Meet Henry. He accompanied us to Berlin. Which as you can imagine was quite traumatic - a pig going to the land where currywurst is king. But he survived, and is happy with it.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Henry
Meet Henry. He accompanied us to Berlin. Which as you can imagine was quite traumatic - a pig going to the land where currywurst is king. But he survived, and is happy with it.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Chaulk - Part I
No, that's not a spelling mistake. You say it as it's written, with an "OW" sound in the middle. It's how Rich Anderson used to say it.
Chaulk was the first band I was in at University. It was one of the best bands I've ever played in. It was the hardest band I've ever played in. It's the closest I've ever come to being signed on a record contract. And it was, by turns, fantastic and upsetting.
It started within a few weeks of me joining University. For the first time I was having to make a fresh start with music. My hard-built reputation in the North-West counted for nothing. My long standing band at home, Wug, was on hiatus until the holidays (and, as it turns out, almost permanently). And I was too old to be a member of County Youth Orchestra any more.
To my relief I managed to grab the Bass Trombone seat in the University Orchestra, something I'd been determined to do upon arrival. And the rest of the trombone section seemed refreshingly normal, after the madness of Youth Orchestra. In particular, Richard (AKA Dickie), the first trombonist, seemed like a decent kind of person. A music student, he was very serious and committed, and quite clearly immensely talented. He also had a demented and seriously wrong sense of humour, and was deeply strange anyway, which helped.
After our first rehearsal the conductor, Paulie Brown (a fellow trombonist who played in the Chamber Orchestra alongside Dickie and I when we were needed) invited everyone to the pub for beverages. Dickie and I dutifully went along, and over much drunken carnage, a friendship was born. Along with the friendship came an invitation to audition on bass guitar for his band. Next orchestra rehearsal, we fixed a date for an audition with the other significant band member Chris. Dickie gave me some pieces to prepare. I'd made quite a good impression because I could read music for bass anyway, but one of these pieces was quite possibly the hardest thing I'd ever come across (and I grew up playing jazz bass, which isn't exactly easy). Cue long, late-night practicing after pub visits and last minute essays...
The day of the audition arrived and I turned up at Chris' house. He seemed an amiable kind of bloke - very quietly spoken, and deeply sarcastic, which was a good point. Together with Dickie and Chris was Chris' friend Simon, who was the band's roadie and manager (you can tell this was a bit of a professional set-up now can't you?) - he was a large bear of a man, who, like Chris, was quietly spoken and quite serious, but also sarcastic. And both of them were tremendous beer monsters...but anyway, I played the pieces, which amused them no end, because they genuinely hadn't expected anyone they auditioned to actually be able to play the hard piece, yet I managed to get all the way through it. I then found out a little bit about the band itself...
Apparently, there was a bloke called Benedict who sang "with the voice of a (very masculine, he was keen to point out) angel", Chris on guitar, Dickie on piano and a guy called Rich on drums (who apparently was exceedingly nice). Dickie and Chris had formed the band when they'd been at school together in Nottingham, had recruited Ben and Rich in the first year of University, and had previously been playing with Stephen Poliakoff's nephew on bass. They'd decided he was a tad poo, and so recruited for a new bassist - hence, me.
So, consequently, I found myself a member of Chaulk - named as such because, Rich being a true London boy, pronounced "Chalk" in this way, and it stuck. Rich did turn out to be a ridiculously nice bloke - 6 foot odd of tall Londoner, crowned with a shock of bright ginger hair. Ben too did sing as well as they'd told me, though I didn't really speak to him so much at first. In the end, I ended up spending most of the spare time around rehearsals with Dickie and Rich.
The first few rehearsals were held in the Undercroft to the College of St Hild and St Bede. This is where the University Radio Station, Purple FM, broadcast from, but every few days, we took over the area. It was a fairly massive place, underneath the main hall of the college. The walls were covered in a mixture of band and gig posters, newspaper articles, and graffiti. There was a large entrance hall, where several tables and chairs were normally stacked, before you descended into the main hall section. In the far corner was an extremely grotty unisex toilet area, while along the side ran a raised stage. Bemusingly, in the middle of the main hall section, on the floor, a large, animated carrot had been painted. Finally, along either side of the room ran two large gutters. These were indicative of the Undercroft's dark secret...
We discovered the secret about the Undercroft, when, one rehearsal, we went in to discover that the walls and the floor (and particularly, the carrot) had been covered in clear plastic sheeting. A couple of people were still finishing off the sheeting, so naturally, we asked "why?"
"It's for the Chundering Carrot Club."
Next we asked the question we really shouldn't have done - "what's that?"
"Basically every year, the Chundering Carrot Club come downstairs and lock themselves in here for twenty-four hours, with an unlimited supply of alcohol." One of them pointed to the beer barrels stacked up in the entrance hall. "It's a case of last man or woman standing. The only rule is, if you're going to be sick, you have to be sick on the carrot..."
Chaulk was the first band I was in at University. It was one of the best bands I've ever played in. It was the hardest band I've ever played in. It's the closest I've ever come to being signed on a record contract. And it was, by turns, fantastic and upsetting.
It started within a few weeks of me joining University. For the first time I was having to make a fresh start with music. My hard-built reputation in the North-West counted for nothing. My long standing band at home, Wug, was on hiatus until the holidays (and, as it turns out, almost permanently). And I was too old to be a member of County Youth Orchestra any more.
To my relief I managed to grab the Bass Trombone seat in the University Orchestra, something I'd been determined to do upon arrival. And the rest of the trombone section seemed refreshingly normal, after the madness of Youth Orchestra. In particular, Richard (AKA Dickie), the first trombonist, seemed like a decent kind of person. A music student, he was very serious and committed, and quite clearly immensely talented. He also had a demented and seriously wrong sense of humour, and was deeply strange anyway, which helped.
After our first rehearsal the conductor, Paulie Brown (a fellow trombonist who played in the Chamber Orchestra alongside Dickie and I when we were needed) invited everyone to the pub for beverages. Dickie and I dutifully went along, and over much drunken carnage, a friendship was born. Along with the friendship came an invitation to audition on bass guitar for his band. Next orchestra rehearsal, we fixed a date for an audition with the other significant band member Chris. Dickie gave me some pieces to prepare. I'd made quite a good impression because I could read music for bass anyway, but one of these pieces was quite possibly the hardest thing I'd ever come across (and I grew up playing jazz bass, which isn't exactly easy). Cue long, late-night practicing after pub visits and last minute essays...
The day of the audition arrived and I turned up at Chris' house. He seemed an amiable kind of bloke - very quietly spoken, and deeply sarcastic, which was a good point. Together with Dickie and Chris was Chris' friend Simon, who was the band's roadie and manager (you can tell this was a bit of a professional set-up now can't you?) - he was a large bear of a man, who, like Chris, was quietly spoken and quite serious, but also sarcastic. And both of them were tremendous beer monsters...but anyway, I played the pieces, which amused them no end, because they genuinely hadn't expected anyone they auditioned to actually be able to play the hard piece, yet I managed to get all the way through it. I then found out a little bit about the band itself...
Apparently, there was a bloke called Benedict who sang "with the voice of a (very masculine, he was keen to point out) angel", Chris on guitar, Dickie on piano and a guy called Rich on drums (who apparently was exceedingly nice). Dickie and Chris had formed the band when they'd been at school together in Nottingham, had recruited Ben and Rich in the first year of University, and had previously been playing with Stephen Poliakoff's nephew on bass. They'd decided he was a tad poo, and so recruited for a new bassist - hence, me.
So, consequently, I found myself a member of Chaulk - named as such because, Rich being a true London boy, pronounced "Chalk" in this way, and it stuck. Rich did turn out to be a ridiculously nice bloke - 6 foot odd of tall Londoner, crowned with a shock of bright ginger hair. Ben too did sing as well as they'd told me, though I didn't really speak to him so much at first. In the end, I ended up spending most of the spare time around rehearsals with Dickie and Rich.
The first few rehearsals were held in the Undercroft to the College of St Hild and St Bede. This is where the University Radio Station, Purple FM, broadcast from, but every few days, we took over the area. It was a fairly massive place, underneath the main hall of the college. The walls were covered in a mixture of band and gig posters, newspaper articles, and graffiti. There was a large entrance hall, where several tables and chairs were normally stacked, before you descended into the main hall section. In the far corner was an extremely grotty unisex toilet area, while along the side ran a raised stage. Bemusingly, in the middle of the main hall section, on the floor, a large, animated carrot had been painted. Finally, along either side of the room ran two large gutters. These were indicative of the Undercroft's dark secret...
We discovered the secret about the Undercroft, when, one rehearsal, we went in to discover that the walls and the floor (and particularly, the carrot) had been covered in clear plastic sheeting. A couple of people were still finishing off the sheeting, so naturally, we asked "why?"
"It's for the Chundering Carrot Club."
Next we asked the question we really shouldn't have done - "what's that?"
"Basically every year, the Chundering Carrot Club come downstairs and lock themselves in here for twenty-four hours, with an unlimited supply of alcohol." One of them pointed to the beer barrels stacked up in the entrance hall. "It's a case of last man or woman standing. The only rule is, if you're going to be sick, you have to be sick on the carrot..."
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Shostakovich and Gergiev III (and ode to Andy Logan)
I have to confess I've been looking forward to this one less for the music and more for a chance to see Andy Logan the night before he jets off to Taiwan with I-ching to get hitched. But I think he got a good send off from Gergiev and the Mariinsky - he certainly seemed to enjoy it (I now await a comment saying that I imagined this and he found it the most tedious couple of hours of his existence...)
Funnily enough, the Twelfth made more of an impact on us than I anticipated, though it remains, with the best will in the world, a bit fair-to-middling. There are many reasons for this, and to be fair, it's never going to come across as earth-shattering when paired with the magnificent Tenth, or following on the heels of a staggering performance of its more than worthy successor the Thirteenth. It's not that the symphonic ideas or ideals are flawed, but Andy hit the nail on the head when he said "it's good, but there's something missing"...
Thinking about it, I think the charge levelled at both this and the Eleventh - that they owe more to Shostakovich's film scores than symphonies - rings more true with the case of the 12th. The emphatic block scoring seems far more suited to accompanying some action on screen or stage rather than being the focus of our undivided attention., and I think that sums up the problem. It needs something else to make it feel complete. I got the same feeling I got when I saw Howard Shore conduct the "Lord of the Rings" soundtrack music - great stuff, but not enough on its own to make it feel substantial. A bit like chocolate I suppose.
The Tenth on the other hand kept us riveted from start to finish. I had thought that perhaps my mind would wander with this, as it does on occasion with pieces I've performed (and consequently rehearsed to death). I remember the surprise when we first got the parts with the University of Durham Symphony Orchestra that, for such an outwardly forceful piece, there was surprisingly little of substance for the trombones. However, this does not make you complacent - "little but often" is often the phrase that you dread as a symphonic trombonist (well, that and the words "Sibelius' Fifth"). It's far easier to do something like Brahms 1 or 4 when you sit on your arse for half an hour or so not playing - for one thing you can skip most rehearsals, and nod off during full rehearsals (as long as you have a good alarm). But we had to rehearse the Tenth a lot, and we had to be at every single rehearsal which is frankly unfair.
Yet familiarity does not breed contempt in respect of this piece, and particularly not in respect of this performance, which was played with utter commitment and passion. I was captivated for the whole performance, and able to admire the phenomenal playing of some people such as the first bassoonist (incredible), the timpanist (beyond belief - such complete musicality) and the tuba player (the first exceptional player I've seen for a while - able to play a perfectly centred, perfectly supported note and sustain it with equal quality for several bars).
Andy felt the same - seeing his enthusiasm after the concert about the piece reminded me of the enthusiasm he used to show after a particularly good gig. Few people have such a fantastic appreciation of music as Andy when he gets going. And it's an infectious enthusiasm - I blame him entirely for some of the more silly things I did when playing in Cactus Lounge, mostly involving injuring myself at some point. And the other thing was seeing this enthusiasm carried over to his forthcoming wedding. It was great to see him like this and it cheered me up no end.
So in conclusion - Andy, here's to you!
Gergiev and Shostakovich II (a crash course in Russian history)
This is going to be a long one...
Tonight was the first of the three final concerts in the Gergiev / Shostakovich cycle, featuring symphonies 6 and 13 - an unusual pairing to say the least.
The Sixth Symphony is a gloriously schizophrenic piece, which I can't fathom at all. The first movement is of an epic nature, sending you out on a long journey into the heart of Russia. Then the final two movements grab the wheel and propel you full pelt into a brick wall. I confess my mind wasn't on the piece 100% this time, though, as I spent a large portion of it trying to quell a panic attack brought on by claustrophobia.
During the interval I managed to calm down, and with the help of two of the ushers and a fellow concert-goer, was able to move seat to one which was easily escapable from. This calmed my nerves and allow me to give my undivided attention to the Thirteenth Symphony.
--------------------------------
Since I started this cycle, I've been giving a lot of thought to which Shostakovich symphony I would preserve for all eternity, which one I would take to my own personal desert island. There are a lot of candidates - the Fourth or the Fifteenth, both of which you could listen to for years without fathoming out their true depths, or the Fifth or Tenth which have such strong memories associated with them. An that's not even thinking of the First or Third (strongly associated with our time in Nice), or the Eleventh (more on that in a later post...)
But after tongiht, I think there's no contest. It has to be the Thirteenth. This is a piece that needs to be listened to in a coccon of your own, oblivious to anything else but the words and music.
The first time I heard it was in my upstairs room in 22 Elvet Crescent, sat on my bed between my speakers, with the door shut, the curtains open on a beautiful clear night in Durham, with the illuminated Cathedral clearly visible, and just a small reading light on so I could follow the poetry. It was in every sens an emotionally devastating experience, and the only esternal intrusion on my feelings only hightened this sense - during the frankly terrifying fourth movement ("Fears"), a helicopter from the Prison began flying over, shining its searchlight into the gardens and windows. It was an eerie contemporary echo of the watchtowers in the gulags during Stalin's Great Terror.
------------------------------------
The concert tonight was every bit as moving. It's a piece which has to be digested as it was written, in one go, with 100% of your attention. As a result, it's difficult to find opportunities to hear it - I think I've only heard it a handful of times in total, the last time in a concert in teh Royal Festival Hall. But this was as perfect a rendition as I could imagine. With a Russian male choir and a Russian bass, they knew exactly where the emphasis in Yevtushenko's poetry should lie.
The relative importance of music versus words in choral music is a fascinating area of study. In the case of Shostakovich however, I think that, despite the poetry of four of the five movements existing prior to the symphony, it is impossible to imagine either aspect of this work carrying as much weight if performed without the other. The words alone have a devastating effect, but when coupled with music which, particularly in the case of the Third and Fourth movements, has no clear solid tonal base, it makes you feel as if your soul is being slowly torn apart.
And then the final movement, with the exquisite flute melody entering like soothing balm to your poor damaged psyche. The effect this had on me tonight cannot be underestimated. And at the end, as the music dies away with this beautiful melody, I had a strong impression of being on a mountain top in Romania, on New Year's Eve two years ago, and looking out over a snow covered valley. Exquisite.
-------------------------------------
To add a postscript to this post, I would say that, if ever I wanted to give someone a crash course in Russian history over the early-to-mid Twentieth Century, I would furnish them with two items. Aleksandr Solhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" ( a short book capable of being digested in one sitting, but of living on in your brain for all eternity) and Shostakovich's Thirteenth Symphony.
Tonight was the first of the three final concerts in the Gergiev / Shostakovich cycle, featuring symphonies 6 and 13 - an unusual pairing to say the least.
The Sixth Symphony is a gloriously schizophrenic piece, which I can't fathom at all. The first movement is of an epic nature, sending you out on a long journey into the heart of Russia. Then the final two movements grab the wheel and propel you full pelt into a brick wall. I confess my mind wasn't on the piece 100% this time, though, as I spent a large portion of it trying to quell a panic attack brought on by claustrophobia.
During the interval I managed to calm down, and with the help of two of the ushers and a fellow concert-goer, was able to move seat to one which was easily escapable from. This calmed my nerves and allow me to give my undivided attention to the Thirteenth Symphony.
--------------------------------
Since I started this cycle, I've been giving a lot of thought to which Shostakovich symphony I would preserve for all eternity, which one I would take to my own personal desert island. There are a lot of candidates - the Fourth or the Fifteenth, both of which you could listen to for years without fathoming out their true depths, or the Fifth or Tenth which have such strong memories associated with them. An that's not even thinking of the First or Third (strongly associated with our time in Nice), or the Eleventh (more on that in a later post...)
But after tongiht, I think there's no contest. It has to be the Thirteenth. This is a piece that needs to be listened to in a coccon of your own, oblivious to anything else but the words and music.
The first time I heard it was in my upstairs room in 22 Elvet Crescent, sat on my bed between my speakers, with the door shut, the curtains open on a beautiful clear night in Durham, with the illuminated Cathedral clearly visible, and just a small reading light on so I could follow the poetry. It was in every sens an emotionally devastating experience, and the only esternal intrusion on my feelings only hightened this sense - during the frankly terrifying fourth movement ("Fears"), a helicopter from the Prison began flying over, shining its searchlight into the gardens and windows. It was an eerie contemporary echo of the watchtowers in the gulags during Stalin's Great Terror.
------------------------------------
The concert tonight was every bit as moving. It's a piece which has to be digested as it was written, in one go, with 100% of your attention. As a result, it's difficult to find opportunities to hear it - I think I've only heard it a handful of times in total, the last time in a concert in teh Royal Festival Hall. But this was as perfect a rendition as I could imagine. With a Russian male choir and a Russian bass, they knew exactly where the emphasis in Yevtushenko's poetry should lie.
The relative importance of music versus words in choral music is a fascinating area of study. In the case of Shostakovich however, I think that, despite the poetry of four of the five movements existing prior to the symphony, it is impossible to imagine either aspect of this work carrying as much weight if performed without the other. The words alone have a devastating effect, but when coupled with music which, particularly in the case of the Third and Fourth movements, has no clear solid tonal base, it makes you feel as if your soul is being slowly torn apart.
And then the final movement, with the exquisite flute melody entering like soothing balm to your poor damaged psyche. The effect this had on me tonight cannot be underestimated. And at the end, as the music dies away with this beautiful melody, I had a strong impression of being on a mountain top in Romania, on New Year's Eve two years ago, and looking out over a snow covered valley. Exquisite.
-------------------------------------
To add a postscript to this post, I would say that, if ever I wanted to give someone a crash course in Russian history over the early-to-mid Twentieth Century, I would furnish them with two items. Aleksandr Solhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" ( a short book capable of being digested in one sitting, but of living on in your brain for all eternity) and Shostakovich's Thirteenth Symphony.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Richmond Park in the Evening
Hello all
I've been quiet since my exam passed, with the exception of Pumpy Joe (who stopped crying after meeting a kindred soul in Cyberpumpkin, and who ended up being sent off in the most magnificent fashion you could imagine - stuffed full of fireworks on November 5th).
Perhaps the reason I've been quiet is also the reason I'm able to post now. Yes, the dreaded "stress" has finally caught up with me (you lot know how normally calm and collected and suave I am...). Having been barrelling along at the usual rate of knots, my body has finally decided to give up on me and demanded I take a few days off for R&R.
So with the complete approval of Lou, Line Manager John and everyone else I am spending a few days...well, the best description would have to be "bumming around". As you can imagine, this has involved a lot of lying in bed, watching DVDs (Buffy Season 5 has been getting a welcome repeat showing), listening to music (a lot of Brahms - Fourth Symphony and Piano Concerto, plus Bruckner's Fourth, Corelli's Op.6 No. 4 Concerto Grosso, a whole host of Big Band Jazz, and a lot of Pixies and Captain Beefheart), and reading (I had to give up on Proust as my poor fried brain couldn't cope, so have moved to something at the other end of the spectrum - "You Only Live Twice" by Ian Fleming, and "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" by Dumas (because I can't QUITE give up on pretention). Have successfully avoided any trombone or piano practice so far though, (although given I've been doing 40 minutes a day on Bass Trom in the basement at work I probably need a break. My workmates do...I hear a party's been organised...)
Anyway, the whole point of this post is to share what I've just been through. I decided I needed to get out of the house and have a bit of exercise, so I headed up to Richmond Park. It was about 3:15pm so still quite light. It's culling season at the moment as the deer are a) numerous, b) randy and c) vicious, so they close the park to traffic earlier than usual. It was fantastically peaceful, and I set off with the plan to walk to Roehampton Gate, and a little beyond to the public Golf Course, as I've never been that way before.
It was fantastic - the sun was low, and as I walked, a mist began to fall across the park. I got up to the car entrance to the golf course and, as it was still light, thought I'd carry on to a rickety bridge I could see a little further on. Upon getting to the bridge, across a little creek, I saw a sign saying "Robin Hood Gate - 1 mile". As it was still reasonably light, and I was wrapped up warm, I continued on round the path. It meandered gloriously, seeming to prefer any other route than a straight line, and I confess I kind of lost track of things, and didn't notice it getting dark and people disappearing.
By the time I got to Robin Hood Gate it was pretty dark. Having no idea where Robin Hood Gate actually IS in London (it MIGHT be south of Roehampton), I looked at my map and decided to follow the road way back through the middle of the park, past the White Lodge, to Sheen Gate. It was only about 3 miles, so I thought I'd get through it in no time.
When I was about a mile in, I became aware of a large mass of something on the hill to my right. It was too dark to tell for sure, but I was fairly certain they were red deer. This was confirmed when two blobs broke free from the mass and charged down for the road. I stood still, and watched as two of the largest stags I have ever seen thundered across the road in front of me.
It was about now, given the previously mentioned points A, B and C, that I realised I may be doing something daft.
I became aware of a herd of red deer on the left of me also, but what was also catching my attention was the progress of the two stags. They kept stopping, then chasing each other again. Every time they started chasing, I stood still, as common sense tells you to do. So it was that both of them arrived on the road next to me, staring at me. Then, they turned to each other and started rutting. Really battling each other with their antlers. About a couple of metres from where I was stood.
I was transfixed, but at the same time realised that I should be getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible. So moving slowly I continued on my way. By this time it was pitch dark, but my eyes had adjusted well enough to be able to see that the path I was following was completely swamped with red deer, cutting off my access to the White Lodge. So, I took a detour across the grass, and ended up getting a bit lost. Luckily, at the precise moment I needed, I came across a dog walker, the only other soul about, who pointed me back in the direction of Sheen Gate.
After passing through some woodland (which, after having watched last week's Torchwood about cannibals living in the forest, was great for the imagination), and negotiating through some herds of fallow deer - far less scary than the reds - I finally found my way on the path to Sheen Gate. 15 minutes later at 5:15pm, I was back in the real world, by the gate, (for those in the know, outside the house with the balcony, which I'm determined to buy one day just so I can play trombone naked on the balcony as the sun comes up. After all, what's a balcony for except naked trombone playing?)
And then I came home and wrote this, and put on "Shiny Beast" by Beefheart, which right now seems to sum up the world perfectly.
I've been quiet since my exam passed, with the exception of Pumpy Joe (who stopped crying after meeting a kindred soul in Cyberpumpkin, and who ended up being sent off in the most magnificent fashion you could imagine - stuffed full of fireworks on November 5th).
Perhaps the reason I've been quiet is also the reason I'm able to post now. Yes, the dreaded "stress" has finally caught up with me (you lot know how normally calm and collected and suave I am...). Having been barrelling along at the usual rate of knots, my body has finally decided to give up on me and demanded I take a few days off for R&R.
So with the complete approval of Lou, Line Manager John and everyone else I am spending a few days...well, the best description would have to be "bumming around". As you can imagine, this has involved a lot of lying in bed, watching DVDs (Buffy Season 5 has been getting a welcome repeat showing), listening to music (a lot of Brahms - Fourth Symphony and Piano Concerto, plus Bruckner's Fourth, Corelli's Op.6 No. 4 Concerto Grosso, a whole host of Big Band Jazz, and a lot of Pixies and Captain Beefheart), and reading (I had to give up on Proust as my poor fried brain couldn't cope, so have moved to something at the other end of the spectrum - "You Only Live Twice" by Ian Fleming, and "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" by Dumas (because I can't QUITE give up on pretention). Have successfully avoided any trombone or piano practice so far though, (although given I've been doing 40 minutes a day on Bass Trom in the basement at work I probably need a break. My workmates do...I hear a party's been organised...)
Anyway, the whole point of this post is to share what I've just been through. I decided I needed to get out of the house and have a bit of exercise, so I headed up to Richmond Park. It was about 3:15pm so still quite light. It's culling season at the moment as the deer are a) numerous, b) randy and c) vicious, so they close the park to traffic earlier than usual. It was fantastically peaceful, and I set off with the plan to walk to Roehampton Gate, and a little beyond to the public Golf Course, as I've never been that way before.
It was fantastic - the sun was low, and as I walked, a mist began to fall across the park. I got up to the car entrance to the golf course and, as it was still light, thought I'd carry on to a rickety bridge I could see a little further on. Upon getting to the bridge, across a little creek, I saw a sign saying "Robin Hood Gate - 1 mile". As it was still reasonably light, and I was wrapped up warm, I continued on round the path. It meandered gloriously, seeming to prefer any other route than a straight line, and I confess I kind of lost track of things, and didn't notice it getting dark and people disappearing.
By the time I got to Robin Hood Gate it was pretty dark. Having no idea where Robin Hood Gate actually IS in London (it MIGHT be south of Roehampton), I looked at my map and decided to follow the road way back through the middle of the park, past the White Lodge, to Sheen Gate. It was only about 3 miles, so I thought I'd get through it in no time.
When I was about a mile in, I became aware of a large mass of something on the hill to my right. It was too dark to tell for sure, but I was fairly certain they were red deer. This was confirmed when two blobs broke free from the mass and charged down for the road. I stood still, and watched as two of the largest stags I have ever seen thundered across the road in front of me.
It was about now, given the previously mentioned points A, B and C, that I realised I may be doing something daft.
I became aware of a herd of red deer on the left of me also, but what was also catching my attention was the progress of the two stags. They kept stopping, then chasing each other again. Every time they started chasing, I stood still, as common sense tells you to do. So it was that both of them arrived on the road next to me, staring at me. Then, they turned to each other and started rutting. Really battling each other with their antlers. About a couple of metres from where I was stood.
I was transfixed, but at the same time realised that I should be getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible. So moving slowly I continued on my way. By this time it was pitch dark, but my eyes had adjusted well enough to be able to see that the path I was following was completely swamped with red deer, cutting off my access to the White Lodge. So, I took a detour across the grass, and ended up getting a bit lost. Luckily, at the precise moment I needed, I came across a dog walker, the only other soul about, who pointed me back in the direction of Sheen Gate.
After passing through some woodland (which, after having watched last week's Torchwood about cannibals living in the forest, was great for the imagination), and negotiating through some herds of fallow deer - far less scary than the reds - I finally found my way on the path to Sheen Gate. 15 minutes later at 5:15pm, I was back in the real world, by the gate, (for those in the know, outside the house with the balcony, which I'm determined to buy one day just so I can play trombone naked on the balcony as the sun comes up. After all, what's a balcony for except naked trombone playing?)
And then I came home and wrote this, and put on "Shiny Beast" by Beefheart, which right now seems to sum up the world perfectly.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Greatest Symphony of Them All?
I have had my nose to the grindstone rather recently, revising for my upcoming exam on the 18th, after which I will officially be one year down the line towards my dreams of academia.
Despite the obvious perils of a nose-grindstone interface, it has not actually been that unpleasant, consisting mainly of going over basic elements of musical theory, history and style from the years 1600 - 1900, as well as thorough listening to and analysis of our set works. We've had some tremendous set works too - Purcell's "Dido and Aeneas", Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings.
But recently I've been going back over Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. This surely has to rank as one of the most familiar pieces of classical music in the world today, if from nothing else than its opening motto. And I think you could make a pretty good case for it being one of the finest pieces of Symphonic writing in existence.
What is the key of it though? Not in a literal sense (that would be C minor), but what holds such sway in this piece? After all, the essence of this symphony is perfectly capable of being distilled down to two bars' worth of music, as demonstrated by one of our tutors the other day. The familiar "ta-ta-ta taaaaa" finishing on a chord of C minor, followed straight away by a chord of C major, and you have the whole piece in a nutshell. But the thing about it is, it teeters on this tremendous precipice between the ordered, still relatively structured and constrained Classical era, and the unbridled inhibition of the Romantic era. A lot of this symphony can be traced backwards, and likewise a great deal of its contents can be seen as harbingers of the new world to come.
Yet the spark of genius is elusive, and I have been desperately trying to think about what it is that makes this symphony carry such an impact. Certainly the famous opening movement is relatively conventional. The layout fits exactly what we expect from something founded on sonata principle, with a few characteristic Beethovian flourishes - the extended coda, the recapitulation being subtley different from the first subject. And you cannot overlook the fact that the entire symphony grows organically from the first five bars of music - the bulk of the main themes in the piece bear some kinship to the opening motif.
So if not the opening movement, what about the last movement? It has some bold statements of romanticism - as a trombonist I am obliged to love the last movement purely for the fact that for the first time in symphonic history, the trombones proclaim themselves present at the party (and, by the end of the movement are reduced by one, as the first player expires from having to play the highest symphonic trombone part written). But no. While this is a bold stroke, the trombones are there to add weight and volume, not for some grand expressive purpose. Then you have the second subject, upon which Nicholas once commented that John Williams (the film composer) had built his entire career. I'm sure you can think of the moment. After the strident horn theme, keeping resolutely to the "new" tonic of C major, boldly appears, the music takes a strange, almost modernistic lurch towards a new key.
(As an aside, as I know Mr Moore was interested in what marks this out so strongly, the harmony moves from being founded on a C major triad, to being founded on a D major triad. This creates two effects. Firstly it is the movement from C-E-G to D-F#-A - this is the movement from the tonic (I) to a chromatically altered supertonic (II), both in root position. If chord II was in its unaltered state according to the C major scale, this would be frowned upon, and thoroughly against "the rules". However, the chromatic alteration allows Beethoven to sidestep that. The fact is D-F#-A is not a chord in C major, but it is present in the dominant of C, which is G major (a D major chord being the dominant of the new key). But C-E-G is also present in G major, as chord IV. So you realise that far from being in the tonic of the movement, C major, the horn theme was actually based on the subdominant of G major, and suddenly you find yourself rethinking what has gone before. It's a peculiar situation for sure!)
But ot return to the fourth movement, despite the broad brush of instrumental innovation, and with the exception of what I mentioned above, there is very little harmonic innovation in the movement itself. Mostly it is based on tonics and dominants, and I know certain people have been driven to absolute distraction by the seemingly endless repetition of C major at the conclusion, all 100 plus bars of it. This does serve to point out something remarkable - this symphony is one of the first to chart the "romantic" journey from darkness into light, through the transformation of an opening minor key into its tonic major by the end - but it is not here that genius resides.
The second movement is largely traditional too. There is a curious instability in the founding harmony at the end, mainly around the problem of timpani tuning which I won't go into here, but otherwise this movement moves exactly as you would expect.
You can tell that I am leaving the third movement until last for a reason. This, I feel holds the key to the whole symphony, which is a remarkable claim for a section of music that has no proper ending, and about which no-one knows for certain what the composer's final thoughts were - the whole "repeat-or-not-repeat" question, which could be the subject of a whole separate post. But I think this movement really is a work of genius, be it in the ever-expanding bass and 'cello line of the scherzo, which ebbs and flows, rises and falls, like the swelling of great waves, or in the scurrying of the trio with cascades of string figures building up and up on each other, yet never causing any crowding. And who could forget the majestic horn theme, when the second horn comes in in thirds with the solo and rounds out the sound so well.
The innovation of this section is not vast either, though the way the end of the music builds and launches into the fourth movement without pause is a truly revolutionary moment. But I think this is the one movement where everything - the form, the melody, the dynamics, the emotion - coalesces to form a whole that is truly magnificent. This for me is the centr of the whole symphony, and sets a benchmark for everyone else to follow. Not bad coming from someone virtually deaf, perpetually irrascable and possibly certifiable.
There is one other reaosn why I like studying this symphony. It reminds me of Nicholas enthusing passionately over this symphony and why he considers it is the greatest of all works. And that's not a bad image to have in your mind.
Despite the obvious perils of a nose-grindstone interface, it has not actually been that unpleasant, consisting mainly of going over basic elements of musical theory, history and style from the years 1600 - 1900, as well as thorough listening to and analysis of our set works. We've had some tremendous set works too - Purcell's "Dido and Aeneas", Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings.
But recently I've been going back over Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. This surely has to rank as one of the most familiar pieces of classical music in the world today, if from nothing else than its opening motto. And I think you could make a pretty good case for it being one of the finest pieces of Symphonic writing in existence.
What is the key of it though? Not in a literal sense (that would be C minor), but what holds such sway in this piece? After all, the essence of this symphony is perfectly capable of being distilled down to two bars' worth of music, as demonstrated by one of our tutors the other day. The familiar "ta-ta-ta taaaaa" finishing on a chord of C minor, followed straight away by a chord of C major, and you have the whole piece in a nutshell. But the thing about it is, it teeters on this tremendous precipice between the ordered, still relatively structured and constrained Classical era, and the unbridled inhibition of the Romantic era. A lot of this symphony can be traced backwards, and likewise a great deal of its contents can be seen as harbingers of the new world to come.
Yet the spark of genius is elusive, and I have been desperately trying to think about what it is that makes this symphony carry such an impact. Certainly the famous opening movement is relatively conventional. The layout fits exactly what we expect from something founded on sonata principle, with a few characteristic Beethovian flourishes - the extended coda, the recapitulation being subtley different from the first subject. And you cannot overlook the fact that the entire symphony grows organically from the first five bars of music - the bulk of the main themes in the piece bear some kinship to the opening motif.
So if not the opening movement, what about the last movement? It has some bold statements of romanticism - as a trombonist I am obliged to love the last movement purely for the fact that for the first time in symphonic history, the trombones proclaim themselves present at the party (and, by the end of the movement are reduced by one, as the first player expires from having to play the highest symphonic trombone part written). But no. While this is a bold stroke, the trombones are there to add weight and volume, not for some grand expressive purpose. Then you have the second subject, upon which Nicholas once commented that John Williams (the film composer) had built his entire career. I'm sure you can think of the moment. After the strident horn theme, keeping resolutely to the "new" tonic of C major, boldly appears, the music takes a strange, almost modernistic lurch towards a new key.
(As an aside, as I know Mr Moore was interested in what marks this out so strongly, the harmony moves from being founded on a C major triad, to being founded on a D major triad. This creates two effects. Firstly it is the movement from C-E-G to D-F#-A - this is the movement from the tonic (I) to a chromatically altered supertonic (II), both in root position. If chord II was in its unaltered state according to the C major scale, this would be frowned upon, and thoroughly against "the rules". However, the chromatic alteration allows Beethoven to sidestep that. The fact is D-F#-A is not a chord in C major, but it is present in the dominant of C, which is G major (a D major chord being the dominant of the new key). But C-E-G is also present in G major, as chord IV. So you realise that far from being in the tonic of the movement, C major, the horn theme was actually based on the subdominant of G major, and suddenly you find yourself rethinking what has gone before. It's a peculiar situation for sure!)
But ot return to the fourth movement, despite the broad brush of instrumental innovation, and with the exception of what I mentioned above, there is very little harmonic innovation in the movement itself. Mostly it is based on tonics and dominants, and I know certain people have been driven to absolute distraction by the seemingly endless repetition of C major at the conclusion, all 100 plus bars of it. This does serve to point out something remarkable - this symphony is one of the first to chart the "romantic" journey from darkness into light, through the transformation of an opening minor key into its tonic major by the end - but it is not here that genius resides.
The second movement is largely traditional too. There is a curious instability in the founding harmony at the end, mainly around the problem of timpani tuning which I won't go into here, but otherwise this movement moves exactly as you would expect.
You can tell that I am leaving the third movement until last for a reason. This, I feel holds the key to the whole symphony, which is a remarkable claim for a section of music that has no proper ending, and about which no-one knows for certain what the composer's final thoughts were - the whole "repeat-or-not-repeat" question, which could be the subject of a whole separate post. But I think this movement really is a work of genius, be it in the ever-expanding bass and 'cello line of the scherzo, which ebbs and flows, rises and falls, like the swelling of great waves, or in the scurrying of the trio with cascades of string figures building up and up on each other, yet never causing any crowding. And who could forget the majestic horn theme, when the second horn comes in in thirds with the solo and rounds out the sound so well.
The innovation of this section is not vast either, though the way the end of the music builds and launches into the fourth movement without pause is a truly revolutionary moment. But I think this is the one movement where everything - the form, the melody, the dynamics, the emotion - coalesces to form a whole that is truly magnificent. This for me is the centr of the whole symphony, and sets a benchmark for everyone else to follow. Not bad coming from someone virtually deaf, perpetually irrascable and possibly certifiable.
There is one other reaosn why I like studying this symphony. It reminds me of Nicholas enthusing passionately over this symphony and why he considers it is the greatest of all works. And that's not a bad image to have in your mind.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Interlude
I was sat in a meeting this morning, on the second-to-back row, with just a few of my immediate colleagues on the row behind me.
After the meeting, one of said colleagues commented on how nice my hair was at the back. Naturally I laid the credit at the feet of the last person to give me a haircut, which was Lou.
However, afterwards I realised that it's the first, and possibly going to be the only, time someone has ever said that to me. And as such, it's worth recording in a little blog post.
After the meeting, one of said colleagues commented on how nice my hair was at the back. Naturally I laid the credit at the feet of the last person to give me a haircut, which was Lou.
However, afterwards I realised that it's the first, and possibly going to be the only, time someone has ever said that to me. And as such, it's worth recording in a little blog post.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Sir Malcolm Arnold, 1921 - 2006
This weekend, I was saddened to hear Sir Malcolm Arnold died.
I think the best tribute I heard was a friend of mine, who has never been a fan of Classical music, but said "Oh yes, Malcolm Arnold - he was fantastic, the second Elgar." His score for "The Bridge over the River Kwai" won him massive acclaim, and the unlikeliest of fans.
And I think this was the key thing about him - his wide-ranging appeal to people of all walks of life. He resolutely stood against all types of genre segregation, believing that there should not be such viscious distinction between jazz, folk, classical etc. His "themed" orchestral dances (two English sets, plus a set for each of Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Cornwall) are an absolute joy, drawing heavily on folk sounds and styles and incorporating them into various dance styles. He wrote a concerto for Larry Adler, the harmonica player, and treated it every bit as seriously as he did his concertos for "standard" instruments, such as 'cello.
He was also a fantastic trumpet player, and wrote excellent, but phenomenally difficult, brass parts in his music. The second set of the English dances still gives me nightmares.
The appeal that Arnold had is something that I believe a lot of modern British composers have lost. I read a very good article some months ago where the writer was bemoaning the fact that few modern composers engage with their audiences the way earlier composers did. Mozart and Haydn were integral players in their court orchestras. Shostakovich played music for cinema. Sibelius played violin in several orchestras. Arnold played trumpet with the London Philharmonic. They all had an inherent understanding of what audiences appreciated, and what performers appreciated.
Yet several of today's composers do not have this "grounding", for want of a better word. They prodcue finely crafted pieces, of tremendous intellectual cunning and wit, yet which are intelligible to most average concert-goers. I am loathe to single out people, but I have never forgiven Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies for his contribution to the Queen's 80th birthday celebrations this year. One would expect a triumphal march, or even a jolly dance, based perhaps on some folk melody appropriate to the Queen, or a favourite piece of hers. Instead Maxwell-Davies produced a sombre dirge. The construction of the piece was extremely clever, and would have offered month's worth of analytical possibilities. But it was utterly inappropriate for the occasion.
I am not saying that our beliefs should not be subverted. Shostakovich frequently confounded all expectation, taking wild turns when a more orthodox line would have been expected. But even he knew that there was a time and a place for this. Maxwell-Davies was given a wonderful opportunity to reach out and engage with public, given a platform that many other composers would have longed for. And instead of producing something which could have done more good for the world of classical music than any number of "outreach" programs, he produced a piece which smacked of intellectual snobbery, and which reinforced the opinions of those who believe that modern classical music is an impenetrable confusing murk. Great British composers such as Walton and indeed Arnold had no qualms with producing music which, while not perhaps giving them as much intellectual stimulation in the writing, was appropriate to the occasion. They had a sense of what was expected, and I find that few modern composers, and particularly, modern British composers, have this any more. I do believe however, that in fifty years' time, Walton's "Crown Imperial" will still be playing to full houses, whereas I doubt that Maxwell-Davies' piece will receive a single performance.
Sir Malcolm Arnold, with his unpretentiousness, and his ability to synthesise whole musical worlds, was to my mind far more of a "modernist" than Maxwell-Davies, Taverner, or Turnage. His belief that music should transcend all genre barriers was a truly modern concept, and one that I feel should be revisited by others with more urgency, in order to prevent classical music ceasing to be. In many ways, while not as avant-garde and seemingly a world away, Arnold's synthesis of jazz, folk and classical is the closest we have produced to Steve Reich or John Adams.
To my regret, I know comparatively little of his music - specifically, Arnold the symphonist is an unknown quantity for me. Often the words "British Symphonist" are seen as an oxymoron, Elgar aside, though there is a lot to be said for the works of William Walton, Arnold Bax, and not forgetting the absolute genius that was Ralph Vaughan-Williams. I wish I had heard more Arnold, and shall now seek out all nine of his symphonies and discover a whole new world.
I think the best tribute I heard was a friend of mine, who has never been a fan of Classical music, but said "Oh yes, Malcolm Arnold - he was fantastic, the second Elgar." His score for "The Bridge over the River Kwai" won him massive acclaim, and the unlikeliest of fans.
And I think this was the key thing about him - his wide-ranging appeal to people of all walks of life. He resolutely stood against all types of genre segregation, believing that there should not be such viscious distinction between jazz, folk, classical etc. His "themed" orchestral dances (two English sets, plus a set for each of Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Cornwall) are an absolute joy, drawing heavily on folk sounds and styles and incorporating them into various dance styles. He wrote a concerto for Larry Adler, the harmonica player, and treated it every bit as seriously as he did his concertos for "standard" instruments, such as 'cello.
He was also a fantastic trumpet player, and wrote excellent, but phenomenally difficult, brass parts in his music. The second set of the English dances still gives me nightmares.
The appeal that Arnold had is something that I believe a lot of modern British composers have lost. I read a very good article some months ago where the writer was bemoaning the fact that few modern composers engage with their audiences the way earlier composers did. Mozart and Haydn were integral players in their court orchestras. Shostakovich played music for cinema. Sibelius played violin in several orchestras. Arnold played trumpet with the London Philharmonic. They all had an inherent understanding of what audiences appreciated, and what performers appreciated.
Yet several of today's composers do not have this "grounding", for want of a better word. They prodcue finely crafted pieces, of tremendous intellectual cunning and wit, yet which are intelligible to most average concert-goers. I am loathe to single out people, but I have never forgiven Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies for his contribution to the Queen's 80th birthday celebrations this year. One would expect a triumphal march, or even a jolly dance, based perhaps on some folk melody appropriate to the Queen, or a favourite piece of hers. Instead Maxwell-Davies produced a sombre dirge. The construction of the piece was extremely clever, and would have offered month's worth of analytical possibilities. But it was utterly inappropriate for the occasion.
I am not saying that our beliefs should not be subverted. Shostakovich frequently confounded all expectation, taking wild turns when a more orthodox line would have been expected. But even he knew that there was a time and a place for this. Maxwell-Davies was given a wonderful opportunity to reach out and engage with public, given a platform that many other composers would have longed for. And instead of producing something which could have done more good for the world of classical music than any number of "outreach" programs, he produced a piece which smacked of intellectual snobbery, and which reinforced the opinions of those who believe that modern classical music is an impenetrable confusing murk. Great British composers such as Walton and indeed Arnold had no qualms with producing music which, while not perhaps giving them as much intellectual stimulation in the writing, was appropriate to the occasion. They had a sense of what was expected, and I find that few modern composers, and particularly, modern British composers, have this any more. I do believe however, that in fifty years' time, Walton's "Crown Imperial" will still be playing to full houses, whereas I doubt that Maxwell-Davies' piece will receive a single performance.
Sir Malcolm Arnold, with his unpretentiousness, and his ability to synthesise whole musical worlds, was to my mind far more of a "modernist" than Maxwell-Davies, Taverner, or Turnage. His belief that music should transcend all genre barriers was a truly modern concept, and one that I feel should be revisited by others with more urgency, in order to prevent classical music ceasing to be. In many ways, while not as avant-garde and seemingly a world away, Arnold's synthesis of jazz, folk and classical is the closest we have produced to Steve Reich or John Adams.
To my regret, I know comparatively little of his music - specifically, Arnold the symphonist is an unknown quantity for me. Often the words "British Symphonist" are seen as an oxymoron, Elgar aside, though there is a lot to be said for the works of William Walton, Arnold Bax, and not forgetting the absolute genius that was Ralph Vaughan-Williams. I wish I had heard more Arnold, and shall now seek out all nine of his symphonies and discover a whole new world.
Happy Birthday DDS
Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich.
I have expostulated to some length on my love of this composer and his works. Often I find myself thinking how I would have liked to have met him, to have been taught or lectured by him. But then on the other hand, I have a strong conviction that the man wouldn't have liked me, or just viewded me with superficial interest, as a dilettante in his particular field of interest. Perhaps I could have convinced him of the passion I feel for Classical music study, my developing love of composition, and my desire to learn this at the hands of a true genius. But then again, for this unlikely series of events to have happened, I would have had to be born in Russia - almost certainly St Petersburg - and have had to be of a suitable age when Shostakovich was at the peak of his powers. Compromised by the authorities, but still with the fierce intellectual fervour and rigour of his youth. But then, that would have involved being at such an age in the late 1930s and early 1940s. And, as I would have been of fighting age then, I would almost certainly have perished in (then) Leningrad.
Perhaps I could have been taught by him in the mid-to-late 50s, after the effects of his second denunciation at the hands of the authorities had worn off, and after the death of Stalin, in the pre-emptive Krushchev "thaw". But by then his health was failing, he was veering on the edge of mani depression and suicide, and his spirit was seemingly broken, despite his continuing ability to write masterpieces.
Perhaps, then, I could have been a contemporary of his at the Conservatoire, in the days before the Stalinist terror machine cranked into gear. But then, being in his inner circle at this time, I almost certainly would have been executed after the "Muddle instead of Music" incidence.
When I think along these lines, the overwhelming impression is of the phenomenally difficult life of Showstakovich, and perhaps even worse, the Russian people, in the heydays of Soviet Communism. The lack of cosseting - in actual fact, the continual critical and official buffeting - the Shostakovich was on the receiving end, makes one ownder how he could have composed anything at all, let alone some of the musical masterpieces of the Twentieth Century.
I have been wondering how I should mark this day. Should I lock myself away in hushed vigil, listening to some of his finest works? Should I set aside a few hours and tackle some of the works that I still have not quite got to grips with, but desperately want to? Should I focus my evening on listening to Lady Macbeth, in all of its riotous technicolour glory?
Actually, this evening, I think I shall just quietly raise a glass in memory of a film pianist, who loved football, gambling and vodka, and happened to turn out some pretty nifty music of his own too.
I have expostulated to some length on my love of this composer and his works. Often I find myself thinking how I would have liked to have met him, to have been taught or lectured by him. But then on the other hand, I have a strong conviction that the man wouldn't have liked me, or just viewded me with superficial interest, as a dilettante in his particular field of interest. Perhaps I could have convinced him of the passion I feel for Classical music study, my developing love of composition, and my desire to learn this at the hands of a true genius. But then again, for this unlikely series of events to have happened, I would have had to be born in Russia - almost certainly St Petersburg - and have had to be of a suitable age when Shostakovich was at the peak of his powers. Compromised by the authorities, but still with the fierce intellectual fervour and rigour of his youth. But then, that would have involved being at such an age in the late 1930s and early 1940s. And, as I would have been of fighting age then, I would almost certainly have perished in (then) Leningrad.
Perhaps I could have been taught by him in the mid-to-late 50s, after the effects of his second denunciation at the hands of the authorities had worn off, and after the death of Stalin, in the pre-emptive Krushchev "thaw". But by then his health was failing, he was veering on the edge of mani depression and suicide, and his spirit was seemingly broken, despite his continuing ability to write masterpieces.
Perhaps, then, I could have been a contemporary of his at the Conservatoire, in the days before the Stalinist terror machine cranked into gear. But then, being in his inner circle at this time, I almost certainly would have been executed after the "Muddle instead of Music" incidence.
When I think along these lines, the overwhelming impression is of the phenomenally difficult life of Showstakovich, and perhaps even worse, the Russian people, in the heydays of Soviet Communism. The lack of cosseting - in actual fact, the continual critical and official buffeting - the Shostakovich was on the receiving end, makes one ownder how he could have composed anything at all, let alone some of the musical masterpieces of the Twentieth Century.
I have been wondering how I should mark this day. Should I lock myself away in hushed vigil, listening to some of his finest works? Should I set aside a few hours and tackle some of the works that I still have not quite got to grips with, but desperately want to? Should I focus my evening on listening to Lady Macbeth, in all of its riotous technicolour glory?
Actually, this evening, I think I shall just quietly raise a glass in memory of a film pianist, who loved football, gambling and vodka, and happened to turn out some pretty nifty music of his own too.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
the roof at waterloo
I'm sat on a train late at night, commuting back from my latest tutorial. I'm tired, it's dark outside, the train is quiet, I have 'when it rains' on my mp3 player, and I'm staring with my head against the window out at the rather beautiful roof of waterloo station.
I partly wish I could have the station entirely to myself, lie on the platform and stare up out of the roof into the great unknown. It's moments like these, which are so perfect, that make life the great adventure it is.
Good night all.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Gergiev, Shostakovich and Brahms
I'm getting rather excited at the moment as tomorrow night, I shall be taking another step towards the completion of one of my ongoing musical quests. Being the Shotakovich nut that I am, when I found out that Valery Gergiev was conducting a cycle of the complete Shostakovich symphonies beginning back in 2005, I knew I would have to attend them all.
It's not that Gergiev is any more qualified a conductor of Shostakovich than others - indeed, he never actually met the great man, thus placing him, in "authenticity" terms, behind Shostakovich's son, Maxim, and his good friend Mstislav Rostropovich. But Gergiev is one of the most exciting conductors around today, a scholar of Shostakovich, and someone who brings the utmost dedication and respect to these scores.
Beginning in September of last year then, Gergiev has conducted all the symphonies with a variety of orchestras, and I have attended each one. Not every concert has been a great success: sometimes I felt the interpretation was a little awry - the Eighth unsurprisingly failed to match Rostropovich's performance with the same forces (which remains one of the finest concerts I have ever attended). At other times, outside forces conspired to alter the effect of the concert: a magical performance of the disturbing Fourteenth was ruined by someone in the audience, who chose to disrupt what should have been the shattered silence after the devastating finalé in an attempt to show he knew the piece, by shouting "Bravo" the second the last semiquaver finished. The enthusiasm was appreciated, but given the subject matter, and the emotion conveyed, it was a little bit of a rude awakening from our spellbound state. On the other hand, some performances have been incredible: I doubt I shall see as good a performance of the Fourth Symphony again. However, all the concerts have stuck in my mind as unique and thoroughly enjoyable experiences, significant events in my concert-going life.
However, Wednesday and Thursday this week will be the highspots of the whole cycle for me. Both are with the Vienna Philharmonic, one of Europe's oldest and most traditional ensembles. Unsurprisingly, given the "rules" that still continue to dictate that orchestra's programmes, the symphonies being played are the two most "traditional" in style. Wednesday will see Shostakovich's Fifth, while Thursday is the Ninth. While the Fifth is a special piece for me, being only the second-ever complete symphony I performed in, and sparking my love of Shostakovich (thanks in no small part to our superb conductor, Malcolm Doley), and the Ninth is a joy to hear, it is a non-Shostakovich item I am most looking forward to.
Because, you see, the second-half of Thursday's concert is going to be Brahm's Fourth Symphony. This, for me, is a piece of music with such massive importance in my life, that for a long while, I could not actually bring myself to listen to it, such was the emotional effect it had on me. It was the first symphony I ever played in, with the Lancashire Students Symphony Orchestra. Furthermore, it was the first complete symphony I ever heard, and the first piece of Classical music I ever owned on CD - indeed, one of the first CDs I ever owned. It was in a complete set of Brahms' symphonies bought for me by my parents, something that is still on heavy rotation to this day, and a permanent fixture on my MP3 player. It helped spark my love of the whole sphere of Classical music. I read the liner notes of the CD, and wanted to know more, so I raided my parents' book collection for articles on the work and biographies of the Brahms (and there were a few given that this was one of the set works my Mum had taught at school). I found that the technical information made sense, the detail all added up in my head, and I wanted to see, read and hear more.
But it wasn't just for this reason that the symphony had such an effect. While on tour playing this piece, I got together with my first girlfriend. I had my first kiss after finishing a performance. I went on my first dates after rehearsals of this piece. This helped me realise that, despite my long-held beliefs, I was not a freak destined to be lonely for ever, but actually I quite enjoyed the company of people. I discovered the joys of being a member of an orchestral brass section, and all that entails. I remember sitting with Tamsin and other friends of mine from the string section while they pored over the huge books that comprised their parts for the symphony, and being roundly (but good-naturedly) mocked for the fact the Trombone part in its entireity consisted of two sparsely-written sides of A4 paper. Happy times.
But above all, I played this symphony at what was, and almost certainly shall remain, the best and most prestigious concert I have ever participated in - La Madélaine in Paris, to a crowd of over 2000 people. I remember the pride I felt as we played the trombone chorale in the fourth movement, along with the ethereal string accompaniment the only sound in that huge building. I remember looking out and seeing my parents in the audience, of seeing Tamsin in the strings, of the conductor smiling for the first time in what seemed like an age, and thinking that this was a special moment in my life. Looking back on this now, with a distance of over ten years, it sometimes seems as if it was another world, that it was not me who did this. But then I find old photos and realise that yes, I may have had stupid long hair and a perpetual teenage scowl, but it was me.
And perhaps this explains why, in a cycle of Shostakovich concerts, the piece I am most looking forward to is by someone completely different. It is a piece I know inside out, better than I know any play, any book, any piece of art, and soemthign that brings endless pleasure every time I hear it.
I can't wait.
It's not that Gergiev is any more qualified a conductor of Shostakovich than others - indeed, he never actually met the great man, thus placing him, in "authenticity" terms, behind Shostakovich's son, Maxim, and his good friend Mstislav Rostropovich. But Gergiev is one of the most exciting conductors around today, a scholar of Shostakovich, and someone who brings the utmost dedication and respect to these scores.
Beginning in September of last year then, Gergiev has conducted all the symphonies with a variety of orchestras, and I have attended each one. Not every concert has been a great success: sometimes I felt the interpretation was a little awry - the Eighth unsurprisingly failed to match Rostropovich's performance with the same forces (which remains one of the finest concerts I have ever attended). At other times, outside forces conspired to alter the effect of the concert: a magical performance of the disturbing Fourteenth was ruined by someone in the audience, who chose to disrupt what should have been the shattered silence after the devastating finalé in an attempt to show he knew the piece, by shouting "Bravo" the second the last semiquaver finished. The enthusiasm was appreciated, but given the subject matter, and the emotion conveyed, it was a little bit of a rude awakening from our spellbound state. On the other hand, some performances have been incredible: I doubt I shall see as good a performance of the Fourth Symphony again. However, all the concerts have stuck in my mind as unique and thoroughly enjoyable experiences, significant events in my concert-going life.
However, Wednesday and Thursday this week will be the highspots of the whole cycle for me. Both are with the Vienna Philharmonic, one of Europe's oldest and most traditional ensembles. Unsurprisingly, given the "rules" that still continue to dictate that orchestra's programmes, the symphonies being played are the two most "traditional" in style. Wednesday will see Shostakovich's Fifth, while Thursday is the Ninth. While the Fifth is a special piece for me, being only the second-ever complete symphony I performed in, and sparking my love of Shostakovich (thanks in no small part to our superb conductor, Malcolm Doley), and the Ninth is a joy to hear, it is a non-Shostakovich item I am most looking forward to.
Because, you see, the second-half of Thursday's concert is going to be Brahm's Fourth Symphony. This, for me, is a piece of music with such massive importance in my life, that for a long while, I could not actually bring myself to listen to it, such was the emotional effect it had on me. It was the first symphony I ever played in, with the Lancashire Students Symphony Orchestra. Furthermore, it was the first complete symphony I ever heard, and the first piece of Classical music I ever owned on CD - indeed, one of the first CDs I ever owned. It was in a complete set of Brahms' symphonies bought for me by my parents, something that is still on heavy rotation to this day, and a permanent fixture on my MP3 player. It helped spark my love of the whole sphere of Classical music. I read the liner notes of the CD, and wanted to know more, so I raided my parents' book collection for articles on the work and biographies of the Brahms (and there were a few given that this was one of the set works my Mum had taught at school). I found that the technical information made sense, the detail all added up in my head, and I wanted to see, read and hear more.
But it wasn't just for this reason that the symphony had such an effect. While on tour playing this piece, I got together with my first girlfriend. I had my first kiss after finishing a performance. I went on my first dates after rehearsals of this piece. This helped me realise that, despite my long-held beliefs, I was not a freak destined to be lonely for ever, but actually I quite enjoyed the company of people. I discovered the joys of being a member of an orchestral brass section, and all that entails. I remember sitting with Tamsin and other friends of mine from the string section while they pored over the huge books that comprised their parts for the symphony, and being roundly (but good-naturedly) mocked for the fact the Trombone part in its entireity consisted of two sparsely-written sides of A4 paper. Happy times.
But above all, I played this symphony at what was, and almost certainly shall remain, the best and most prestigious concert I have ever participated in - La Madélaine in Paris, to a crowd of over 2000 people. I remember the pride I felt as we played the trombone chorale in the fourth movement, along with the ethereal string accompaniment the only sound in that huge building. I remember looking out and seeing my parents in the audience, of seeing Tamsin in the strings, of the conductor smiling for the first time in what seemed like an age, and thinking that this was a special moment in my life. Looking back on this now, with a distance of over ten years, it sometimes seems as if it was another world, that it was not me who did this. But then I find old photos and realise that yes, I may have had stupid long hair and a perpetual teenage scowl, but it was me.
And perhaps this explains why, in a cycle of Shostakovich concerts, the piece I am most looking forward to is by someone completely different. It is a piece I know inside out, better than I know any play, any book, any piece of art, and soemthign that brings endless pleasure every time I hear it.
I can't wait.
Procrastination
I am taking a break from my studies because I have a blog post itching to get out of me...
I just have to share with you two pieces of music which are really moving me at the moment.
The first is Brad Mehldau, "Largo". After a conversation with Nicholas on Saturday (a most excellent evening. incidentally), I was inspired to get another of Brad Mehldau's albums. For those of you unaware of him, he is an American pianist who plays jazz (mostly) in a trio (in the period in question, bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Jorge Rossy). He has a net line in jazz versions of Radiohead and Beatles tracks.
I was first introduced to his music back in 2001 when living in Nice. We were sharing a house with an Irish exPat Nursing student, Orla, and she introduced us to the large Irish community in Nice at the time. Amongst them was an extremely affable chap called David O'Docherty (nominated at the Edinburgh Fringe this year for the Perrier award, and writer of the rather terrific children's book, "Ronan Long Gets It Wrong"), who loaned me a tape of his friend Brad, which took up residence on our rather decrepit tape player for the next few weeks.
The original record Nicholas and I were enthusing over, "The Art of the Trio, Volume 4" has now been joined in my collection by "Largo", which I believe is marginally superior, although orbiting in a slightly different musical world. The ensemble has been enlarged to include brass and string sections, and it takes a slightly more simplistic approach to some of the numbers. Indeed, it is markedly less "jazz" than the other recordings I have heard by him (which may help to quell the fears of those dreading a jazz-Radiohead collision), and features some fine versions of "Paranoid Android" and "Dear Prudence".
However, it's the opening track, "When It Rains", which is moving me at the moment. There's an air of relaxed melancholy over it, which is peculiarly beautiful. I won't say much more about it, but would encourage you to track it down if you can (Nicholas - a copy shall be on the way to you shortly).
The other piece that is affecting me at the moment is the Concerto Grosso, Op. 6 No. 4 by Arcangelo Corelli. Not only is it far removed from the Brad Mehldau, it is far removed from my "usual" favourite pieces of Classical music. Thanks to my course, my eyes have been opened to the joy of Baroque (and earlier) music (previously, I confess, my interest in this period had begun and ended with the Renaissance church music of Gabrieli and J.S. Bach). This particular Concerto Grosso is one of our set works, and I would encourage anyone who likes the music of Vivaldi (can you guess who this is directed at?!) to listen to this piece.
The musical and technical joys of this piece are too long for me to go into here, but I shall highlight my two favourite moments. Firstly, the Phrygian (so called after the Phrygian mode) cadence that ends the Adagio. After a Perfect cadence in B minor (for the piano players among you, a triad of F# major, followed by a triad of B minor, both in root position, and with A# followed by B in the top part), the music descends through a first inversion (A in the bass, F# at the top of the chord) F# minor chord, then a first inversion E minor chord (G in the bass, E in the top), and finishing on a root F# major chord (F# in the bass, F# at the top). It looks complicated written down, but believe me, it sounds simple and beautiful.
The second moment is in the fourth movement (Allegro), again at the end of the piece, where the bass rises against F# and D in the top two violin parts, giving chords of D major (root), D major (first inversion), G major seventh (first inversion), D major seventh (second inversion), B minor (root). Again, looks complicated, sounds divine.
I hope you enjoy these!
I just have to share with you two pieces of music which are really moving me at the moment.
The first is Brad Mehldau, "Largo". After a conversation with Nicholas on Saturday (a most excellent evening. incidentally), I was inspired to get another of Brad Mehldau's albums. For those of you unaware of him, he is an American pianist who plays jazz (mostly) in a trio (in the period in question, bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Jorge Rossy). He has a net line in jazz versions of Radiohead and Beatles tracks.
I was first introduced to his music back in 2001 when living in Nice. We were sharing a house with an Irish exPat Nursing student, Orla, and she introduced us to the large Irish community in Nice at the time. Amongst them was an extremely affable chap called David O'Docherty (nominated at the Edinburgh Fringe this year for the Perrier award, and writer of the rather terrific children's book, "Ronan Long Gets It Wrong"), who loaned me a tape of his friend Brad, which took up residence on our rather decrepit tape player for the next few weeks.
The original record Nicholas and I were enthusing over, "The Art of the Trio, Volume 4" has now been joined in my collection by "Largo", which I believe is marginally superior, although orbiting in a slightly different musical world. The ensemble has been enlarged to include brass and string sections, and it takes a slightly more simplistic approach to some of the numbers. Indeed, it is markedly less "jazz" than the other recordings I have heard by him (which may help to quell the fears of those dreading a jazz-Radiohead collision), and features some fine versions of "Paranoid Android" and "Dear Prudence".
However, it's the opening track, "When It Rains", which is moving me at the moment. There's an air of relaxed melancholy over it, which is peculiarly beautiful. I won't say much more about it, but would encourage you to track it down if you can (Nicholas - a copy shall be on the way to you shortly).
The other piece that is affecting me at the moment is the Concerto Grosso, Op. 6 No. 4 by Arcangelo Corelli. Not only is it far removed from the Brad Mehldau, it is far removed from my "usual" favourite pieces of Classical music. Thanks to my course, my eyes have been opened to the joy of Baroque (and earlier) music (previously, I confess, my interest in this period had begun and ended with the Renaissance church music of Gabrieli and J.S. Bach). This particular Concerto Grosso is one of our set works, and I would encourage anyone who likes the music of Vivaldi (can you guess who this is directed at?!) to listen to this piece.
The musical and technical joys of this piece are too long for me to go into here, but I shall highlight my two favourite moments. Firstly, the Phrygian (so called after the Phrygian mode) cadence that ends the Adagio. After a Perfect cadence in B minor (for the piano players among you, a triad of F# major, followed by a triad of B minor, both in root position, and with A# followed by B in the top part), the music descends through a first inversion (A in the bass, F# at the top of the chord) F# minor chord, then a first inversion E minor chord (G in the bass, E in the top), and finishing on a root F# major chord (F# in the bass, F# at the top). It looks complicated written down, but believe me, it sounds simple and beautiful.
The second moment is in the fourth movement (Allegro), again at the end of the piece, where the bass rises against F# and D in the top two violin parts, giving chords of D major (root), D major (first inversion), G major seventh (first inversion), D major seventh (second inversion), B minor (root). Again, looks complicated, sounds divine.
I hope you enjoy these!
Friday, September 08, 2006
Dub No Bass In My Head Man
During my jaunt to the family home in lovely Poulton-le-Fylde recently, I had to make a difficult decision.
I decided to give away my bass amplifier. This may sound like a piffling decision to most, but it's actually had quite an effect on me. It wasn't much to look at - around a metre high and a metre tall, with a sloping front grill covering a large 15" speaker cone, and with two vents at the bottom. It had seen quite a lot of action too, even by the time I bought it second-hand from Brent Forbes. It was the amp he had used during the recording of the "Les Miserables" soundtrack in London (you will see his name on the credits), and it had travelled over the world with him. The body had been gloss-painted over in black to cover up marks and scratches in the original paint work. The foam inside the flight case had begun to sheer off, and the lid of the case soon bit the dust (last seen being burned on a ceremonial pyre). The electrics had begun to be troublesome, and shortly after I bought it, the gain control knob sheared off and had to be replaced. It also had an annoying habit of shorting out at the most inconvenient moments, such as in the middle of a gig, though this was rectified with a little bit of electrical tweaking.
But it was a thing of beauty when played. I had so many memories tied up with it. I remember playing Grey Day in 1998, the biggest gig I had done when playing the bass, and watching people key in to the sounds that were coming out - it seemed everyone keyed in to the bass, and it surprised me that these sounds were coming from my fingers. I remember the unholy sound I managed to extract from it when doing a Cactus Lounge gig in Collingwood and, doing a running leap across the stage onto my pedals, managed to explode one of them. I remember working out exactly where I could hit my bass on it which would generate the best harmonics on the low B string while not damaging the instrument. And I remember recording the Chaulk demo, where I rigged it up to two cabinets containing two ten inch speakers, and running the distortion through those and the clean bass through my amp, and producing the finest, loudest sound I think I ever got out of it.
I hadn't played it for years - it was too big to bring to London with me, and not having a car emant transporting it would have been impossible. But deciding to give it away to a friend in need means that one of my few tangible links to these moments is gone. Which is sad for a number of reasons, but perhaps most of all because it forces me to face up to something I have known deep down for a long time. I am never going to be a full-time bass player in a signed band.
I know that sounds fanciful, and the kind of dream you have when you're much younger, but havign played so much with various bands, it looked for a long time like this might happen. And I came so close on a number of occasions. The two other band members from Wug tried to encourage me to spend a year after graduation touring, playing and trying to get signed. I could not give a firm commitment, and so the band went their separate ways. James is now signed to Creeping Bent records and has a small label of his own. Danny is a promoter in Manchester and getting rave reviews for his Folk Collective. I spent a year trying to make ends meet as a professional trombonist and am now a Civil Servant.
Then there was Chaulk. Our demo sold extremely well, and we actually got several phone callsf rom a couple of major labels (if memory serves me rightly, Parlophone was one) asking for more material. But by that time the band had imploded, the fractious relationships collapsing to the point where the concept of speaking to one another, let alone trying to record another demo, was impossible. So in desperation, Rich A, Ben and I cobbled together the unused, rough versions of extra songs we'd recorded for the first demo, some without vocals, some very shoddy, and sent them off on an unmarked CD, without telling Rich Meehan. It was without a doubt one of the more shitty things I've done, and unsurprisingly we heard nothing more.
And Andy Logan's attempts to get me to play wiht him in various bands after graduation were appreciated, but ultimately futile, as by then, after my trombone experiences, I had a sensible job, a regular wage, a little bit of trombone playing on the side, and not enough time left to give him the commitment he wanted.
So now, I am giving away my equipment. I still have my bass, although because of space issues, it is in storage, as I have my electric piano instead of it now. And in theory, I am going to replace my amp, but again, with space issues, I will only do this when I need it. Deep down, I suspect this day will never come.
All this came flooding back to me yesterday when listening to some of Ben Folds' EPs. I thought of how powerful, and how fantastic, the bass is. It always has had this primacy - when doing my harmonisation of Bach Chorales, it is amazing of how altering the bass even by one or two notes can imply and create a completely different aural effect. But yesterday, when walking down towards the Wetland Centre in Barnes and listening to "Protection", there was a moment where the bass came in at the beginning of a verse with a slight bit of syncopation and it almost made me jump with delight. And then I listened "There's Always Someone Cooler Than You", and heard the impact the fuzz bass makes when it come in, and I just thought that all is well with the world. And a tiny tiny voice said in my head...maybe one day...
I decided to give away my bass amplifier. This may sound like a piffling decision to most, but it's actually had quite an effect on me. It wasn't much to look at - around a metre high and a metre tall, with a sloping front grill covering a large 15" speaker cone, and with two vents at the bottom. It had seen quite a lot of action too, even by the time I bought it second-hand from Brent Forbes. It was the amp he had used during the recording of the "Les Miserables" soundtrack in London (you will see his name on the credits), and it had travelled over the world with him. The body had been gloss-painted over in black to cover up marks and scratches in the original paint work. The foam inside the flight case had begun to sheer off, and the lid of the case soon bit the dust (last seen being burned on a ceremonial pyre). The electrics had begun to be troublesome, and shortly after I bought it, the gain control knob sheared off and had to be replaced. It also had an annoying habit of shorting out at the most inconvenient moments, such as in the middle of a gig, though this was rectified with a little bit of electrical tweaking.
But it was a thing of beauty when played. I had so many memories tied up with it. I remember playing Grey Day in 1998, the biggest gig I had done when playing the bass, and watching people key in to the sounds that were coming out - it seemed everyone keyed in to the bass, and it surprised me that these sounds were coming from my fingers. I remember the unholy sound I managed to extract from it when doing a Cactus Lounge gig in Collingwood and, doing a running leap across the stage onto my pedals, managed to explode one of them. I remember working out exactly where I could hit my bass on it which would generate the best harmonics on the low B string while not damaging the instrument. And I remember recording the Chaulk demo, where I rigged it up to two cabinets containing two ten inch speakers, and running the distortion through those and the clean bass through my amp, and producing the finest, loudest sound I think I ever got out of it.
I hadn't played it for years - it was too big to bring to London with me, and not having a car emant transporting it would have been impossible. But deciding to give it away to a friend in need means that one of my few tangible links to these moments is gone. Which is sad for a number of reasons, but perhaps most of all because it forces me to face up to something I have known deep down for a long time. I am never going to be a full-time bass player in a signed band.
I know that sounds fanciful, and the kind of dream you have when you're much younger, but havign played so much with various bands, it looked for a long time like this might happen. And I came so close on a number of occasions. The two other band members from Wug tried to encourage me to spend a year after graduation touring, playing and trying to get signed. I could not give a firm commitment, and so the band went their separate ways. James is now signed to Creeping Bent records and has a small label of his own. Danny is a promoter in Manchester and getting rave reviews for his Folk Collective. I spent a year trying to make ends meet as a professional trombonist and am now a Civil Servant.
Then there was Chaulk. Our demo sold extremely well, and we actually got several phone callsf rom a couple of major labels (if memory serves me rightly, Parlophone was one) asking for more material. But by that time the band had imploded, the fractious relationships collapsing to the point where the concept of speaking to one another, let alone trying to record another demo, was impossible. So in desperation, Rich A, Ben and I cobbled together the unused, rough versions of extra songs we'd recorded for the first demo, some without vocals, some very shoddy, and sent them off on an unmarked CD, without telling Rich Meehan. It was without a doubt one of the more shitty things I've done, and unsurprisingly we heard nothing more.
And Andy Logan's attempts to get me to play wiht him in various bands after graduation were appreciated, but ultimately futile, as by then, after my trombone experiences, I had a sensible job, a regular wage, a little bit of trombone playing on the side, and not enough time left to give him the commitment he wanted.
So now, I am giving away my equipment. I still have my bass, although because of space issues, it is in storage, as I have my electric piano instead of it now. And in theory, I am going to replace my amp, but again, with space issues, I will only do this when I need it. Deep down, I suspect this day will never come.
All this came flooding back to me yesterday when listening to some of Ben Folds' EPs. I thought of how powerful, and how fantastic, the bass is. It always has had this primacy - when doing my harmonisation of Bach Chorales, it is amazing of how altering the bass even by one or two notes can imply and create a completely different aural effect. But yesterday, when walking down towards the Wetland Centre in Barnes and listening to "Protection", there was a moment where the bass came in at the beginning of a verse with a slight bit of syncopation and it almost made me jump with delight. And then I listened "There's Always Someone Cooler Than You", and heard the impact the fuzz bass makes when it come in, and I just thought that all is well with the world. And a tiny tiny voice said in my head...maybe one day...
Monday, September 04, 2006
Interpretation and Showmanship II
Liselapois got me thinking further along the lines of showmanship and its connection with authenticity and tradional.
Often accompanying the "showmanship" is a pulling of the piece slightly out of shape - i.e. a certain amount of rubato. This is fine in its place, and when directed by the composer, but if you are going to add rubato to places where the composer did not specify it, then the whole system of printed music breaks down. There is no point for the composer to have written any more than a shell of a few notes, and certainly no need for s/he to have concerned themselves with adding dynamic and interpretive marks. It is only a small step from here to say "why don't I add a few notes here and there", and before you know it the piece collapses as it was originally intended (stand up Colin Matthews and your Pluto movement - what a waste of time that has turned out to be).
But on the other hand you do have the argument that, had Mozart or Beethoven had access to a modern concert Grand Piano, they would have increased their interpretive directions - more dynamics, longer sustain etc. And if you are determined not to indtroduce these modern techniques then why do you not perform the piece on on original fortepiano? If you are performing a Classical piece on a modern piano, should you not do the piece justice by subtly shading it here and there according to your own preference? I have some recordings of Bach's Das Wolltemperierte Klavier, played by Andras Schiff on a modern concert grand, and he subtly shades the music with his own interpretation. I find these immensely more pleasurable and tolerable to listen to than on the harpsichord or the clavichord, yet this is completely inconsistent with Bach's wishes.
And again, I confess to a little inconsistency. I think you should be far more strict with a performance of Mozart, and the Classical era in general, than of Bach and his Baroque contemporaries. Bach's era was defined by music primarily written for an event - either religious, such as a cantata, or secular, such as a suite for dancing. The very act of transferring these pieces to the concert hall fundamentally alters their purpose and marks them as something other than what they are. Therefore, any other subsequent changes pale in comparison to this - music that was intended as purely functional has to be altered in order to become entertaining in its own right. However, the whole point of the era in which Mozart was writing was that the music was refined, balanced and elegant, suitable for both the aristocracy and the emerging bourgeosie, and above all, in a great many cases, intended to be listened to (think of the emergence of the Symphony - purely "entertainment" music, and as such, unheard of in the Baroque era). Mozart was, of course, ahead of his time, and introduced far more into his music, thinking about the responses in his listener and deliberately trying to confound, surprise and move them, through techniques which he wrote into his pieces. He knew the effect he wanted to produce in his audience and crafted his music so that it would produce this effect.
Now if a modern performer (such as Lang Lang in the performance I mentioned earlier) comes along and overlays their own interpretation through showmanship, then it disrupts the careful balance that Mozart worked out, and instead of Mozart dictating our responses, the performer is indicating to us where we should feel emotion. And this is what I have a problem with - I do not wish the performer to dictate my emotions to me. It makes me think of Shostakovich's description of the last movement of his Fifty Symphony: to paraphrase, "where you are beaten around the head and told 'your business is rejoicing', until you stagger to your feet and walk away saying 'our business is rejoicing'". If I am to be beaten about the head and instructed to rejoice, I would prefer Mozart administer the beating.
Often accompanying the "showmanship" is a pulling of the piece slightly out of shape - i.e. a certain amount of rubato. This is fine in its place, and when directed by the composer, but if you are going to add rubato to places where the composer did not specify it, then the whole system of printed music breaks down. There is no point for the composer to have written any more than a shell of a few notes, and certainly no need for s/he to have concerned themselves with adding dynamic and interpretive marks. It is only a small step from here to say "why don't I add a few notes here and there", and before you know it the piece collapses as it was originally intended (stand up Colin Matthews and your Pluto movement - what a waste of time that has turned out to be).
But on the other hand you do have the argument that, had Mozart or Beethoven had access to a modern concert Grand Piano, they would have increased their interpretive directions - more dynamics, longer sustain etc. And if you are determined not to indtroduce these modern techniques then why do you not perform the piece on on original fortepiano? If you are performing a Classical piece on a modern piano, should you not do the piece justice by subtly shading it here and there according to your own preference? I have some recordings of Bach's Das Wolltemperierte Klavier, played by Andras Schiff on a modern concert grand, and he subtly shades the music with his own interpretation. I find these immensely more pleasurable and tolerable to listen to than on the harpsichord or the clavichord, yet this is completely inconsistent with Bach's wishes.
And again, I confess to a little inconsistency. I think you should be far more strict with a performance of Mozart, and the Classical era in general, than of Bach and his Baroque contemporaries. Bach's era was defined by music primarily written for an event - either religious, such as a cantata, or secular, such as a suite for dancing. The very act of transferring these pieces to the concert hall fundamentally alters their purpose and marks them as something other than what they are. Therefore, any other subsequent changes pale in comparison to this - music that was intended as purely functional has to be altered in order to become entertaining in its own right. However, the whole point of the era in which Mozart was writing was that the music was refined, balanced and elegant, suitable for both the aristocracy and the emerging bourgeosie, and above all, in a great many cases, intended to be listened to (think of the emergence of the Symphony - purely "entertainment" music, and as such, unheard of in the Baroque era). Mozart was, of course, ahead of his time, and introduced far more into his music, thinking about the responses in his listener and deliberately trying to confound, surprise and move them, through techniques which he wrote into his pieces. He knew the effect he wanted to produce in his audience and crafted his music so that it would produce this effect.
Now if a modern performer (such as Lang Lang in the performance I mentioned earlier) comes along and overlays their own interpretation through showmanship, then it disrupts the careful balance that Mozart worked out, and instead of Mozart dictating our responses, the performer is indicating to us where we should feel emotion. And this is what I have a problem with - I do not wish the performer to dictate my emotions to me. It makes me think of Shostakovich's description of the last movement of his Fifty Symphony: to paraphrase, "where you are beaten around the head and told 'your business is rejoicing', until you stagger to your feet and walk away saying 'our business is rejoicing'". If I am to be beaten about the head and instructed to rejoice, I would prefer Mozart administer the beating.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Trombone Identification
The Fishermen are having a tad of a hiatus at the moment, owing to me galavanting across the country for a week and a half...
However, I have a spare minute or two at the "remains" of my parents house, and have decided there was something I had to get out. So I have suirreled myself away in the converted attic room (which is rather splendid, with a clear view of a tree covered hill in one direction and Blackpool Tower in the other) to impart to you this vital information...
The first trombonist was playing an Edwards T350.
The second trombonist was playing a Shires custom-built tenor traombone with an F valve.
The bass trombonist was playing an Edwards B454.
(When I can work out how to blog pictures and have more time, I shall illustrate this post accordingly).
It's interesting to see how the Americans have steered clear from the European standard choice, which is generally a mixture of Conn 8H and Conn 88H (or rarely a Rath custom-build) for first and second. The bass trombone is rarely standard however - people generally find one that they love and stick with it. Quite a few people seem to be going for the Edwards instruments now with their new Thayer valves, but then there are still people who swear by vintage Conn basses (like me...) or Yamahas.
Next post may be some time, but I will almost certainly be waffling about the performance of Mozart's Requiem I saw on BBC 4 (from the Proms) last night.
Tata for now.
However, I have a spare minute or two at the "remains" of my parents house, and have decided there was something I had to get out. So I have suirreled myself away in the converted attic room (which is rather splendid, with a clear view of a tree covered hill in one direction and Blackpool Tower in the other) to impart to you this vital information...
The first trombonist was playing an Edwards T350.
The second trombonist was playing a Shires custom-built tenor traombone with an F valve.
The bass trombonist was playing an Edwards B454.
(When I can work out how to blog pictures and have more time, I shall illustrate this post accordingly).
It's interesting to see how the Americans have steered clear from the European standard choice, which is generally a mixture of Conn 8H and Conn 88H (or rarely a Rath custom-build) for first and second. The bass trombone is rarely standard however - people generally find one that they love and stick with it. Quite a few people seem to be going for the Edwards instruments now with their new Thayer valves, but then there are still people who swear by vintage Conn basses (like me...) or Yamahas.
Next post may be some time, but I will almost certainly be waffling about the performance of Mozart's Requiem I saw on BBC 4 (from the Proms) last night.
Tata for now.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Welsh Pianists and American Orchestras
Mr Nicholas and I attended the next in our Mahler series last night (for the uninitiated: we made a pact a few years ago to see all the Mahler symphonies performed live, in chronological order). The programme was:
Samuel Barber - First Essay for Orchestra
Ludwig van Beethoven - Piano Concerto No. 3 (soloist: Llyr Williams)
Gustav Mahler - Symphony No. 5 (By this, you'll be able to tell that we're nearly half-way through our odyssey)
The orchestra was the Minnesota Orchestra conducted by Osmo Vanska.
The whole evening was superb, starting as we did with crepes and French cider at the South Kensington creperie (I had a bizarre cheesy-fishy concoction which was most pleasant. Nicholas had a sweet banana and chocolate one which looked gorgeous). Every item on the concert programme was exceptionally played, though never to the point where all the "danger" went out of the performance.
To digress, I think the "danger" is a key element of all live performance now, but particularly in the Classical sphere: a good concert should, as well as providing all the usual musical tension and release, should heighten this feeling through the knowledge that it could fall apart at any moment. All it would take is for the first trumpet or the timpanist to have spent too long in the pub and it could all go wrong. Obviously, common sense tells you these are professionals and even if there was the odd slip, it wouldn't be fatal. But on the rare occasions I have seen an orchestra playing something they have had in their repertoire for the past few months, and are obviously supremely competent at playing, the pervading feeling is one of blandness, and you can almost feel the (relative) disinterestedness from the orchestra.
Anyway, back on topic. Two things struck me most of all last night. The first was during the Beethoven. Llyr WIlliams gave an exceptional performance, especially given that he was a last-minute replacement for Dawn Upshaw singing the UK Premiere of new songs by Golijov, (It was nice to see the pleasantly rowdy group of "prommers" welcome him to the Albert Hall in Welsh). However, Williams did do quite a lot of "emoting" over the piano. I remember the last concert I was at, we saw Lang Lang play Mozart's Piano Concerto no.21 (I think...), and he too did an awful lot of "emoting". What I mean by this is a lot of swoops, swaying, leering and gurning over the piano while throwing yourself passionately into the music. I guess it would be called showmanship.
I don't have a problem with this, except that at times it can prove rather distracting and, particularly in Lang Lang's case, seems rather inappropriate for the relative restraint of the Mozart. On the subject of Wolfgang, I believe he was said to have strongly disapproved of performers who "emoted" during a performance, on one occasion commenting that it lookked like the performer was in the throes of a fit. I think in modern times, no-one could really expect a performer to sit rigidly upright at the piano, but I think in terms of "showmanship", less is definitely better.
I have waffled quite a bit, but I just wanted to touch on the orchestra. One thing you do tend to notice is that American orcehstras play with a very lush tone. I appreciate that virtually everything on the programme last night demanded this, but there was a real feeling of broadness, of richness in the orchestra. Of course, it was the Americans who pioneered the larger bore brass instruments we have now and which are standard in most (non-period) orchestras (sometimes to the detriment of the performance - there was very little difference in timbre between the French Horns and the Trombones last night, which was a little confusing at times). But I don't mean to gripe (I wouldn't give up my large-bore Conn 88H for anything). The thing that struck me was the supreme confidence that excuded from all the players.
A case in point: Mahler is quite clear in his instructions about when he wants the bells of brass and woodwind instruments to be raised, and the orchestra followed it to the letter, with the Clarinets at one point looking like they were trying to launch things into the audience. In one of the solo trombone passages, I thought the trombonist was actually going to play vertically upwards. But actually, he played at the perfect angle to project into the hall, as did the Clarinets, the Horns, and the other instruments following this particular instruction.
The sheer confidence, the swagger of these players was fantastic to see - you got the feeling this was a happy orchestra, supremely capable and enjoying themselves while playing (which is actually a surprisingly rare sight). Possibly this comes from the greater investment in and affluence of American orchestras in comparison to their European couterparts. Whatever the contributing factors however, it works.
It's interesting isn't it? I crticised the soloist for his excessive showmanship, yet am praising the orchestra for theirs. It's not quite inconsistent however - the orchestral showmanship does originate from instructions on the page, whereas the soloist was bringing his own personality to bear on the performance.
But anyway, these are just a few small things that occured to me during a rather excellent concert, and evening as a whole.
Samuel Barber - First Essay for Orchestra
Ludwig van Beethoven - Piano Concerto No. 3 (soloist: Llyr Williams)
Gustav Mahler - Symphony No. 5 (By this, you'll be able to tell that we're nearly half-way through our odyssey)
The orchestra was the Minnesota Orchestra conducted by Osmo Vanska.
The whole evening was superb, starting as we did with crepes and French cider at the South Kensington creperie (I had a bizarre cheesy-fishy concoction which was most pleasant. Nicholas had a sweet banana and chocolate one which looked gorgeous). Every item on the concert programme was exceptionally played, though never to the point where all the "danger" went out of the performance.
To digress, I think the "danger" is a key element of all live performance now, but particularly in the Classical sphere: a good concert should, as well as providing all the usual musical tension and release, should heighten this feeling through the knowledge that it could fall apart at any moment. All it would take is for the first trumpet or the timpanist to have spent too long in the pub and it could all go wrong. Obviously, common sense tells you these are professionals and even if there was the odd slip, it wouldn't be fatal. But on the rare occasions I have seen an orchestra playing something they have had in their repertoire for the past few months, and are obviously supremely competent at playing, the pervading feeling is one of blandness, and you can almost feel the (relative) disinterestedness from the orchestra.
Anyway, back on topic. Two things struck me most of all last night. The first was during the Beethoven. Llyr WIlliams gave an exceptional performance, especially given that he was a last-minute replacement for Dawn Upshaw singing the UK Premiere of new songs by Golijov, (It was nice to see the pleasantly rowdy group of "prommers" welcome him to the Albert Hall in Welsh). However, Williams did do quite a lot of "emoting" over the piano. I remember the last concert I was at, we saw Lang Lang play Mozart's Piano Concerto no.21 (I think...), and he too did an awful lot of "emoting". What I mean by this is a lot of swoops, swaying, leering and gurning over the piano while throwing yourself passionately into the music. I guess it would be called showmanship.
I don't have a problem with this, except that at times it can prove rather distracting and, particularly in Lang Lang's case, seems rather inappropriate for the relative restraint of the Mozart. On the subject of Wolfgang, I believe he was said to have strongly disapproved of performers who "emoted" during a performance, on one occasion commenting that it lookked like the performer was in the throes of a fit. I think in modern times, no-one could really expect a performer to sit rigidly upright at the piano, but I think in terms of "showmanship", less is definitely better.
I have waffled quite a bit, but I just wanted to touch on the orchestra. One thing you do tend to notice is that American orcehstras play with a very lush tone. I appreciate that virtually everything on the programme last night demanded this, but there was a real feeling of broadness, of richness in the orchestra. Of course, it was the Americans who pioneered the larger bore brass instruments we have now and which are standard in most (non-period) orchestras (sometimes to the detriment of the performance - there was very little difference in timbre between the French Horns and the Trombones last night, which was a little confusing at times). But I don't mean to gripe (I wouldn't give up my large-bore Conn 88H for anything). The thing that struck me was the supreme confidence that excuded from all the players.
A case in point: Mahler is quite clear in his instructions about when he wants the bells of brass and woodwind instruments to be raised, and the orchestra followed it to the letter, with the Clarinets at one point looking like they were trying to launch things into the audience. In one of the solo trombone passages, I thought the trombonist was actually going to play vertically upwards. But actually, he played at the perfect angle to project into the hall, as did the Clarinets, the Horns, and the other instruments following this particular instruction.
The sheer confidence, the swagger of these players was fantastic to see - you got the feeling this was a happy orchestra, supremely capable and enjoying themselves while playing (which is actually a surprisingly rare sight). Possibly this comes from the greater investment in and affluence of American orchestras in comparison to their European couterparts. Whatever the contributing factors however, it works.
It's interesting isn't it? I crticised the soloist for his excessive showmanship, yet am praising the orchestra for theirs. It's not quite inconsistent however - the orchestral showmanship does originate from instructions on the page, whereas the soloist was bringing his own personality to bear on the performance.
But anyway, these are just a few small things that occured to me during a rather excellent concert, and evening as a whole.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Commuter Boy I
A CAVEAT: You know how I said this blog was approximately 95% less angry? Well this is the left over 5%...
Which makes it all the more irritating when it goes wrong.
Today, apparently, we were stuck outside Waterloo for 15 minutes because one of the outgoing trains had a faulty radio and it couldn't leave the platform. Not sure what was up with any of the 18 other platforms. Yes, I know we would have held someone else up, but it's amazing how selfish commuting can make you. By 10 minutes there were quite a few of us wanting to rip open the door and walk into Waterloo we were that close.
It reminded me of the bad old days with the black hole outside Waterloo. And also reminded me of the fact that when the owners of the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo decided it was to be closed in favour of the new terminus at Paddington, they didn't think:
"Hey, we've got six free platforms coming up at a horrendously overcrowded station - just think, if we open them up to normal trains we can eliminate the normal morning congestion."
No. They didn't think that. They thought:
"Hey, we've got six free platforms coming up at a horrendously overcrowded station - just think, we can turn it all into a big shopping centre and add fifty million shoppers to the gaggle of pissed off commuters. Then we can sit in our offices and laugh as the whole concourse descends into a violent, hate-fuelled mess."
You see, the second option brings more money in. So they can continue splashing cash out so that their huge pendulous man breasts can continue be massaged daily in baby oil by teams of scantily-clad nymphettes imported from Russia.
Luckily several sensible MPs have opposed this, and I understand it will be given over to trains now after all. So the fat rulers of Waterloo station will have to massage baby oil into their own breasts for the time being until they come up with another scheme to make vast piles of cash.
A victory for the little commuter I think. Now all they need to do is fix the black hole that's sprung up in Barnes...
Scheduled Departure Time: 07:53
Actual Departure Time: 07:53
Scheduled Arrival Time: 08:18
Actual Arrival Time: 08:33
Explanation / Apology: Yes. Full and frank.
Weather: Drying from the overnight downpour
So, yes, since I last did one of these, many things have changed. I have to get into work earlier for one. But surprisingly South West Trains have been rather good.Which makes it all the more irritating when it goes wrong.
Today, apparently, we were stuck outside Waterloo for 15 minutes because one of the outgoing trains had a faulty radio and it couldn't leave the platform. Not sure what was up with any of the 18 other platforms. Yes, I know we would have held someone else up, but it's amazing how selfish commuting can make you. By 10 minutes there were quite a few of us wanting to rip open the door and walk into Waterloo we were that close.
It reminded me of the bad old days with the black hole outside Waterloo. And also reminded me of the fact that when the owners of the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo decided it was to be closed in favour of the new terminus at Paddington, they didn't think:
"Hey, we've got six free platforms coming up at a horrendously overcrowded station - just think, if we open them up to normal trains we can eliminate the normal morning congestion."
No. They didn't think that. They thought:
"Hey, we've got six free platforms coming up at a horrendously overcrowded station - just think, we can turn it all into a big shopping centre and add fifty million shoppers to the gaggle of pissed off commuters. Then we can sit in our offices and laugh as the whole concourse descends into a violent, hate-fuelled mess."
You see, the second option brings more money in. So they can continue splashing cash out so that their huge pendulous man breasts can continue be massaged daily in baby oil by teams of scantily-clad nymphettes imported from Russia.
Luckily several sensible MPs have opposed this, and I understand it will be given over to trains now after all. So the fat rulers of Waterloo station will have to massage baby oil into their own breasts for the time being until they come up with another scheme to make vast piles of cash.
A victory for the little commuter I think. Now all they need to do is fix the black hole that's sprung up in Barnes...
Neighbours
I was going to blog about something interesting, fascinating and eye-opening today (those in the know will know that this heralds a huge outpouring ont he exact working of the second valve mechanism on a bass trombone).
But instead I thought I'd share my great news - I've kicked my "Neighbours" habit!
Ever since my last knee op last year, I began to be sucked into the Ramsay Street world for the first time since I was a kid at school. Suddenly, the antics of Toadie, Connor, Sky and Susan (still the yummiest mummy on TV) became vitally important. My lunch breaks were timed for 1:45 so I could catch the afternoon showing (not a chance I'd make the evening one), and I used to throw a strop if someone was watching Trisha or Richard and Judy or whatever other arse was being pumped out by ITV at the time (although I did make way for McGyver if ever that was on - come on! It has Brian Blessed in it!).
I became a spoiler junkie, checking www.neighboursfans.com every day, sometimes more than once, to find out what was happening (as a result, I still know what's going on in mid-September in Australia).
But the new job has gradually fixed this. For one thing, I have to take a late or early lunch, thus missing the vital 1:45 slot. Secondly, after the plane crash, it just lost interest for me. True, they had an evil twin storyline, which reminded me of the happy days of Sunset Beach, but it just wasn't the same.
Todya I realised that the Neighbours Fans website has vanished off my "most-visited" links site. And I can breathe a sigh of relief. Until I notice that URL floating terribly near the top of the list...
www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/archers
But instead I thought I'd share my great news - I've kicked my "Neighbours" habit!
Ever since my last knee op last year, I began to be sucked into the Ramsay Street world for the first time since I was a kid at school. Suddenly, the antics of Toadie, Connor, Sky and Susan (still the yummiest mummy on TV) became vitally important. My lunch breaks were timed for 1:45 so I could catch the afternoon showing (not a chance I'd make the evening one), and I used to throw a strop if someone was watching Trisha or Richard and Judy or whatever other arse was being pumped out by ITV at the time (although I did make way for McGyver if ever that was on - come on! It has Brian Blessed in it!).
I became a spoiler junkie, checking www.neighboursfans.com every day, sometimes more than once, to find out what was happening (as a result, I still know what's going on in mid-September in Australia).
But the new job has gradually fixed this. For one thing, I have to take a late or early lunch, thus missing the vital 1:45 slot. Secondly, after the plane crash, it just lost interest for me. True, they had an evil twin storyline, which reminded me of the happy days of Sunset Beach, but it just wasn't the same.
Todya I realised that the Neighbours Fans website has vanished off my "most-visited" links site. And I can breathe a sigh of relief. Until I notice that URL floating terribly near the top of the list...
www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/archers
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A Clean Slate
The blog has seen a bit of a resurgence recently amongst our little crowd, what with Nicholas, Lise and Rich all starting / restarting / reactivating their blogs.
Coupled with this, several things have changed since my last post a year ago:
1) I no longer have a horse's arse outside my window. I now have a rather fantastic view across Horse Guard's Parade towards St James' Park - I must get a photo of that there at some point...
2) Coupled with the lack of horse's arse is that I no longer work in IT having escaped upwards to become a Deputy Bernard.
3) I no longer want to maim my immediate colleagues. In fact, I rather like them all.
So I thought I would relaunch into this blogging malarkey with enthusiasm...wish me luck.
Coupled with this, several things have changed since my last post a year ago:
1) I no longer have a horse's arse outside my window. I now have a rather fantastic view across Horse Guard's Parade towards St James' Park - I must get a photo of that there at some point...
2) Coupled with the lack of horse's arse is that I no longer work in IT having escaped upwards to become a Deputy Bernard.
3) I no longer want to maim my immediate colleagues. In fact, I rather like them all.
So I thought I would relaunch into this blogging malarkey with enthusiasm...wish me luck.
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