麻豆约拍

This is a delightful curiosity: music for a one-act puppet opera inspired by an eccentric episode from Don Quixote that features marauding Moors, a languishing princess and her lover, and some choice seventeenth century insults.

The instruments take on the role of a pit orchestra, stripped back and with period touches, such as a harpsichord and a harp that imitates a lute. The music sets the scene for the medieval tale of the puppet show, so there are rustic dances on pairs of oboes and fanfares by a trio of brass.

Falla uses these Medieval flavours and then stirs in other ingredients: baroque colours, Andalusian rhythms and warmth, and his own anachronistic blend of early modernism. There is a brightness and charm throughout that matches the tongue-in-cheek, quixotic qualities of the play.

Falla’s wonderful ear for harmony and orchestration shines through it all. A low flute is paired with a solo muted trumpet, timpani with a brittle bassoon, rippling harpsichord with plucked strings. It’s theatrical and fun, every bar telling the story.

I was sent the autograph score for this, which was a rare treat. I’m no graphologist, but there is something to Mathias’ handwriting that suggests both a strong artistic flair and a meticulous attention to detail. Both are on full display in this charming chamber work. I was delighted to discover it.

In his opening note to the score, Mathias reveals that the title ‘Melos’ alludes both to a Greek island and to the world of mythology. And the solo colours he chooses — harp, flute and percussion — immediately take you to that ancient world, with their echoes of lyres, shin-bone recorders and ritual drums.

We start with a nocturne that, for me at least, evokes the Aegean glinting in a bright moon. The harp suggests ripples of waves as they crest, with brushes of cymbal as they are caught in the moonlight. The strings provide a darkly coloured swell, over which the flute tells an ancient story: half arabesque, half Mediterranean song.

Those that know Mathias’ musical language will recognise, in the flute writing in particular, the trademark fourths and fifths and the dissonance tempered with lyricism. Listen out, too, for how sparingly the glockenspiel and vibraphone are used to add a shine of mystery. The overall sound is so beguiling, despite the economy of forces.

The second movement (‘Aubade’) greets the dawn with bright pizzicato, flourishes on the harp and, eventually a rhythmic dance complete with bongo accompaniment. The syncopation and joyful accents here are again classic Mathias. It reminded me of his rhythmically playful organ works and how much fun they are to play.

The strings are a more integral part of the action in this second half, in constant dialogue with the flute and the harp. It’s a movement that, true to its title, sparkles and is filled with the Greek sun. The work as a whole is so immediately appealing I was left wondering why it doesn’t get more stage-time. Let’s hope this performance will change that!

There’s always an inner steel to Bartók’s music: an intensity, even in softer moments, that keeps you alert, perhaps slightly on edge, wondering what’s around the corner.

The middle movement of this divertimento is a good example. A violin melody gently rises out of a drifting mist, then out of nowhere there are lightning strikes, sudden stabs of sound. After this point we’re unsettled, and the music seems to go between brooding and undisguised fury. It has the weight of a lament, but from someone angry at a life being robbed of them.

The outer movements are more in the ‘divertimento’, entertaining mode, with their dance rhythms and general vitality. Listen out for how the first movement repeats many core rhythms (‘diddle-dah’, ‘rim-Ding’), and how Bartók explores textures particular to a string orchestra.

When there is joy, it’s like skipping through brambles. It’s bracing, but not without thorniness.
The finale has playful moments as the solo ‘concertino’ group joust with the full ensemble, and at the there are fleeting parodies of a sentimental song and polka. The overall tone is hearty and forthright, bolstered by that trademark intensity. String players love to tear into it, making the most of the idiomatic, athletic writing.

So much of the music in this heartfelt yet concise work is about gentle reverence and the satisfaction of requited love. There is a settledness to it, a contented glow. And this glow starts with a glimmer: a motif in the violins that turns around on itself, as if saying the same reassuring word again and again. The woodwind bring in new colours, but this first section is full of calm. There’s even a quote of a lullaby.

We can guess that no idyll of Wagner’s is going to be without passion at some point. Sure enough, the next section is based on a new, more ardent motif that will take centre stage. It starts hesitantly, though, the wind’s first sentences fading into trills in the strings as the words hang in the air.

After a brief pause to take in the magnificent countryside surrounding the Wagner home —you’ll hear a horn call and some birdsong — the passion really starts to take hold, with the main motif declaimed joyfully over surging strings. The intensity doesn’t last for long, however, and the rest of the idyll plays out in the same spirit of gentle wonder in which it began, all the earlier motifs echoed in softer tones and distant harmonies. At just twenty minutes’ playing time, it strikes a perfect balance of passion and restraint.

This is a score that revels in contemporary sounds and techniques without ever overwhelming the ear. Every effect, every detail has its place and purpose. Often I was peering into the score, trying to figure out how on earth Higgins had spirited a new sonic image into being. What wizardry is this?

It’s a short piece that dances between extremes: low menacing hammerings on the piano to shrieking woodwind, ghost-tones to explosions. The scoring is transparent despite wonderful detail and the pacing is superb: at no point is the ear left to drift.

Higgins talks in an interview about how this Rambert commission reflects different modes of desire, and how our carnal instincts imitate those of the animal world and the world of myth. Sometimes it’s about gentle seduction, sometimes it’s sheer Darwinian survival instinct.

The music represents those different erotic modes so imaginatively. There are the held breaths, mutterings, shudders and heady anticipation. And then, as the title suggests, sections that crackle with the energy of raves and Ibiza, staccato dances that pick up where Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring left off. In its fourteen minutes, Higgins gives you a glimpse of world both of subconscious urges and extrovert desire.

As soon you open the score to this hidden gem of Austrian expressionism, you realise it’s going to be an opulent sound. There, beneath the harp, is a little team of celeste, harmonium and piano, poised to shimmer under a lone quiet flute. ‘I often hear sounds that can scarcely be realised with existing means,’ Schreker wrote to a friend. Excited, I pressed play.

And then I immediately pressed pause, because the first chord is so captivating I had to rush to the keyboard and examine it. Five notes, four of them snug together, curled into a question mark. The harmony itself immediately sets the sound afloat.

You sense that Schreker is a sensualist, drawn to his tonal choices and delicate colours as a tailor might be to velvets, chiffons and lace. Sometimes he is pointillistic: a single stroke of the cymbal, a pluck of the harp, an echo on the harmonium. Other times he is extravagant, drenching the staves with notes, demanding each of his twenty-three soloists a to play a virtuoso part in the rapture. In these moments it feels like Wagner on opium.

The work unfolds like a restless dream. Three of the four movements coalesce into one rapturous flow of colour, flitting from one mood to another. One movement stands out as separate and distinct, though: the Scherzo. The writing here is so nimble I was smiling throughout.

At the end three main ideas return, dreams within the dream. Long after the final bar your mind recalls not distinct melodies but iridescent shapes, like after-images when you close your eyes having being dazzled.

Some baroque concertos rely on the same stiff formulae and stock devices — a sequence here, a minor section there, always returning to the same well-worn theme.

Not so the Brandenburgs. These stand as the epitome of variety and interest, not only in their diverse range of soloists but the endlessly inventive material itself — polyphony at its most graceful and nimble. The third is written for just string forces, but it explores the full possibilities of textures and combinations within those constraints.

The outer movements bristle with purpose and are separated by just a brief pause for thought, a few suspenseful chords. Their energy, in part, derives from short rhythmic patterns that act as engines throughout. Ideas ricochet through the section at dizzying speed, particularly in the final movement. Here we’ve gone from dancing to tumbling, with cascading lines that follow hot on the heels of the other. It’s a tour-de-force for both composer and ensemble, reflecting perhaps the new freedom and happiness Bach felt at being in the Cöthen court after years in the organ loft.

It doesn’t seem that long ago since I was interviewing Andy Everton, one of the orchestra’s trumpeters who wears flamboyant shoes, about the jazz version of the ‘Nutcracker’ suite arranged by Strayhorn and Ellington. In their revision, Tchaikovsky’s original is dressed in spats and spangles and is given the Hollywood treatment.

This brass arrangement has a real twinkle to it too, and brings a fresh festive colour. Who doesn’t think of Christmas when you hear a brass band? Combine that with the opportunity to hear the original tale from the ballet narrated from the fireside, and you get an experience that is half delightful concert, half bedtime story.

The underscore includes little scenes from the ballet that aren’t featured in the standard orchestral suite. So it is we get to hear Clara’s elegant duet with the prince, with the celesta adding fairy-dust, and the grandfather swaying in a jolly dance (maybe after some festive drinks). The ‘dance of the chocolate’ is particularly perky, with energetic solo flourishes and the trumpets at the sweetest point of their range.

This is a wonderful, imaginative arrangement that takes all the sparkle of the original and concentrates it into one orchestral family, giving each member a chance to shine and have fun. And it’s great to be reminded of the magical story that inspired the ballet too.

Re-listening to this symphony, I was reminded how brief it is — about the length of a decent mug of tea — and how classically proportioned, with everything in its right place. It is one of his sunniest symphonies, right from that opening carefree cascade on the violins and the skipping first subject to the jubilant final bars.

That’s not to say, however, that it is lightweight or lacking in complexity and subtle craftsmanship. The ideas in the first movement flow in constant conversation, each statement either affirmed or countered one bar after each other. You expect dialogue at this stage, but I’m struck by quite how much there is, almost as if Schubert had set himself a specific challenge. See if you agree. I also always look forward to the opening of the development section: sixteen bars of harmonic heaven, and a glimpse of Schubert’s genius.

The slow movement has the cosiness of an old story told by the hearth. The writing for the wind instruments here is particularly intricate and beautiful. The ‘B’ section, which you will hear twice, has the feel of a heartfelt operatic duet, a soprano and mezzo perhaps, with polite accompaniment. And towards the very end of the movement, just when we’re settled in the home key, Schubert does an extraordinary detour, slipping up a semitone and taking us on a very scenic route back to the final bar. It’s a lovely surprise.

The minuet and trio make the perfect classical, antithetical pairing. One in G minor, the other in G major, each with triadic shapes to link them together and with their own moments of drama. The most dramatic contrast, however, is saved for the finale. It starts with the same youthful buoyancy as the first, and we are reminded that Schubert was only nineteen when he wrote it. But then there are passages of real darkness, like flashes of temper. They are short-lived, however, and not enough to disturb the overall cheerfulness of the work. However familiar, this symphony always makes me smile.

The troubled harmonies that immediately greet us in the opening song suggest that the soul’s rest of the title will be hard won. They’re so dark, and the rhythm is of a weary trudge. The rest of the song goes between that sense of unrest and the hope of peace.

When turbulent, the orchestra is unleashed in mature Straussian style (bearing in mind he orchestrated it much later). Equally typical is his motif for drops of sunlight that reach through the leaves: shining staccato notes on bright instruments. Interestingly, this motif will recur in the song he was to write at the end of his life, ‘At Sunset’, this time broader and more settled, and marking a direct thematic parallel.

Cäcilie opens with an exultant chord that launches urgent lines in both the accompaniment and voice. Everything is charged with the excitement of ‘burning kisses’. The final verse is ecstatic in a different way, though, finding a new, almost hymn-like breadth to speak of love being blessed by God.

The third song captures the hubbub of a champagne party with busy arpeggios, but the small complicit moments as the ‘secret promise’ is made are also there: the wink, the smile, both captured in little gestures and slight pauses. There is lovely story-telling throughout, from the hushed invitation to the garden set on pulsing strings, to the soaring high notes as the couple’s love is consumed in the final phrases.

Morning seems held in a quiet rapture that’s inimitably Straussian, somehow. The chamber accompaniment is restrained and tender throughout, and the harmonies gently yearn. The voice is placed in a radiant register, but not forced too high. Everything speaks of quiet contentment and of looking forward to that shared silence as the couple look across the sea.

As the German spelling suggests, these are works that nod to the piano ‘Noveletten’ of Schumann, pleasant, short musical stories in ABA form. If we were looking for reference-points to describe the string writing, we could perhaps think of the miniatures of Grieg, the elegance of Elgar and the melodiousness of Dvorak. The tambourine and triangle that adds a twinkle throughout is pure Coleridge-Taylor, though. It underlines the unashamedly light-hearted, salon style of the opening two movements.

There is a svelteness to Coleridge-Taylor’s melodic lines, and you can sense throughout, as a virtuoso violinist himself, how comfortable he was writing for these forces, challenging the players while never sacrificing the music to mere technical display.

After a series of glistening trills, the first novelette turns into a gentle waltz that retains an English accent throughout, restrained and polite. Listen out for the lovely cello tune in the middle episode that conjures a bit of pathos for contrast. There are echos of Dvorák here in setting the cello against shimmering upper strings.

The second Novelette dances with soft steps, the entire section muted. It it a genteel gavotte with contrasting episodes, including a syncopated minor section and a restatement with a winsome cello countermelody. There’s a change of dance and time signature as we slip into a minuet section, then the gavotte returns, ending with a wink on the triangle.

The second two Noveletten turn up the temperature, bringing in darker colours and more energy. The solo violin of the third sets the mood for the rest of movement: plaintive, tender and searching. The solo invites an emotional response from the rest of the strings, marking the most intense moment in the work.

The finale has athletic leaps in the melody set to drumming rhythms beneath. There’s a bravado here, a real sense of adventure. If this novelette were a story, there would be heroes on horses. Coleridge-Taylor wears his talent lightly, deftly slipping in some surprising harmonies at the end before finishing with a cheerful race to the final bar. I imagine bowing arms flung high on the final chord!

The cry of the curlew is very haunting, somewhere between a hoot and a whistle, drifting up at the end. You can imagine it keening through the marshes and being particularly mournful at night. And that mournful quality permeates Yeats’ poems on which Warlock based this suite of four songs. They are filled with desolation and regret. The curlew’s cry becomes emblematic of a lost soul.

No surprise then that the first sounds we hear are those of the cor anglais and its counterpart in the string section, the viola: both instruments that have a natural dolefulness when required. The low flute complements the mood, as does the heavy sonority of a string quartet, whose lines are given much freedom. Think of them more as a set of four soloists, brought together to comment both individually and collectively.

The tenor sings of how the curlew’s cry brings to mind the ‘passion-dimm’d eyes and long heavy hair’ of a lost love. Warlock’s music evokes these dimming embers of passion, the movement ending on a fading cello line and harmonics that hover like ghosts.

The second song unifies the strings into a unit as they set up a weary pulse over which the soloist intones his sorrow, mainly on single repeated notes. The woodwind interrupt with lines that escape upwards, dark arabesques that introduce an urgent tone.

As the poem turns to the world of witches and their spells, so the string accompaniment takes flight too, frenetic and possessed, their faint, busy lines suggesting the ‘spindles of wool’ and ‘secret smiles’ of the text.

The cor anglais echoes its opening cry, signalling a return to ‘the sleepy country’. There is a brief moment of hope here, the strings matching the voice in warmth. Soon, though, the mood slips back into the all-pervading gloom of before.

Before the final song there is an instrumental section that gives each player a voice, with small cadenzas that are gradually knitted together. The harmonies here are exquisite, both discordant and sweet. It feels like a troubled dream. The voice, too, is given an unaccompanied moment and its sudden bareness summons the lonely images in the text of a nocturnal lake, far-flung stars and cold wind.

This is Warlock at his most intense and lyrical, with the chamber forces and forlorn tenor voice creating an eerie intimacy. Somehow it manages to be both chilling and heartfelt. It is an exemplary addition to the tradition of English song that flowered after the first world war with contemporaries such as Rubbra and Finzi, and points towards that spare expressiveness of Britten.

As I strode through a sunlit valley in crisp autumnal weather, it struck me how the opening of this Serenade would be the perfect underscore to my walk. That opening descent seems so satisfied, so life-affirming, each chord stamped with a triumphant accent, all in the bright key of C major.

For Tchaikovsky, Mozart was his musical ‘Christ’, his leading light. The Serenade’s first movement is a homage to the classical form of ‘sonatina’ in which Mozart excelled. The form maybe a tribute, but the style is all Tchaikovsky, full of Romantic expression. This is no dainty pastiche.

There are three main elements to listen out for initially: the strident opening, which will return at the end of the movement (and which also makes a dramatic comeback in the finale — why not, it’s such a emphatic motif); a swaying tune that opens the faster allegro, and some delightfully light-footed material to contrast.

True to form, Tchaikovsky interweaves these last two themes in a very convincing, ‘classical’ way. That mastery, and the general open-hearted sentiment of the whole movement make it such a joy to listen to, however familiar.

Tchaikovsky excelled at waltzes. Think of his ballet scores: the ‘Flower Waltz’ from The Nutcracker or the grand waltz that opens Swan Lake, for example. And this one in the Serenade is so very elegant, a perfect example of the genre, gently sweeping from major into minor and back again. Tchaikovsky develops the texture without it ever getting overladen or fussy. And there’s always fun to be had in those corners where time is playfully ‘stolen’ (rubato): imagine the waltzers lingering with a smile at the top of the phrase before launching back into step.

You would expect an elegy to be grief-laden and in a minor key — and we know how good Tchaikovsky is at a musical lament — but the third movement is filled with the same sunshine as the previous movements. With the sunny melody and guitar-like accompaniment, it appears more like a lover’s serenade. You have to wait until the final episode to hear more elegiac material, and it’s all the more powerful for the wait. Listen out for how subtly, out of a single note, the opening ascending scale returns, maybe as a gesture of reassurance and hope.

That same note - now a high D - links us to the Finale, which will be based on two Russian folksongs that tell of meadows and apple trees. The most obvious one is the faster tune: four notes that descend, bouncing twice as they go and with a little turn at the end. (You might hear an echo of the falling shape that started the serenade here.) It has the gait of a nursery rhyme, but Tchaikovsky, as before, proves so adept at turning this apparently simple idea into something of symphonic complexity. It’s ingenious, but still retains the helter-skelter energy of young children as they scamper across the fields.

Each movement has this balance of simplicity and complexity, making it a very complete and even work. Tchaikovsky was duly proud, saying to his publisher that he ‘loved it terribly’. It has since become a deserved classic of the genre.

This enchanting duet has the quality and allure of a fairy tale. Four of the five songs explore a fantastical theme, and the ephemeral writing for cello and voice casts its own spell.

With the lyrics, Bingham moves between the prosaic and the poetic, occupying a light-hearted middle ground between outmoded dictionary definitions and flights of fancy. Correspondingly, the tenor moves seamlessly between declamation and singing, and we are taken from a description of a rose as a ‘pithy shrub beset with prickles’ to a fairy’s funeral held in a garden.

Whatever she describes, Bingham shares the relish for language with the writers she is setting, whether Blake, Johnson or Newton. The music is constantly alive with detail but never laboured, held together by simple threads such as an arching figure in the cello: three notes up, three notes down.

Having just two musicians on stage creates a particular intimacy between word and music, and it keeps the texture glowing and transparent, with gestures like wafts of a wand. The first ‘strange word’ to be unpacked is ‘fantastick’, and the last is ‘mystery’, with the cello dissolving into a rainbow of harmonics. Utterly magical.

John Woolrich often uses the past as a springboard into the present. Previous works have been inspired by Corelli, Mozart and Schumann, with Tippett and Birtwhistle providing echos of a more recent British past. For Ulysses Awakes, the inspiration was a Monteverdi opera, in particular a scene where the hero awakes after a shipwreck, washed up on the shores of his homeland.

Woolrich evokes Ulysses’ confusion, sense of loss and then relief as he slowly comes to. The lightly scored string orchestra is perfect for this fragile state of mind, and the viola assumes the operatic solo role.

It opens with the distant swell and break of waves as if heard through a dream. The violins are divided into six, allowing for subtle layerings of sound that shift imperceptibly like a calm sea. As the intensity slowly builds, there are capricious accents and flourishes that perhaps express Ulysses’ twisting emotions as he tries to piece his surroundings together.

The viola part is exquisitely poised above this, animated by touches of baroque and, at times, folk colour. A lot of the material is built around repeated single notes that are approached ornamentally, as if Ulysses is stammering the same word as he regains consciousness, giving it different emotional weight each time. It is a beautifully concise work, modern yet enriched by the past, no less powerful for its understatement and lightness of touch.

There is an early picture of the young Samuel, buttoned up in a Victorian suit with a mortar-board atilt and clutching a violin that looks almost half his size. It’s a snapshot of the child prodigy, destined to go far. However, as a child of mixed race stuck in Croydon at the turn of the century, realising that destiny was always going to be a challenge.

Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s story is one of bright talent shining through adversity, from when he gained entry to the Royal College of Music aged just fifteen to performing his own work before President Roosevelt in his late twenties. It was at the College that he side-stepped into composing, winning a scholarship to study with the formidable Charles Villiers Stanford, who saw beyond the novelty factor and was genuinely excited by his student’s gifts.

The Nonet was composed a year into his study under Stanford, and probably started life as an exercise in how to balance string and wind forces. Throughout his tutelage, Coleridge-Taylor was challenged ‘not to sound like Brahms’ and to find his own voice. Already in this piece — his second published opus — that bold, lyrical voice is apparent.

It opens in a forthright way, with a surging line in the clarinet against a rhythmic underlay. The nine instruments are skilfully set in dialogue throughout, and often allowed to soar in their upper registers. The piano’s right hand is kept particularly busy too. An irrepressible spirit drives the music, and it’s not surprising that we soon end up in a major key.

The same warmth of sentiment flows into the second movement. Listen out for the middle section where a broad tune in the wind is set against busy scales in the piano, the harmony taking surprising turns.

The scherzo has a hint of Dvorak’s ‘American’ style, folk-like and flowing, with one of the most memorable, expansive melodies of the work in the trio. Composer Arthur Sullivan was to commend the abundance of deep-felt melody in Coleridge-Taylor’s work, and this is a great example.

The finale is noble and affirming, again marked by generous melody. The whole work is charged with good cheer, and you have a sense of Coleridge-Taylor setting out, full of aspiration, to make his mark. He would see great success in his lifetime, but not without considerable stress — which no doubt contributed to his tragically early demise, aged thirty-seven. The epitaph on his headstone praises his ‘happy courage in an alien world’. The Nonet encapsulates that spirit perfectly.

The Elizabethan lutenist, John Dowland, was capable of capturing any mood in music, but he excelled at melancholia. Aptly, his motto was ‘Semper Dowland, Semper Dolens’ (always Dowland, always grieving.) These three songs, among his best known, show what a good lamenter he was.

On the lute, Dowland was reported to have a ‘heavenly touch’ that ‘ravished the senses.’ When you listen to the songs in their original form, the lute becomes one with the voice, feeding and following each turn of the phrase, each new idea. It’s particularly hard, then, to take that limpid, fluid accompaniment and render it on other instruments, but James Gilchrist has done a wonderful job in setting it for string quartet, treating them like a modern set of viols.

The quartet play without vibrato, giving a lean and pared-back sound that allows the voice to be front and central. Dividing the lines among four separate players allows the contrapuntal complexity to shine, while never stealing the limelight from Dowland’s word-painting.

You can imagine the pleasure Dowland took, for example, in rendering the lines ‘hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep’ (listen to the voice keening over juddering strings), or ‘my wounds do freshly bleed in thee’. This is music of wondrous detail that rewards multiple rehearings, but that also appears fresh and spontaneous, as if you are being confided in by a grief-stricken lover for the very first time.

Peter Warlock was a self-taught songwriter and composer who loved ‘wild Wales’ and had a fascination in the occult. He scandalised the neighbours by cycling naked and having raucous parties. A colourful character, in other words, who was also beset by harsh mood swings. It’s his zest for life that comes across in the Capriol Suite, a lively re-imagination of Renaissance dances.

You can tell he was genuinely fond of the 1500s, because these are no arid transcriptions but charming vignettes that take you straight to the clamour and bustle of a Renaissance banquet. The parody is playful but respectful, and he says a lot with very little. Like others shortly before him — Respighi, Stravinsky and Prokofiev — he manages to reinvent the past while preserving its essential features.

The suite opens with a stamping dance meant for ‘modest matrons’ (to quote the French dance manual on which it was based) before a stately Pavane that makes the most of the soft, fulsome resonance of a string orchestra. There are deft modern touches throughout the suite, like the occasional extra cross-rhythm, or harmonies that get sneaked into the final paragraphs. The last phrase of ‘Pieds-en-l’air’, a dance where the feet barely brush the ground, is pure jazz.

There are also echoes of Bartók, a composer he greatly admired. Listen to the gleefully dissonant chords and feisty rhythms of ‘Bransles’ and ‘Mattachins’, which finishes with a leap into the air. ‘Mattachins’ is a sword-dance, and you’ll hear how the four dancers parry blows in succession, high then low. It’s a lot of fun to play and to listen to, and it leaves you wishing Warlock had carried on in this vein, long beyond his early death. He died aged just thirty-six.