L’isola disabitata - Linbury Studio, 28 October 2010
The members of the ROH's Jette Parker Young Artists programme (well, four of them anyway) get a stab at something meatier than their usual covers and comprimarios with a brief run of Haydn's L'isola disabitata in the Linbury Studio.
Continue reading "L’isola disabitata - abandoned no longer" »
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Chicago Symphony Orchestra / Haitink - Royal Festival Hall, 24 September 2009
Playfulness doesn't come any more easily to Bernard Haitink than it does to Gordon Brown. But the effort made his 'Clock' Symphony a livelier affair than last night's Mozart. Still, the CSO need to let their hair down more to sparkle convincingly in Haydn.
Bruckner's Seventh employed the glacial perfection of the Chicago sound to better effect. Haitink is skilled in constructing these gigantic works inch by inch, brick by brick. His subtle shifts of dynamic and balance, his diligent observation of tempo markings like 'a little slower' might not register in a more wayward ensemble. But here every ripple on the cool glossy surface told its own story.
Bruckner is frequently accused of being repetitive and by extension, boring (was that the reason for the many empty seats?) And if you simply look at the notes, there's a certain truth in that. But Haitink adds nuance, whether it's reflecting myriad facets in the central motif in the opening Allegro or shimmering through the descending strings of the coda. He creates a momentum that's not a mad burst of energy but a stately, almost imperceptible glide to the finishing line. And that's what Bruckner's all about. As Jaap van Zweden so eloquently put it "it makes you clean inside".
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András Schiff - Wigmore Hall, 29 May 2009 and 31 May 2009
Quatuor Mosaïques - Wigmore Hall, 29 May 2009
Even in this, his anniversary year, Haydn remains curiously overlooked and undervalued. Wigmore Hall redressed the balance a little this weekend with a minifest that ended with acutely Haydnesque precision on the exact bicentenary of his death. I managed half of it, missing out on the opening evening of piano trios and two of Quatuor Mosaïques' three string quartet programmes.
My starter was András Schiff's Friday afternoon lecture recital, based around some pieces he would play in full on Sunday morning. His format - plays a bit, talks a bit, plays a bit more, etc - has the estimable advantage that he can demonstrate precisely what he's going on about, bar by bar. He picks his words carefully as if he has a limited supply and doesn't want to waste any, but he spreads them broadly - history, theory, anecdote, opinion, example. All without sheet music and without notes. Haydn's sense of humour doesn't leap out and grab you (as this recent article by Schiff points out) and neither does Schiff's. But he is far, far funnier than you would ever expect, and again like Haydn, understands how to time a moment's silence to perfection.
And not just that. Such are the Schiff skillz that he could also demonstrate Haydn's inventive genius by showing the opposite. His extemporised reworkings in lesser composer style, complete with safe modulations and predictable phrases and obvious cadences, brilliantly illustrated his comments on the solidity of Haydn's architecture and the daring of his harmonic language. Understanding what something is, especially something as elusively-wrought and intangible as timeless music, is made so much easier when you find out what it isn't.
A lengthy unscheduled break to deal with some sort of audience medical emergency stretched the afternoon to two and a half hours. That's longer than the Sunday morning recital itself, which at two hours for £12, free sherry included, was something of a bargain.
One of Schiff's contentions is that by relegating Haydn to an opening act, modern concert programmes further his undeserved reputation for dullness. Neither performer nor audience - and no composer demands your full attention like Haydn - is warmed up and receptive. So why not chance a 100% Haydn programme now and again?
His utterly captivating Sunday recital proved it can work. The early Capriccio in G major is based on the faintly silly premise of an Austrian folk song about castrating a pig and sparkles with inventiveness, not least in the startling chromaticism (in 1765!) of its central episode. Schiff's crisp articulation and sparing pedalling respected its harpsichord origins.
The Sonata in G minor HXVI:44 displayed his talent for bringing out voicings as the tiny three-note theme recurred again and again. He held the suspended bass note in the C major Fantasy exactly as the composer requested - finche non si sente più il suono - until the sound is not heard any more - a pause of several seconds. And repeated it a few bars later. Technically, if you know the work, neither should surprise, but Schiff has mastered the actor's trick of seeming failure to anticipate. Haydn's humour is not the sort that builds up to a punchline. It's abrupt, unexpected and it has to seem fresh-minted every time if it's going to work. Schiff is naturally attuned to this, as his lecture showed.
The Sonata in E minor HXVI:34 perhaps demonstrates Haydn's prolixity more than his genius but Schiff lavished it with no less care and respect than anything else he played. Schiff displayed Haydn's rarely-exposed introspective side with a winning intimacy in the F minor Variations, and he finished with perhaps the greatest of Haydn's piano works, the Sonata in E flat HXVI:52.
I regretted only having time to make one of Quatuor Mosaïques' three recitals. Their performance of the first three Op.20 quartets was marked by the warmth of their gut strings, near vibrato-free clarity and perfect balance. The odd squeak and flaw merely emphasised that in a live performance, anything can happen.
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Les Musiciens du Louvre / Minkowski - Barbican, 18 January 2009
Marc Minkowski brought his Musiciens du Louvre to the Barbican on Sunday night to celebrate St Cecilia, patron saint of music and itchy underwear, in the form of choral works by three 2009 anniversarians. Handel set Dryden's Ode for St Cecilia's Day and Purcell a knockoff by Nicholas Brady. Haydn squeezes in on a technicality; his Missa Cellensis acquired the name Missa Sanctae Caeciliae some time after composition.
The Olympian scale endurance event sprawled over nearly four hours of Sunday evening - something the Barbican omitted to mention in advance, or even in the programme as they usually do. For baroque opera regulars, it was a breeze, but not everyone lasted the course. Purcell alone was enough to empty a few seats, and the press pack were amongst the late casualties who skipped the extended encore.
I'm generally not that keen on Purcell, but Hail Bright Cecilia shows him at his most inventive, with the 'warbling lute' , the 'am'rous flute' and all the other instruments descriptively scored. Minkowski's band played vibrantly - he's no historical authoritarian.
There was some immaculate solo singing, particularly from tenor Anders Dahlin - a true haute-contre - and the peaches and cream soprano of Lucy Crowe, fairy-like in a glittering duck egg blue mermaid gown. A couple of the soloists, countertenor David Bates and bass-baritone Neil Baker, were drawn from the choir, and their excellent performances were indicative of the high choral standard overall. The only complaint is that what seemed a deliberate attempt not to over-enunciate consonants made porridge of some of the text.
A haunting solo cello introduction set the tone for some fearless and spirited Handel. As with Purcell, the text inspires some vivid writing. Richard Croft relished the military insistence of the double, double, double beat in The trumpet's loud clangour. Lucy Crowe held the whole house in pindrop silence with the poised and plangent The soft complaining flute.
There was only time for the Kyrie and Gloria of Haydn's mass on the programme, though no doubt Minkowski would happily have given us the whole lot. Written just seven years after Handel's death, it seems a lifetime apart in its assured classicism, and Minkowski subtly but decisively switched gears to highlight this. There was not a hint of fatigue from him or from any of the performers.
Interrupting the applause to offer 'the best' of the remaining parts, he launched into a twenty minute chunk of the Credo. The stately and thinly-scored Et incarnatus est for tenor solo turned out to be Richard Croft's finest moment of the night.
The concert was recorded for broadcast on Radio 3 on 21 January - though with only 2 1/4 hours scheduled something will have to give.
**UPDATE** - the Haydn will be broadcast separately on Radio 3 Sat 24th Jan, at 7.45pm (thx Graeme at the BBC for that information).
And Lucy Crowe has a solo recital at Wigmore Hall on 22 February.
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Die Schöpfung - Freiburger Barockorchester / Jacobs - Barbican, 10 January 2009
Despite some scrappy playing here and there, and some downright weird directorial interventions - tinkly salon-style fortepiano interludes, anyone? - the Freiburg Baroque's performance of Haydn's Creation under René Jacobs was rescued by its compelling warmth and joie de vivre. This was largely down to the star soloist, Thomas Quasthoff, whose choice of programme it was.
His voice may lack those dark treacly depths but he knows how to reach out and draw an audience in. Though the vocal parts here have names, the characterisation is embedded more in the text. Quasthoff delivered every word with consideration. The menagerie of of the sixth day was evinced with especial relish, ending with a truly subterranean worm buried deep beneath the stave.
The other soloists couldn't match his exuberance, but they coped ably with their parts, and their restraint provided a fitting counterbalance. Julia Kleiter sang sweetly and clearly, even though the acreage of la Ceci-style embellishment prescribed by Jacobs threatened to overwhelm her resources at times. Maximilian Schmitt started brilliantly, and though he lost focus a bit towards the end, he sang with poise and clarity, and his straightforward sincerity was affecting.
The decision to split the RIAS-Kammerchor into two wings, sopranos and tenors to one side, altos and basses to the other, was not entirely successful from the perspective of those of us not sitting dead-centre in the hall. I was only a few seats away from the centre, but the balance was terrible, entirely weighted to the closest wing, so I can only imagine what the people at the very sides heard. The Barbican acoustics are not kind to such experiments.
But the choir lived up to their reputation as one of the best, with a fantastically well-drilled performance. And what a pleasure to hear the German sung by natives, so uniformly articulated that it could be followed easily without the programme to hand.
The orchestral machine was less well-oiled - intonation, ensemble, balance - all went out of the window at some point or other. But zippy pace and spunky playing enlivened Jacobs's rococo confection, and though I'm no fan of period performance for its own sake, here the details - the lively gut strings, the velvety wood flute, the peremptory rattle of the hard sticks on the timpani - lent such freshness and character that the niggles could be overlooked.
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Proms 38 and 39: West-Eastern Divan Orchestra / Barenboim - Royal Albert Hall, 14 August 2008
Haydn Sinfonia Concertante in B flat major, for oboe, bassoon, violin, cello
Schoenberg Variations for Orchestra, Op.31
Brahms Symphony No.4
Encore: Wagner Prelude, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg
Pierre Boulez Mémoriale (... explosante-fixe ... Originel)
Stravinsky L'histoire du soldat
The surgical-gloved bag checks at the door and the deliberate omission of orchestra members' names from the programme were jolting reminders that for there's more to this mixed Arab-Israeli orchestra than music.
It is I suppose inevitable that the incredible feat of simply creating and sustaining a cross-divide orchestra tends to overshadow the purely musical successes. But gradually, Barenboim has shaped this assortment of musicians - professional and amateur, experienced and novice, young and even younger - into an outstanding orchestra. The fact that tonight's brass section included a few ringers from the Simon Bolivar Orchestra doesn't diminish that achievement.
What is really special about this orchestra is not just that Israeli and Arab sit side-by-side, but that it mixes such a wide range of experience. Tonight one of the Israelis was concertmaster of the Berliner Philharmoniker, Guy Braunstein, and sharing his stand was a ten year old Palestinian prodigy.
When leader Michael Barenboim bust a string in the Brahms, Guy Braunstein, sitting back in the third row, was the one who proffered a violin swap. Playing the last movement on three strings, using every spare moment to unpick the broken string so he could swiftly replace it with the spare in his pocket before the encore, he gave his junior partner a lesson in crisis management he won't forget for a while, on top of all the musical stuff. Where else could a ten year old, however talented, get that sort of training?
And why don't we have something similar in Britain? Bringing together warring nations may be beyond the scope of British orchestras, but putting together a group from mixed musical backgrounds could rejuvenate the approach of the professionals as well as giving the youngsters the sort of practical training they could never receive from any youth orchestra, however good.
They gave Haydn's Sinfonia Concertante an elegant, hard-edged workout, if rather short on charm. Barenboim, with the slightly disdainful air of a man obliged to hold his wife's handbag, occasionally stood back to investigate his pockets or swab himself with a handkerchief. Perhaps he was just demonstrating that the orchestra and soloists were well-enough rehearsed to motor along without his hand at the wheel.
He swung back to full-attention mode and Schoenberg's Variations for Orchestra emerged in luxuriant bloom, at once precisely delineated and expressively glowing, a scorching rebuttal to anyone who claims that twelve tone music is automatically incomprehensible or devoid of all feeling.
A short-breathed opening belied an expansive reading of Brahms' Fourth Symphony. A balance weighted more toward the formal than the expressive element was perhaps to be expected, and Barenboim's sculptural definition securely contained its romantic sweep. I found myself impressed rather than moved.
It was a shame the enthusiastic applause and cheering had to be accompanied by an undercurrent of booing - no doubt directed at the political rather than the musical element, but grossly unfair on the musicians.
Having commented that he's usually asked to say what's wrong with the Middle East, Barenboim claimed "you've just heard what’s right with the Middle East” before baiting another tiresome faction of his opponents with a rousing encore of Wagner’s first Meistersinger prelude.
More cheering, more booing, and I wasn't sure if the Palestinian flag unrolled in the Arena was a gesture of support or criticism - either way, it struck a jarringly divisive note next to the hugging and handshaking of the orchestra members.
Most of the orchestra finished for the night at this point, leaving just a handful to return an hour later for the late night concert. This began with the brief shards of Pierre Boulez's Stravinsky tribute Mémoriale (... explosante-fixe ... Originel), followed by the surprise appearance of the composer himself on stage.
Then came another living legend, this time actor/writer/director Patrice Chéreau, reading all the speaking parts in Stravinsky's L'histoire du soldat. This work has too many words and too little music to be improved by such an economically-textured approach, even when the performer is as distinguished as Chéreau. And of course the condensation of all roles into one performer limits spontaneity and removes one layer of engagement. Although Chéreau's performance was powerful and charismatic - or maybe because it was - the music took on the character of interludes to a monologue, illustrative asides. This was far from Stravinsky's intent. It's a difficult work to pull off, and while this performance displayed the content effectively enough, it didn't communicate the essence.
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Alfred Brendel - Royal Festival Hall, 27 June 2008
Haydn Variations in F minor, Hob.XVII/6 (Un Piccolo divertimento)
Mozart Piano Sonata in F, K.533/494
Beethoven Piano Sonata in E flat, Op.27 No.1 (Quasi una fantasia)
Schubert Piano Sonata in B flat, D.960
After 60 years on the padded stool, Alfred Brendel is finally calling time on his piano playing career, sealing his choice with a series of farewell gigs around the world. Tonight it was goodbye to London, with his last ever solo recital in the capital.
It must have been a hard decision to make, but I think his timing is right. I've wondered for a while whether he wants or needs to perform as much as he used to. Generally looking a great deal more happy and comfortable in the audience than on the stage, his recent performances have often been marked by lapses in focus and concentration.
But tonight was different - the relief of the marathon runner in sight of the finishing tape perhaps? At any rate, he appeared elated, not just at the massive ovations he received, but even at several times during his performance, and his concentration was absolute.
The characteristically intelligent programme had all the Brendel hallmarks of elegant juxtapositions of key, mood and context, its path tracing inexorably to Schubert's Vienna, arguably Brendel's pianistic home.
Brendel's touch was delicate, almost cosseting. He played with affection and tenderness, as if each piece were a newborn baby being put to bed. There was no thunder and no theatrics. Neither tempo nor dynamics were ever sharply accentuated. His assurance was such that he could trust the tiniest inflection to do all the expressive work for him. If wisdom has a sound, this was it.
Far from imposing a misguided uniformity on the disparate parts of the programme, Brendel's approach simply accentuated their atavistic similarities. Attention to detail took care of the rest. Only a few graceless inter-movement coughs and rumbles during the Schubert could break the rapt spell that Brendel cast - little wonder he leapt into its last movement without pausing for the inevitable distraction.
Encoring first with part of Bach's Italian concerto and then Liszt's Au Lac de Wallenstadt, it wasn't until Brendel's final encore, almost inevitably Schubert's G flat Impromptu, that he kicked loose and thundered out the first and last fortissimo of the night.
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Click here for a recent Dutch TV interview (in English) where Brendel discusses his retirement.
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Country Matters (English Touring Opera) - Hackney Empire, 13 October 2007
Last night in Teseo, the first of English Touring Opera's baroque double bill, panto-baddie Medea cast her spells - and lost both the man and the plot.
Tonight's Country Matters (an English language version of Haydn's L'Infedelta Delusa) spun around another woman with a bag of tricks. When dim-witted men prove unable to sort out their own love lives, the cunning Vespina must don various disguises to trick old Filippo out of marrying his daughter Sandrina to Vespina's hot crush Nencio, and get Sandrina hitched to her true love, Vespina's brother Nanni, instead.
It's not often a comic opera actually makes me laugh, but Country Matters pulled it off. The starting point is of course Haydn's delightful music. It's coupled with an English translation (by Gerard McNamara) which nails the spirit of the original without being slavishly literal.
Liam Steel's witty production, a very different style from James Conway's for Teseo, centres on a constantly readjusting single scene of filigree prettiness that makes creative use of its skimpy props.
The black and white setting is an etching come to life. Flatpack trees ring a stage packed with chairs and stepladders. What looks at first like a sprinkling of soot over the white set turns out to be an intricate pattern of pen-like cross hatching, which is laboriously repeated on many of the sugared almond regency-style costumes.
There's not a moment's stillness as the cast manhandle the furniture into a succession of subtly choreographed tableaux that provide seats, platforms, walls. Little touches -- a tree branch that switches the lights off, a table that's pulled out of the floor -- keep the laughs going. The music isn't too hot on characterisation, but the production compensates with movement as the cautious Nencio moves warily around the chairs, impulsive Nanni throws them around, and so on.
As Vespina, Charlotte Ellett inevitably stole the show in her grotesque disguises (which are vocal as well as physical) -- an old woman, a lawyer, a crusty admiral.
But she had well-judged and well-sung support from the rest of the cast. Lorina Gore as Sandrina and Jonathan Gunthorpe as Nanni made a dimly sweet and charming couple, and Huw Rhys-Evans offered good-natured bluster as Fillippo.
Tenor Andrew Staples sometimes strained for those top notes, but he was comic perfection as the clueless and infatuated banker Nencio. He starts with the advantage of a face that can draw a smile before he sings a word, but he has some of the best lines and his exquisitely pointed phrasing made the most of them.
The orchestra ventured beyond Haydn's tidy forms with a high energy performance, the harpsichord continuo even sneaking a little Mozart tribute in.
I arrived at the theatre after a day in the cinema watching (most of) Tony Palmer's 8 hour biopic Wagner (more on which later......maybe) unsure whether I could even stay awake through a whole opera -- but I actually felt revitalised afterwards. When can we get Liam Steel's Ring Cycle?
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Haydn: The Creation - LSO/Davis - Barbican, 7 October 2007
The LSO managed a pretty good turnout for tonight's performance of Haydn's Creation considering the competing attractions of the LPO's birthday celebrations at the Royal Festival and a rare Thomas Quasthoff jazz concert at the Wigmore Hall. Once again Evgeny Kissin was a welcome addition to the audience. And BBC cameras too -- the concert was recorded for future transmission (no date fixed yet) on BBC4.
Last year the Barbican staged a Gabrieli Consort performance of the Creation sung in the English biblical/Milton text which originally inspired Haydn. Tonight's version used the German text Haydn actually set, economically combined with a moderately sized orchestra and just three soloists, who doubled up on the five vocal parts.
For all Sir Colin Davis's baton-swinging enthusiasm, the LSO struck a rather subdued Sunday-nighter note, with a few glaring errors of ensemble suggesting a lack of concentration. The London Symphony Chorus were more animated, if not quite as slickly rehearsed as I've seen them of late.
This oratorio is more or less through-sung, so it weighs heavily on the soloists' shoulders -- luckily Sir Colin had engaged a crack team. Sally Matthews scored maximum glamour points, wrapped in red and white taffeta and weighed down in Mikey. Her even, luxuriant ice-cream tone and leisured phrasing lent a celestial purity to her parts, though her strange swoops and twirls were a distracting visual counterpoint.
Dietrich Henschel was initially very reserved, even opting to close his eyes when he wasn't singing. Was he lost in rapture, did he just need the sleep, or are were the audience really that scary? Once thawed out, his attractively dry baritone was subtly nuanced, alert to all the expressive possibilities of the text, and particularly charming as he painted a list of animals.
Ian Bostridge most uncharacteristically barked and shouted his way through the first hour, where, unfortunately, most of his solos were placed. When he suddenly rediscovered his voice in the Mit Wurd und Hoheit aria, it was like a ray of sunshine, and left Henschel so spellbound that he failed to rise from his seat for his own immediately following solo until an impatient chord from the harpsichord continuo summoned him. Bostridge was back to heartstoppingly beautiful top form for his just two solos which followed, but I couldn't help regretting the lost opportunity of the first half.
Whatever any individual shortcomings were, in each of the several trios, the soloists displayed an inspired sensitivity and balance, slotting together to almost freakish perfection.
I'd love to hear the same team tackle this again -- all the right ingredients are in place, and it's just unfortunate that they didn't meld together consistently in this performance.
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Prom 53: Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra/Haitink
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Prom 54: Mahler Chamber Orchestra/Aimard - Royal Albert Hall, 24 August 2007
The programme rightly notes that Bruckner's 8th Symphony contains "moments of luminous splendour - not least the ending - they tend to stand out amid darkness, mystery and grim reminders of mortality". And so it was with this performance. Flashes of colour illuminated great yawning swathes of beige.
Although there were moments of pure inspiration, it was mostly hard work, a real effort to listen to. At times I wondered if the orchestra was simply tired - I understand they had a very tight schedule getting to London. That luxurious melted chocolate sound of theirs certainly seemed to lack a little of its usual sheen, though technically they were as ever spot-on, with some outstanding displays of individual virtuosity. The last movement was especially pallid, though the big finale did grab the attention.
Perhaps I was expecting too much. This concert came hot on the heels of two really outstanding performances earlier in the week. It would have been hard for anyone to match the passion of Dudamel's Venezuelans, or the elegiac intimacy of Abbado's Mahler. But the chilly efficiency of Haitink's interpretation left little room for any kind of feeling. What a difference from the Concertgebouw's last London visit, when under the baton of Mariss Jansons at the Barbican it was not difficult to think them the greatest orchestra in the world.
In contrast, Pierre-Laurent Aimard's sparsely attended late night concert with the superb Mahler Chamber Orchestra was a delight from start to finish.
Conducting Haydn's Symphony No. 102 batonless, with graceful air-piano movements, he moulded great sweeping legato phrases with a romantic gloss and a dynamic sense of propulsion.
Despite vibrato-less strings, it was fundamentally an unusually forward-looking interpretation. It sounded almost Beethovien, undoubtedly Aimard's intention judging from his take on the Beethoven concerto which came later.
Aimard's piano programmes often place Ligeti alongside the classical and romantic masters, a conjunction which works remarkably well, illuminating both. Tonight the piano was moved centre stage for Aimard to perform a solo selection of Ligeti Etudes, some of which Ligeti wrote specifically for Aimard, while the orchestra sat around him in horseshoe formation and listened attentively.
The neatly structured sequence traced a path through the shimmering multilayers of Entrelacs, to the jerky rhythms of Fém, Der Zauberlehrling's impossibly rapid, trapped trills, and the rambling fifths of Cordes vides, ending with the fearsome chromatic Escher staircase of L'escalier du Diable. The audience remained silent, transfixed during the lengthily-sustained final note. As one day-ticketer said with dropped jaw as the applause began, f*** me. Aimard playing Ligeti can have that effect. His precise and measured articulation of dazzlingly fast passages and his keen sense of the multi-rhythmic lines can make it sound as if several pianos are playing at once.
For the final work, Beethoven's second Piano Concerto, Aimard's piano was moved around so that he remained in the centre of the orchestra, but with his back to the audience, and a kind of clear shield was attached to the piano to reflect the sound better. You can see it in the photo below - it's the dark stripe behind the scores. 
Jumping up for some more air-piano work with his expressive hands when he could, conducting with his eyes alone when the requirements of the score tied him to the piano, he gave an exuberant reading of this early concerto.
Alternately drawing out its satisfyingly tidy Haydnesque aspects and splashing joyfully through the virtuoso solos, his elegant fluency and sheer brilliance were a delight. The Mahler Chamber Orchestra matched him every step of the way in technical flawlessness and sheer enthusiasm. For me this was the best 30 minutes of this year's Proms.
Mahler Chamber Orchestra as viewed from the arena:
Both concerts are available for the next week here - bear in mind BBC recording techniques change the original sound balance.
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Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment 21st Birthday Concert - Royal Festival Hall, 30 June 2007
Purcell Suite from Welcome to all the Pleasures & Now does the glorious day appear
Rameau Suite from Dardanus
Mozart Concerto in E flat for 2 pianos, K.365
Haydn Symphony No.63
Weber Der Freischütz - Act II Finale (The Wolf's Glen)
Handel Music for the Royal Fireworks
It's not often you get four top conductors in one night, but the 21st birthday concert of the OAE merited something special. The fab four in question were Mark Elder, Vladimir Jurowski, Sir Charles Mackerras and Sir Roger Norrington, and their magical mystery tour was broad reaching enough to show many facets of the orchestra's capabilities.
But even the fabbest of fours has a Ringo, and tonight it was Sir Roger Norrington, who took the first section. Although the orchestra and particularly the chorus bounced through the Purcell, directed by Richard Egarr from the harpsichord, well enough, it was marred by some below-par solo singing. Only counter tenor Robin Blaze really did it any credit. John Mark Ainsley and David Wilson-Johnson were barely audible, and Ainsley simply didn't hit all the notes right. The Rameau suite which followed was sluggish and uninspired, Rameau's sparkle and wit completely buried.
In between the Purcell and Rameau a video birthday message from Sir Simon Rattle was aired on a big screen above the stage. Unfortunately it was so brightly lit as to be nearly invisible (unlike the left hand side of the auditorium, which remained in total darkness all night despite audience complaints). Further videos later on were similarly whited out. Surely the RFH has had long enough to sort out its technical problems by now?
After Norrington had taken his leave, Mozart's Here's One I Knocked Off In My Sleep was directed from the keyboards (tonight, fortepianos) by Richard Egarr and Robert Levin. This was another problematical item, and not only because of the less than inspired writing (with all the wonderful Mozart there is to choose from, why pick something this dull?). The fortepianos duly demonstrated why they were dinosaured out by the pianoforte, their close, muffled sound completely inadequate to fill an auditorium this size. Egarr and Levin tossed their hair and flung their arms, smirking and winking across the keyboards as if there was no audience apart from each other, to the expense of a very noticeable error from Levin. Their flippancy underlined their (understandable) lack of regard for the material - so again, why not choose something else to play? There's a place for self indulgence, but it's not in front of a paying audience. No wonder Sir Roger Norrington, sitting a few rows in front of me for this one, carried on talking to his companion over the opening bars, something I now plan to do next time I catch one of his concerts.
I really thought the whole evening was going to be a waste of time, and then Vladimir Jurowski bounded onto the stage like a frisky puppy and dug straight into the Haydn. The atmosphere and the orchestra were totally and immediately transformed. Though really this is far from Haydn's finest moment, Jurowski invested it with so much colour, vigour and drama that for a moment it seemed like the greatest thing ever written. I hereby pledge my soul to his LPO - he is simply the most exciting conductor in London right now.
Jurowski was a hard act to follow, but Mark Elder nearly topped him with a splendidly performed extract from Der Freischütz. Singers Clive Bayley and Philip Langridge gave an ingenious semi-staged performance, where the lights were dimmed and the orchestra became a forest for them to pick their way through. Weber's brilliant and imaginative orchestration came thrillingly to life, all its bizarre corners and lush drama stunningly displayed. A performance so inspiring it made me want to rush out and listen to the whole opera from start to finish.
It was left to Sir Charles Mackerras to end the evening with Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks. Delivered in appropriately celebratory style, its bang-crash-wallop wound things up on a high note.
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