Italian Embassy brings pianist to Wellington with interesting programme

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Luciano Bellini – piano
(presented by the Embassy of Italy)

Domenico Scarlatti: Sonatas, in E, K 380 and in D minor K 64
Luciano Bellini: from the Album Mediterrando (Spartenza, Habanera, Fado, Preludio e Aria Egea, Promenade, Tramonto sul Bosforo, Sirtaky, Bolero, Saltarello)
Luciano Berio: Six Encores for Piano: Brin, Erdenklavier, Wasserklavier
Verdi: Romance without words and Waltz in F major
Leoncavallo: Canzonetta
Alban Berg, Sonata Op 1
Ferruccio Busoni, All’Italia
Alfredo Casella: Due Ricercari sul nome B.A.C.H.

The Opera House, Manners Street

Sunday 19 April, 5:30 pm

A colleague picked up information about a piano recital by a visiting Italian pianist, under the auspices of the Italian Embassy. Luciano Bellini: not a name I knew; a bare outline of his programme; some names that suggested quite serious music among some oddities and curiosities.

One has to take seriously someone advertising Berg’s Piano Sonata, as well as a couple of pieces by Italian composers of real distinction: Berio and Casella, and a perhaps slight piece by the great Italo-German pianist/composer Ferruccio Busoni. Two of Scarlatti’s little sonatas are always a nice prelude to any piano recital.

So I managed to get back on the train from the New Zealand String Quartet’s concert at Waikanae, just in time – but sadly missing the last piece at Waikanae, Dvořák’s String Quartet Op 105.

Foyer quite busy with a number of notably well-dressed people – clearly Italian: glad I wasn’t in shorts and jandals.

Luciano Bellini does not disclose his age in the material I’ve been able to see on the Internet. I’d guess early or mid 60s.

I enjoyed his Scarlatti, relaxed, graceful, pleasantly rhythmical, by no means concerned to display brilliance or speed, but simply making music in his own way.

Then came an album of shortish pieces by the pianist himself, called Mediterrando, extremely colourful and varied pieces that evoke the sounds and rhythms of many – nine – parts of what the ancient Romans and evidently Italians today, called Mare Nostrum – ‘our sea’, the Mediterranean. They began with an inspiration from Sparta, touched Spain with a habanera and Portugal with fado, Turkey, modern Greece, and so on.

Luciano Berio was a leading figure in the Italian avant-garde after the second World War, associated with the Darmstadt school with Dallapiccolo, Boulez, Stockhausen, Ligeti, Maderna … His Encores for Piano, written in the 1990s, were three in number from a total of six. Four of them, according to
notes I have found on the Internet, only in Italian, explored the sonic potential of the four elements: earth, air, fire and water, as defined by the pre-Socratic philosopher Empedocles (this from the pianist’s notes); he was famous in myth for perishing in an eruption by Mount Etna on Sicily. The first, Brin – the timbral possibilities of the piano achieved through clever games with pedals and sustained notes. The other two: the ‘Earth Piano’ and the ‘Water Piano’, considered these elements in terms that reflected the understandings of the ancient Greeks.

The music itself was both intriguing and attractive, even though cast, as to be expected from Berio, in a near serial language, and Bellini’s performance exposed its colour and variety.

Two piano pieces by Verdi were interesting if unremarkable, Mendelssohn close by in the Romance without words, and a charming Waltz, not Straussian, but operatic in tone, a bit blowsey as a composition and in its playing, appropriately.

If ever you wondered what Leoncavallo did with the rest of his life after Pagliacci, here was an example: a Canzonetta, an enjoyable fast piece in dance rhythm. Can’t find a reference to it anywhere, including the only CD of his piano music I can find, by Dario Müller for Naxos.

Then came the major work, clearly intended to demonstrate that we were not hearing a mere salon piano player: Alban Berg’s piano sonata, his Opus 1. It’s gritty, more gritty that the many songs he wrote earlier, and later. Though he’d started taking lessons from Schoenberg it is not a serial work, or even atonal; however, its tonality is often obscure and it is not notable for its tunes. This was a very competent if not highly illuminating or arresting performance. Its mastery doesn’t come readily, and Bellini is to be admired for its inclusion.

Ferruccio Busoni was born in Tuscany, a brilliant pianist and conductor as well as composer, who sought to promote contemporary music, but whose own music perhaps lacked something of melodic and emotional appeal. He lived in various parts of Europe, but mostly in Berlin where he died. His most famous work might well be his piano arrangement of the Chaconne from Bach’s solo violin Partita in D minor. Bellini played his approachable salute to Italy, All’Italia, containing echoes of turn of the century compositions; the second part was in a saltarello rhythm, rhapsodic with occasional smudges. This too was far from boring.

The recital ended with another moderately familiar and quite important Italian composer, Alfredo Casella, a near contemporary of Berg, musically educated in Paris and influenced by Debussy. His 1932 Due ricercari on the name BACH, followed many who had used the letters, in German notation, as a theme for variations. The repetition of the notes B flat, A, C, B soon became too insistent. After all, the range is very small and the emphatic playing tended to obliterate whatever interest there may otherwise have been in the work.

There were a couple of very suitable encores – Musetta’s waltz song from La bohème and a Chopin mazurka.

Though it was a curiously constructed programme, there was enough variety to entertain a general audience, and a few significant pieces by important composers to engage those more anxious to explore the unexpected or unusual. Professor Bellini’s visit to Wellington was worthwhile and the Embassy is to be encouraged to undertake such ventures again. One of the ambassador’s predecessors took a very real interest in Wellington’s musical life, taking every opportunity to bring Italian music and musicians to our attention.

 

Outstanding programme by New Zealand String Quartet at Waikanae

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Waikanae Music Society

Mozart: String quartet no.20 in D, K.499 “Hoffmeister”
Shostakovich: String quartet no.3 in F, Op. 73
Dvořák: String quartet no.14 in A flat, Op.105

New Zealand String Quartet (Helene Pohl and Donald Armstrong, violins; Gillian Ansell, viola; Rolf Gjelsten, cello)

Waikanae Memorial Hall

Sunday 19 April 2015, 2.30pm

Since Gillian, Helene and now Douglas have all suffered hand injuries, is Rolf Gjelsten next – or does it simply prove that the cello is much the safest instrument to play?   The audience at Waikanae was fortunate that the substitute for Douglas Beilman was such a fine chamber musician as Donald
Armstrong.

Gillian Ansell introduced the first work as being both sublime and light-hearted, and so it proved.  The superb balance of the team was apparent right from the outset.  Their strong, confident playing was yet subject to great variation of dynamics.  The quick allegretto first movement showered over one in a rain of beautiful notes and cadences.  To mix the meteorological metaphor: the mood was uplifting and sunny, like the day.

The minuet and trio contained delightful phrases, almost seeming to be impulsive in their gaiety, while the adagio third movement epitomised peace – surely an appropriate theme for this week.  Its solemnity betrayed the fact that it was full of fresh ideas; mellowness and serenity typified the mood.  Apart from a few unison notes that were not utterly united, one could not fault the beautiful playing.

The allegro finale’s surprise opening led to a jolly outpouring of delicious phrases, harmonies and running passages.  To see the smiles of the performers as they took their bows to the audience gave the strong impression that they enjoyed themselves too.

Shostakovich’s quartet no.3 was not one with which I was familiar.  Helene Pohl introduced it, making a contrast between the composer’s necessary recitation, as a student, of the happiness brought by Joseph Stalin and her own required recitation of allegiance to the US flag, when she was young. The exemplary
programme notes stated that the quartet was written in 1946 as a ‘war quartet’ and gave the descriptions that the composer had original given to the movements.  All this made it an appropriate work for the week leading up to Anzac Day, and contributed hugely to the audience’s understanding of the music.

The first movement (allegretto) opens with a dance of apparent innocence and joy.  It was tuneful, with interesting harmonic twists (‘Calm unawareness of the future cataclysm’).  There followed passages in a high tessitura, that became frenetic, perhaps as a precursor of what was to come.  They were followed by a cheeky ending.

The moderato con moto second movement was very different (‘Rumblings of unrest and anticipation’), being ominous and even excruciating in tone.  Repetitive passages could be depicting troops marching.  Some phrases made me think of dead flowers, which amplified the sombre mood of foreboding.

Movement three (allegro non troppo; ‘The forces of war unleashed’) was indeed as described.  There was relentless pursuit and counter-attack.  A sombre yet frenetic viola solo accompanied by the other strings playing pizzicato was remarkable.  Such skilled quartet writing!  It soon led to an abrupt ending.

The adagio (‘Homage to the dead’) fourth movement was written during a visit by Shostakovich to his home city of Leningrad, the scene of so much devastation and death so recently before.  A desolate
opening led to intense and emotional feelings of despondency and hopelessness.  Its outpourings at so much grieving, so much that the people had to cope with were tremendously powerful.

The final movement (moderato, ‘The eternal question: Why?  And for what?’) incorporated, Helene told us, Jewish music, with its characteristic ‘laughter through tears’.  Thus the jaunty section at the beginning (though the programme notes described it as ‘a wry, spectral melody’.  It was hardly jollity that was being described, and the mood soon reverted to one of bitterness and mourning, only to have the jaunty melody and rhythm return. Again, it does not last, and a quite tragic passage ends the movement and the quartet.

This was a remarkable performance; ‘searing’ as someone said to me.  It completely enveloped the audience; it was a singular triumph.

After the interval – some Dvořák to cheer us up!  The opening was a quiet adagio ma non troppo, in a mood of repose, and even sadness,  but we were soon into a delightful allegro appassionata, the melodies, harmonies and their accompaniment reminiscent of some of the composer’s other chamber music.  Energy drove all forward to a brisk ending.

The lyrical second movement (molto vivace) was like a quick dance, followed by a slower, more heart-felt melody.  It ended with a soon-to-be-unison note.

Lento e molto cantabile was soulful, with gorgeous inter-weaving harmonies, to be followed by quite a spooky theme.  A return to more passionate tones led to quite a calm close.  The allegro non tanto finale was a fast dance.  The vigorous playing led to a few wonky notes from the musicians, who must have surely been tired by now, with such a challenging programme behind them.

The large audience was privileged to hear fine performances in an outstanding programme of contrasts, and all showed their warm appreciation.

 

 

Orchestra Wellington on brilliant form opens six-concert series dominated by Tchaikovsky, Michael Houstoun and Russia

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Orchestra Wellington conducted by Marc Taddei with Michael Houstoun (piano)

Glinka: Kamarinskaya
Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No 3 in D minor, Op 30
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No 1 in G minor, Op 13

Michael Fowler Centre

Saturday 18 April 7:30 pm

The year’s programme which this concert inaugurated, has been most interestingly designed; with aspects that should kindle the interest of newcomers, of which I imagine there were many, as well as those more familiar with the orchestral repertoire.

This was achieved by the brilliant device of offering all six concerts for $108, or $18 each, so filling the auditorium.  I’m sure this is an example of the sophisticated economic phenomenon: ‘Less Is More’.

Given the numbers unfamiliar with real orchestral repertoire and the fact that Radio NZ Concert was recording it for use in June, it was sensible for genial and witty radio presenter Nigel Collins to appear on stage to coach the audience in useful radio audience behaviour and in the formalities followed as concert-master, conductor et al. arrive on stage.

This took a few minutes and I was surprised to hear, and hear of, certain grizzles from those to whom it was all ‘old-hat’, about the intrusion into their time.

The other reason for the success of this concert and, I’m sure, the whole series, is the programming.

Not that there’s anything radical or unusual these days about delivering programmes of the complete works of a particular composer or in a particular genre, or works of a particular era.

In the light of the common perception of Russia’s current political behaviour, the chance should be welcomed to be exposed to the country’s cultural riches, revealing its centuries of close integration in European culture and civilisation generally.

And what a stroke to engage Michael Houstoun to play Russian (and a New Zealand) piano concertos throughout the series.

For all this we have to thank Music director Marc Taddei and General manager Adan Tijerina.

Appropriately enough, this first concert opened with what is regarded as the first piece of Russian orchestral music that draws on Russian folk music, Kamarinskaya. Though he had written orchestral music earlier, including the brilliant ‘Jota Aragonese’, Glinka is regarded at the father of Russian music mainly as a result of his two operas drawn from Russian history: A Life for the Tsar and Russlan and Ljudmila.

As Taddei remarked, Kamarinskaya is a slight piece, with an Adagio introduction on a wedding song, treated with spaciousness and clarity, and a lively folk dance. The short tune of the latter quickly palled through excessive repetition, in spite of the orchestra doing all it could to lend variety to its series of ‘variations’.

There was no need at all for any special efforts by the orchestra or soloist to create interest in Rachmaninov’s third piano concerto. Some might have been a little surprised at the conspicuously moderate pace and perhaps cool emotional character adopted for its first movement, evidently an approach shared by conductor and pianist.  It was as if they were carefully refraining from prematurely exhausting their ammunition the better to make striking dramatic points when those opportunities really arrived, early in the development section.

Yet it did not in the least dampen the arresting spirit of the performance; on the other hand, nothing detracted from the subtle darkness that pervades the first movement if not the whole work. The lengthy first movement cadenza gave Houstoun the chance to illuminate his modest yet dazzling pianism, alongside the secure yet adroit tempo and dynamic nuances that kept the piano, not necessarily in the forefront, but in just the right position in the integral sound.

The Adagio second movement touches me most, with its curious rhapsodic character, its brief moments of passion, even frenzy, but its overall thoughtful spirit, that more than once turns aside from a fully-fledged climax to regain calm and poise; and again, this performance captured all its complexity and beauty.

Even the Finale with its enchanting melodies often seems to have much longer passages of meditative music than I expect, and it always delights me: the horns have a lovely episode punctuated with a roll on timpani. Finally, of course, the composer gives the audience the thrills it’s been waiting for, as orchestra, and pianist in particular, execute all its demands with wonderful energy and dense cascades of virtuosity. It brought about a standing ovation.

We could have been induced to feeling, because Tchaikovsky’s first symphony is the least familiar, that it’s uninteresting and merely to be paid ritual attention. But it is simply a youthful (well, he was 26)masterpiece. The pedant, or the studiously censorious might have searched for signs of immaturity, of structural uncertainty, but given the sheer melodic inventiveness and already a fine mastery of orchestration (the final touches of revision were made, in 1872, after he’d written a couple of operas and was already at work on his second symphony).

The opening is propitious, with clarinets over tremolo strings, then joined by bassoons, violas and cellos in music that fitted their timbres beautifully; Tchaikovsky’s character, his fingerprints, are already distinctive and the whole movement belies rumours that the symphony is a somewhat unsatisfactory youthful attempt.

The day-dreams are most present in the second movement, Adagio cantabile, with its lovely string writing and oboe solo and lots of other delicious opportunities for orchestral colour, all delicately drawn. I wondered why it hadn’t acquired the sort of stand-alone fame that Tchaikovsky’s other, famous (Andante) cantabile had.

Nor is there any hint of uncertainty in the third movement, Scherzo, again furnished with melody that doesn’t pall, and which of course upset the pedants at the St Petersburg Conservatorium who were Tchaikovsky’s mentors. (Someone has acknowledged that it may have been his melodic gift that made adhering to the conventions of the classical sonata form difficult: perhaps the latter only became de rigueur because some composers lacked the genius for melody that was Tchaikovsky’s). The Waltz that takes the place of the Trio in in the earlier ‘Minuet and trio’ scheme of the classical symphony, lends the Scherzo a delectable contrast, pointing to the soon-to-be composed Swan Lake with its delicious waltz episodes.

And lastly the 12-minute Finale which opens with a sombre hymn-like introduction rich in warm, dark woodwind sounds, soon brightens, but only temporarily. It never loses interest, moving between dreamy moods and fanfare-driven pages of the Allegro Maestoso, full of confidence and optimism, using the composer’s acute sensitivity for orchestral colour like a seasoned master.

The orchestra’s playing continued flawlessly and luxuriously, tempos subtly varying, dynamics scrupulously managed, to bring the concert to a triumphant conclusion.

 

First-class performances from Sydney Conservatorium violin and piano duo for IRMT

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Institute of Registered Music Teachers

Lilburn: Sonata for violin and piano (1950)
Franck: Sonata for violin and piano in A
Ravel: Tzigane

Goetz Richter (violin), Jeanell Carrigan (piano), from Sydney Conservatorium of Music

St. Andrew’s on The Terrace

Wednesday, 15 April 2015, 12.15pm

These two performers are currently giving master classes in various New Zealand cities, under the auspices of the IRMT; their Wellington master class with ensembles made up of students from the New Zealand School of Music at Victoria University followed the recital.  This may have accounted in part for the excellent attendance.

If Richter and Carrigan are anything to go by, students at the Sydney Conservatorium have the advantage of first-class performers as their teachers.  No biographical notes were given in the printed programme, which was a pity.

The programme comprised one sonata (Lilburn’s) with which I was not familiar, another sonata which I think borders on the ‘warhorse’ description, plus a shorter work that is also close to that category. There are so many sonatas by the great composers that we don’t hear regularly.

Excellent programme notes by Dianne James of the Auckland Branch of IRMT enhanced the
understanding and enjoyment of the works considerably.  Well-written and insightful, they were a
model of their genre.

It was interesting to note that Lilburn wrote his sonata for Ruth Pearl and Frederick Page – two of the most prominent names in music-making in Wellington in the 1950s and 1960s.   The five sections of
the sonata (molto moderato – allegro – tempo primo, largamente – allegro – tempo primo, tranquillamente) were played continuously, as conceived.  The variety of tempi, themes, tessitura and rhythms made this a most enjoyable work.

A very strong attack on the sombre opening was striking, and the whole piece was beautifully played.  I find a lot of similarity in much of Lilburn’s music, especially in rhythmic motifs, but this work did not share that trait, and its range was much greater than that of some of his music.  This was an authoritative and accomplished performance of fine music.

César Franck’s sonata received a splendid interpretation.  A description in the programme notes read ‘Clear evidence of this improvisatory style can be heard in most of Franck’s late works, where much of a work’s thematic material can be traced from germinal ideas present in the opening bars.’  Therein lies its problem for me.  The incessant repetition of the opening motif throughout the four lengthy movements (allegretto ben moderato – allegro – recitative-fantasia: ben moderato – molto lento – allegretto poco mosso) I find tedious, even though the modulations and variations are beautiful in themselves.

‘Succinct’ is not a word to apply to Franck.  Certainly the character of the sonata varies enormously with each movement, and I have to admit that in the hands of Richter and Carrigan, new delights appeared.  The music was played with supreme mastery and subtlety by both performers, with considerable technical difficulties to deal with, particularly in the final movement.

Ravel described his piece as ‘a virtuoso showpiece’, and thus this oft-played piece was, in the hands of Goetz Richter, and later those of Jeanell Carrigan.  Richter gave it more of a gypsy sound and feel than I’ve heard others do.  Exciting music it certainly is.

We heard two very able and experienced musicians, and though the programme was not completely to my taste, I came away knowing I had heard good music well played.

 

Douglas Mews makes most of St Andrew’s chamber organ’s limitations in fine Bach performances

Posted on by Rosemary Collier

Clavier works by J. S. Bach

Douglas Mews (chamber organ)

St. Andrew’s on The Terrace

Wednesday, 12 April 2015, 12.15pm

As Douglas Mews explained to the audience, Bach wrote many pieces for keyboard that could be played in the domestic setting.  This meant they were probably most often heard in his day and after on the harpsichord, but the clavichord, chamber organ and piano would all have been used.  These works do not come under the umbrella of the 330th birthday celebration at Wellington Cathedral of St. Paul, where on Friday lunchtimes all Bach’s organ works are being performed by Michael Stewart and Richard Apperley.

The programme comprised four of the 15 Sinfonias (BWV 794-797), and four Preludes and Fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier Book One.  These were written 1722-23 when Bach was in Cöthen.  The final work, the Concerto in D minor based on an oboe concerto was written much earlier, when Bach was living and working in Weimar.

Unfortunately, other responsibilities mean I was late for the concert, and since the Sinfonias were played continuously and are quite short, I only heard the last of them.  However, I was immediately struck by the lovely ‘chuffy’ sound of the chamber organ playing these works.  This was the one in G minor, the others played were in F major, F minor, and G major.

The Preludes and Fugues were those in F# major, F# minor, G major and G minor, BWV 858-861.  The first key contain 6 sharps!!  Playing these takes a lot of mental and digital concentration.  The first, particularly, was played delicately and lovingly; Mews said that this key produced a serene sound, and so it proved, despite the fine bouncy rhythms.  This first Prelude was played on flutes, including the 15th (2-foot) stop.  All were played sequentially, giving extra point to the gorgeous changes of registration.

None of the works used pedals, since most of the instruments most likely to have played them would not have them, though the chamber organ at St. Andrew’s does.  Nevertheless, Mews amply demonstrated what this organ can do.

The stunning counterpoint of these pieces is full of interest, and the same applies to Bach’s concerto in D minor (BWV 974) based on Alessandro Marcello’s oboe concerto.  The Italian composer was a contemporary of Bach’s – 1673-1747.  The concerto is familiar; as Mews said, Marcello’s original is played on the radio from time to time, and despite the desire of baroque composers, by and large, to have the performers create ornamentations more-or-less spontaneously, usually oboists performing the Marcello use Bach’s suggested ornamentations for the single manual organ!

The registration employed in the concerto had less ‘chuff’ than that in the earlier Bach pieces, and thus sounded appropriately more orchestral.  The first movement was marked andante e spiccato, and spiccato it certainly was, followed by an adagio, then finally a very finger-fast presto movement.

This organ has very few stops, yet Douglas Mews managed to mix and match what was there to make effective differences between the various Preludes and Fugues, and between the movements of the concerto.

Brilliant guitar recital from Owen Moriarty at St Andrew’s

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Owen Moriarty – guitar

Music by Marek Pasieczny Joaquin Rodrigo, Manuel Ponce, Mauro Giuliani

St Andrew’s on The Terrace

Wednesday 8 April, 12:15 pm

At some stage at most guitar recitals, the famous words of Chopin come to mind. “Nothing is more beautiful than a guitar, except, possibly, two.” We had only one, though Jane Curry, head of guitar at the university School of Music, was there too, evidently without her guitar.

Owen Moriarty began with the youngest piece, a Little Sonata by Polish-born Marek Pasieczny (it was wrongly spelled in the programme). It was in four movements, inspired by Schubert’s set of four piano pieces, the Impromptus, Op. 90; and the title was suggested by Hindemith’s ‘Kleine Sonate’.  In truth, it was quite some distance from Schubert, but I knew what he meant: each movement was in a spirit that, give or take a couple of centuries, owed something to the outward shape or spirit of Schubert’s. Schubert’s first piece is marked Allegro molto moderato; Pasieczny’s is Moderato galante; the second, the favourite Schubert Impromptu, in quaver triplets in E flat, is simply Allegro while Pasieczny’s is marked Lento religioso, rather different.

Never mind. The first was ‘galant’ – mid 18th century – sure enough, in character, though somewhat advanced in melodic shape and harmony. Like most of the programme, it afforded Moriarty excellent scope for his superb dynamic subtleties; and the gentle second piece was an even better example of the way the player shifted the sound not merely through the vigour of the plucking but by the position of his right hand working the strings. The third piece, Arpeggiato largamente opened with spacious broken chords that led to charmingly worked out themes; while the fourth, the equivalent of Schubert’s fast A flat Impromptu, exploited the guitar’s essential strumming technique, vigorous and somewhat grand as it reached the end.

Rodrigo’s Bajando de la Meseta is one of five pieces in a suite characterising regions of Spain, this one literally, ‘Lowering the plateau’; Meseta refers here, specifically to the plateau of New Castile (Castilla Nueva), the most central region of Spain in which Madrid is situated. It opened in a deliberate manner, lento strumming, in fast common time, which shifted to triplets, increasingly virtuosic with fast scales and fancy decorative passages.

Ponce’s Balletto and Preludio comes from a generation before Rodrigo. He had an association with Andres Segovia and the two were complicit in publishing this pair of pieces as a newly discovered work of the great lutenist Silvius Leopold Weiss, a contemporary of J S Bach; this was the era when Kreisler was turning out pieces that he attributed to various baroque composers.

It certainly worked as a piece of that age, the Balletto, charming, slow and danceable; while the Preludio was subject to several rhythm changes with motifs weaving through various lines adroitly delineated by the player.

The real spectacle came with Rossiniana No 1 (of six) by the Italian guitarist Giuliani whose guitar concertos (more than one I think) were familiar a few years ago, but not heard (by me) recently. This was one of six pot-pourris on tunes from Rossini’s operas arranged freely and with huge flair and an eye to impressive virtuosity. The tunes were somewhat familiar, at least one from L’italiana in Algeri?, with the last leading to the typical Rossini crescendo of increasing excitement and spectacular agility by both the guitarist’s hands

Another piece by Rodrigo was the last item in the programme: Pequena Sevilliana – The Girl from Seville. Coming from Andalusia, flamenco music was to be expected, but quirky, with little twists that involved the fingers darting all over the finger-board. It was a delightful finish to a highly entertaining and revelatory recital of, quite simply, international calibre guitar playing.

 

Memorable and illuminating exploration of the Miserere, its rivals earlier and later, by The Tudor Consort and Michael Stewart

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

The Tudor Consort conducted by Michael Stewart

Miserere:  Music for Holy Week

Cathedral of Saint Paul, Wellington

Friday 3 April, 7:30 pm

I have been rather neglectful in recent years of pre-concert talks. This time, even in the disagreeable face of train replacement by buses and possible crowds heading for the Stadium, I decided to expose myself to the possibility that I might learn something by listening to Michael Stewart. I had already heard him talking with Eva Radich on Upbeat and wanted to get a bit more clarity on the subject of the vicissitudes of Allegri’s Miserere. A very good crowd had also come early to hear the talk, which Michael illustrated with projections of various parts of various versions of the work, as well as by singing key phrases with such acute brilliance.

The Miserere is the first word of Psalm 51 (50 in the Latin, Vulgate Bible) and has long been a part of the Catholic liturgy for Holy Week, sung at the end of the Tenebrae office, ritually sung in increasing darkness as 15 candles are extinguished in the course of the singing. At its end there follows the Strepitus, or loud noise that represents the earthquake believed to have followed Christ’s death, done by ‘slamming a book shut, banging a Hymnal or Breviary against the pew, or stomping on the floor’ (Wikipedia).

Michael Stewart’s commentary
Stewart spoke of the various versions of the Miserere, both before and after Allegri’s; the secrecy imposed on the Allegri setting by the Vatican, its notation by the 14-year-old Mozart (thus in 1770), and the Papal response later, as Clement XIV praised Mozart personally for the genius of his accuracy in transcription. In the meantime Mozart had given English music historian Charles Burney a copy and it was published in 1771 (so soon?).  Later aural recordings were made by Mendelssohn and Liszt.

The young Mozart’s action was recorded in a letter home from Wolfgang’s father immediately after.

It was also recorded in 1792, the year after Mozart’s death, by his sister: “…they travelled on the 15th March 1770 to Parma, Bologna, Florence, [on] to Rome, here they arrived during Holy Week. On Wednesday afternoon they accordingly went at once to the Sistine Chapel, to hear the famous Miserere. And as according to tradition it was forbidden under ban of excommunication to make a copy of it from the papal music, the son undertook to hear it and then copy it out. And so it came about that when he came home, he wrote it out, the next day he went back again, holding his copy in his hat, to see whether he had got it right or not. But a different Miserere was sung. However, on Good Friday the first was repeated again. After he had returned home he made a correction here and there, then it was ready. It soon became known in Rome, [and] he had to sing it at the clavier at a concert.”

But one has to note that the co-author of the version performed by The Sixteen under Harry Christophers, Ben Byram-Wigfield, writes: “And several myths have grown up around the piece, such as the idea that the Pope forbade copying of the work, punishable by excommunication; and the young Mozart supposedly copying the work after hearing it performed. Neither is true.”  (http://ancientgroove.co.uk/essays/allegri.html)

The question of embellishment was also interesting. It is said that the actual ornaments used in the Sistine Chapel were, as much as anything, the most closely guarded, and the version that Burney published did not include them. They were not in the public domain until Roman priest Pietro Alfieri published an edition in 1840, which preserved the performance practice, including ornamentation, of the Sistine choir.

Stewart also dealt with the modifications to the scoring accounting for the non-authentic ‘high Cs’ in the version we know, thought to be the result of transposition. Again, Ben Byram-Wigfield notes: “the ‘Top C’ version, which was never performed in Rome, … merely a serendipitous scribal error”.

Thus, what a great idea to perform both the original version and that current today!

Two Allegri versions
The conventional version with the High Cs was sung in the first half. To enhance the impact of the high female voices, all singers of the quartet (sopranos Pepe Backer, Melanie Newfield, alto Andrea Cochrane and bass David Houston) went to the gallery above the south (Molesworth Street) door and their voices created the most thrilling effect at each return to inauthentic (if you must) bursts of spiritually ecstatic exclamation. The contrast with the other fourteen singers was marked, their voices more suffused in the huge main space of the cathedral. There was a breathless conviction about the whole performance.

Alfieri’s account of the original, with the best realisations we will ever have of the original embellishments, was sung after the interval. Here, all the singers except Paul Stapley who sang the plainsong part from the pulpit, remained at the front of the Choir. While the female voices had similar effects to handle, it was naturally less thrilling that with voices emanating from high above the nave, though awareness of the modern version teased us with an expectation that treble phrases would rise higher. Stapley’s contributions were very fine, projected with ease, even delivery allowing discreet dynamic changes, but with arresting pauses in the middle of his stanzas.

The other Miserere settings
But there was much more of great interest in this concert whose intention was to let us hear other treatments of the Miserere. First was a short setting by William Byrd, the performance of which revealed the composer’s ability to convey the feelings of lamentation and self-flagellation so beloved of religion.

And the even earlier setting (around 1503) by Josquin des Prez, evidently the best known setting before Allegri. It was thought to have been inspired as a testament to Savonarola who called for ‘Christian renewal’ and the church’s reform. He denounced clerical corruption, despotic rule and the exploitation of the poor, and was a painful thorn in the Papacy’s side. He was tortured and executed by Pope Alexander VI in 1498. Josquin’s composition is not given to expressing much sense of exultation, and expression of praise of the Almighty, which is a significant purpose of the Psalm, but emphasised our sins and the need to be purged and cleansed. Among otherwise pretty flawless singing of the other works in the programme I felt there was a touch of insecurity in ensemble and balance here.

Giovanni Croce’s Miserere of 1599, 40 years before Allegri, came from Venice (Josquin’s was from Ferrara, not far away), with the sounds of the Gabrielis in the background, and here was the precursor of the sort of high soprano ecstasy, with richer harmonies cultivated by Allegri. It was also curious, not that it seemed to affect the mood or richness of the musical setting, that the Psalm text was paraphrased as a sonnet by Francesco Bembo, whose name only calls up painters.

The Gesualdo setting
Then came what for me was the third most interesting piece on the programme (after the Allegri and the James MacMillan), the imaginative and original setting by Carlo Gesualdo, more famous for a certain violent episode in his life. There’s no better account than by music critic Alex Ross (have you read his The Rest in Noise?) in The New Yorker – (http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/12/19/prince-of-darkness).

His music is generally said to be ‘ahead of its time’ by anything up to three or four centuries (and four would bring it up to the present decade). The words employed as evidence are ‘chromaticism’ and ‘dissonance’; neither is to be remarked upon today; the dissonance amounts to momentary departures from an expected harmonic cadence which are rather delicious. It was splendidly sung, all these little touches exposed with clarity and wit; with the excellent Paul Stapley, as in the Allegri, singing the plainsong verses, falsobordone (French: fauxbourdon) = false bass, I believe they are called. Nevertheless, the music follows a repeated pattern which allows the senses to relax each time the surprise comes round in the shape of a sort of rise in the tonality of the treble voices.

MacMillan – the today setting
Finally, the strong and arresting Miserere of James MacMillan who, I suppose, has a special authority today, as a confirmed Catholic. Men and women take the lines of the Psalm in turn, with women seeming to have more of the running, though the men are given an emphatic “Ecce…” – behold, in line 5. The energetic rhythm seems to flow naturally from the intrinsic rhythm of the Latin, a language which, spoken with resonance and fluency, has that unparalleled power, supported by a wonderful literature, that made the language survive remarkably, till my generation – the last, I fear, to have been in a state secondary school where perhaps a third of the boys in the third, fourth and fifth forms learned Latin.

Again at the ‘Libera me de sanguinibus…’, the great shout of anguish had dramatic power, that was quickly softened by the overlapping of men’s and women’s parts; as the end approached  the dynamics rose and fell with moments of ecstasy and spiritual entreaty.

When Simon Ravens founded The Tudor Consort back in 1986, the choir attracted overflowing, rock-concert style houses, such was the impact of his engrossing pre-concert talks with imaginative programming, often through liturgical reconstructions in a dramatically striking manner. No subsequent director has quite matched Ravens’ flair and charisma, but Michael Stewart, in his own way, is recapturing something of the excitement of that time which had the effect of raising audience numbers for most choirs, and inspiring the formation of new ones. This splendid concert and the size of the audience perhaps presages a real choral renaissance and more adventures to come.

 

Flutist makes sparkling Wellington premiere at St Andrew’s

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Gabriella Kopias (flute) and Richard Mapp (piano)

Music by Doppler, Debussy, Takemitsu, Fauré, Rachmaninov; Chaminade, Piaf and Ravel

St Andrew’s on The Terrace

Wednesday 1 April, 12:15 pm

It’s not clear what has brought Gabriella Kopias to Wellington, but it was whispered to me that she would rather like to stay here. That would be lovely, not because there is any lack of excellent flutists in town, but another of the quality of Kopias (pronounced Kópyas, I expect) could hardly be any sort of embarras de richesses.

She was born in Szeged in Hungary in 1975, graduated with distinction from both the Franz Liszt Academy in Budapest and the Arts University in Graz, Austria and now makes her home in Vienna. While she has had some orchestral experience, including with the Vienna State Opera Orchestra, she seems to have made a career as a flute soloist; and also as a cantatrice: she ended her recital, leaving her flute aside and singing Piaf’s La vie en rose, with a very creditable Piaffian timbre and style. She also exhibits as a painter.

Gabriella chose a diverting and varied programme, starting with the Fantaisie pastorale hongroise by Polish/Hungarian, flutist-composer Albert Franz Doppler, who was born in Lemberg (when part of Austria in the 18th century), Lwow when in Poland after WWI (though the population from the 16th century was predominantly Polish and Jewish), and now Lviv, after the total expulsion of the Polish population (‘ethnic cleansing’) after 1945, when it was taken by the USSR to be part of Ukraine. Doppler was a close contemporary of Franck, Lalo, Johann Strauss II, Bruckner).

He wrote successful operas and instrumental pieces, the most famous of which is this Fantaisie. She played this delightful war-horse from memory, accompanied with verve and discretion by Richard Mapp; in three distinct parts, each illustrating a different aspect of Hungary’s musical character, finally a csardas, all full of lively melody and rhythm.

Debussy’s Syrinx seems to be most commonly played solo flute piece, so its place was to be expected, and most welcome.

Toru Takemitsu may still be the best known Japanese classical composer, it was the chance for Richard Mapp to be heard alone; Rain Tree reveals itself in a magical palette that derives from Debussy impressionism and the mysticism of the Buddhist or Shinto world. It seems to evolve but there is also the strong sense of remaining still.

Fauré’s Fantaisie (Andantino and Allegro) is one of those pieces, the Allegro at least, that’s familiar, attractive, but whose composer I hadn’t logged in the memory; one of the many pieces inspired by the great French flute player and protagonist, Paul Taffanel. The piano’s contribution was a very significant element in the performance, lending the first section, Andantino, more interest than it gets sometimes;
and the flute’s contribution was beguiling, fast and brilliant. The two were, as everywhere in the recital, in delightful balance, in support of each other but never invading the other’s space. (I missed the point of Gabriella’s comment, introducing the piece, about Cinderella, and quoting the words put in her mouth in the current Walt Disney film, ‘Have courage and be kind’).

I wondered whether in her next piece she would return to the platform without her flute, to sing Rachmaninov’s Vocalise, which is its original idea of course. But she played the flute, showing how adaptable this evergreen gem is.

Cécile Chaminade, in her long life (born before Puccini and died during the second World War), acquired a sort of palm court reputation in her lifetime and later, but she’s much more than that: her genius was for geniality, charm, sticking to melody and tonality through the turbulence of atonality and avant-gardism. In any case this Concertino, originally for flute and orchestra, Op 107, which was also dedicated to Paul Taffanel, gave clear indications of a capacity for those gifts to find expression in an extended piece that was carefully balanced, ending with an accelerating flourish. Again this well-matched duo proved splendid advocates for unpretentious music that is clearly surviving the years.

Then Gabriella really did leave her flute behind and picked up the microphone to sing Piaf, as I noted above. How many would accept that the definition of ‘classical’ extends far beyond the ranks of those composers whose names are followed by brackets showing dates of birth and death?

Finally, an encore listed in the programme: Ravel’s Habanera, or rather, the Vocalise-étude en forme de habanera, is a song for deep voice and piano. In arrangements for a great variety of instruments it’s been called Pièce en forme de habanera. As does Rachmaninov’s Vocalise, it sits happily for almost any instruments, and this was a most attractive way to end this introduction to a musician whom I hope we will hear again.

 

The Bach Project splendidly under way on the St Paul’s Cathedral organ

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

The Bach Project at Saint Paul’s

Michael Stewart and Richard Apperley (organists)

Programme No 6 – played by Richard Apperley

Organ chorale: ‘O Mensch, bewein dein Sünde gross’, BWV 622
Concerto in D minor, BWV 596
Sonata III in D minor, BWV 527
Partita diverse sopra il corale ‘Sei gegrusset, Jesu gütig’ BWV 768

Cathedral of Saint Paul, Wellington

Tuesday 31 March 12:45 pm (330th anniversary of J S Bach’s birth)

Middle C’s neglect so far of this momentous project, the performance of all, yes all, of Bach’s compositions for the organ is regrettable: caused by absences from Wellington, conflicting obligations. In my case, the Nelson Chamber Music Festival, Napier’s production of Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore, escapes to sun on the Horowhenua coast, and the past fortnight in Auckland and the far North.

Most of the musical fraternity know something of Bach’s huge output of music for the organ, though I imagine it’s rather confined, as is mine, to the ‘pure’ organ pieces – the preludes, toccatas, fantasias, passacaglias and fugues bearing BWV numbers in the 500s. But the scores of pieces based on chorales and other vocal music are perhaps too varied and numerous for the non-specialist to focus on.

My first reaction to the project was, ‘is it really possible, to play all the organ works in a series of 28 ¾ hour recitals’? If you look at the BWV catalogue (for example in Wikipedia) the organ works number from BWV 525 to 771, and there are later additions to the catalogue of organ pieces listed as Neumeister Chorales, BWV 1090 to 1121, which are also programmed throughout the series. That’s about 270 pieces. But if Stewart and Apperley play an average of ten or so each time, they make it.

This recital was a bit special as it was on Bach’s birthday.

The programme notes are written in a personal manner, a certain amount of musical learning, but a good deal of comment on the way the organist, here Richard Apperley, feels about the music and why it was chosen for the birthday.

The first piece was an organ chorale on a Lutheran Passion Hymn, for Lent (which is now), included in Bach’s Orgelbüchlein – Little Organ Book – composed during Bach’s years at Weimar (1708 – 1717). The notes quote Charles-Marie Widor’s judgement of it as ‘The finest piece of instrumental music written’, and Apperley adds that it’s one of the few chorale preludes to which he finds it possible to resist adding ornamentation. Indeed, as he played it, Bach’s own ornaments are elaborate enough, particularly given its chromatic character and richness of the counterpoint and fugal writing. Though generally it was an interesting illustration of the tastes of the period.

The general mood is lamenting, calm and heartfelt; and the tasteful registrations chosen allowed it to be heard clearly in the big space.

The Concerto in D minor is a transcription of one of Vivaldi’s L’estro armonico set, Op 3 No 11, which was for two violins. The Vivaldi is in three movements while Bach divides the first movement in two, separating its fugal section, so making it a four-movement work (Bach marks them: I. Ohne Bezeichnung (without indication), Grave; II. Fuga; III. Largo; IV. Finale). Though, before reading the notes, I had thought the fugal passage was, indeed, simply part of the opening Allegro.

The Vivaldi is a splendid work, but as the notes remark, Bach’s account is even more exciting. This had the effect both of demonstrating Bach’s genius as well as that of the commonly under-estimated Vivaldi who was after all responsible for the basic music and its shapes.

There were many delightful elements in the work, the varied registrations, the tempo contrasts, the beautiful Siciliano middle (third) movement, and the racing Finale of great virtuosity.

Richard Apperley wrote that the Sonata III, also in D minor, was his favourite of the six sonatas in the set; sometimes referred to as Trio Sonatas, they require the right and left hands to play distinct melodic lines on separate manuals, as if a violin and cello, while the feet play the basso continuo part on pedals, calling for considerable skill. The Trio Sonatas for organ seem to have been composed in Bach’s first years in Leipzig, from 1723; an early biographer stated that Bach wrote them as practice for his eldest son, Wilhelm Friedemann.

Apperley gave clarity to the sonata’s distinct parts, displaying his own mastery of its challenges which encouraged the listener to hear them again in order to grasp better the sense of the counterpoint and strongly contrasted lines.

Finally the Chorale Partita, ‘Sei gegrüsset, Jesu gütig’, which was perhaps written very early, at Arnstadt where Bach worked between 1703 and 1706, that is, aged 17 to 21. It would explain the feeling I had as it was played, that its variation form – eleven of them – somewhat disguised an unsophisticated, apprentice composer. It was very listenable music, but the short, not organically connected variations sustained the attention only through their vivid contrasts, of mood, of registration, of tempo and all the multitude of devices available to a gifted young composer and a skilled player.

It is natural, of course, that in presenting the entire oeuvre of any composer, the masterpieces must take their place along with juvenilia and music that lacks strong character or inspiration. However, this does not detract from the importance of this brave adventure on which these two musicians have embarked.

 

Ambitious and satisfying concert from Wellington Chamber Orchestra

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Wellington Chamber Orchestra conducted Rachel Hyde with Helene Pohl (violin) and Rolf Gjelsten (cello)

Overture to Der Freischütz by Weber
Concerto for violin and cello in A minor, Op 102 by Brahms
Symphony No 3 in F, Op 90 by Brahms

St Andrew’s on The Terrace

Sunday 29 March, 2:30 pm

One could argue that the first concert in Wellington Chamber Orchestra’s 2015 season was devoted to the very centre of the classical music repertoire: the blending and conjunction of the classical and romantic eras.

Orchestral performances between the hard surfaces of the typical church are not easy to bring off; and over the years I have often commented on the delicate matter of positioning timpani and brass so that their impact is not too distressing. Conductor Rachel Hyde arrayed the orchestra forward in the church, placing timpani at the side near the chamber organ, and the brass out from the sanctuary which tends to amplify the sound.

Nevertheless, in the gallery, where I sat in the first half of the concert, the four horns, at that stage exhibiting a degree of unsteadiness, were loud. The typical opera orchestra which, even in Germany, might not be as polished as one might imagine, is modified by being in a pit so that rough patches are obscured. Here, the splendid overture to Der Freischütz had to survive full exposure. It was taken fairly slowly which probably improved accuracy but, on the other hand, offered more time to perceive weaknesses. Its dramatic character, and its supernatural touches did not suffer through the slow tempo, and the surprisingly long pause before the attack of the Coda gave it real impact.

A great idea to programme Brahms’s not very often played Double Concerto, giving Helene Pohl and Rolf Gjelsten, first violin and cello in the New Zealand String Quartet, an opportunity to shine individually (they told me that they’d recently played the same piece with New Plymouth’s Civic Orchestra). I was still reeling from the performance of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto by Janine Jansen the previous evening; yet the utterly different Brahms concerto in the hands of two gifted chamber musicians created a most satisfactory experience. Perfection in the orchestral playing was neither expected nor delivered, but the whole, especially in the second movement’s lyrical passages, was no disappointment.

Performances by amateur orchestras can be an excellent way for those without wide or deep musical experience to make discoveries, and all three works in this programme might well have been overlooked by the professional orchestras, which tend to deprecate the old pattern of overture – concerto – symphony that used to be the staple orchestral pattern. Its abandonment now means that the novice concert-goer never hears the scores of wonderful overtures, both opera and stand-alone, that the tyro of my generation came to love.

Finally, the symphony – neither the more played first or fourth of Brahms – but perhaps the most sanguine of the four, came off better than the earlier pieces on the programme. That may have been partly the result of my moving downstairs to the back seats where the sound is filtered somewhat, kinder to amateurs. The brass sounded in better control, the essential beauty of the lyrical second movement was captured, and the strings produced an almost Wagnerian silkiness (hints of Siegfried’s Rhine Journey from Götterdämmerung), though tricky cross rhythms in the last movement sounded a bit awkward. The tempi were admirable, calm and unhurried, yet energetic where that was required.

I hope that this performance will have won a few more friends for Brahms, for it was a worthy achievement by a non-professional ensemble. In all, in spite of the reservations mentioned, inevitable for such an orchestra which inevitably spends more rehearsal time on certain works than on others, this was a satisfying concert.