Exciting news from my ancestral homeland.

This Thursday, May 24, 2012, American Public Media’s “Performance Today” is going to broadcast the Orchestra of the Swan’s concert performance of Has Gál’s Fourth Symphony, recorded December 2011 in Stratford-upon-Avon.

We also recorded a short interview last week, in which we talked about Gál and the orchestra which will be broadcast on Thursday.

The program will be available on the PT website for at least one week following the broadcast. Performance Today is broadcast in syndication on over 260 Public Radio stations nation wide. Check your local listings for broadcast times, and remember, you can listen on line at your convenience.

Recent features in New York Magazine, the New York Times (additional video here), the Sydney Herald (in conversation with my former teacher, David Zinman) and a return of BBC2’s “Maestro” would all seem to be evidence of some kind of moment of curiosity about the true nature of the conductor’s art. No doubt, some of these projects have proved more enlightening than others.

This Sunday, I’ll be offering my own window into the world of conducting at the always-staggeringly-interesting-and-innovative Two Rivers Festival in Birkenhead (the last concert there, by pianist Clare Hammond, might have been the most interesting recital in Britain this year, with five world-premieres in celebration of the Debussy anniversary). This event, called “Magicians of the orchestra: revealing the conductor’s art” begins with a short chat from me about how conductors shape sound, with some interesting video samples of a few great masters of the past. Then, three exciting young conductors take their turn conducting the Orchestra of the Swan in masterclass on Brahms’ Serenade no. 1 in D major (as arranged for nonet by Anthony Bousted). Finally, after some Q&A and the chance for a few brave and curious amateurs in audience to try their hand, I’ll step up to the plate, ready to take it all on the chin, and conduct four movements of the Brahms, which we’re also recording that day for a new SOMM CD.

Once you get past any simplistic parallels regarding the waving of magic wands, the comparison of conductor and magician is surprisingly apt. After all, a great magician is a mixture of engineer, technician, and performer, who must not only have a relatively deep practical understanding of what he or she is doing, but also a profound psychological understanding of how their audience perceives it. We call modern magicians “illusionists,” but it would probably be more honest to call them “impressionists.” After all, the performance you experience is real, not an illusion- your eyes don’t lie- but it creates an impression of something more “magical” than what you are really seeing.

So it is in all forms of music making, but especially in conducting- the most awe-inspiring fortissimo in a Mahler symphony is not any louder than a household power tool, but it creates the impression of something of super-human scale. When we speak of the conductor as an “interpreter,” we’re talking about that part of our job in which we judge how to create impression- how the performance is shaped and paced, and how we convince the listener that the pianissimos are magically (that word again) soft, the fortissimos overpoweringly loud, the passagework impossibly fast and the legato flawlessly seamless. Of course, achieving a literal realization of any of those effects is just as impossible, and un-desirable, as sawing a woman in half.

Like the magician, a conductor makes an impression on the audience, but unlike an illusionist, the primary audience for the conductor is the orchestra onstage, not the punters in the house (although some of us are more fixated than others on playing to the crowd). The basic tools of gesture are simple- one can beat slower or faster, bigger or smaller, higher or lower. Ultimately, the difference between the tiniest possible beat and the largest manageable one is infinitely more limited than the range between the most hushed pianissimo and the most volcanic fortissimo. Between the two, also, there must also be a near-infinite range of varieties of colours, articulations, intensities and dynamics. Really accomplished conductors are fascinatingly adept showing or evoking a huge range of sounds. How one creates that range of expression is where one’s musicianship, technical understanding and showmanship come together.

It’s hard to guess where the discussion will lead on Sunday. I’m sure we’ll find the chance to explode a few misconceptions, like “most of the conductor’s work is done in rehearsal.” I’m sure audience members will be fascinated to see how the orchestra’s performance changes entirely the moment a new conductor gives an upbeat- no rehearsal required.  We all work hard in rehearsal, but conducting, for all its limitations (which can be maddening) is something that very much happens in real time.

I’ve got a pretty vast library here of historic footage of important conductors at work. I haven’t yet decided which conductors to feature- it all depends on what, at the end of the day, I decide are the most important, or illuminating things I can focus on in a relatively limited time. How a conductor uses their eyes? How one shows intensity? How to get incredible precision? If you had to pick one bit of film of a favourite conductor that all practitioners could study and learn from, what would it be?

The Two Rivers Festival was created in 2008 by Andrew Thomson and Peter Davison to bring performers of international quality to Wirral. Since its inception, the festival has gained a reputation for presenting informal concerts in intimate settings, attracting high-calibre artists such as The Tallis Scholars, Martin Roscoe, Natalie Clein, Noriko Ogawa, Emily and Catherine Beynon, Dame Emma Kirkby and Craig Ogden. Details of the 2013 Festival will be announced in the autumn. For further information about future events, please speak to one of our staff or leave us your contact details. Information is also available via our website www.tworiversfestival.co.uk or call (0151) 651 3095.

About Magicians of the Orchestra

 In this afternoon’s comprehensive examination of the art of conducting, we will ask the question, what do orchestral conductors do? Are they wizards with magic wands or overpaid time-keepers? How do we know if they are good, bad or indifferent? What musical techniques must they master? Is success down to personality or skill? During the afternoon, Kenneth Woods, principal guest conductor of the Orchestra of the Swan and founder of the Rose City International Conductors’ Workshop in the USA, will discuss the great conductors of the past, before putting a group of aspiring conductors through their paces in a masterclass. Afterwards, there will be a chance for several members of the audience to try conducting for themselves. The event will conclude with a performance of the first four movements from Brahms’ Serenade No.1 in D, which will also be recorded live by SOMM for a commercial CD, offering a unique opportunity to glimpse behind the scenes of the professional musical world.

A guest post from VFTP contributor Peter Davison, in recognition of the recent Kathleen Ferrier annversary.

A tribute to Kathleen Ferrier

Peter Davison

(based on an address made at Kathleen Ferrier: an Ordinary Diva, an event presented on 3 March 2012 at The Bridgewater Hall, Manchester.)

The much-loved contralto, Kathleen Ferrier, was born a century ago on 22 April 1912 near Blackburn in the heart of Lancashire. She gave many of her most memorable performances in Manchester with the Halle orchestra under Barbirolli and she felt at home in the city, where perhaps she could resolve the tension between her provincial roots and her creative abilities. It is highly appropriate for us to commemorate her in this city, where her memory still lives on so tangibly. Her reputation endures, almost sixty years after her untimely death, because of her wonderful legacy of recordings and because of the remarkable and moving story of her life and death which continue to capture the public imagination.

The peak of her success occurred just after the Second World War; a time characterised by austerity, but also the burgeoning of hope. As a beautiful and gifted classical singer, Kathleen Ferrier was, for many, a beacon of that better future – a sure sign that the nation’s culture would soon flourish once again. For that reason, her loss at the age of just 41 in 1953 was a bitter blow. She had been greatly admired for her sincerity and the warmth of her personality which always shone through in her performances. Yet, in the distinctively rich colour of her voice, there was a hint of deep sadness; a vulnerability belying her happy-go-lucky exterior. In the post-war period, the country needed to grieve the many social upheavals of the preceding decades, and Ferrier articulated that grief with compassionate humanity. Her melancholy found its most sublime expression in her interpretations of the music of Gustav Mahler; the provincial boy who rose to the top of the musical world. His was a journey of many difficult separations, and Ferrier shared that journey, from an ordinary, provincial background to the heights of cosmopolitan culture and international success. She also had features of Mahler’s mercurial personality in common, such as an earthy sense of humour and nostalgia for lost roots. If Kathleen Ferrier remained ‘an ordinary diva ’, it was by remembering with humility her origins, even at the peak of her fame. Yet her voice was anything but ordinary. It was a rare and precious instrument, which carried her towards destiny and away from what was familiar and provincial.

While Kathleen Ferrier remained unspoilt by her rise to prominence, she nonetheless took great personal risks in pursuit of a career, paying a high price for success. Powell and Pressburger’s acclaimed film “Red Shoes” was released in 1948, telling the tragic love story of a ballerina torn between the all-consuming demands of artistic excellence and her wish for personal happiness. There could be no compromise in the eyes of her cruel mentor. Misery and self-destruction follow. While Kathleen Ferrier had no such cruel mentor behind her, her single-minded dedication to her work stretched her physically and mentally to the limit. Like Mahler, she never found happiness in a personal relationship. Her short-lived and unhappy marriage left scars which she buried out of sight and, just as Mahler’s final illness was played out before concert-goers, Ferrier’s demise was also a public martyrdom. The agony of her predicament was curiously reflected in the music of Gluck’s Orfeo which she was singing at the time. In the opera, Orpheus grieves the loss of his beloved, snatched by Pluto, god of the underworld.

What shall I do without Eurydice?
Where shall I go without my love?
Eurydice! Eurydice! O God! Answer!
I am still true to you!
Eurydice! Eurydice! Ah, for me there is
no more help, no more hope
neither on earth, nor in heaven!

The music prophesied Kathleen’s fate, but also symbolised the wider loss of soul, when Man is overtaken by senseless furies and dark shadows; never more apparent than during the two World Wars which framed her short life. She made Gluck’s aria very much her own, giving voice to her own hidden feelings and those brought to the fore by the wider human tragedy of those dark times. Some lives are emblematic, where the personal and collective meet with poignant significance and potent creative consequence. Kathleen Ferrier’s was such a life; a conflation of art and reality which can often appear implausible, like the plot of some darkly sentimental novel. Then history has a habit of repeating itself. In Manchester, where Kathleen Ferrier gave many of her most memorable performances, a rather more temperamental diva, Maria Malibran, pushed herself beyond the limits of endurance during a concert at the cathedral in 1836 and never recovered.

Bruno Walter, the great conductor and close friend of both Gustav Mahler and Kathleen Ferrier, wrote that she would want us to remember her in a major key. The sad circumstances of her passing and the pathos of her music-making undoubtedly mirrored many of the experiences of Gustav Mahler. But, like him, her great gift was to transcend suffering through moments of redemptive beauty. As we commemorate Kathleen Ferrier during this centenary year, we can be genuinely and generously grateful for a life which bore such eloquent witness to the healing power of music.

An essay commissioned by The Bridgewater Hall for the recent St Petersburg Philharmonic concert.

Alexy Titarenko's peerless photography of St Petersburg from his collection "City of Shadows"

Serge Prokofiev (1891-1953)

Symphony No.1 in D, Op.25 ‘Classical’

1. Allegro
2. Larghetto
3. Gavotta: Non troppo allegro
4. Finale: Molto vivace

Serge Prokofiev completed his Classical Symphony in 1917, the most productive year of his creative life, in which he also composed his First Violin Concerto, his Third and Fourth piano sonatas, his Visions fugitives for piano, and began work on his ever-popular Third Piano Concerto.

In the early years of his career, Prokofiev seemed to have established a reputation for himself as the new bad-boy of Russian music. His Second Piano Concerto had caused a something of a riot at its premiere in 1913. Serge Diaghilev had seen in Prokofiev a possible successor to Stravinsky, and, hoping for a succes de scandale worthy of the Rite of Spring, had commissioned Prokofiev to write a new ballet, Ala and Lolli. His Ballets Russes were in the midst of difficult times- Diaghilev’s star performer, former lover and choreographer Nikinsky, had suddenly abandoned the troupe and married. Diaghilev hoped Prokofiev, his new discovery, would re-engergize the company, but, although he and Prokofiev came to be friends, he rejected Ala and Lolli, which Prokofiev then fashioned into his purely orchestral Sythian Suite. The premiere of the Scythian Suite at least validated Diaghilev’s original instinct- it was a succes de scandale. Even before the premiere, Prokofiev joked that “the price of rotten eggs in Petrograd has gone up,” and on the night, Glazunov stormed out before the end, and the work was greeted with a mixture of cheers and boos. According to biographer Daniel Jaffé, Prokofiev “relished the furoré.”

Nobody relished a good furore or savored a succes de scandale like enfant terrible Sergei Prokofiev

Prokofiev may have relished the furoré, but it clearly annoyed him that his substantial melodic talents were not being appreciated, complaining that his “lyric line was not noticed until late. For a long time I was given no credit for any lyric gift whatever, and for want of encouragement it developed slowly. But as time went on, I gave more and more attention to this aspect of my work.”

1917 would prove to be a watershed in this respect. There are many extraordinary melodies in Prokofiev’s early scores—the melancholic first theme of his Second Piano Concerto is worthy of Tchaikovsky—but it seems his forays into explosive sonority and searing dissonance drew attention away from the lyric line. The First Violin Concerto and the Third Piano Concerto show Prokofiev moving towards a more stylistically cohesive voice, one in which he largely abandons using harmony and color for shocking effect.

It was in the midst of this transitional moment that Prokofiev completed his Classical Symphony, a work he may have been considering as early as 1913, when he first conducted a Haydn symphony.  In his autobiography, Prokofiev says he began the piece as a way of breaking himself of his dependency on the piano:

“Until then, I had always composed at the piano, but I noticed that the thematic material composed away from the piano was often better… I had been playing with the idea of writing a whole symphony without the piano, thinking that such a piece would have more natural and transparent colours.

“So that is how the project for a symphony in the style of Haydn came about. I had come to understand a great deal about Haydn’s technique from Tcherepnin [a the St Petersburg Conservatory]  and thought it would be less scary to embark on this piano-less journey  if I were on familiar stylistic ground.

“It seemed to me that if Haydn had lived to our day, he would have retained his own style. This is the kind of symphony I wanted to write: a symphony in classical style.”

Prokofiev’s achievement in writing a symphony that sounds both classical and of its time is striking. Again and again, he comes up with fresh takes on the most standard classical formulae. The symphony’s first movement, Allegro, opens with one such classical formula- the Manheim Rocket, an explosively rising arpeggio, but Prokofiev’s 20th c rocket flies by a more circuitous path than the 18^th century models did. There are harmonic shocks, as well, such as the sudden lunge from the home key of D major to C major a few bars in.  This, and many other similar bits of harmonic mischief show Prokofiev managing a very shrewd compositional balancing act. While his specific harmonic twists and turns remain specific to the 20^th c., the constant undermining of harmonic expectation is, in fact, the most Haydnesque aspect of the work.  Prokofiev’s early music consistently sounds more radical and provocative than it really is. The Classical Symphony inverts this paradigm in a way Haydn would have truly appreciated- this is music that has a charming and harmless surface layer which belies the layers of mischief and provocation that lay beneath.

The Larghetto which follows is study in elegance and wit, and is conspicuously free from the kind of overt profundity and soul-searching that listeners raised on Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff symphonies would have expected from a symphonic slow movement. The stratospheric writing for the first violins builds on the frisky athleticism demanded of them in the first movement. In fact, this work is widely considered to be the ultimate test for any violin section- it is both jaw-droppingly virtuosic and ruthlessly exposed.

It is believed that Prokofiev composed the third movement, a rustic Gavotte marked Non troppo allegro first, possibly as early as 1913. It is one of the shortest movements in the symphonic repertoire, about one-fifth the length of the Scherzo of Tchaikovsky’s Sixth. Slight it may be, but Prokofiev clearly had a soft spot for it, and later recycled an expanded version in his ballet Romeo and Juliet in 1935. Some conductors import the later, longer version from the ballet to the symphony, while others think the concise original is more in the spirit of the whole work.

Prokofiev’s breezy Finale is a lightly worn virtuoso display piece for both orchestra and composer.  Perhaps as a result of his breaking himself of his dependence on the piano, his instrumental writing here seems to consciously be taking the musicians to the edge of what is possible. Likewise, the musical jokes fly fast and furious, but always with a sense of sly understatement. Haydn would have approved.

The work has always been one of Prokofiev’s most popular, but whether it marked a turning point in his evolution to a more lyrical and integrated style, or one last act of mischievous provocation remains a question left intentionally open by the composer, who, like Haydn, seemed to believed that expectations exist to be undermined. In spite of his overall shift to a more lyrical style in 1917, his next symphony was to be his Second, possibly the noisiest piece he ever wrote.

Musicologist and radio host Bernard D. Sherman has posted a review of the new Orchestra of the Swan recording of Gal’s Symphony no. 4 and Schumann’s Symphony no. 2 on his blog. His books “Performing Brahms” and “Inside Early Music” are volumes every conductor should own.

Click here to order from MDT

Click here to order from Amazon.co.uk

Click here to order from Amazon.com

A sample follows:

Schumann 2 is one of the hardest symphonies for interpreters. It’s hard not to mangle the syntax by getting the phrasing wrong; it’s hard not to bury the winds at certain points or to lose sight of other important lines – there’s so much going on. Yet I’ve heard performances where you can hear it all but don’t really want to, as the phrases have no life or shape and it all just sounds “notey.” Quite the contrary here. Part of why is the insight, nicely explained in the booklet, into how Schumann conveyed meaning through allusion to other great music: Woods points to the allusions to Haydn’s 104th, the Trio Sonata from Bach’s Musical Offering, Mozart’s Long live Sarastro! from theMagic Flute, Beethoven’s To the Distant Beloved, and one of Schumann’s own songs, Dedication. Sounds academic but it’s not; it lets Woods and his players weight what is more or less important. (And if you’re a classical music buff, you will hear all the allusions and they will be meaningful to you.)  All the many things going on form a coherent discourse in this performance. Another ingredient is how they build fearlessly not only to one climax but to an overall climax for the whole work. There is also the excellence of the players: listen to the oboe solo in the third movement, which – as a whole – receives a truly poetic performance.

But let me harp again on the divine madness – the insane glee, the visceral delight. When we’re talking about Schumann the words “insane” and “manic” are fraught, since he was one of the first great composers to be retrospectively diagnosed as bipolar… But I mean something else – that Fricsay/ Naida Cole demonic possession by Pan. Other examples: Lipatti playing Ravel’s Alborado; Glenn Gould’s first Goldbergs; any number of recordings of Bernstein or Furtwangler.  Part of it, in Swan/ Woods’  first two movements, comes from speed (Schumann’s MMs are famously fast); yet some speedy performances have sounded merely rushed, as if the players were uncomfortable and pushed. What I want, when we’re talking speed, is that sense of possession. In this performance the speed is not hectic but ecstatic. YES!

Divine madness, like this, must be experienced. On top of this, you get what is effectively (I’ve never heard it before) a new work: the Hans Gal Fourth, written in 1975, when it would have seemed “backward” in idiom -ha! The web page notes that it is pastoral and lyrical in style, which it is, but I had to read the booklet and understand the pain behind this music to find my way past its challenges, and I had to give it a few listens. Give it a chance: it will come to move you deeply. And it’s hard to imagine a better performance. If my blog had a star system, this disc would certainly get 5 of them.

A very nice new 5-star review from Zan Furtwangler (3rd cousin of the conductor) at Audiophile Audition. Read the whole thing here

Click here to order from MDT

Click here to order from Amazon.co.uk

Click here to order from Amazon.com

A short excerpt follows:

Woods proves in this recording to be a front rank conductor, capturing the feeling of sorrow and compassion of the symphony. The work is for a chamber orchestra made up of two oboes, two bassoons, two horns, timpani and strings. Initially, this piece sounds gentle, even pastoral, but underneath is a current of turmoil and tragedy. It most sounds like R. Strauss’ Metamorphosen  and other of Strauss’ late works.

Gál referred to this work as “…akin to a concerto grosso…with the brilliant display and competitive spirit of four soloists who act as both a group and as individuals… .” The soloists who participate splendidly are violinist David Le Page, cellist Christopher Allan, flutist Diane Clark and clarinetist Sally Harrop.

Woods has seized on the essence of this Schumann Symphony. His reading is smooth, grand and exciting and well worth the purchase of this disc. The Gál may take a few hearings to sink in, but the Schumann is right there from the start and one of the best recordings available.

The Orchestra of the Swan is resident in the Civic Hall of Stratford-upon-Avon. The orchestra performs throughout England and Wales. It has made several recordings of the music of Arnold Bax, Berlioz and Mahler. It is quite a versatile group, easily shifting between Gál and Schumann.

The Avie sound is exact and spacious. Program notes are in English, German and French. The bios of the performers are in English only.  Highly recommended!

Easily the quote of the week:

8.       My disappointment on your opinion on Rutter

I have a bone to pick with you. After practicing the glockenspiel part for the Rutter Requiem so much and then committing the part to memory so I could play, phrase and watch, I was horrified to hear you call it “elevator music”. After so long in the UK I was disheartened to hear you call it that. By now I’d hoped that you would realise that we call it a “lift” here