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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)