart-rending call is echoed by the various winds – also, how affecting is the recapitulation of these various piteous elements of the scene, as the drama draws closer to its end! One must pay special tribute to the brasses in these darker, more dramatic sequences, their colourings adding weight and gravitas to the depictions for our increased absorption!

The drama then enacted, it seemed, a number of “conclusions” of a kind, the first being the finality of the words “It is finished” – a bald unison statement, then a harmonised repetition through the orchestra, the composer alternating the “bare” melody with the harmonised version, as if indicating an eventual cessation of suffering, and an attaining of a “better place”, which indicates why the music didn’t return to the minor key-opening. Then came the final grand statement “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit”, the last of the utterances and a total acceptance, indicated by a warmly sonorous E-flat major – in fact, the music here almost becomes balletic in places, with a triple-time decorative figure appearing for a number of bars – an undeniable sense of occasion, coupled with a certain expectation – but of what?

The answer, of course, came with the final, unnerving “Il terremoto” (The Earthquake), voiced in a frenzied C Minor, which the rushing strings , the thundering timpani and the baleful winds and brasses made splendid use of with suitably telling characterful and concerted seismic gesturings – as if the composer was here adding his voice to all those who have since proclaimed that “this, truly, was the Son of God”. It brought a precipitate finish to what had been a largely contemplative occasion, one whose reflective meditation on aspects of the human condition with its capacities for empathy, forgiveness and love made for a moving and worthwhile experience.

 

 

WORLD PREMIERE AT WELLINGTON’S “THE LONG HALL”

Erwin Schulhoff – Duo for Violin and ‘Cello (1925)*
Gao Ping – A Lingering Echo (2025) World Premiere
Dmitri Shostakovich – String Quartet No.9 in E-flat Op.117

The Chamber Pot-Pourri Ensemble
Helene Pohl (leader)* / Monique Lapins (violin) / Christiaan van der Zee (viola)
Rolf Gjelsten (‘cello)*

Event held in conjunction with the Kaibosh Food Rescue Charity

The Long Hall, Point Jerningham, Roseneath, Wellington
Saturday, 22^nd March 2025

One of Wellington’s best-kept secrets of recent times is a building in Roseneath called “The Long Hall”, situated on the land high up from where Oriental Parade turns into Evans Bay Parade, overlooking Point Jerningham. The area is a place best known as a venue for “21-gun salutes” made to honour visiting dignitaries to the capital – but more lately the once-dilapidated hall further up the hill from where the guns are fired has been enjoying a beautifully-restored lease of life, far from those days when it was first set up as an RSA clubroom, and later a practice-venue  for the City of Wellington Pipe band, and then allowed to fall into disuse and disrepair. Rather than lose what seemed to be an obvious community resource, various people reactivated local interest in the hall, among them dance-teacher and events-organiser-extraordinaire Jennifer Shennan, whose particular vision, interest and energies inspired others to join with her to encourage ever-increasing use of the venue,  forming a Trust in 2008 to help organise the hall’s proper restoration.

Today, “The Long Hall” (named to honour the extent of the restoration processes) is proudly and stylishly reclad with native timber floors, a new roof, and its original kauri table-tops refurbished, to the enjoyment and satisfaction of a  host of current users and audiences who gather for events such as today’s concert –  the beginning of a new series of “benefit concerts”, this one in aid of a well-known food rescue charity known as Kaibosh (begun as long ago as 2008!) which collects and redistributes excess food produce to community groups.

Styled as “Comfy Concert #1” by way of emphasising a more relaxed concert atmosphere here in “The Long Hall” the event was introduced by former New Zealand String Quartet leader Helene Pohl, whose group, enterprisingly named “The Chamber Pot-Pourri Ensemble” also included two other former members of the NZSQ, violinist Monique Lapins and ‘cellist Rolf Gjelsten, as well as freelance violist Christiaan van der Zee. The group chose a programme containing works by composers whose music had some commonality or connection – both Erwin Schulhoff and Dmitri Shostakovich suffered the privations of official disapproval of their work at various times (terminally in Schulhoff’s case), and a third and later composer, Gao Ping, has expressed a fervent admiration for Shostakovich’s music, manifested in a new work “A Lingering Echo” which on this occasion was receiving its actual premiere performance.

The concert opened with Erwin Schulhoff’s Duo for Violin and ‘Cello, composed in 1925. Helene Pohl called the piece “a thrilling musical kaleidoscope” in her programme note, which she and ‘cellist Rolf Gjelsten further elaborated by demonstrating  some of the technical and ultra-expressive devices used by the composer (himself a brilliant string-player),  alerting us to the piece’s incredible extremes of tones, timbres and dynamics across its four movements.

A hymn-like opening theme gradually divested itself of gravitas in pursuit of  more exploratory elaborations – before long the players had energised these more quixotic figurations into gestures that gradually took them to bleaker realms, the instruments sharing a wistful theme made ethereal by  harmonics, a “strained” dialogue that intensified into an “agitato” encounter, but ran out of energy! – the lines then re-emerged, somewhat chastened, in a “molto tranquillo” whose tones dissolved into a kind of tenuous distance.  The second movement’s “Zingaresca” Allegro giocoso was just that, a rollicking exchange of dance-like energies readily evoking a folkish Central European gathering, one whose momentums were engagingly tumbled down the hill at one diverting point, the players musically picking themselves up and carrying on, finishing with a disarmingly wry pizzicato gesture!

We were charmed by the Andantino’s opening exchanges of pizzicato-accompanied melody between the players, until the similar arco exchanges brought a rather more strained, acerbic quality to the interactions, an ”edge” to the heartfeltness. The finale at first seemed to bring back the work’s opening, like a meeting of old friends, though one which here appeared to stumble into contention and argument rather than pleasant exchange, though a heart-stopping series of tremulously beautiful ascending thirds seemed to quell any over-querulous spirits for the moment. However, waiting on the concluding pages was the Presto fanatico, introduced by the galloping cello, upon whose back the violin whooped and  hollered, until the music dramatically slowed, bring the players together in a cheek-by-jowl unison which then reared up spectacularly and delivered its concluding flourish! Wow!

Next to be performed was the afternoon’s “World Premiere”, a work by Chinese composer Gao Ping (a figure well-known to New Zealand audiences by dint of his presence in this country for a number of years as a composer, teacher and performer), written as a tribute to Shostakovich, The work’s title “A Lingering Echo” came from a statement written for the concert’s programme by Gao Ping concerning the work’s genesis, one which deserves to be printed here in full: –

“Shostakovich was part of the reason I became a composer. He was a hero for whole generations of Chinese musicians. Like a lingering echo, he exists in our musical memory, but more than that, he holds a special symbolism in our consciousness. In his life’s struggles and compromises, and in the fierce and defiant expression in his music we witness a human condition that resonates with us regardless of era or space. A Lingering Echo for string quartet is my personal response to the man and the musician. There is no direct quotation from him in the sense of borrowed material, but in all three movements there are constant references to the Shostakovich in my memory and imagination”.

Of interest is the historical association three of this afternoon’s quartet musicians have with the composer. During Gao Ping’s years of residence in New Zealand while an Associate Professor of Music at Canterbury University, he frequently worked with the New Zealand String Quartet as both a performer and composer at the time when Helene Pohl. Rolf Gjelsten and Monique Lapins were members of that same Quartet. Today’s performance would have benefitted considerably from the degree of first-hand experience and identification with the composer’s music in general brought by these same musicians to the occasion. With such  things in mind we awaited all the more eagerly the appearance of the quartet to give this work its first public hearing. In such an intimate environment as “The Long Hall” the occasion seemed all the more direct and epoch-making. I had attended the occasional premiere of New Zealand works in the past but none seemed more “laden” and singular than this one!

The music began with a kind of processional, the textures open and simple at first, but growing more complex as the work proceeded, the two violins intermingling their lines  and the lower strings underpinning the textures – the composer’s directive here was simply “Slow, steady, lonely”, very Shostakovich-like indicators of tone, trajectory and atmosphere. Tremolandi accompanied a first violin recitative as the music took on an almost pointillistic aspect with single notes sounded amidst the ambiences – as the first violin took up the vistas with harmonics the second filled in the dots with pizzicato, everything having begun to drift stratospherically as befitted the composer’s directive – “lonely” – joining forces at the end with the awaiting silence….

Gao Ping’s instruction for the second movement, “Restless, desperate” promised a different kind of experience – and so it proved. Begun with slashing, thrusting chordings, and weighed with heavy, restless phrases, the imposing sound-blocks fitted themselves into a formidable trajectory – a tonal juggernaut throwing out fusillades of sound –  though there was plenty of volatility going along with the ride. Zigzagging individual criss-crossing lines had their say before being superseded by the pompous, heavily-weighted sound-boulders on their grinding journey, continuing the exchange until a violin solo atop a strong, groaning theme brought a sense of lamenting – the first violin’s line piteous, and the second exuding anxiety and agitation – but their pleas halted the dragging, behemoth-like sounds previously heard, clearing the soundscape to allow a sprinkling of the first violin’s harmonics, the second’s tremolandi along with the viola’s, and the cello’s “bounced” notes. The music became fugue-like, using both arco and pizzicato – here, my notes read “violins repeat theme, ‘cello makes a gruff comment, viola grimaces in reply…”  (it sounded as if Dmitri Dmitriyevitch would have readily approved of it all…) – the fugue-like writing continued, both violinists pushing their instruments along fiercely, interspersing the lines with pizzicato and with bows striking using the wood! – the instruments all appeared to rain blows upon an invisible assailant! – and then, with a sudden snarl, the music stopped!……

Mercifully, the composer allowed some outward calm following such a maelstrom – for the final movement, Gao Ping wrote “Measured, static, icy”, which music we settled back down to hear, perhaps not entirely free of trepidation, but released from any further out-and-out assault…here were sounds diametrically different to what we had just heard, bloodless, frozen tones, resembling slowly-melting ice……music shifting and swaying backwards and forwards,  the lower strings performing an ostinato while pizzicato notes gently dropped from the violins, who continued to sigh and creak and squeak…..leaving the lower strings to proclaim their hegemony with stronger chordings and moments of agitation, while the upper strings busied themselves with tentative climbing and falling figures – it seemed almost an ”Endgame” kind of scenario, with the state of things removed from contentment, and consigned to a kind of enigmatic oblivion. All that remained to add was that we, the audience, applauded lustily at the place we deemed was the end!

“The Long Hall” proved a very pleasant “interval” place in which to enjoy a respite from the demands exerted by such concentrated listening efforts (I mean no disrespect by prioritising the needs of the audience over those of the performing artists who’ve been doing all the “real” work, of course!). Still, it was a joy to have people so close at hand to talk with, which of course is all part of the “shared” experience of such an event.

In no time at all, it seemed, we had been summoned back to our seats (the quartet players were actually on the platform before many of us had sat down again!) and were ready to experience at first hand something of composer Gao Ping’s pleasure and wonderment at the music of his “hero”, Dmitri Shostakovich himself!  Earlier, I was thrilled to hear Rolf Gjelsten tell us of the plans of the Quartet to “share” (with the NZSQ) the presentation of the composer’s complete set of string quartets during this, the 50^th anniversary year of Shostakovich’s death. What riches we can anticipate enjoying! –  having two groups of musicians at hand capable of doing justice to these remarkable works of art, among the greatest of any in the string quartet medium!

Today we were to hear String Quartet No. 9, written in 1964 after a kind of hiatus of creativity regarding the quartet genre, when, three years before, in a burst of self-criticism, the composer reportedly burnt the first version of the quartet – accounts differ as to what happened next, as references are also made in some quarters to ANOTHER (this one incomplete) 9^th Quartet NOT burnt in the stove and marked as Op 113, its surviving Allegretto movement bearing some resemblance to the opening Moderato con moto movement of the finished work. Whatever the case, the new (and completed) No. 9 was dedicated to the composer’s third and surviving wife Irina Antonovna, whom he had married in 1962.

Reckoned as the last of Shostakovich’s three “personal” quartets, (the Seventh dedicated to his first wife, Nina, and the Eighth an autobiographical work, the Ninth shares another feature with the aforementioned ones, with movements that “flow” into one another without interruption. However,  the Ninth singularly has four short movements leading to a finale that’s practically a quartet in itself, as long as the other movements put together. So, though a lighter, less harrowing listen than the Eighth Quartet, it has its moments of anxiety and unease amid the sardonic humour and occasional high spirits.

The first movement’s opening has never seemed to me quite the “relaxed, self-satisfied” outpouring of good humour touted by some commentators – I’ve always heard a bitter-sweetness in some of the chromatic writing for the violins, though there’s the occasional jauntiness of the ‘cello writing which here and there tempts a smile. The immediacy of the venue gave the performers’ tones, textures and trajectories the same incredible intimacy and impact we’d of course already registered with the Schulhoff and Gao Ping items!

Chris van der Zee’s viola took us into the bleak beauty of the second movement’s Adagio, the music’s solemnity delicately treads the line between the sound’s Janus-faced tenderness and desolation – from this Helene Pohl’s violin made the first tentative impulses leading to a sudden vigorous polka-like Allegretto movement, with passing resemblances to Rossini’s “William Tell Overture – the excitemement grew when Monique Lapins’s violin excitingly upped the dynamic levels of the dance, and the music’s temperatures rose! – a kind of ghostly shiver then takes over the ensemble as the first violin makes ghoul-like utterances, repeated by the second violin before the music subsides once again into a second Adagio, darker and stranger than before, with a particularly gripping quality heightened by the closeness of the players – a quality heightened by Monique Lapins’ startling pizzicato, later replicated by Chris van der Zee’s viola – and what great playing by Helene Pohl in her impassioned recitative over the drone-like ambiences of the other instruments!

The beautiful chording which followed prepared us not a whit for the onslaught of the final movement’s aggressively-launched Allegro, the driving rhythms holding sway for a few measures before being taken over by a galumphing peasant-dance, Rolf Gjelsten’s cello contributing a superbly anguished and heartfelt sequence, before being led back to the wild dance by the viola, with the others joining in what sounded like “a devil of a fugue” before the ensemble concluded a tremolando passage with a “great gulp”. Cello recitatives and pizzicato chords seemed then to hold the ensemble in thrall, the concerted response being a series of ensembled pizzicato in reply – but a remarkable passage begin by the cello seemed to mould fragmented gestures from all the players together and stimulate enough concerted movement to  inspire the return of the cantering rhythm that brings back the “William Tell” motive, and  increasedly concerted excitement, leading to a gutsy, determined, “give-it-all-you’ve-got”  build up to a final unison statement of arrival! Its somewhat angular, offbeat trajectory allowed the final payoff to surprise everybody! – so there was a heartskipping moment of silence before we in the audience realised that the composer had actually left the building and it was time to applaud!

Casting the memory back over the afternoon gives one the feeling that it couldn’t have been done better! – very great honour and heartfelt thanks to all concerned for such a richly-appointed and meticulously-wrought show!

The Chamber Pot-Pourri Ensemble at Roseneath’s “The Long Hall” –  from left, Helene Pohl, Monique Lapins, Rolf Gjelsten and Chris van der Zee

 

 

 

Royal New Zealand Ballet & Scottish Ballet
St.James Theatre, Wellington
14 March 2025

Scottish Ballet are visiting New Zealand primarily to perform in Auckland Arts Festival, the full-length work A Streetcar Named Desire, choreographed by Annabelle Lopez Ochoa, to music by Peter Salem. (We saw Ochoa’s Requiem for a Rose here from RNZB a few seasons back and I remember liking it a lot, finding her choice of Schubert inspired).

A flying visit of Scottish Ballet to Wellington has enabled them to share with RoyalNew Zealand Ballet this short season of four works, two from each company. It’s acolourful programme of contrasts, quirky then charismatic, tight-tuned tension then riff & romp. Luckily it’s not a competition…

Scottish Ballet first visited here in 1979, when under the direction of Peter Darrell, who choreographed a number of works that gained international recognition. Touring with the company (known by variations of its title over the decades) were Margot Fonteyn, Ivan Nagy, and leading dancer ex-pat Patricia Rianne, who impressed in solo roles – Sonate à Trois, La Sylphide, La Ventana among others.(The story is remembered of an exhausted company finishing their tour in Dunedin, being piped across the tarmac by a local Scottish Pipe Band, moving the dancers to smiles and to tears. The ties that bind).

Another strong connection is that Scottish Ballet’s current artistic director, Christopher Hampson, was commissioned by RNZB’s Artistic Director Gary Harris to create two full-length works to Prokofiev scores — Romeo  & Juliet, 2003, a filmic drama in a setting that combined traditional and contemporary elements to extraordinary effect, and Cinderella, 2007, with a finely nuanced reading of character into the main roles. Both are remembered as masterworks in our Company’s repertoire.

SB’s opening work on the current programme is Schachmatt ( derived from Persian shah mat – the king is dead, Checkmate), choreographed by Cayetano Soto. The floor cloth is a giant chequer board but that image is unfortunately lost to all those sitting in the stalls. From above that may have added a shaping dimension of meaning to the swift lines, entries and exits of uniform groups in a myriad of movements, to a cluster of many pieces of music, from Michael Le Grand to Maria Teresa Lora. Jockeys’ hats were worn throughout, with cheeky wit and quirky twerks all part of the race.

RNZB followed with Shaun James Kelly’s Prismatic, a contemporary tribute to the talisman work from our company’s first decade, Prismatic Variations, co-choreographed by Russell Kerr and Poul Gnatt, with fabulous set design (then and still) by Raymond Boyce. This choreographic treatment gives opportunities to the dancers to convey enthusiasm through every move, and none of those are wasted. They are clearly inspired, as were the original dancers, by the music ( Brahms — Variations on a Theme by Haydn). Every dancer is outstanding but Kihiro Kusukami is a particular comet. Kelly takes every chance to lift the dancers clear of gravity, which in turn takes us with them. It’s an infectious joy of architectural choreography.

Limerence was seen in the recent RNZB Tutus on Tour programme. Here in the larger venue it rises to an even greater level of dramatic tension as it delves into the psychological challenge of the central character who is haunted, even undone, by memories of early or other relationships. It is moving to watch that breakdown, portrayed in a phenomenal performance by Joshua Guillemot-Rodgerson. The anxious and perplexed group of those who would help if only they knew how, is equally poignant, with committed performances by Ana Gallardo Lobaina, Katherine Minor and Kihiro Kusukami. There is a hint of hope in the final moments when Lobaina is lifted aloft to walk forward into the future’s airy shadows. We must go on. Every move meets the Schubert piano composition phrase for phrase. I could watch this work every month for the rest of my life.

The final work Dextera, by Sophie Laplane, is to 10 excerpts of different Mozart’s compositions, so the intention is not to follow where that thread leads but is instead a cryptic and comic play of male v female, power & control, fashion & fancy. It toys with the theme of a created being (Coppélia maybe) that takes on a life of its own and learns to fight back on its own terms. The red glove, no wait there’s a pair, no, wait, there’s 20 pairs, become symbol of that coercion which then wittily subverts the tired old order.

An improvised finale has all the dancers from both companies filling the stage in a party dance that assures us they’ve all had a ball. Our dancers don’t get to travel to meet other companies, so this would have been a tonic for them. Meantime a red lunar eclipse has moved across the Wellington sky, a celestial choreography if ever there was one, a very hard act to follow, but luckily it’s  not a competition…

JS BACH – The Well-tempered Clavier Books One and Two BWV 545-593
Michael Houstoun (piano)
Rattle Records RAT D155 2024 (4)

Recording Producer – Kenneth Young
Recorded by John Kim and Steve Garden
at the Symonds Street, University of Auckland Music Theatre

“Not ”Brook” but “Ocean” should be his name.”
(Ludwig Van Beethoven, commenting on the German “Bach” meaning “Brook”)

No recording dates are given in the characteristically austere documentation accompanying Rattle’s issue of this historic recorded undertaking by Michael Houstoun, the first by a New Zealand pianist featuring Johann Sebastian Bach’s legendary “48” – the composer’s twice-completed survey of all twenty-four major and minor keys, each in “prelude-and-fugue” form, making ninety-six individual pieces in all. It’s surely worthy for posterity’s sake to note that the 2024 recording dates for the first of the two books were April 6th to 8^th, and for the second, July 5^th to 8^th  (my thanks to Steve Garden for that information!).

Houstoun has previously played both books of Bach’s monumental work in concert over some years – quick searches I made turned up occasions like a 2016 Adam Concert Room performance in Wellington of the entire Bk.2 as part of the Judith Clark Memorial Piano series, and consecutive-evening performances of each of the two books of the “48” in the Music Theatre of the University of Auckland in May 2017, and again on two October afternoons in The Great Hall, Christchurch Arts Centre, that same year. These works have obviously been in his repertoire for sufficient time to consider and make the decision to commit his oft-sounded-out thoughts about them to a recording.

The notes accompanying this production, written by Houstoun himself, fittingly express what this music means to him, inextricably as a pianist and as a human being, with the singular phrase “a series of bottom lines of incalculable value”. He goes on to discuss both melody and harmony in the light of his quoting Beethoven’s words which describe Bach the “master of harmony” by means which the pianist describes as “the miraculous weaving together” of melody. And he talks about the music’s “sheer pulsation” of rhythm and the sense of an infinite trajectorial energy through which Bach seems at times to “carry us into eternity” (a phenomenon which I vividly recall “drew me in” on my own first hearing of the work, many years ago!). Another of Houstoun’s “bottom lines” refers to the actual “character” of the individual pieces, the pianist maintaining that there is more to each one than being either a “keyboard exercise” or “an amenable grouping of notes and rests” – though as the notes themselves contain no dynamic or tempo markings, much of the “character” which emerges from each piece would be at the performer’s own discretion.

What gives these performances something of a singular flavour is Houstoun’s making available to the listener his own brief impressions of each of the pieces’ separate “characters” – he had previously listed these in the programme notes to his former live performances, citing Debussy’s example with his Preludes of publishing titles or descriptions of the pieces. Hans Von Bulow did a similar thing when performing Chopin’s 24 Preludes, some of which epithets have actually stuck to a couple of the pieces over the years. Though curious to know how many others might have applied such an idea to Bach’s work I could find only one instance recorded of a previous occasion when a pianist had performed the “48” with their own descriptions of each Prelude and Fugue listed in the programme, along with some of the responses to this being done! The latter were, to say the least, varied – I’ve chosen just two  polarising samples below…..

This is a terrible idea. You will burn in the Lake of Fire for even considering such a thing.

If someone doesn’t like this, can they just not read them {the titles}? For me they would give an interesting perspective on the performer’s thoughts.

I find myself happy with the latter reaction, in that, especially in the case of Bach’s unadorned scores, ideal performances would surely feature an amalgam of inspirations, ideas and sounds from both composer and performer. How far the latter chooses to reveal such characterisations as a performer is, of course, a personal choice, as is the listener’s in terms of “taking them on”.

From time to time when listening to these stunningly-wrought realisations of Bach’s ineffable genius from Houstoun, I found myself wanting to go back to other interpretations of certain of the pieces I’d heard – by no means did I want to revert to exhaustive comparisons, but merely to register the extent my previous reactions to the music were here either replicated or modified. I’d listened most often to the sets by Sviatoslav Richter, Tatyana Nikolaeva, Andras Schiff and Angela Hewitt (the latter’s second 2007-8 recording) over the years and was interested to “place” my reaction to Houstoun’s performances in the light of those earlier hearings. What follows below isn’t a track-by-track commentary, but a series of observations from my journey with this new recording, interspersed by memories of detail which, as I recall, gave somewhat different impressions, and which stimulated a desire on my part to “update” my own relationship with this remarkable work.

At the outset of Houstoun’s performance (Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major) I was instantly entranced – here was tone, tempo and temperament which seemed ideally suited to the notes, creating a kind of encapsulation of the whole in a single span of music-making, an “exposition”, then a “development” and finally a “recapitulation”, more in an emotional than a technical sense, of course, but particularly apparent in this glowing account, one which when I listened to other performances I found myself continuing to value Houstoun’s as highly as a singular experience.

The contrast afforded by the C Minor Prelude (No.2) is suitably dramatic, with touches of the gothic from the pianist’s closely-worked harmonic shifts in the piece’s cadenza at the end, to which the fugue offers a stern reprove! A marvellous change in colour and momentum is afforded by the following C-sharp major Prelude, like thistledown at play, with gorgeously feathery articulations, tempered by a schoolmistressy kind of following fugue, a-fluster at all the gaiety, but secretly longing to join in. One of the great ones of the set is No. 4 in C-sharp minor (Houstoun calls it “Lamentoso”), its reflective sorrow demonstrative in the Prelude and ritualistic in the fugue, the latter building towards institutionalised grief by the end – Houstoun’s recording is quite a contrast with Angela Hewitt’s “growing from darkness” approach in both pieces, a more personalised kind of sound-world – but how beautifully Houstoun himself “sounds” the fugue’s concluding phrase, here.

My own listener’s introduction to the “48” was with the D Major No. 5, and the late, great John Ogdon’s sparkling playing of it all on a recital disc – such “joie de vivre” in the Prelude, and then beautifully-contrasting “lampoonings” of the piece’s opening notes in the Fugue, “snapping” the two-note payoffs of this response in a way that Houstoun eschews with his less playful pairings (both Hewitt and Andras Schiff follow Ogdon’s ebullience, here) though the new performance still delights with its almost schoolboy exuberance of the whole.

It would take too long to go through all of the remaining pieces of Book One as above, though some I still need to “single out” for their ear-catching effect and the superb finish of their presentation. One such is the following No.6, the D Minor, with a Prelude Houstoun calls “Night Ride”, and to which he brings flowing legato tones that actually suggest a dream-like airborne journey, though I don’t “get” his “Creeping Anxiety” impression of the Fugue, which to me suggests more of a “hall of mirrors”, equally gorgeous in effect but suitably bewildering in its echoings and inversions.
A pairing which surprises with its “weight of sorrow”, following as it does the grandly ceremonial E flat Major prelude and Fugue is the latter’s minor-key counterpart, No.8, with its eloquent aria, and sombre three-part Fugue, all of which Houstoun sustains nobly in a kind of “dark suspense”, a mood which the following E Major Prelude’s contrasting sunniness immediately dispels, especially with its determinedly cheerful Fugue, exactly  like “three village gossips”, the phrase by which Angela Hewitt describes its effect!

Moving onto the second disc, we first encounter the brightly fresh F-sharp major Prelude (No.13), with Houstoun’s title “Playing Around” – not a note is wasted in this up-front and totally engaging reading, the accompanying Fugue having a similarly “open” vocal quality, admirably suiting the pianist’s epithet “Sing”. I also instantly warmed to the vigorously athletic No. 15 in G Major and its attitude-striking fugal companion, with its opening subject’s final “so what?” single note, and its droll inversions which suggest a reply. No.17 pairs a jolly dance with a Fugue known in the German-speaking world as  the ”Cathedral Fugue”, a most attractive coupling, moving from gaiety to a more contained and ceremonial mood, one which in the pianist’s hands here, glows and sings.

In places Houstoun’s playing for me recalls that of Helmut Walcha, the blind German keyboard player of a couple of generations ago, and from whose recordings I learnt some of Bach’s keyboard works, among them the “English Suites” – Walcha favoured steady, largely unvaried tempi whose cumulative effect always seemed to compensate for a sparseness of variety and colour – and I was reminded of this by the G-sharp minor Prelude and Fugue, here, the former sombre, the latter unrelenting (echoing the pianist’s description “A grim tale” in its implaccable delivery). What a joy, then, to encounter its successor, the bright, breezy and beautiful A major Prelude (No.19) with its gorgeously pealing bells in the left hand, and then delight in its zany companion, a Fugue whose trajectories can render the unprepared mind bemused and befuddled before the notes finally scamper into well-drilled lines and dance one’s senses towards the end. Gorgeous playing!

I warmed also (who wouldn’t!) towards the toccata-like No.21 in B-flat major (Houstoun’s title for the Prelude enshrining a somewhat more insistent song than that of Vaughan Williams’ celebrated lark), with the Fugue suggesting some kind of celestial angelic rejoicing at this earthly manifestation of exuberance and freedom. Its antithesis is surely its minor-key equivalent (No. 22), the Prelude music of mourning, which Houstoun, not without reason, styles as “Road to Golgotha” (Christ’s crucifixion-place), here, a lonely and pitiless way, almost Schubertian in a “Winterreise” sense. The five-voiced fugue which follows is superbly essayed here, containing the feeling of a multitude immersed in grief.

Whatever consolation one might seek from any such feeling is duly encompassed, though not so much by the bright-and-bubbly B Major Prelude (No. 23) nor its gregarious Fugue with what Angela Hewitt describes as its “gentle transparency” – surely any such “grand consolation” is the preserve of No.24, the B Minor Prelude and Fugue, one whose performance I first heard by Sviatoslav Richter many years ago, and whose tones and trajectories have haunted me like no other performance since, save for Tatiana Nikolayeva’s similarly-conceived reading. Despite it being one of the few Preludes in the WTC with the composer’s own tempo direction (Andante) one can find recordings of it played at a variety of speeds, from Youri Egorov’s near-static amble to Glenn Gould’s purposeful trot, each with its own orbital kind of ambience – while my preference is still for the expansive Russian-school (Egorov/Richter/Nikolayeva) approach, the other pianists mentioned above (Hewitt, Schiff, Gould) have broadened my perspectives regarding different approaches to the music. Houstoun’s playing of the Prelude here unstintingly aligns with the latter group, thus stimulating further re-thinking on my part of the music’s varied capabilities.

And so we’re brought to Michael Houstoun’s exploration of Bach’s Book Two of his “The Well-tempered Clavier”, which the composer, at this time working in Leipzig as Cantor at the Thomaskirche, built up from various sources with constantly-added revisions, enlargements and transpositions. Book One had been extensively used by the composer in his teaching, and after fifteen years he would have wanted a change, as well as “updating” his own compositional style. But he also wanted to “collect and systematise” his own output, which included revising his thoughts regarding a new collection of pieces in twenty-four keys, and producing something with numerous and significant differences. So, Book Two is longer, the writing is more complex, and has a higher degree of technical difficulty for the performer.

Right from the outset the difference is apparent, with the C Major Prelude of Book Two beginning on the grandest scale, in marked contrast to the gentle simplicity of Book One’s opening. Houstoun’s title “The Universe as a Temple” and his monumental pianism reflects the scale of the composer’s conception here, while the three-part Fugue’s energy and playfulness is characterised as “Invitation to Joy (birthright)”. I loved Houstoun’s delineations of the C sharp major Prelude No. 3 , with its mesmerising harmonic shifts and its energised coda-like “Fughetta”, the latter preparing us for the Fugue proper – a character, this one, with a slightly gauche aspect at its beginning, but flexing its muscles increasingly and creating increased momentum toward the end.

I confess to being surprised by the severity of the C sharp minor Prelude (No. 4), whose sounds I’ve more often heard “breathed” as much as played in places, allowing its lyricism to more readily “touch a nerve” – and the Fugue here I thought also had an insistence I found wearisome by the end. But amends are made with the gloriously ceremonial D Major Prelude, trumpets and drums revelling in Houstoun’s vigorous playing. And what a dramatic change in mood with the Fugue! – Houstoun’s “Alms giving” description is curiously appropriate, with its solemn, reverential air of benevolence.  Contrasts abound, here, as the following Prelude, No. 6 in D minor, bursts upon us with what sounds like vehemence at first but gradually gives way to a gruff kind of drollery – and Houstoun gives the Fugue just enough “schwung” to suggest a kind of musical M.C.Escher study in levitational contrasts before the composer deposits us in our bemused state on ground level once again.

Houstoun is all grace and charm with the E-flat major Prelude (No.7), a lovely Pastorale-like dance, whose Fugue, with its rising fifth was considered in some quarters a synonym for God, and Bach himself considered the key of E-flat major in accordance with “the peace of mind that flows from the Trinity” – in all, a happy concordance of music, composer and interpreter. The straightaway more angular D sharp minor Prelude (No.8) has a different, more obsessive character (I liked Houstoun’s “Agreeing to disagree” description!), its Fugue described by the famed commentator Donald Francis Tovey as an “Aeschylean chorus”, (Aeschulus was a Greek poet who regarded music as an important “extra dimension” in the drama), the music’s intensities here underlined (as Bach was wont to do with his fugues) by successive stretto-like entries of whatever subject.

All of this is then left behind in the most disarming way here, by the Prelude No. 9 in E major, with Bach treating our senses to a beguiling fusion of gentle voices here (some of Houstoun’s most ingratiating playing of the set) and in the old-fashioned fugal “Stile antico” which follows (and, was that a snatch of “Rule Britannia” I heard right at the fugue’s end?). Bach’s invention here has played havoc with my intention of singling out highlights from the set and producing a readable review, as the great moments simply keep coming! – in the wake of the disarming E major work we get an arresting  E Minor Prelude (No.10) with its steady stream of semiquavers occasionally played alongside a long trill, their combination heightening the tensions, and a Fugue which the famous harpsichordist Wanda Landowska described as “combatative and vehement”, which qualities Houstoun does full justice with some superbly-controlled playing.

Definitely worth a mention (and closing the third disc) is the Prelude No. 12 in F Minor, written by Bach in what was becoming the new “empfindsamer Stil” (sensitive style) , made popular by the composer’s son Carl Philipp Emanuel, and demonstrating something of that aforementioned “updating of his (Bach senior’s) own compositional style”. And so to the final disc through which, in the interests of readers being able to “complete the course” I’ll quickly pass, through Houstoun’s winsomely fluent F sharp major Prelude and its attractive gavotte-like Fugue, and the “singing” wistfulness of the following Minor-key Prelude , and its monumental, more stoical Fugue. Houstoun then gives the Master’s eye an engaging glint with the sparkling G Major Prelude and its “toy fanfare” Fugue, before returning to severity with the double-dotted G Minor Prelude (No.16) and its fugal mix of brass calls, repeated notes and grand final gesturings. And mention must definitely be made of the pianist’s masterful control in the Fugue of the following A flat Prelude, penetrating the increasing thickness of the texture with great sensitivity and a sure sense of where it’s all going!

I liked the “galant” style of the following G sharp minor Prelude (No.18) with its delicious chromatic descent in the piece’s middle, and its Fugue taking us into similarly fantastic-sounding byways (with Houstoun clear-headed, as always, as to where he’s taking the listener!). The same qualities help to illuminate the Prelude No.20 in A minor with its constant vertiginous exchange and inversion of themes, dream-sequence stuff that pushes the limits of tonality, especially in the piece’s second half, and in the somewhat zany Fugue that follows (perhaps Bach’s most uncompromising, almost feral in its attitude!) The gently lyrical B flat major Prelude (No.21) and its minuet-like Fugue that follows is part restorative (Houstoun calls the Prelude “Lyric pleasure’ and the Fugue “Persuasive conversation”) and part preparatory for the expected rigours of the work’s final three pieces.

In effect we have already been subjected to the most demanding of the pieces’ travails, as each of the remaining trio is respectively a satisfying summation of rigour, energy and delight (even Houstoun at one point enjoins us to “be of good cheer”!). Beginning with the Prelude in B flat minor (No.22) which has a gently insistent, almost bell-pealing quality, but followed by a more rigorous Fugue bent upon forward motion of both subject and its inversion, we are then taken to the more bubbling and winsome B Major with its “concerto-like” passages that suggest a soloist in places, and with a Fugue that achieves by its deceptively “spare” beginning a wondrously festive air in Houstoun’s hands. But the biggest surprise is the concluding dance-like B Minor Prelude which, though in a “self-contained” minor key has its own particular glow of satisfaction, its buoyancy continued in the Fugue, the sequence as firmly and deftly characterised by Houstoun as his approach to the entire collection. Bach here chooses to conclusively proclaims his genius not with any self-conscious grandeur or brilliance but with humanity and generosity – all are things to which Michael Houstoun responds throughout this set with playing of remarkable technical brilliance and, for me, in most instances regarding the individual pieces, persuasive empathy. Whatever one’s tastes it’s an enterprise whose achievement richly rewards investigation, and as such can be enthusiastically recommended.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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