The Kaleidoscope Chamber Collective is comparatively young having been formed six years ago by Tom Poster and his wife Elena Urioste, who has already featured as a soloist in this year’s Proms, playing Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s Violin Concerto in A Minor, Opus 80. The couple are champions of music that is little performed today, bringing back to life many less-known masterpieces. Coleridge-Taylor is a particular passion, Urioste appearing to have picked up the mantle of her US violinist predecessor, Maud Powell, who championed this composer in the States at the turn of the last century. Poster and Urioste are involved in many educational ventures with young musicians, often making up the Collective from their numbers.

Al Ryan from BBC Radio 3 introduced the programme, encouraging applause from the packed auditorium. It was only the second Prom ever to feature in this county and enthusiastic support was evident.

The programme began with the very well-known Piano Quintet in A Major, D667, known popularly as the Trout Quintet by Franz Schubert, written in 1819 when Schubert was in his twenties. With a piece so well-known it is hard to make it stand-out but Poster, both pianist and Artistic Director and his Co-Director Urioste managed that superbly. Usually my experience of chamber music is a consistent awareness of the different instruments as a group of soloists, but with this ensemble such was the empathy and concentration as they listened and adjusted to each other that the sounds of the individual instruments blended superbly, never out-doing one another. This was a triumph of true ensemble work.

Under the two directors’ leadership the quintet, Tom Poster on piano, Elena Urioste, violin, Rosalind Ventris, viola, Tony Rymer, cello and Joseph Conyers on double bass, was instilled with passion and drama which jolted us into experiencing it with fresh ears. Mainly this was achieved by dramatic mini-pauses in the flow which heightened suspense but also with contrasts in volume from soft to loud [though not too fiercely loud] and contrasts in tempo. There was a delicacy of touch throughout so that never did we feel that the ensemble had lost touch with the joyful summery mood of the whole, nor had it used their contrasts as experiments just for the sake of it. This was a genuinely thoughtful and extremely disciplined rendition of a great public favourite which used their vision to help us discover it anew. Particularly memorable was the Variations on Schubert’s own song, ‘Die Forelle’, ‘The Trout’. I found myself seeing that fish swimming down a rippling brook, chasing through light and shade as with a playful flick of a fin it enjoys itself, hugging the shadow when threatened, glorying in the dappled sunshine when feeling safe and, ultimately, sadly, caught. The storyline, if it is that, has never struck me so visually before.

After the interval we were treated to Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s Nonet in F Minor, Opus 2, written at the age of 18 while he was studying at the Royal College of Music. Poster, in his introduction to the work, describes Coleridge-Taylor’s enthusiastic youthfulness displaying itself through ‘every trick in the book’. Just as a piano quintet was quite an unusual combination in Schubert’s time, a nonet is even more unusual, especially including the range of instruments he does: added to the piano and four stringed instruments we saw before the interval, we now have oboe, Armand Djikoloum; clarinet, Cristina Mateo; Bassoon, Guylaine Eckersley and French horn, Ben Goldscheider.

In this piece the piano and strings provide a solid background, against which the composer adds a colouring of woodwind and brass. He has fun with pairing instruments that would not usually be heard together. Particularly lovely was the bassoon paired with the horn, but oboe and clarinet together or oboe and horn were also fun. In fact every possible combination was used at one time or another! Sometimes, too, the instruments ‘talked’ to each other, like question and answer. Every one of these players were tested, as if the composer wanted to see what possibilities of tone and quality each one possessed.

Different styles emerge at times. There are echoes of Brahms and Dvorak, but also short jazzy sections which reference the rhythms and the negro spirituals Coleridge-Taylor was passionate about. My favourite movements were the last two – of four. The third movement was a frenetic scherzo with a modernistic sound backed by a tandem of staccato notes on the cello and double bass. This gave way to a mellower sound led by clarinet and horn. The last movement tested each instrument to the fullest, dizzily leading into a helter-skelter of an ending, with a playful ‘hiccup’ of a last note.

The concert’s finale was an adaptation of four of Gershwin’s songs, for the same nine instruments: Love Walked In, The Man I Love, A Foggy Day and They Can’t Take That Away from Me, all as it happens personal favourites of mine. Tom Poster’s arrangements [apparently done during lockdown] were wonderful, managing somehow to sing without the use of an actual human voice. Some of the audience were moved to tears and all were carried along with the mellow mood. A blissful end, thank you.

An ecstatic and lengthy applause from the audience brought the players back again for an encore: another song arrangement, this time of Jerome Kern’s Look for the Silver Lining.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

To begin at the beginning. The show begins with the orchestra, always visible at the back of the stage, delivering an overture full of jazzy brass and tweeting woodwind which immediately sets a mood of fun and games. Karen Kamensek, the conductor, sets the mood and pace.

As the orchestra moves from overture to introduction of the principal characters cartoon outlines appear against the gauze curtain, set a little way back from the front of the stage. These depict the interior of a baron’s castle. Here we meet the principal characters: Candide himself – the name means innocent, honest – like our word ‘candid’ – played by Ed Lyon, his half sister Cunegonde [Ffion Edwards] and brother Maximillian [Mark Nathan], the maid servant Paquette [Francesca Saracino] and the teacher of the three youngsters Dr Pangloss [Gillian Bevan]. These characters appear throughout the whole operetta. For though they appear to die many times, no one in this operetta really dies; they reappear in different parts of the world in different guises. They are survivors.

Bernstein dubbed Candide a comic operetta. It is more than comic, it is a fantasy brought to life – something that could have come straight from the invention of such as Monty Python, full of innuendo, acting of the broadest kind and satirical digs not just at the eighteenth century world of Voltaire but at the America of the 1950s when Bernstein conceived of the project. With the troubles that assail us all now it serves just as well in underlining what the present offers us on a global scale.

And of course, the piece, which carries us from some imagined German state to France, Portugal, Spain, Mexico, the Amazon jungle and Constantinople shows us how little the world has changed. Whatever century or country we are in there are wars, man’s inhumanity to man, racism, sexism and corruption of the ruling classes. Nothing changes except the costumes that clothe the participants. Perhaps that is why the cast often wear an extraordinary mix of garments, echoing every century from Voltaire’s time to the present day.

The cartoons are witty adjuncts used throughout the show, allowing there to be a flow as the characters are swept from country to country, which no amount of ‘real’ scenery could have managed without seriously holding up the action. These cartoons, animated by Gregoire Pont, become an integral and very popular part of the show. Each scene depicted is full of life and little extra touches – a beetle crawling from one side to another – a cat walking along a balustrade – sheep falling in slow motion down a waterfall in the Amazon, all rendered with humour and expressiveness.

The only downside of these animations, which often fill the whole gauze with detail, is the disappearance of the orchestra, still there onstage but often merely a background and sometimes barely visible. They are a fine orchestra and this was a pity, I felt – but with such a complex and busy show, I cannot think of a solution that would have worked. They would have been just as invisible below the stage in the pit.

It isn’t just the animations that cast the orchestra into the shade but the sheer numbers of characters. It is a huge cast many of whom play multiple characters as we are whizzed from place to place in the world, the one linking factor between every country being the corruption of those in power, the dreadful way that the women are treated [though, used to such treatment, all the women are stoical about the way they are used as sex objects], and the terrible toll that war and extreme religions exact. But though the facts are grim so light-hearted is the approach that it is only afterwards that we recognise the cynical exposure of truths that are the same today as in the past.

The cast attack their roles with unfailing gusto and energy. When I first attended operas, thirty or more years ago, acting wasn’t really expected. It was all about the singing. In contrast, every one of the singer/actors/dancers in Candide multi-task convincingly, clearly enjoying every excess. And the dancers were fabulous.

Particularly effective scenes include the auto-da-fe, where powerful music and singing combine with black costumes, gruesome characters hanging from crosses in the background, the burning of Dr Pangloss in a clever video of super-imposed flames, plus the whipping of Candide to create an impression of horror. In contrast to that is the scene of debauchery set in the ruler of Montevideo’s sleazy palace, where sexy scantily-clad dancers with bored expressions contrast with the plight of Cunegonde and the worldly-wise ‘Old Woman’, a past beauty who has seen it all before, and more. Always the music cleverly sets the scene and in no other opera I know of has the orchestra had to deal with such a wide variety of styles as we travel with them around the world.

Some characters deserve particular mention. Ffion Edwards as Cunegonde, the girl Candide loves throughout, has a beautiful voice with exquisite high notes and manages to be both sexy and somehow innocent and charming at the same time. It as if Candide’s own innocence rubs off on her and ultimately redeems her. The ‘Old Woman’ is humorous in her rendering – with a hilarious guttural Russian accent – of her sordid life story, [in which she has lost one of her buttocks]! Her main scene is a tour de force.

But they are all good. From the chorus, who manage their many changes of role, with aplomb, to Candide himself who retains his innocent belief in ‘the best of all possible worlds’ until what he experiences forces him to face up to its seamier underside.

For that is the message we are left with, which Candide and his lady love embrace: that there is no best of all possible worlds. Dr Pangloss who, at the beginning taught this to his young pupils, is wrong. Life is hardship and hard work but, tackle it with Candide’s boundless optimism, and there is hope for the future after all.

I’ve enjoyed watching [and reviewing] the Welsh National Opera over a number of years and many contrasting shows. This operetta tests the versatility of the musicians as much as it does the whole creative and performing team. And team it certainly is. The whole show pulls together to create a sprawling and inventive riot of fun which looks as if everyone is as enjoying it as much as the audience.
Welsh National Opera have taken on an extraordinarily difficult task but, like Candide himself, they have prevailed and carried us through its many moods and vagaries. I thoroughly recommend it.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The world premiere of Saggers’ Dear Nan is a musical depiction of the composer’s beloved grandmother’s journey through the different stages of dementia. The piece begins with galloping rhythms threaded through with broad optimistic passages that together give an impression of the joyfulness of Nan’s personality. Even this has a few sinister moments from repeated notes in the lower strings which suggests the disease lurking in the background. Soon the music contrasts with alternate quicker and slower passages which show the essential joyfulness of Nan pierced by moments of anxiety, as if her normal cheerful character is breaking down. The third theme is a beautiful melody representing the slowing down of that busy brain.

Throughout, the clarinet, played by Fiona Cross, acts as a solo voice, representing the questioning mind or soul of Nan herself as she wonders what is happening to her. The slowing down of her brain is emphasised in the final stages by long sustained notes which finally arrive at a full stop.

Having not so long ago lost my mother to dementia, I found this piece very moving and as accurate a musical picture of the terrible dissolution of human personality caused by Alzheimers as can be shown through the medium of music. It was interesting to read in the programmme that work with dementia patients is a large part of the community work that this musical group undertake in Manchester.
Paul Saggers introduced his piece to the audience as he was born and brought up here in Cornwall, cutting his musical teeth in the local brassbands as a cornet player, which is why the world premiere occurred here. I look forward to hearing more of his music.

The second piece on the programme was Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet in A major, K.581, a piece of music so familiar that one finds oneself humming the tunes in the head along with the players. Of course hearing something live brings a new sparkle of life to even the most familiar music and so it was here.
The piece was a late work from Mozart, written just before the similarly famous Clarinet Concerto. The clarinet as an instrument was discovered late by the composer, who fell in love with it when he heard the playing of Anton Stadler, the virtuoso of his day. Originally it was written for the older basset version of the clarinet but nowadays both these famous works are performed on more modern versions.

This gorgeous piece was played with an obvious enjoyment by the quintet as they brought it to life afresh for the audience, swaying like birch trees in a variable wind, as if the music itself resided deep in their bodies, while the eyes flickered, always alert to their fellow players. The leader, first violin player Caroline Pether’s whole face reflected her love of the music and all were similarly engaged as their bodies and minds became one with the instruments, the themes and the rhythms. In chamber music particularly no one instrument is more important, not even the soloist. The ensemble is all.

The flowing first movement with its repeated themes gives way to the second, where the clarinet more clearly has the melody line, the others acting mainly as a background except when the first violin takes the tune, which at times becomes a kind of conversation between violin and clarinet.

The third movement opens emphatically with first violin and viola and then passes to a conversation between second violin and cello before the clarinet enters with panache. Enjoyment and humour is evident throughout this minuet and the accompanying two trios, the first violin player even bouncing in her seat, while below, adding depth to the music, the cello growls.

The fourth movement is marked allegro con variazioni. The musicians take it at a cracking pace building up through a variety of playful variations contrasted by more thoughtful ones until it finally soars into a repetition of the first theme, faster and more jaunty than ever. Wonderful!After the interval we were treated to Mendelssohn’s String Octet in E-flat major, Opus 20, an innovative work composed when Mendelssohn was only sixteen. Not only is it amazing that he should write such a piece at such a tender age but he also dared to experiment with a doubling up of instruments – eight instead of four – which is still only rare in chamber music, the norm being quartets or quintets.

After the classical treat of Mozart it was a lovely contrast to be carried along by the lusher romanticism of the young Mendelssohn. The first movement is scampering, joyful and youthful as if it were a grand adventure, exploring all the wonders of the world. The initial melody is returned to again and again with different combinations of instruments. The centre of this first movement leads into a slower more mournful section, as if a running youth has experienced something more thought-provoking before the instruments in staccato unison climb upwards and suddenly we’re off again on a new exciting adventure.

After a slower, thoughtful second movement the adventure continues in the last two movements which follow each other without a break. It starts once more as a scamper where each instrument passes the buck to the next as if in tumbling relay. The voices of the instruments suggest the kind of animals a youngster might notice when running through a wood: birds twitter, amphibians hop, small creatures rustle in the undergrowth and at one point a heavier animal stamps through the undergrowth. The whole of this second half is humorous and light. At the end the first violin leads the rest in a helter-skelter of sound which gathers enormous speed until it reaches a breathless full stop.

Wow!

This was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I congratulate the whole of Manchester Camerata and Fiona Cross for the sensitivity of her clarinet playing for treating the audience to such a joyful and spring-like experience. Even the sadness of Saggers’ opening composition was not out of place, for his depiction of his grandmother when healthy was also joyful to hear.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The programme began with nineteen year-old Churcher’s Premiere, called Breakwater. For this piece he had chosen to describe in a very visual way the musical journey of the River Tamar from source to Plymouth Sound, until it reaches the end, at the Breakwater which divides the Sound from the open sea. The composition conjures up strong images throughout, starting with soft vibrations from the string section, gradually blending with the woodwind which gives a sense of expectation as the water moves from a trickle to a gathering of volume and expectation. Gradually urgency increases until you hear the water overflowing the lip of the upper reaches, the violas creating drips and drops in a charmingly light-hearted touch against the background of the other instruments, until the river swells further in stature and joyfulness when the brass section joins in. Finally, as it heads towards the sea it grows and expands until a more peaceful conjunction of waters is reached.

Churcher’s programme notes give detailed descriptions of how he started from visuals, using drone images, before ‘translating’ the visuals into an orchestral score. The result is a delight. This is a young composer who, although this was his first orchestral piece, has already composed a number of choral pieces. At present in his first year at Oxford, I shall enjoy seeing and hearing his development over time, for this is a young man who will go far.

After the quite short introductory piece, we moved on to two works by Beethoven – his Piano Concerto No.4 in G major and, after an interval, his Symphony No 7 in A Major.

The Piano Concerto, featuring Robert Taub as soloist, was a good complementary work to follow Churcher’s Breakwater. The first movement is full of speedy runs up and down the keyboard, as if that river we ‘saw’ earlier had reached a still-urgent maturity. There is an unusual opening featuring the piano alone, followed by orchestra without piano for a fair length of time, until the piano re-enters. Playing with the central motif, it is largely a treble sound that characterises this movement, those instruments with a lower register only joining in when there are crescendos so that, like a river, the piano flows along between the banks of the orchestral instruments.

There is a clear connection between first and second movements as the demanding octaves from the piano towards the end of that movement are picked up by the first entrance of brass and timpani in this second movement but with the third movement we move from the peaceful almost religious sounds of the end of the second movement into joy and playfulness once more. Beethoven, emphasised by Taub’s interpretation, plays with speed and momentum, introducing abrupt changes in both as well as continuing to develop the main motif first introduced in the first movement.

Robert Taub, as clear and enthusiastic a teacher as he is a performer, pointed out the fact that the work should be seen as one organic whole, each movement complementing and enhancing the one before. As before, I was struck by Taub’s quiet command of his instrument and, because this was not as last time, a solo performance, I was also struck by how closely conductor and soloist worked together, Conductor Mark Forkgen, watching and listening quietly to Taub’s changes of pace and translating these to the attentive orchestra.

The final work was the Symphony No 7, so no more soloist but instead we could admire the togetherness of the orchestra and the way that Forkden guided them through the piece. Also noticeable was the quiet encouragement he gave throughout to the players, turning from one side to the other so that every instrumentalist felt kindly observed and encouraged.

Here is another playful piece, full of joy and jokey moments, such as the hiccupping rhythms and falling broken arpeggios characteristic of this work. The slight feeling of unbalance these rhythmic jokes lend to the work add to the sensation that this is a youthful piece, a helter-skelter, though it was composed towards the end of Beethoven’s life when his deafness was gathering momentum and he was beset by problems. Not that there aren’t darker moments, sudden ominous crescendos, but these are lightened by happy tunes full of sunlight and a feeling of spring and the first movement ends in triumph, a celebration of victory over the darkness.

The tiptoeing quietness of the second movement, with a central melody weaving in and out, creating a golden mesh of notes which rise in volume until the whole fabric is revealed, gives way to restless rhythms that dip in and out of fugue and even round-like structuring. Contrast this with the last two movements, the delicacy and lightness of touch of the third movement – even from the French Horns, where such controlled softness is not easy – who bat the romp between groups of instruments, strings to woodwind and back, leading to the crazy helter-skelter of the last movement. Here the instruments appear to chase each other in a catch-as-catch-can, chasing each other up and down interspersed with heavily accented, dramatic falters and breaks. The whole movement doesn’t sound so much like a happy tumble as an over-balancing, falling and staggering until it speeds up to a breathless end.

All of this was managed beautifully by a conductor who knew where he was going and how to extract every nuance out of this difficult work. The slower than usual beginning made sense as it led to the tumbling triumph of the end and emphasised the youthful exuberance of the whole evening’s entertainment. A wonderful and exhilarating evening.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The large orchestra was led by concertmaster David Adams, the lead violinist who kept the orchestra together with his bow, his head and even his feet at times. Just occasionally, where there were extreme changes in pace, he allowed the other first violinists to hold the fort and stood up to conduct for a few bars. This, however, was an orchestra used to each other and the programme, who were admirably together in both timing and obvious enjoyment.

The programme began with three pieces from Johann Strauss II’s The Gypsy Baron. It made for a rousing opening and featured the first of five arias sung by baritone Dafyyd Allen, a recent graduate of the Royal College of Music and finalist in the 2022 Welsh Singers Competition. From the quality and variety of his singing tone this is a young man destined to go far. Here was a swashbuckling opening from the Gypsy Baron himself, but ‘My yearning, My Obsession’ from Korngold’s The Dead City showed Allen’s range and ability to show tenderness, while his rendering of the character of the famous violinist and composer Paganini, well known as a lover of women, captures the character of the boastful lothario well in Lehar’s aria ‘Girls were made to love and kiss’ from the opera Paganini.

Works by Johann Strauss II took up the most part of the programme but there were two pieces by Josef Strauss, including a polka called Chatterboxes, based on the prattling of the composer’s own ten-year-old daughter. The piece was a lot of fun and sounded exactly like its title.

Fun was the key word for the whole evening. Particular high spots were another Johann Strauss II piece, a polka entitled In Krapfen’s Woods, which featured a cuckoo and other trilling birds, rendered by a soloist who moved around the audience and ended up cuckooing in the ears of the cellos and double basses. At the end the rousing and familiar Radetzky March by Johann Strauss, taken at a rattling pace, had the cellists whirling their instruments like ballerinas on points.

Hard not to envisage whirling waltzers too dancing around the floor during the famous Blue Danube, a piece of music even envied by Strauss’s friend Johannes Brahms who, when Strauss dedicated his waltz Be Embraced, You Millions to him, wrote in Strauss’s daughter’s autograph book the first two musical lines of The Blue Danube followed by the words ‘Alas! Not by Johannes Brahms.’ There can be no greater accolade for a piece of music that has delighted millions and is famous the world over.

I had friends who didn’t want to come to such a ‘light’ programme but they lost a treat by missing it, and luckily there were many who came just because the pieces are familiar, knowing that a live performance is so very different always from a recording: so much more alive and exciting, fed by the build up of concentration from players and audience into a fizzing celebration. We all left feeling, as the concert master David Adams had said when he introduced Be Embraced, You Millions, that we’d received a warm hug to take us through a cold January and beyond.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The concert began with the Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, such a familiar piece but so magical when experienced live. Written in the form we know it towards the end of his life, this quickly became one of Tchaikovsky’s most well-loved works. It is not a linear story-in-music of Shakespeare’s tragedy but rather an exploration of the main themes of the work. First comes the pivotal well-meaning advice of Friar Laurence, which kick-starts the tragedy, shown by sonorous deep bass notes against sweet wind instruments and harp underlined by pizzicato strings. The roll of a drum presages a speedier passage depicting the hostility between the Montagues and Capulets. Violent stabbing chords on the strings, interspersed with hurrying notes, paint pictures for the audience. The love theme between Romeo and Juliet asserts itself here and, after a second more violent battle between the two warring families, it is that theme which swells and proclaims the victory of love despite human folly and hatred and the tragic death of the lovers. However familiar this piece is its immersive quality when live adds a new magic.

Part of the magic was the way conductor Chloe van Soeterstede dipped and danced in an almost balletic harmony with the piece. More than many conductors I have seen in action her whole body and especially the fluidity of her hands and arms added to the magical feel of the evening.

In the second piece, Bruch’s Violin Concerto No 1, the connection between violin soloist Tobias Feldmann and this special conductor, was wonderful. Here was another musician who entered into his playing with his entire body so that the pair of them bent and swayed close together as if dancing.
The orchestra created a background to the soloist that never impinged but swelled and dipped to allow the soaring notes of the violin to predominate. It was a triumphant showing, sometimes plaintive, sometimes passionate, often playful and joyous, taking us into the well-known second movement and out the other side into the passionate third movement, which rises on a crescendo, faster and faster to a flourishing triumphant finish.

After a short interval the final piece was Dvorak’s Symphony No 7, a work I am ashamed to say I was not familiar with though I am with many other of his works, especially his folk dances and his chamber orchestra pieces. Needless to say, after being carried through this fine work on a gorgeous, and sometimes threatening, pillow of sound, I have remedied this by ordering a CD of it instantly! This is Dvorak at his most mighty and very finely rendered by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra.
It starts ominously and slowly, using low registers, until the oboe breaks in with a lovely tune. Still, the feeling is of something about to happen and it does: a pretty rural theme which expands to suggest a vista of woods, birds and a folksy tune, suggestive of those that live there. The rural scene gives way to something more ominous again and the first movement ends with muted brass on a devastating note.
The second movement begins with a folk tune from the clarinet and goes on to reassure us with the warm tones of mellow brass instruments which give way to the woodwind offering tunes of hope, and these in turn ignite the strings into assertions of joy and peace.

The third movement is full of Dvorak’s wonderful take on his native folk dances, starting strong and assertive and then taking on a different flavour, teasing, the different instruments playing a kind of hide and seek until the chase builds to a climax and ends on a held unresolved note.

The last movement is full of strong ominous tunes with swooping crescendos, shouting brass, strongly rhythmic chords and unison sections which build and build to a climax. Changes of rhythm and pace take us to the end with a series of skidding swoops settling to a satisfying finale.

Throughout all three works the dynamics were beautifully managed and there was a strong feeling of unity between the various sections of the orchestra and the conductor which was highly noticeable. Congratulations to all.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The evening began with a talk from Taub himself, in which he demonstrated the themes of the three works he was undertaking and what brought them into being. These small tasters of phrases and moods gave the good-sized audience a flavour of what was to come and whetted our appetite for more.

No sooner was the talk over than there was a bomb scare. Security escorted us all out firstly into the wet blustery night and secondly into, I suppose, a drama studio, while the police investigated. Though we were all pretty sure this was a hoax, nowadays no one can take a risk. I felt very sorry for Taub, who was bundled out with the rest of us. It says something for his control over his subject matter that, once we were allowed back in, forty-five minutes later, after a brief pause where he focused and gathered himself he began with no noticeable problem. Very soon we all followed him, mind and heart, into a musical world where there was no outside disturbance.

The concert opened with Beethoven’s Sonata in C minor, Opus 13, known as the Pathetique. Like his majestic Eroica Symphony, which I was lucky enough to review a couple of weeks ago, the Pathetique is another ground-breaker, both works instantly popular and both leading into the new territory of Romanticism.

The first movement is full of dramatic contrasts between those huge crashing chords that are left to die to silence and the melody that follows, the portentous slow opening out of which a speedier conversation between a rumbling bass and a run-away treble, like question and answer, come to a dramatic pause to allow a thought-provoking repetition of the first theme – and then we’re off again, until the tentative question is asked again and we rattle to a stop. Taub was not rigid about the timing, giving moments expression by tiny alterations in speed and allowing slightly longer pauses than some would to emphasise the theatricality of this famous movement.

The second movement feels more peaceful and expansive and has an exploratory feel to it as right hand and then left hand explore a more wistful mood before harmoniously slotting together. Only the three chords at the end form a question – which is instantly answered by the immediate beginning of the third movement with its assertive new theme where the bass plays counterpoint to the right hand’s melody. Soon this breaks into a joyful scampering up and down the keyboard before settling back into the main theme. There are subtle changes in pace towards the end of the movement, giving it a more querulous tone, before defiantly heading for the finish with a last flourish.

Robert Schumann’s Davidsbundlertanze, Opus 6 was the next offering. Written, as Taub explained in his informative opening talk, as a love -offering to Clara Wieck, the sixteen-year old daughter of his piano teacher. The eighteen pieces that make up the work reflect his feelings for Clara and his hope to marry her, stymied by her father who for two years opposed the union, though finally – reflected in the last piece of the long work – they did marry. The keys of the pieces reflect Schumann’s long agitation over his teacher’s continued opposition. I will quote here from the programme notes, written by Taub himself, which explain this much more clearly than I could: Schumann identified the key of C major, for obvious reasons with Clara, but only two pieces of the work ‘- the crucial ninth and eighteenth – end in that key’… ‘The first eight pieces yearn restlessly for C major [Clara], but the C major which is attained at the end of the ninth piece’ is not strong. The tenth piece onwards move further and further away from the goal of Clara until , finally, in the last piece – the eighteenth – C major is established and the long wait is over. ‘The quiet ending with its repeated slow Cs is moving and satisfying, the longed-for goal at last peacefully attained.’

For me, the first eight pieces were full of moments of delight and joy as he thinks of his love.

Contemplative moods with repeating phrases contrast with characteristically playful arpeggios or sudden explosions of joy like games of hide and seek between the left and right hands. These felt charmingly youthful, with impatience and doubt clouding the waters at times before hope takes over again. The teasing and the running away, with occasional tender melodies in between, of this opening grouping felt like a courtship. Then comes the second grouping, with many of the moods as before but more question and answer, more doubt and impatience, until the final tune which starts deceptively simply with a beautiful melody in the right hand which feeds into a phrase joined by the left. Beautiful deep bass notes end the piece like a prayer.

After an interval where we were treated to glasses of champagne since this was an inaugural concert we returned to finish the programme with Chopin’s Sonata in B minor, Opus 58, the last of only three sonatas that Chopin wrote.

The first movement opens majestically, less melodic and grander than most people’s idea of Chopin. A friend, a very good pianist who played Chopin almost exclusively, used to say that the composer was incapable of writing a wrong note in his exquisite melodies. Here we had a different view of Chopin as assertive chords gave way to running arpeggios and then melted into a beautiful melody, broken up by more assertive chords. As with the Schumann and Beethoven, the whole range of the piano keyboard is used from top to bottom, breaking now and again into a distinctive melody. This movement is full of mood changes and sudden changes of tempo, which was perhaps Taub’s particular sympathetic interpretation of the piece.

The second movement starts like a helter skelter, with fast runs managed assiduously by Taub’s long clever fingers, giving way to a slow meditative tune using occasional distinctive octaves in both hands. The piece winds up with fast runs underpinned by firm base notes.The third movement starts with commanding chords and pauses where we hear the end of the notes vibrating. There follows a slow and magisterial tune with a deceptively simple syncopation between the bass and the melody in the right hand. The whole movement felt contemplative as it moves to a variation of the previous melody which has a rhythm like the movement of a peaceful sea. It was a long slow movement of remarkable beauty, ending on two chords – the first unresolved, moving slowly to a resolution. Gorgeous!

The fourth movement starts with huge climbing chords which break into an urgent series of runs full of sudden trips and more runs and sudden little melodic tunes, but always, always that sense of urgency, like a river running down to the sea. This gives way to a dominant tune in the right hand against a tempestuous bass followed by scales running up and down which end, with enormous precision, in a series of huge magnificent chords.

As if that weren’t enough in a concert of such virtuosity we were treated finally to two short transcriptions of other people’s work by Liszt. The first was a transcription of an attractive Schubert song and the second of Paganini’s La Campanella – a wonderfully showy piece where the right hand, at the far top end of the keyboard, mimics the bells of the title against the catchy tune carried by the left hand. The extraordinary high register of the piece gives it a kind of ethereal otherworldliness, like birds singing high in the topmost branches – a thing of extraordinary luminous beauty – which breaks into commanding chords answered by those high notes again after which both hands chase down the whole length of the piano and back up again in a stunning finale.

Thank you Robert Taub and the University of Plymouth for an extraordinary delightful evening.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

Andrea Dieci’s concert was at the end of the last day of the festival on an evening that included Nico G, an acoustic guitarist of Belgian origin, now living in Scotland, who gave us wonderfully innovative compositions of his own, referencing both classical and folk styles.

After Nico came the talented Clive Carroll with a series of accomplished acoustic folk and blues favourites, many written by himself, each tune introduced with a warm blend of anecdotes and laughter. For both these performers the auditorium was packed.

Last of the evening and clearly intended as the highlight was classical guitarist Andrea Dieci, so it was a shame that a large number of the audience left before he began. This was through no fault of his own. I have heard Dieci play a number of times over the years and his performances are always faultless. The problem lay in the timing of his concert. He was billed to start at a ruthless ten o’clock p.m. and the programme was running late. Poor Dieci arrived on the stage and started his 70 minute concert at 10.15p.m. I didn’t get home after this finished until half past midnight. No wonder so many of the audience had left. However, there were still a goodly number of dedicated classical guitarists who stayed and were well rewarded for their patience.

Andrea Dieci is Professor of Guitar at the Modena Conservatoire near Milan in Northern Italy. He is also a great friend of Ben Salfield, the organiser of the Hellys Festival who is an accomplished lutenist himself. Dieci is a regular performer at the Hellys Festival and often comes to Cornwall to give other concerts too.

Dieci had planned the programme he was playing in two halves but because of the starting time he had to play the whole programme consecutively. The programme started with two short Sonatas by Scarlatti which Dieci transcribed himself from their original harpsichord settings. These were followed by Mozart’s Variations on a Theme as arranged by Fernando Sor. The first half finished with the premier UK performance of Nicola Jappelli’s Amaritudo – ‘Mutations’ of Dowland’s lute music. This piece was written for and dedicated to Dieci himself. The rest of the programme was an homage to Segovia, whose influence and popularity did much to bring the classical guitar to the attention of the world.

When watching a Dieci concert the first thing that strikes you is the quietness and precision of his touch. His long fingers settle on the strings with no fuss, almost he seems to stroke those strings. When a piece is finished he lets the last notes linger in the mind before lifting his right hand away from the strings with infinite grace. His seated body is still; only his face and, particularly his eyebrows, reflect the feelings he has for his music. The atmosphere of concentration he builds sucks the audience in so that in the auditorium on this late hot night we were totally focused on watching and listening.
Beginning with the Scarlattis, without introduction, also acted as a funnel for our total attention. Only after these did he start to tell us what he was playing and a little about each piece. The colour of these pieces was brought out by strong contrasts in the bass and treble ranges. Contrasts also in pace made sense of the shape of the sonata form.

Variations are a way for a composer to play with a tune or an idea. The Mozart piece started with a gradual build of sound which then faded into piano. This was followed by an insistent throbbing bass note against a light treble in the first of the variations. There followed a pretty, typically Mozartian tune which led into a faster paced variation in which the tune was subjected not just to speed but to little skips in the rhythm. Slower, tuneful chords with bass and treble working in close harmony led into further variations. The most notable of these had left and right hand playing alternately, like question and answer. Finally the piece speeded up, ending with a series of bass runs followed by two final dramatic chords. Gorgeous.

The Nicola Jappelli piece came next. I am a lover of Dowland’s work so was looking forward to this. The source material is If My Complaints Could Passions Move, a song to lute accompaniment in which, in typical Dowland style, the melancholy lover sighs, suffers, and breaks his heart in hopeless love of an uncaring lady. Jappelli does a modern take on this, though throughout we frequently hear the echo of Dowland’s tune. Though a modern composition, the mood of the piece is always close to the original. The music contains melancholy plangent notes like water drops before setting off on a series of runs and single notes separated by huge jumps, perhaps to explain the disorder of the lover’s mind. The second page of the piece [this was the only part of the programme where Dieci had the music in front of him] referenced perhaps the second verse of the original song, where the lover is angry at his lady’s disdain. A set of chords and arpeggios storm along, settling at last into Elizabethan-style broken chords. This is followed by broken sounds, the breaking of the heart perhaps, followed by angry strong chords against broken arpeggios. Thus we have a different way of accessing Dowland’s mood, a louder, brasher twenty-first century sound, which settles finally into a form of acceptance, shown by a series of soft chords, slow, meditative with silences in between, ending at last in the last Dowland-esque broken chords. A superb piece of music, wonderfully played.

Without a break we went into the second half – the homage to Segovia. All the pieces were from the early part of Segovia’s career, from his debut in Paris in 1924 to around 1930. Segovia was such an instant explosion on the musical scene that composers all wanted to write works for him, even though they were rarely guitarists themselves. The two pieces that started the half were both French – Gustave Samazeuilh’s Serenade and Albert Roussel’s Segovia opus 29, both written in 1925. Both have a Spanish flavour.

The Serenade is a gentle piece with strong notes against chords and Spanish style intervals between the notes, interspersed with broken chords. The second piece by Roussel uses the rhythm of a Spanish dance – a fandango. It is a joyful melody with a strong bass melody and repetitive notes or chords against a playful treble, ending with a mischievous couple of high chords.

Finally came Ponce’s Variations and Fugue on Folia, written around 1930. This is a showy piece, apparently written for Segovia so that he could show off the full range of the guitar’s capabilities. It is stunning and showed off not only the range of the piece but of Dieci’s masterful rendering of it. As with the Mozart the Variations play with a central theme with which the piece begins: a pattern of strong chords which recur throughout. Then Ponce delivers the goods: harmonics, block chords, arpeggios of dazzling speed and range, rhythms that play with variations in time signature and the occasional break-out of gentle melodies. What a treat!

And yes it was a treat, but the exhaustion in Dieci’s whole demeanour by the end was obvious. Despite this, he delivered an encore – and still the applause continued after that, demanding still more. Luckily sense prevailed.

For me, it is a shame that such a master of his art was put through an unnecessary trial. Each day’s programme – a mix of music, competitions, literary talks and workshops – started always at 1.00p.m. On each day the final act was at 10.00p.m. Every day the programme was running late by that time. Surely the day’s programming could have started an hour earlier – or even two hours earlier? Let’s see common sense prevail by next year’s festival.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

Founded by the Hungarian violinist Sandor Vegh, this is a big year for IMS as it is their fiftieth Anniversary. Twice a year, in Spring and in Autumn, the seminars are run, offering master classes for students of music and recent graduates all over the world, as well as a chance for experienced world-class performers to work together with different musicians and to refresh and push the boundaries of their own musicality.

The quartet comprised Lesley Hatfield [violin], who is leader of the National Orchestra of Wales and a member of the Gaudier Ensemble and much more; Emily Nebel [violin] who has appeared with a large number of orchestras and Chamber groups all over Europe; David Adams [viola] who has played with a string of Chamber groups, including the Nash Ensemble, Endellion String Quartet, the Raphael Ensemble and many more; Alice Neary [cello] has been principal cellist for the BBC National Orchestra of Wales and has performed with groups all over Europe and the USA. She is also a renowned pianist and has 25 CDs to her name.

The concert began with Beethoven’s String Quartet Op.18, No 3 in D major. The work is in four movements and was the first quartet Beethoven wrote.

The first movement began quietly and was full of joyous little ripples, like laughter, as if Beethoven had enjoyed exploring and playing with the potential of each instrument. The second movement started with the quiet grace of a dance in which each instrument appeared to invite the next to join and in the third movement the dance quickened and sped to a close. Huge contrasts between light dabs and strong bowing occurred in the fourth movement. Again there was a joyous feel to the piece where Beethoven had the four instruments racing up and down and overlapping as if trying to catch each other out. The whole piece was a revelation and a joy to be part of as listeners.

Next came Dvorak’s Cypresses, Nos. 9 and 11, pieces I was familiar with for the piano but not as a trio for one violin, viola and cello. In Cypresses No 9, the viola’s lovely warm tones held the opening tune which was joined gradually by the other two instruments in turn. The piece ended quietly with the viola again, this time plucking the strings. Cypresses 11 had a hurrying rhythm alternating with stiller moments. It had me imagining a busy person rushing along only to be surprised into wonder and reflection at the beauty of the view.

After the interval we were treated to another string trio by the composer from Budapest, Zoltan Kodaly. Intermezzo for String Trio demonstrated Kodaly’s love of his country’s rustic people and their folk tunes. The skipping rhythms of the peasant tunes which also inspired Kodaly’s friend, Bela Bartok, were offset by a quieter passage, full of reverence and led first by the viola before the piece picked up into the rhythms of a country dance, underpinned by the cello, softly plucking.

Next came a short piece by Bohuslav Martinu – Three Madrigals for Violin and Viola [No. 2] wittily introduced by Adams who described how Martinu’s family lived in the belfry of their local church through his childhood. No bells in this piece but instead an exploration of the colour and scope of the two instruments. A difficult piece full of sliding chromatics, arpeggios that scampered up and down and discordancies that resolved blissfully into harmony and ended peacefully, moving from deliberately being out of sync to a coming together with a series of sublime long notes.

The concert ended with Haydn’s String Quartet Op. 20, No 2 in C major. Haydn was to all intents and purposes the inventor of the string quartet. We, who are used to chamber music, often forget what a debt we owe to Haydn for the playfulness and humour of his chamber catalogue. Lesley Hatfield, who introduced this part of the programme, also told us that it was Haydn who liberated the cello from just being the bass continuo to an exploration of its range and beauty.

Indeed, the first movement, marked Moderato, starts with the voice of the cello, which then gives way to the violins. The master of surprise, the movement is full of sudden fast runs from all the instruments. The second and third movements, Cappricio, followed by the short Minuet, starts with a strong series of notes in unison. The cello introduces the quieter section through which cuts the first violin in a lament. Cello answers sympathetically but the first violin has a song to sing, through which the other three instruments render a background of sympathy and support, emphasised by repetition of those strong unison passages. Finally was the Fugue in Four Parts. After a soft, light opening was a sudden strong and loud explosion of sound as the instruments wove in and out of each other. The piece ended with a very exciting gallop to a unison finish.

There is of course nothing like seeing and hearing live music. The obvious enjoyment of the performers enhanced this experience. Whatever combination they were working in, these wonderful musicians treated us to rich contrasts of light and shade, giving life in every case to these long-dead composers, as if unearthing them and bringing them literally from darkness into light. Watching them I was struck by the physicality of the performers; their bodies danced with and curled lovingly round their instruments; each became one creature.

They were all adept at bringing out the humour of the pieces and the rapid changes of pace and volume and, in the companionable space of the Tolmen Centre, surrounded by the warmth of that wooden interior which enhances the music, they took turns introducing each piece with learning but also with a delightful informality.

Thank you IMS for a wonderful evening.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.

The Music Director, Tomas Hanus, lived as a child in the same village as Janacek which has given him a love for this composer and particularly for this opera. It showed. The range from lightness to tragedy was beautifully handled and wrung the heart. This is one opera that always moves me to tears and that is partly because Janacek has written a naturalistic opera about people we can all recognise.

The music is full of the folk tunes of the area which Janacek loved and grew up with. In the overture, skipping rhythms and the heavily accented music which sometimes remind us of the composer’s contemporary, Dvorak, lead us into the first scene set in the village mill where all the action takes place. It is a busy scene, full of the musical chatter of the villagers, where we meet all the main characters. Here the love triangle of the two men – half-brothers Laca and Steva – who want to marry Jenufa, Steva unworthy but whose baby son Jenufa is already carrying, Laca riven with jealousy which causes him to cut her face with his knife, a scar which she thereafter carries.

Janacek has an extraordinary ability to set everyday Czech language to music. The Chorus of gossipy villagers chatter and flow, twisting and turning and overlapping in a way that manages to be both realistic and musically pleasing. To have turned the libretto into English could not have worked. So fast-moving is this chatter, however, that it is hard during all the crowd scenes to follow the translation above the stage.

Contrast this scene with the next which is largely a musical dialogue between Jenufa and her stepmother Kostelnicka. Jenufa has given birth to her son and the soft tender words she sings manifest her love for the infant, though worthless Steva has no interest and is hoping for a socially better marriage to the Mayor’s daughter. Kostelnicka, who was herself ill-treated by Jenufa’s father, has kept Jenufa in hiding to conceal her shame, but now out of her concern for her and realising that she will always be a pariah as an unmarried mother, she drugs Jenufa and drowns the child in the frozen river.

This is largely a solo, where we hear the to-and-fro of her terrible thoughts. Susan Bickley’s deep voice throbbed with passion and led the audience in horrified silence through her terrible plan. It was clear that for her this was a resolution that she felt would allow Jenufa to lead an ordinary life, a resolve led by affection for the girl but with a clear understanding of what it would mean if she were found out.
This scene was claustrophobic in its setting, a dark room with little light which allowed us to focus on the drama that was occurring between the two women. Susan Bickley as Kostelnicka had adopted a forward thrusting movement which gave her eyes a piercing quality and lent her voice strength and colour as she swung between resolve and terror. Her role is well-known to be one of the most testing written for a contralto voice. Bickley conveyed it with power and feeling.

Then comes the finale, where the characters of Jenufa, played by Tanya Hurst, and Laca, played by Peter Auty, develop. Both transcend themselves and the theme of forgiveness coupled with a gentler kind of love than hitherto shown in the drama emerges. A neighbour has found a baby in the gradually melting waters of the river and the whole sad tale is revealed in a scene crowded with all the neighbours, the Mayor and his wife and the soon to be wed Steva and the Mayor’s daughter.

Recognising her baby Jenufa’s whole demeanour softens as she grieves over the child and, without caring for her character or position in the village hierarchy, she owns what she has done. Her sung prayer for the soul of her child is moving enough to bring tears to the eyes. Kostelnicka confesses, knowing full well that her admission of infanticide could be the end of her life. Once again this is a masterly piece of acting and singing; she makes no apologies, despite the fact that her sacrifice – to clear the way for Jenufa to make a normal life for herself – has been undone by her stepdaughter’s public claiming of her child. The Mayor makes sure she is arrested but she leaves with head held high. It is as if Jenufa’s own transparency has created a transformation in herself too.

The ending of the opera might have been devastatingly sad but justice, through Kostelnicka’s confession, has been done. Steva is shamed; he will not now marry the Mayor’s daughter. Laca, however, shows his worth – despite having scarred Jenufa physically for life. Jenufa recognises that he is not ashamed of her as most men of that era would be, sees her true and loving soul and that together they will be a rock on which scandal-driven gossip will founder.

The ending is one of the touches put in by Katie Mitchell, who directed the original production. We are shown a scene where Kostelnicka is walking amongst white lilies accompanied by the orchestral music which asserts the theme of uplifting forgiveness and transformation with a sublime lightness of touch and soaring of the string section. Light shines on Kostelnicka’s peaceful face. Is she dead and in Heaven or has she been forgiven and set free? We are left to make our own decision, but here is Music Director’s promise in his opening address that humanity in the end wins.

Welsh National Opera is nearing the end of its Spring tour. I thoroughly recommend this production if it is anywhere near you.

This article was previously published on Lark Reviews.