A Net of Gems -- Suzanne Shulman and Erica Goodman

 This is one of my occasional reviews of an audio recording.

 

The music in question is a fascinating and diverse programme of music for flute and harp entitled A Net of Gems. The performers are respected and well-known artists in the Canadian music scene: flautist Suzanne Shulman and harpist Erica Goodman. 

The recording takes its evocative title from a work written especially for these two musicians. More about that anon.

 

Throughout the recital, Suzanne Shulman and Erica Goodman play with skill and care, and with a flair which is their special trait as musicians.

The first work on the disc is the Casilda-Fantaisie, by Franz Doppler and Antonio Zamora. Unknown or little-known works like this play a sizable role in the repertoire of many solo musicians beyond the ubiquitous piano and string instruments. This Fantaisie, like so many of its kind, presents a virtuoso elaboration on the themes of an opera by other hands, and is designed as a showpiece for its creators who were (no surprise) respectively the principal flautist and harpist of the Court Opera Orchestra in Vienna in the second half of the 1800s.

The opera itself is completely unknown today but on the evidence of this paraphrase it must have been a tuneful work indeed. Shulman and Goodman make an excellent case for the piece, in all its technical elaboration, tossing off scales, runs, and arpeggios with aplomb and making the whole actually sound musical -- which isn't always easy with nineteenth-century opera paraphrases. A delightful curtain-raiser for the entire concert.

The second work, Narthex, was written in 1971 by French composer and harpist Bernard Andrès. The term refers to the area inside the door of a church, the lobby, so to speak, before you enter the church sanctuary proper. Andrès had visited some of the sombre old Romanesque churches in Brittany before writing the piece. Although the music begins in a quasi-Ravel mode, the harmony soon ventures farther afield. A central section shifts dramatically to some most unusual sound effects created by the musicians by doing things which their instruments are traditionally not supposed to do. I couldn't help wondering if these passages were directly inspired by some particularly frightful gargoyles.

 

The flute then enters with a slow, mournful tune low in the instrument's range, a particular highlight of Shulman's performance in this work. The piece continues in an improvisatory style which is very much of our time. A return to a more rapid tempo features more melodic writing for the flute while Goodman returns to some very rapid sound-effect passages on the harp. The final flute figures evoke birdsong.

The centrepiece is the world premiere recording of David Occhipinti's Net of Gems, composed in 2020 specifically for Shulman and Goodman. Although plainly a contemporary work, this piece is much more lyrical in style overall than Narthex. Particularly fascinating are the passages in which Shulman and Goodman are both playing arpeggios at top speed, but not the same ones and not always moving in the same direction. The music here evokes the sparkle of gems, rapidly moving and turning in the sunlight.

This was the one place in the recording where I wished there was a video equivalent. Although I'm no expert, I have a strong sense that Goodman's feet must have been flying up and down on the harp's pedals to accommodate what sounded like key changes in every bar. The work then ends with slow rising and falling passages in the two instruments.

The longest work on the programme is the Fantaisie, Op. 124 (originally for violin and harp) by Camille Saint-Saëns. The violin part is adapted for the flute by Hideo Kamioka, with further adaptation by Suzanne Shulman.

A slow introduction leads into a first main section of lyrical melody on the flute with rippling figures and glissandi in the harp -- a melody which eventually takes on a dance-like character, and certainly dances in the hands of Shulman and Goodman. The heartbeat of the work comes in a slow and stately passacaglia, with the harp presenting the four-bar bass line and the flute elaborating the melodic texture. After a handful of variations, the harp also takes it in turn to elaborate and supplement the bare bass figure. It's a fascinating style and texture to find in a chamber work which doesn't use the piano. The music then moves into a more melodic final section which brings the piece to an end in moderate tempo. Like so much of Saint-Saëns' music, this Fantaisie doesn't tread new ground but still manages to present some intriguingly original effects. 

 

The final piece, a shorter "encore" if you like, is the Gnossienne # 5 by Erik Satie, which the artists play from the original piano text. Satie's piece lies very well for the two instruments, and gives Shulman and Goodman a chance to build longer lines and phrases than can be found in much of this program. This cool, gentle music sets a quiet end to a truly unique recital.

 

Anyone who enjoys the light, liquid tones of the flute and harp in partnership need not hesitate as this recording will provide great pleasure to the hearer.

 

The compact disc, and the digital download, can both be ordered from the Bandcamp site at this link:

 

 

A Net of Gems 

 

 

Toronto Mendelssohn Choir 2021-2022 # 2: The Meaning of Christmas

As the second live-performance program since the lifting of pandemic restrictions, the annual Festival of Carols from the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir shared music of rejoicing, music that has highlighted Christmas celebrations for centuries, and modern contributions to the Christmas festival.

 

At the same time, the Choir honoured its more recent tradition of challenging us, demanding that we rethink these annual festivities, and look deeper into the meaning and significance of the traditional story of Christ's birth.

 

Within the restrictions of an 80-minute programme with no intermission, the Choir's Music Director, Jean-Sébastien Vallée, presented a diverse repertoire more than capable of achieving all of these ends. The only "casualty" was the necessary elimination of the traditional Christmas-carol singalong portion of the evening (but see below).

Right there is a good place to consider the significance of the event. Carol singing has spread to multiple regions of the world, and multiple languages, and the music of carols has grown into a rich blend, embracing the gamut from sophisticated art music to simple folk-song. Always, though, the tradition of mass song, of music in which all can join and raise their voices, has been at the heart of carols.

It is just this tradition of mass song and celebration which was one of the most-missed absentees during the Christmas season last year. The mere fact that this year's concert similarly has had to set it aside says much about the need, at Christmas, for us to renew our consideration for the needs and well-being of others, especially of those less fortunate than ourselves. This theme emerged out of several of the selections on the programme.

The greatest delight of the evening was a complete performance of the ravishingly beautiful Lauda per la Natività del Signore by Ottorino Respighi. Knowing Respighi's reputation as a master colourist of the orchestra, one might expect a majestic and powerful musical experience. But the Lauda is a polar opposite to the composer's massive tone poems, using only a piano and a sextet of wind instruments -- two flutes, oboe, English horn, and two bassoons -- to support the choir and three soloists. The result has a lyrical flow, delicacy, restraint, and lightness of touch that place it in a world all its own. And it definitely deserves much wider circulation!

 

The soloists drawn from the choir made a fine contribution, and I think were far better suited to the work than star soloists would have been. Right from the opening phrase, soprano Lesley Emma Bouza portrayed the angel with a voice that floated freely up and down through Respighi's dance-like 6/8 rhythmic patterns. Tenor Nicholas Nicolaidis as the shepherd brought a forthright strength to his contribution. The maternal warmth of Rebecca Claborn's mezzo-soprano voice proved ideal for the Virgin. Whether as shepherds, or as angels praising God, the choir captured the essential quality of power married with restraint, the voices soaring through the beautiful vocal lines. 

The all-important wind parts, whose role is to set and sustain the pastoral quality of the piece, were handled with poise and charm by the gifted musicians of the Toronto Symphony Youth Orchestra (TSYO).

 

The Lauda was led with an ideal flexibility of tempo by conductor Simon Rivard, the Associate Conductor of the Choir and Conductor of the TSYO.

 

This jewel in the Christmas crown was set amidst a diverse assortment of other works, all conducted by the Choir's Music Director Jean-Sébastien Vallée. Some of these pieces were performed unaccompanied, some with organ, piano, and/or brass and percussion support. Some pieces were sung by the full choir, some by the 20-voice professional core group. Each one played a role in building on the picture of Christmas as it was, as we would like to remember it, and as it could be if we have the will to make our world a better, more humane place.

A few of my favourites among these numerous selections would certainly have to include Zoltán Kodály's tonally fluid setting of the ancient plainsong Veni Emmanuel. Also high in my list of favourites comes the lyrically beautiful but emotionally challenging Christus natus est by Rosephanye Powell, set to a poem by Countee Cullen which draws a comparison between the poverty of the stable and the poverty of the world in which we live, and Richard Causton's thorny but gripping The Flight. The poem here, by George Szirtes, draws the comparison even more pointedly and painfully. The choir's performance of this work, with its challenging cross-rhythms and interjections, was both acute and on target.

Among the other arrangements of more traditional Christmas song, I was entranced by the free flow of sound between the different sections of the choir in Andrew Balfour's lovely arrangement of I Wonder As I Wander, an old favourite which developed unexpected aptness when performed in close proximity to the works of Powell and Causton.

On the other hand, the jazzy cross-rhythms and percussion riffs in Paul Halley's arrangement of Il est né le divin enfant ended up muddying the music and concealing the traditional tune as often as supporting it. This piece might perhaps have been better served with a smaller group of singers in a much less resonant acoustic (Yorkminster Park Baptist Church is nothing if not resonant!). This piece, incidentally, comes across much more clearly in the livestream recording, thanks to the use of multiple microphones across the widespread space used by the musicians.

Also in a class of its own was Hyo-Won Woo's setting of the ancient Latin poem O Magnum Mysterium, a piece which married modern harmonies with austere lyricism to create an overall air of mystery entirely in accordance with the text.

 

Organist Matthew Larkin followed the Lauda per la Natività del Signore with an imaginative organ improvisation that led us from Respighi's sound world via a powerful climax to the well-loved O Come All Ye Faithful, the next work on the programme.

 

The concert wound up with a splendid Festival First Noel, arranged by Dan Forest. Here, the full choir, organ, brass, and percussion united in the grandest sound of the evening. And the audience were also invited to join in -- but since health regulations wouldn't permit of singing along, we were invited by Jean-Sébastien Vallée to hum along! Hum along we did, and I'm sure I'm not the only person whose eyes may have gotten a little wet at this proof of our refusal to let the pandemic grind us down!

This wonderful Christmas concert was also live-streamed. For those who may have missed it, the live stream recording (and the complete concert programme, with sung texts and notes) can still be accessed via the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir's website until December 26, and I would urge one and all to take full advantage!

 

Festival of Carols 2021

 

 

National Ballet 2021-2022 # 1: Returning to the Light

The return to live performances continues to accelerate for me.  After hearing a choral concert, and viewing a dance programme, during a 5-day period last week, I now have experienced both a live dance performance and a live orchestral concert in one day (Saturday, November 13).

 

In this case, both organizations (the National Ballet and the Toronto Symphony) planned to follow a cautious path, at first selling less than the full capacity of the house, and opting for a 70-80 minute long programme with no intermission.

 

The National Ballet of Canada presents its first live performances in its home venue, the Four Seasons Centre for the Arts, with a return of one of the works presented in the last complete run of performances before the pandemic shutdown occurred, a work created especially for video presentation during the shutdown, and a beloved, timeless classic from the company's standing repertoire.

 

Keywords for the first work on the programme, George Balanchine's classic Serenade (created in 1934): "poise" and "grace." It's ironic that many people think of those qualities in relation to classical ballet, yet many of the most loved classical masterworks are largely designed as stunning demonstrations of the athletic skill of the dancers.  Serenade is different indeed, and it's the difference that gives this work its timeless quality.

 

Balanchine was famed for his desire to bring his dance into full communion with the music on which he set it, and in this he was worlds apart from the great choreographers of the past -- who tended to treat the music as so many yards of interchangeable carpeting on which to mount their showpieces.

 

The curtain rises on a stage awash in blue light, with seventeen women standing in ordered diagonal lines, each one raising her right hand with the palm turned out. That moment of pure order and beauty presages the entire piece to follow. Even though many passages in Serenade call for very intricate footwork indeed, it's always poised and graceful, never as aware of its own cleverness as the great showstoppers of the past tend to be.  In this, the ballet is completely at one with its music, the gentle, courtly Serenade for Strings by Tchaikovsky, a musical work best described (in painting terms) as gentle, subdued watercolours or pastels rather than vigorous, vibrant colours in oils. 

 

While the company rose magnificently to the more high-speed technical challenges of the third movement (actually Tchaikovsky's finale), it was the slower, more lyrical work in the other sections that captured my imagination and defined the performance. Serenade is definitely a company piece, and it's as a company that dancers make this work happen. It wasn't hard to see the corporate unanimity of the dancers in making the entire piece glow as vibrantly as they did. Never have the final moments of Serenade seemed at once so mournful yet so uplifting (not intended as a pun, by the way).

 

In lieu of an intermission, the company opted to present the one of the video dance works designed expressly for online presentation during the pandemic, Jera Wolfe's Soul. I'd seen Soul on line when it was first presented last year, and was looking forward to seeing it on the big screen as opposed to my rather unambitious little laptop. I was certainly not disappointed as the screen was big enough to fill the entire proscenium of the Four Seasons Centre, and the piece definitely stood to gain in impact and beauty from the enlargement of the visual image.

However...

A patron sitting just in front of me and a few seats to the right began coughing right during the opening moments of the film, when the dancers are discovered by the camera even before the music begins. And coughed again. And again. And kept right on coughing, for almost the entire film before finally getting the sense to get up and leave to get a bottle of water. By which time the film was ending. "Mad enough to spit nails" about sums up my reaction. That thoughtless person totally ruined that piece for me. Sigh. It's a pity because the dance work and the videography are both intense and evocative in equal measures. But just try to maintain concentration on the screen with that storm of coughing going on not 3 metres in front of you.

At the time of its first presentation, March 2020, Crystal Pite's Angels' Atlas already impressed as a stunning example of dance fused with extraordinary visual components.  Today, it remains all of that -- and then some -- but strikes me even more as a fitting metaphor for our gradual emergence out of the darkness of the last year and a half.  

Like Pite's previous work for the company, Emergence (but for very different reasons), Angels' Atlas is very much more than just another dance work.  I'm sure that I am far from being the only person in the audience who responded to this extraordinary vision at an intense, gut-level of emotional impact.

 

The impact of Angels' Atlas is a tripartite collaboration -- the dance, the lighting design (including the extraordinary light show on the backcloth), and the music. 

 

Pite's choreography retains many of the signature touches familiar from Emergence -- the short, choppy movements, the repeated pulsations as single body parts moves over and over in the same cycle, the entire company moving in unison and then breaking off into subgroups. Also notable is the quick yet smooth transitions from the whole company to a pas de deux, which then morphs into pas de trois or pas de quatre, and so on. In Pite's own words, "I'm trying to create something...that evokes a fierce pulse of life."

At first, it seems that the serenely evocative choral music of Tchaikovsky (Cherubic Hymn) and Lauridsen (O magnum mysterium) is ill-suited to this kind of dance language. But as the dance and the music proceed together, the long-held vocal notes and sharp, repeated movements fuse together into a continuum whose ends are clearly marked, but whose central remainder has yet to be clearly seen or felt. Owen Belton's original score for the second section of the ballet creates a more mysterious and haunting sense of space, time, and eternity, freeing itself from the strictures of place and culture which the more Christian ethos of the religious works invariably imposes.

The third and most striking element of the trifecta is the lighting plot, and the backdrop light show. For anyone old enough to remember the impact of witnessing Stanley Kubrick's landmark film, 2001: A Space Odyssey on the big screen when it was new (1968), the same awesome sense of infinity attends Jay Gower Taylor's design and concept for the backdrop. Although this light show unfolds in pure white rather than colours, it draws the entire work with it into a timeless realm of glowing power, almost a literal equivalent of Shelley's "white radiance of Eternity." 

Since both the title and Pite's own notes about the work make clear that she was also intrigued by the contrast of our limited here-and-now with the limitless possibilities of the eternal, it seems plain to me that Angels' Atlas has succeeded beyond all measure in taking the audience into that exact place, the place where certainty gives way to speculation, and limitation becomes possibility. I dare say this may sound very pompous to some people, but this most definitely is not your common or garden variety of modern dance, no matter how you approach it.

In this work, the company displayed extraordinary unanimity in meeting Pite's need for the entire group to "pulsate" as one, with hands, faces, shoulders, or whatever all moving right together. Also very evocative, particularly so, was the first pas de deux which emerges out of the first full company section. 

Although Serenade and Angels' Atlas couldn't be more different in their essential natures, there are still some significant connections between them. Both are company pieces, both demand of the company a strong sense of moving together and standing together, and both make use of light as a key structural and emotional component of the entire work. You can add Soul to the list, too, because of the striking and evocative use of light and shadows in the filmography of the work.

In the strength of the company's responses to both main works, it was easy to see that this return to the light was as significant and life-enhancing for the dancers as for the audience. I think this performance will linger long in the memories of those fortunate enough to see it.

Serenade and Angels' Atlas with Soul remains on stage at the Four Seasons Centre in Toronto until November 27.

Toronto Symphony Orchestra 2021-2022 # 1: Gustavo's Official Debut

The next item on my bucket list for the return to live performances was the official opening programme of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's 100th season.  This programme also marked the first appearance, in a live concert, of Gustavo Gimeno in his role as the orchestra's tenth Music Director.

 

Of all the performing arts organizations, I suspect that the orchestras of the world had the most to lose during the lengthy pandemic shutdowns. Actors, dancers, and individual musicians of all kinds could continue to put their work before the public through adroit use of electronic media, but for an orchestra there is no effective substitute to being together in a single venue, listening to each other and watching the conductor, welding themselves into a single musical organism.  That's also true of choral singing, for all of the same reasons. 

Right at the outset, then, I took my seat in Roy Thomson Hall, eager to hear how the orchestra sounded as a single body following on their year-and-a-half enforced hiatus.

For the first time I can recall, we faced a vacant stage. A few minutes after eight, the doors opened and the entire orchestra marched on, triggering the most enthusiastic applause of the evening, with many patrons standing and a great deal of cheering. Speaking for the audience, I think that said it all about our feelings.

The programme was intriguing, because it was developed to meet some special conditions:

• Total concert time no greater than eighty minutes, with no intermission.
• Works that could be played by a reduced orchestra of 50, allowing more spacing on stage.
• Works that could convey an atmosphere of celebration and endurance.
• Representation of composer of colour.
• One work each from the 1700s, 1800s, 1900s, and 2000s, the decades during which the independent concert orchestra as we know it (beyond simply being used as an accompaniment for singing) has grown and evolved.
  

 

The last two points weren't mentioned in any of the advance publicity I saw, but became clear as the concert progressed.

 

The evening opened with the Canadian premiere of Invictus by Anthony Barfield. Composed in response to the shocking murder of George Floyd, Barfield's work takes the form of a stunning, powerful, sometimes acerbic fanfare for the brass instruments. The title refers to the composer's own belief, speaking for himself and the whole black community, that "despite these troublesome times, we are in fact unconquerable." The TSO's brass section gave a stirring account of this gripping work.

For the second work, we went back to the earliest end of the programme's time line. Franz Josef Haydn, the man often celebrated as "the father of the symphony," was represented by an unusual aspect of his vast output -- the overture to his opera, L'isola disabitata ("The Deserted Island"). The music is undeniably dramatic, with some modulations that seem startling until you realize that it was written during the height of the middle period of his career when Haydn was often occupied with the ideals of the Sturm und Drang ("storm and stress") movement in composition. Indeed, the stormy opening of the overture suggests a possible shipwreck before the allegro main section launches. "Launches" is the appropriate word, as Maestro Gimeno lit the fuse of a rocket with a tightly-disciplined takeoff.

The third work, representing the 1900s, was Paul Hindemith's Concert Music for Strings and Brass. This work was composed on a commission for the Boston Symphony Orchestra's 50th season in 1931, and is designedly a work for public consumption -- but a strikingly thorny one. I can't resist the urge to quote from Volume 6 (1939) of the Essays in Musical Analysis by Donald Francis Tovey, who's one of my favourite writers on music (not that I always agree with him by any means):

 

Alas and alack-a-day, Hindemith, in his new Anweisungen zur Tonsatz, expressly repudiates atonality and polytonality, in terms which give no support to the idea that he ever used these privileges, even in early works. Still, facts are facts....

Tovey then goes on to describe a 1921 work for chamber ensemble in which a popular fox-trot dance tune is quoted in G major, while simultaneously accompanied by identical runs on the major scales of all the other eleven keys of the octave.

 

The Concert Music makes very free use of polytonality, with the strings and brasses occasionally (and rather painfully, for my money) playing very fully-harmonized melodies at the same time in two or more conflicting keys. I've had to sit through it twice in the last decade, and should be very happy never to be called on to repeat the experience.

As for the quality of the performance, that's hard to judge without closer familiarity and a copy of the score. The bigger, grander passages lacked for nothing in power and force. Gimeno's control of the quieter passages, where momentum could easily be lost, made it clear that the music was still moving forward in precise fashion. Apart from that comment, I can only observe that everybody arrived at the "right" chord together at the ending -- and then move on.

Schubert's Symphony No. 5 in B-Flat Major concluded the concert by fulfilling what is by no means an easy requirement: finding a symphony from the nineteenth century which would still keep the concert under that 80-minute total time frame.  I have an easier time thinking of nineteenth-century symphonies which would blow out of that time frame all by themselves!

With the smallest orchestra of any of Schubert's symphonies, the Fifth also brings a beguiling Mozartean atmosphere. But it is not easily mistaken for Mozart, all the same. The profusion of ingratiating melody could come from few other hands than Schubert, and the same can be said for some of the intriguing modulations. Although neither dramatic nor grand, this little Fifth always strikes me as a songful delight.

The opening movement begins in full flow, allegro without a slow introduction, but is most unusual in opening pianissimo. Maestro Gimeno here led the only live performance I have ever heard in which that pianissimo was fully respected, yet that didn't preclude some sharp little sforzando accents which managed to get louder without getting louder, to intriguing effect.

The second movement, Andante con moto, definitely moved as directed, but at the same time conveyed an atmosphere of drowsy relaxation which felt somewhat like the slow movement in Beethoven's Pastorale, although there's no musical resemblance. Here, Gimeno notably managed to incorporate the slightest and gentlest of rubato so that the music breathed organically, with the entire orchestra coming right along with him.

The Menuetto third movement was played as a scherzo in all but name, an explosive, fire-eating reading such as I have never heard, and the first truly loud sound in the entire symphony. In Gimeno's performance, Schubert's role as a precursor of Bruckner's mammoth scherzos was clearly audible. The trio, by contrast, came at a tempo more relaxed than the menuetto, where many conductors maintain much the same basic pulse throughout the movement. 

The light-hearted, joyful finale flew by quickly in a rush of happy, giddy celebration.

The concert as a whole was a splendid celebration of the return to live performance, and the well-filled hall attested to how badly the music lovers of Toronto had missed the privilege.

The best news was the realization that the orchestra was in as fine form as ever, playing with unanimity and musicality to burn under their new Music Director. The future of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra as we come out of the pandemic seems assured and bright indeed.

Fascinating and Diverse Styles of Dance

Today, another performing arts company takes a first bow in this blog.  On the weekend, I travelled to Kelowna, British Columbia, to see the first live-audience show since the pandemic by Ballet Kelowna.

 

This is a small company with just eight dancers, but under the guidance of their Artistic Director, Simone Orlando, they definitely create a large impact on their audiences.

The program consisted of three works by contemporary Canadian choreographers, although -- as it happened -- all three made at least some use of classical music in scoring their works.

 

The evening opened with the world premiere of Kirsten Wicklund's The Forever Part.  The recorded music track made use of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (played by brass instruments), and of the Aria da capo from the same composer's Goldberg Variations on piano.  A central section between these bookends used an electronic score created by Wicklund.

 

This dance work, with its title implying meditation on things too big for humans to personally know, made extensive use of a stage prop not often seen in dance performance -- carpets.  Every time one of those carpets was rolled out, and a corner was left poking up slightly, I found myself worrying that one of the dancers would trip on a carpet and execute a graceful face-plant (which is exactly what I would do in that situation!).  In any case, the carpets added visual interest to the bare stage as well as stimulating questions in the viewer's mind.

 

The same was true of the complex lighting plot.  The performance opened with a series of brief, dramatically lit vignettes, succeeded in turn by blackouts while the dancers relocated themselves.  This peculiar procedure certainly reflected the episodic character of the opening pages of Bach's Toccata and Fugue but it did nothing to help me feel that the work was actually getting under way. 

 

Once the blackouts were over, the piece did move along more satisfactorily.  On the whole, I found this first section of Wicklund's work hard to warm up to, as I felt that the choreography could have taken fuller advantage of the dramatic extremes in Bach's score.

 

Once the Toccata and Fugue ended, Wicklund's electronic score took over and created sounds evocative of mysterious distances in space, time, and thought.  At this point, the dance brought us into the meditations that the title of the piece suggested, in choreography which became at times much more subdued and subtle. The final entry of the Aria da capo led into a lovely, evocative pas de deux which brought the piece to a suitably satisfying conclusion.

 

The second work was commissioned by Ballet Kelowna and originally staged in 2019.  Heather Dotto's Petrushka, made use of selected fragments of Igor Stravinsky's ballet score combined with electronic soundscape effects.  Rather than try to mount the story-ballet original, Dotto has chosen to merely sketch in the highlights of the story and focus instead on the loss of control inherent in becoming or being a puppet.  

 

The eight dancers in the piece each take turns at being human or puppet, and also take turns manipulating or being manipulated by each other.  One of Dotto's most evocative images was the sight of the eight puppets seated shoulder to shoulder in a row, all slouching or flopping slightly in different ways.  They were sitting on the stage floor, but I could have sworn that I could see a shelf which they were perched on.  This use of the physicality of puppets is one of the key requirements for the dancers in this piece. 

Playfulness was the keynote of much of Dotto's choreography, as was a rubber-elastic ability to stretch and twist the body into all sorts of odd configurations.  Another endearing image, used twice, was the vertical row of heads, one above another, all observing the one dancer who wasn't lined up in the stack.  Several comic vignettes were created by having faces or bodies suddenly snap into freeze-frame positions.

 

The last one-third of Petrushka suffered from an apparent loss of direction, and from excessive sameness compared to what we had seen before.  In the end, the piece ended, not with a bang but with a whimper, quietly and unexpectedly -- and that ending led me to suspect that the seeming aimlessness may have been deliberate.

This Petrushka, perhaps best described as a sideshow riff on the original, was both entertaining and involving precisely because it was like nothing else I had ever seen.  Although it had its comical moments, I was left overall with a feeling of sadness at how little control any of the puppets (or us) really have in life.

The final work, after the intermission, was another world premiere: Celestial Mechanics by Robert Stephen.

CONFLICT OF INTEREST ALERT:  Robert Stephen is my nephew.

 

This work used the entirety of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 12 in A-flat Major.  Not one of the master's better-known works, this sonata certainly represents, in its four movements, a uniquely experimental approach to musical form -- an approach reflected in the dance.

 

Unlike the other two works, this piece made use of a classical-modern fusion of dance styles, with pointe work incorporated. 

It was hard to watch this dance work without recalling George Balanchine's famous dictum:  "See the music; hear the dance."  Not that Stephen's work looked much like anything Balanchine did or might have done, but the flowing, seamless musicality of his choreography and the degree of integration with Beethoven's musical muse and intentions were both intense and unmistakable.

 

That flowing character was helped not a little by the use, in varying degrees, of costumes using long, full, flowing skirts by both male and female dancers.  Nor did the un-gendering of the work end there, as numerous moments involved men lifting men, women lifting women, women lifting men, and multiple more breaks from the classical traditions of who does what on stage. 

 

The first movement, a theme and variations, brought us a sequence of dances: a solo, a duet where the first dancer was joined by the second, a duet where the first dancer was replaced by a third, then the second replaced by a fourth, the third by a fifth, and finally another solo to round the piece out.

 

The second and fourth movements, both high-energy and highly rhythmic scherzos in character if not in name, were matched with equally energetic movement.

 

The real heartbeat of the work came in the sombre third movement funeral march.  The intensity and darkness of the music found a perfect counterpart in Stephen's poignant choreography, and were increased by the use of universally dark costuming.  In the final moments, the sweeping of the skirts became a positive swirling storm, presaging the final movement's emphatic discarding of sorrow.  Overall, it was the sheer humanity and compassion of the dance that made the third movement such a  memorable highlight of the evening.

In closing, I must praise the overall intensity and commitment as well as the skill of the dancers in the Ballet Kelowna company.  All eight members were involved in the first two pieces, while the final work did let two of them have a breather.  It was a terrific amount of high-intensity, high-stakes dancing for this small group of artists and they presented it magnificently.  Kudos to the dancers and to Artistic Director Simone Orlando.  Kelowna's dance lovers have a real treasure in this company!

Toronto Mendelssohn Choir 2021-2022 # 1: With a Song In Our Hearts

With the coming of November, the first performing arts season in nearly two years is getting under way.

 

Arts organizations are finally planning live audience performances, and audiences are buying tickets and preparing to return to a whole world of beauty, excitement, and involvement that had seemed lost to us.

 

As luck would have it, my first live experience of the season happens to be with the dean of performing arts organizations in Toronto: the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir.  Founded in 1894, the Choir is still going strong and, if anything, is stronger now than ever.

 

In recent years, the only events with this Choir which I've attended have been when the Choir appeared as guest artists with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra.  It seems fitting, therefore, that this first return to the live stage after the pandemic should have featured a chamber ensemble drawn from the Orchestra as the guest artists of the Mendelssohn Choir.

 

It was a night of considerable excitement for another reason: the first public appearance of the Choir under its newly-appointed Artistic Director, Jean-Sébastien Vallée. 

 

For due levels of caution, the performers were spread out more widely than usual around the front and side sections of Yorkminster Park Baptist Church, and the audience was restricted in size to allow for adequate spacing of audience members.  All performers and audience were required to be fully vaccinated and masked.

Also with caution in mind, the concert was available as a pay-to-view live stream, for those who did not yet feel comfortable attending in person.

 

Even with these necessary accommodations to remind us of the ordeal we've all been going through, the sound of live voices and instruments lifted up in glorious song was enchanting, and spoke deeply to places in our hearts that had been feeling the lack -- more, perhaps, than we cared to admit.

 

Enchanting was also the right term to describe Nathaniel Dett's brief oratorio, The Chariot Jubilee (composed in 1919).  Dett was born into an African Canadian family in Niagara Falls, but spent most of his life living in the United States, conducting and teaching music at several traditionally Black colleges there.  It seems reasonable to suppose that The Chariot Jubilee was written for performance in such a setting.

In this concert, the work was performed by choir and soprano soloist in a recent chamber orchestra arrangement by Jason Max Ferdinand.  This work definitely merits rehearing, and it would be good to hear the oratorio with full orchestra and tenor soloist, as the composer conceived it.

The keynote to Dett's style in this, and many of his works, is the fusion of the European idioms of the Romantic era with the melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic character of spirituals and other folk music of the African American diaspora.

 

This performance of The Chariot Jubilee began with a radiant, deeply-felt, unaccompanied performance of the spiritual Swing Low, Sweet Chariot by soprano Jonelle Sills.  Upon her final note, the orchestra stole in quietly with an evocative instrumental prelude.  After several minutes the choir, and soloist joined in again.  Much of the music was written in a lyrical idiom which fitted the tone of the spiritual, and of the text written and compiled by Dett himself.  Contrast came from two faster episodes, one somewhat dramatic, and the other definitely dance-like in character. The spiritual was then developed in an extended passage with interesting modulations, and the work ended with a quick, exhilarating final coda crowned by Sills' soaring voice rising above the choir.

Music Director Jean-Sébastien Vallée held the performance firmly together throughout Dett's oratorio, no mean achievement in an episodic score which keeps changing its character and tempo, sometimes very frequently.  The choir gave the music a splendid reading, radiant in the quiet passages and energetic in the faster music -- particularly in that dance episode. 

 

The main offering of the concert, Ein Deutsches Requiem, Op. 45 by Johannes Brahms, is too well known to require detailed commentary from me.  The chamber orchestra arrangement used here was created in 2010 by Joachim Linckelmann, and was previously unknown to me.   

 

Reducing the original full Romantic orchestra used by the composer to a small ensemble of 19 involves inevitable losses as well as gains.  The extra clarity and audibility of the woodwind parts was a true bonus, as these often get swamped by the strings in a full-orchestra performance.  On the downside, the lack of trombones was the biggest single loss.   Yes, I know all the hoary musician's jokes about trombones, but it's good to remember that Brahms always employed these instruments with considerable discretion, and only at key moments in each score.  Here, I most missed them in the menacing crescendo of Denn alles Fleisch and at the splendid Denn es wird die Posaune schallen -- where Brahms, incidentally, followed Luther's German Bible to the letter in employing the trombones (Posaunen) rather than the Last Trumpet(s) normally used by other composers.

Overall, the use of such a small body of players with such a large choir might seem like a miscalculated risk, but in fact the balance was well-nigh perfect because the choir had to wear masks throughout the performance.  Here again, we had gains and losses.  The masks softened the volume and edges of the choral tone just enough to keep the singers from overwhelming the small chamber ensemble.  The drawback, of course, was that the text was hard to hear (even for me and others like me who have sung the Brahms), and the Choir's usual splendid and precise diction was, alas, missing in action -- through no fault of their own, I hasten to add.

Music Director Jean-Sébastien Vallée led what could largely be considered a "central" performance of this masterpiece, avoiding either fast or slow extremes of tempo.  The gear shifts within movements were all handled with care and precision, and (in the sixth movement) without drawing undue attention to the fact that the shifts are occurring. The more lyrical fourth and fifth movements were especially notable for a fluidity and ease of motion which is by no means the rule.

The one weak link was also the one moment of extremity, when he adopted a hell-for-leather tempo in the resounding fugue of the third movement, Die gerechten Seelen.  Given the wide physical spacing of the performers, a slight reduction of speed here would have led to far firmer results without the occasional looseness of ensemble.  But that was a minor issue in an overall fine performance.

Baritone Brett Polegato gave a noteworthy performance of the solos, projecting a clear understanding of the texts and their implications which is ignored by many singers.  The concept that he was singing the music like German lieder springs to mind.  This was particularly true of the long and complex text for the soloist in the third movement.   This is the first time I can ever remember, in a live concert of this work, wishing that the baritone had a bigger part.

Soprano Jonelle Sills seemed less comfortable in Brahms than in Dett.  Admittedly, the composer tosses the singer a nasty problem by making her sit still for 45 minutes or so, then enter quietly and far too high for comfort in her range -- when her voice has had ample time to get cold.  Sills, on the whole, did her finest work in the bigger passages, remaining always audible alongside the choir.

Throughout the entire 75-minute span of the work, the Mendelssohn Choir remained thoroughly on point and produced lovely tone in all dynamic ranges from the quiet of the opening through to the glorious final cadence of the magnificent sixth movement.  Their fluid phrasing of the melodic lines in the fourth movement was an especial delight.

The program title for the concert, "Coming to Carry Me Home," draws an obvious link with Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.  The connection with Brahms might seem less obvious, at a quick glance, but it is there nonetheless -- above all in the pivotal fourth movement, Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen ("How lovely are thy dwellings").  The texts in both works point us towards a place of comfort and healing, a place that all of us are truly in need of finding in these times.  

Not only, then, a timely plea for comfort -- this concert also provided a radiantly beautiful introduction back into the world of musical performance for all of us.  I'm sure that the performers, no less than the audience, went out into the night with a song in all our hearts.

Ludwig and Beyond Part II: The Diversity of Inspiration

The Cheng²Duo at last have been able, on Saturday night, to complete the premiere of their ambitious "Ludwig and Beyond" project with a recorded video performance of the remaining works in the programme.  Despite the heartbreaking delays and multiple cancellations imposed due to the Covid-19 pandemic, this splendid gift to the world of music for the Beethoven anniversary year of 2020 has finally reached its belated conclusion.

We heard the first instalment in September, with the Beethoven Cello Sonatas #s 1,4, and 5, and the world premiere of Paul Wiancko's Sonata # 1: Shifting Baselines.  If you wish, you can read my review of that concert at this link:  

Ludwig and Beyond Part I: Beethoven Meets a Stunning World Premiere

Now comes the second part of the project, comprising the Cello Sonatas #s 2 & 3, alongside two more commissioned works, from Canadian composers, inspired by those sonatas:  Samy Moussa's Ring and Dinuk Wijeratne's Portrait of the Imaginary Sibling. 

This performance, sponsored by the Ottawa Chamberfest, had to be recorded without an audience (due to pandemic restrictions) in Montreal, Quebec, in the Salle Bourgie of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, a venue in which I had heard the Cheng²Duo in a live concert of French music last fall.

In an age when so much music is assembled out of so many effects or episodic sounds presented in apparently random sequence, it's nothing less than startling to find a composer structuring an entire piece around the classical textbook procedure of the circle of fifths.  Yet that is what Moussa has done in Ring.

His point of inspiration was the firm sense of structural completeness which he sensed in Beethoven's Cello Sonata # 2.

Each section of the score is pervaded and supported by that critical harmonic process.  This is not to say that it's immediately apparent at the outset, but over the course of the work the listener can hear that this circle is indeed the organizing principle at work -- hence the title.

While Bryan Cheng stated in his pre-performance remarks that the complete work has ten sections, to this listener at least it came across as four distinct portions delineated by the moods of the music.  The opening struck the ear as a series of random, jagged notes or fragments scattered all over the cello's range.  But then, the piano took up an imitative development of the cello's opening while the cello outlined the harmonies in energetic tremolando, the circle of fifths declared itself, and the whole piece began to take shape.

A section of densely harmonized piano writing with sustained, striving melodic work in the cello then led into a quieter, slower passage with both instruments high in their registers. In the next portion, staccato and pizzicato writing pushed out to the extreme highs and lows of each instrument added variety to the texture, with the sound again gradually turning more melodic.

In the final pages, a ponderous, bass-heavy tread (suggestive of a march) propelled the music forward while the cello, and ultimately the piano as well, elaborated with truly furious passagework -- all leading to an abrupt yet timely ending on a staccato tonic chord as the circle was completed again.  Moussa's Ring is a splendid example of music that finds completely new ground to tread while working within more traditional frames of reference.  A rewarding piece indeed, in this world premiere performance.

Dinuk Wijeratne's Portrait of the Imaginary Sibling inhabited a rather different sound world, but again made excellent use of a traditional musical resource -- the ostinato.  Of all the commissioned works in Ludwig and Beyond, this was the one that made the most overt use of a direct quote from Beethoven -- the jagged off-beat rhythm of the scherzo in Sonata # 3, which functioned as a bass ostinato throughout much of the work's main body.

Wijeratne also gave more than a slight nod to the classical music traditions of the Indian subcontinent, with much writing for the cello and piano evoking the sounds of the Indian sarangi and tabla.  

The title refers to an imaginary sibling of the Chengs, but from the tone of the music I sensed not so much a kinship with Bryan and Silvie Cheng as the presence of an imaginary sibling of Beethoven himself.  

In the very opening pages, Wijeratne has the pianist do some direct strumming and thrumming on the strings of the instrument, while the cello plays a wandering line that, together with the piano part, immediately evokes the distinctive harmonies and sounds of Indian music.

But soon, the tempo accelerates, and the wandering explorations of the opening are pushed aside by a furiously energetic scherzo, in which the ostinato drawn from Beethoven's rhythm sets both the pace and the ruling force of the music.  Against that background, the abrupt eruptions and tart comments from both piano and cello fill in the portrait of a kindred soul to Beethoven, prone to sudden explosions of anger and fierce energy.

In time the music quietens a bit, and becomes more fragmentary for a time, until a brief and furious explosion of energy leads to an abrupt fortissimo conclusion.  This piece stands in a completely different sound world from Moussa's work, but proves equally intriguing and rewarding for repeated listening.

Throughout both pieces, the Chengs demonstrated considerable aplomb in meeting the unusual demands of the composers for unique sounds and rhythms, and for building structure in certain key passages out of the sketch-like, fragmentary writing.  

In the two Beethoven sonatas, the Chengs obviously gave a great deal of thought to the expressive possibilities in Beethoven's writing for both instruments, from the crisp, lightning-fast staccato and pizzicato  to the denser, fuller textures for piano, and the broader, more sweeping melodies for cello.  

In Sonata # 2, the work was bookended by the solemn, quasi-religious tone of the slow opening, and the smiling, playful account of the finale, bouncing joyfully along.

There was a truly symphonic breadth and sweep in the first movement of Sonata # 3, while the edgy syncopations of the scherzo remained light-hearted even at their crispest and most clear-cut.  The slow movement found the Chengs giving full measure to the composer's call for cantabile.  The allegro finale evoked for me nothing so much as Mendelssohn, with a lightness and sparkle so often found in that later composer's works and a spectacularly grand buildup to the final coda.

Plenty of musicians had the idea of presenting cycles of the master's work as part of the Beethoven anniversary year.  The Cheng²Duo have gone much further, enriching the cello-piano repertoire with three major new works, each one a great success on its own very different ground, and each one absolutely deserving frequent rehearing.  Kudos to Silvie and Bryan Cheng for their vision and imagination, for the truly rewarding results, and for the gripping and memorable performances of Beethoven, and of three contemporary composers of both skill and substance.

 

The Drama of the Four Seasons

The main offering in the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's latest on-demand concert is a stimulating, thoughtful, and -- above all -- intensely dramatic performance of Vivaldi's evergreen cycle of violin concertos, The Four Seasons.

The principal work is preceded by two equally energetic and stimulating contemporary compositions which fit in very well as present-day partners to Vivaldi's well-loved masterpiece.

The fast movements of the Vivaldi are famous for their near-frenetic energy, and the same characteristic appears in both of the modern pieces on this intriguing on-line program.

The concert was taped on the stage of Roy Thomson Hall some months ago, under the health requirements then in effect, with an ensemble of 20 strings plus harpsichord.  The concert was led throughout by concertmaster Jonathan Crow, who of course also played the principal solo part in the Vivaldi.

After a short spoken introduction from music director Gustavo Gimeno and concertmaster Jonathan Crow, the first work was introduced by composer Gabriela Lena Frank: Coqueteos from Leyendas: An Andean Walkabout.  The title approximately means "flirtations" (think of the cognate "coquetry" in English).  The piece is rooted in the native rhythms and guitar playing of Frank's ancestral land of Peru.  

It's a vivid, energetic dance for strings (originally for a string quartet), plainly rooted in the same rhythmic and melodic turf as the music of many Latin American lands and, indeed, of Spain itself.  A couple of short interruptions into slower, more meditative tempo do little or nothing to take the wind out of the music's sails until it explodes into an energetic finale.  

The second work, Canadian composer Dinuk Wijeratne's A letter from the After-life from Two Pop Songs on Antique Poems, was just as energetic as Frank's vivid dance, and like her piece was originally written for a string quartet.  That character is evident right at the outset with a pulsating violin rhythm overlying a chant-like melody on viola.  Both elements gradually spread out to the full orchestral body, and that pulsating ostinato becomes the motor energy driving the entire piece.  As the music grows in power, the quieter interruptions hardly slow the momentum.  Then the energy winds up to three powerful repetitions of the opening notes of Schubert's Death and the Maiden quartet, before a final fierce outburst ends the piece.

And so to the main event, and here was truly a performance of The Four Seasons like no other I have ever heard in a live concert.

With the rise of the authentic performance movement in the 1960s and 1970s, textures in virtually all Baroque music were fined down to more limited numbers such as might have been expected in a live performance in the 1970s.  With that came the adoption of the style of bows used by string players in Baroque times, and the use of playing techniques appropriate to the period in which the music was first written and played.

To put it in perspective, the last two complete Four Seasons which I've heard featured an ensemble of 4-6 strings, plus harpsichord for the continuo.

This, however, was a performance which definitely chose to swim against the tide.  The lean and hungry sound of modern Baroque performance was plainly out of reach with a body of 20 strings, but instead there were other possibilities which opened up.  The contrast between the passages played by the full orchestra and those played by a smaller group immensely aided the dramatic context of the music -- for example, the huge dynamic variation between the quiet buzzing of insects and the loud rolls of thunder in the slow movement of Summer.  Similar dramatic shifts in the scale of tone abounded.

The use of a larger body certainly didn't mean that the sound became fuzzy or bloated.  Vivaldi's most rapid passagework was as clean and crisp as you could ask, and the clarity of the much quieter passages was enhanced by the full, rich sound.  

Crow's performance of the solo part made it abundantly clear that this was not, and was not meant to be, an "authentic" performance.  Sparingly, but effectively, he employed a generous Romantic rubato at key structural points in the music.  A big-boned, dramatic reading, guaranteed perhaps to make the strongest proponents of authentic style cringe, but truly engaging and involving for the more open-minded.  And why not, since the dramatic intentions behind the composer's pictorial approach are clearly visible?

Musical performance aside, this was still a Four Seasons like no other, because of the style of the presentation.  Vivaldi wrote these concertos inspired by the paintings of Marco Ricci.  These paintings were in the then-popular style in which the immense sublimity of nature overpowered the diminutive figures of people, animals, and buildings.  You can certainly hear that immensity built right into the music at many points.

Each concerto was also introduced in Vivaldi's score by a descriptive sonnet, and the scores were then sprinkled with brief written notations to show which sounds or events in the sonnet were reproduced in the music, and in which part.

It's become common in recent years to incorporate a reading of the sonnets into a live performance, but things went much further here.  The sonnets were spoken by four different members of the orchestra, in their respective birth languages of English, Japanese, Mandarin, and French (with on-screen English translations).  During each concerto, portions of the relevant Ricci painting were digitally superimposed on the video image above the players' heads (where you would otherwise see only the choir loft or balcony seating of the hall), and the written notations from the scores were reproduced in English translation at the top right corner of the screen.

The result was a rich, full-blooded performance of the Four Seasons, enhanced with multi-media extra touches to bring you right inside the spirit in which the composer created these pieces.

Even if you would prefer a sparer, leaner style of performance, this is a Four Seasons worth checking out if only for the impact of the total presentation.  For the listener with no such qualms, this entire concert will, I think, pull you in and delight you -- and that goes equally for the two contemporary works which open the programme, since they come far closer to the spirit of Vivaldi than many of the more arid and sterile contemporary works I've heard. 

This concert remains available from the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's website until April 15, and can be watched as many times as desired with one ticket.  The link to purchase tickets follows:

The Four Seasons

Sacred Music For a Sacred Space -- and Beyond

The Toronto Mendelssohn Choir has for many years now commemorated Good Friday with a concert entitled "Sacred Music For a Sacred Space," traditionally given at St. Anne's Anglican Church in Toronto.

While continuing to offer at least a partial version of such a programme in virtual form in this age of pandemic, the Choir once again demonstrated great imagination in launching out into a hybrid arts event which was plainly designed, from the ground up, for online presentation.

Indeed, the programme as we saw it on Good Friday evening simply could not be presented in the same way in a live venue.

In brief, the instrumentalists were recorded under all pandemic regulations then in effect in St. Anne's, the choir members each recorded themselves individually at home, and the whole programme was then assembled in a virtuoso feat of editing.

After a very brief spoken introduction, and a land acknowledgement, the programme opened with Schubert's sad yet mellow Stabat Mater in G Minor, D.175 (not to be confused with the longer F minor setting which he composed the following year).  The Latin sequence meditates on the Virgin Mary, as she stood at the foot of Christ's cross on Calvary.  Schubert set the first four verses in a smooth stream of music, varying his thematic material with no break in the flow.  

The fifty choristers who participated in this recording gave the music with clarity and beauty of tone while capturing the ritual feeling of the work, which was most likely written for liturgical use.  Pianist Gergely Szokolay provided a subtle, finely shaded account of the accompaniment, originally written for small string orchestra with trombones -- and, frankly, I didn't miss the orchestra at all (the young Schubert's orchestration was often blandly conventional to a fault).

This music was accompanied by images of paintings from different centuries, images which in some cases overtly depicted the scene at Golgotha and in others invited us to think of suffering in a more human, contemporary context -- a very thoughtful visual counterpoint.

The major offering was Bach's early cantata, Christ lag in Todesbanden, BWV4.  It's a unique work in many ways, relating to form, musical style, word painting and more -- but most of all because this early cantata, with its seven choral or vocal movements  in succession, is written entirely in E minor.  

Instrumentalists and singers alike, under Simon Rivard's thoughtful direction, skilfully avoided any sense of sameness resulting from the use of the single key.  The Mendelssohn Choir's singers have become masters of the art of online recording, singing alone in their homes with more than a passing thought to the need for their performance to blend into a choral whole when the editing takes place.  The net result of their work is a performance as polished as you could ask in a live concert.

The truly remarkable aspect of the cantata was the incorporation of dance, choreographed and performed by Laurence Lemieux.  Abetted by Simon Rossiter's striking lighting design and Jeremy Mimnagh's superb videography, Lemieux created stunning images in motion of grief, loss, struggle, and acceptance, flowing smoothly in tandem with the music.

It was the kind of dance performance that, for me, demanded to be viewed several times.  On each viewing, I found that I was being drawn more and more to ponder the impact of Lemieux's powerful, evocative movements.  Reflection on the meanings and feelings which it aroused began with the startling choice of hard-soled, heeled shoes rather than traditional dance slippers.  As the piece progressed, those shoes became more and more an image of obstacles, of hindrances, of the thousand and one "buts" that we use to stop us from coming to grips with the tragedies of the world around us.

Laurence Lemieux's choreographic creation was most of all in my mind when I said that this concert could never have happened in a live performance venue.  We needed the close-up impact of a personal video screen to bring ourselves as close to her as possible, to be able to read her facial expressions and fully discern the complexities of her movements.  

The final number of the concert was the fourth movement of Ein Deutsches Requiem, Op. 45 by Johannes Brahms, sung in English translation as How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place.  The singers here caught the essential flowing nature of this music, the long arching phrases, the way that crescendo and diminuendo seem to grow organically out of the very nature of the piece.  Imposed "interpretation" would be disastrous in this music.  Gergely Szokolay on piano gave an uncommonly restrained accompaniment, gentle and pastoral in character, and entirely appropriate.

The visual accompaniment to this piece was a series of video clips and still photographs taken during a walk in the woods in autumn, with the fall colours all around.  It was an appropriate reminder that the true "sacred spaces" of the world are by no means confined to those built by human hands.

I was forcibly reminded of the memorable words of Catalan architect Antonio Gaudi:  "The forest is my cathedral."  It's a feeling I've often shared.

This beautiful and thought-provoking Good Friday concert remains available for free viewing on the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir's website.  Here's the link:

Music For a Sacred Space

Yes, A Real Live Orchestra!

For the first time since the pandemic shutdown over a year ago, the Toronto Symphony Orchestra has presented a concert live from the stage of Roy Thomson Hall.  Due to current lockdown conditions, of course, it has to be a much-reduced chamber-orchestra-sized body of players, all required health and distancing precautions must be observed, and there cannot be a live audience present in the hall -- but it is a live stream of a live performance all the same.

Sensibly, the chosen programme was an all-Mozart concert.  It's sensible not only because of the popularity of his music, but even more so because almost anything Mozart wrote for orchestra can readily be adapted to an ensemble of just 32 players as in this performance -- or even less.  His gigantic reputation in the world of music certainly didn't come about because he wrote pieces for gigantic numbers of artists!

The programme, led by Resident Conductor Simon Rivard, opened with the early overture to La finta giardiniera, K.196 ("The Pretend Garden Girl"), a very rarely-heard comic opera written when Mozart was 18.  It was his first commission for the operatic stage, and was supposed to be a dramma giocoso, although in the end it turned out to be more opera buffa with a few serious moments to leaven the fun.

That sense of zippy energy and brilliant high spirits certainly informed Rivard's reading of the sparkling, vivacious overture, which lasted for just 4 minutes and change. 

Next up was the third of Mozart's five Violin Concertos (the G major concerto, K.216), all of them written during that same year when he turned 18.  A busy young man indeed!  This concerto wears its mantle lightly, the moments of virtuoso display neatly hidden under the prevailing lyrical, almost pastoral mood.

The soloist was the Orchestra's Associate Concertmaster, Zeyu Victor Li, here making his TSO concerto debut.  I made mention of the work's lyrical, pastoral mood because that was the dominant quality permeating almost all of Li's reading of the solo part.

Indeed, lyricism turned almost to reticence during the first movement, a sunny stroll in the country fully the equal of Beethoven's symphony.  Li's tone throughout almost all of the first movement remained somewhat restrained, classically poised, where other artists might choose a more flamboyant approach.  The difference was noteworthy when he suddenly found himself working within a much broader scale of tone in the cadenza -- and then continued to work within that wider tonal palette until the end of the concerto.  That's not a criticism, by the way -- the soloist's relative restraint worked well to emphasize the restful, pastoral character of the first movement's themes.  

The second movement brought gently pulsating accompaniment from the orchestra, with Li giving the themes a smoothly phrased presentation.  

The finale bounced along delightfully, the main rondo theme striking delicious contrasts from the contrasting episodes, and particularly from the two apparently extraneous sections which crop up out of nowhere, say their say, and then vanish.  In all this diverse material, Li characterized the violin part with finesse, finding plenty of tone colours without seeming to strive after them.  In fact, his performance of the entire work could well be characterized as sounding completely natural, indeed almost inevitable, as if the music could sound no other way (although we know it can).

The concert ended with the famous Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, K.550, one of the final group of three symphonies -- and certainly the darkest, most incisive of the three.  It was the first work of Mozart's which I grew to love as a teenager, and has remained a firm favourite of mine ever since.

One key feature of this symphony certainly pointed the way towards the more dramatic future symphonies of the Romantic era: Mozart avoided the usual lightweight, serio-comic rondo for a finale in favour of a sonata form movement which is every bit the equal in weight and complexity of the first movement.  The centre of gravity of the symphony was forever tilted away from the first movement as a result, and it's almost impossible to imagine the grandeur and drama of the finales in Beethoven's Choral Symphony, Schubert's Great C Major, or Brahms' First and Third without Mozart having pointed the way in this work and its successor, the so-called "Jupiter" Symphony (#41).

This symphony also was unusual, and remained unusual, in being dominated by minor keys throughout the first and fourth movements, and the minuet of the third movement.  

Rivard led the orchestra in a brisk, well-pointed reading which never sacrificed clarity or weight to the speed of the action.  This was especially important with the repeated viola notes in the main theme of the first movement, or with the rapid figures in all the strings in the finale.  

The wind section produced strongly-accented chords in the first movement, and limpid tone in their solo lines in the slow movement.  

The minuet in the third movement, while remaining brisk, saw the orchestra pull out a heavier, more emphatic style which equally pointed the way forward to the more heavyweight symphonic scherzos to come in the next century.  

The whole dramatic arc of the symphony led up to the fierce reading of the finale, a performance which accentuated (not over much, but strongly) the sudden, blunt key shifts and lightning-quick dynamic contrasts.  Rivard kept the drama in hand, never forgetting that this was still Mozart, but within his self-appointed limits he scored strongly in such moments as the chain of five key shifts leading into the development, or the unsettling horn fortissimos which puncture the argument soon after.

Throughout the entire performance, the orchestra members played with suitable style and joyful energy.  The energy was undoubtedly helped by having all the players (except the cellos) stand throughout the concert.  

On the technical front, I was truly impressed by the way the broadcast engineers overcame the hassles of widely dispersed players, plexiglass shields, and multiple microphones to create a most believable sound picture, in which all instruments came through clearly, none dominated unduly, and none were sold short.

I was also delighted by the diverse range of camera angles used, allowing us to see the players and conductor from almost every conceivable angle (except, perhaps, directly overhead).

For everyone who purchased a digital ticket for this concert, the archived performance remains available on the TSO website for repeat viewing for one week.  I certainly plan to watch and listen again!

For those who didn't take it in, you can rest assured that the whole evening was technologically excellent, musically beautiful, and came across the internet with a very definite live-concert vibe.  The TSO plans to present one or more such concerts during the balance of the season, and you should sign up for their email communications to be informed of the dates.

Chamber Music From the Toronto Symphony Orchestra

As I return from my dead-of-winter hiatus in blogging, I find that I am constantly fine-tuning my notion of what my blogs ought to do and ought to cover in the age of Covid-19.

In the case of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, I have chosen to leave aside previously-filmed concerts with live audiences.  I've also passed on reviewing one-off performances reserved exclusively for the orchestra's subscribers and donors.

The concert I'm covering now is available online, from the TSO's "On Demand" section of the website, and can be purchased by anyone for their enjoyment.  It was filmed in October 2020, under appropriate socially-distanced conditions, in Roy Thomson Hall.

Of course, all social distancing rules were observed -- which meant, among other things, that the three wind players in Lebel and Beethoven had to each perform in separate plexiglass cubicles.  Of necessity, then, each player had to be separately miked for recording purposes.  Those plexiglass surrounds must also have made it more challenging than normal for all the players to hear each other in quieter moments -- not that you could discern any ill effects in the final product.

As Artistic Director Gustavo Gimeno pointed out in his pre-concert remarks, chamber music effectively formed the crucible in which the modern orchestra came into being.  The TSO has gone a long way to justify the idea of presenting chamber music as the work of a major orchestra by using an almost totally different cast of musicians in each work, giving a grand total of 17 orchestra members involved.  The names of the players in each work are given in a complete list at the end of the concert video.

The anchor point, and title work of the concert, is Beethoven's Septet in B-Flat Major, Op. 20.  In this performance, it is preceded by the sole completed movement of Schubert's String Trio in B-Flat Major, D.471, and by a contemporary work from the TSO's Affiliate Composer, Emilie LeBel.

The Schubert was treated to a spirited performance, full of light and energy to lift the spirits.  As so often with Schubert's music, we are reminded that the composer was one of the pre-eminent melodists of all music.

Lebel's work from 2018 followed in the line of so many other contemporary works with a descriptive, wordy title: Haareis auf Morschem Holz ("hair ice on rotten wood").  A brief note explains how the composer was inspired by the evocation of nature in Beethoven's music.  Lebel set her work for the same ensemble of seven instruments used by Beethoven in his Septet.

A long, wandering melodic line for the bassoon opened the piece, surrounded and succeeded by light, diaphanous textures in the strings and sustained notes on the horn.  The strings then took up the lead with a distinct melodic line of their own.  In this piece, Lebel presents ample melodic material in a predominantly diatonic yet still contemporary musical language.  The end of the music fades away with a few final quiet tremolando effects.

The main offering of the programme, the Septet in E-flat Major, Op. 20, brought crisp, energetic playing from all, without in the least overloading the music with too much emphasis.  The character of this well-loved work is really that of a serenade, the six movements providing a suite of contrasted musical experiences that would be completely in place during the coffee and port after dinner -- this in spite of the fact that the private premiere in 1799 was soon followed by a public performance on the same concert programme as the First Symphony.

The lively, upbeat first movement set the tone for the work admirably.  In the second, the clarinet and violin both sang the melodic lines with as much cantabile as you could ask.  The third movement minuet danced congenially, the music never ponderous or heavy in any way.  The horn and clarinet decorations in the contrasting middle section were a delight.

The fourth movement theme and variations brought stylish playing from all in the increasingly elaborate variations.  Energetic horn playing, evoking the hunting horns of the day, led off a beautifully sprung reading of the scherzo.  The molto vivace of the scherzo was succeeded by a slower minuet tempo in the trio, giving a quaint lolloping feel to the music.  The slow introduction of the finale led on to a rousing account of the presto main section of the movement, bringing the Septet and the entire concert to a most satisfying conclusion.

This delightful programme remains available for live streaming on the Toronto Symphony Orchestra's website until March 4.  Once you've purchased a ticket, you can view the concert as many times as you wish.  I've already watched it three times, which will give you an idea of how enjoyable it is.

Here's the link to purchase a ticket for this performance, and for next month's performance of the Vivaldi Four Seasons:

TSO On Demand