Have there ever been so many people at one time on the campus of the University of Western Australia? Certainly, the citizens of Perth turned out en masse on Friday evening for LUMINOUSnight with literally tens of thousands swarming across the campus to savour the delights of a range of free entertainments to mark the 100th anniversary of the founding of the UWA.
A capacity audience attended a screening at the open-air Somerville Cinema of Carl Laemmle’s silent movie version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a tale that has inspired a host of moviemakers.
Why this movie when there are so many others to screen? It was a clever choice as the film dates from 1913, the same year as UWA’s founding. And giving a 21st-century slant to it, we listened to a specially commissioned music score by two of Perth’s most committed exponents of new music – David Pye and Lee Buddle – performed by the Nova Ensemble.
Here were the antique (the film) with the brand new (the music) – and how finely they meshed. Nova was very much on its collective toes with Pye presiding over events. All praise for the skill with which the instrumentalists co-ordinated with cinematic action. Time and again, there was splendid integration between on-screen action and the accompanying music which for the most part enhanced mood. This was fascinating fare; I savoured every moment, especially King Baggot’s portrayal of both Jekyll and his ghastly alter ego.
Baggot’s Mr Hyde is fascinating, his transformation startling, reducing his height to striking effect by hunkering down, then scuttling and lurching about like some monstrous, malformed spider. An almost flat black hat added to his bizarre appearance, in striking contrast to his portrayal of Jekyll as a compassionate and thoroughly decent doctor.
Laemmle’s movie makes for disturbing viewing in quite another sense as one realises that the entire cast, including many children, and those behind the cameras, are long dead. But through the medium of cinema, they are all, in a way, brought back to life to once again reach out to a fascinated audience a century on. An exception was a cinema-goer nearby who with astonishing indifference to the annoyance he was causing many, had a loud and largely pointless conversation on his mobile phone.
This is a movie I’d very much like to see again. True, it shows signs of wear, the image occasionally scratched, blurred, stained or bubbled but in a curious sense this underscores its great age and makes viewing it all that more fascinating.
There would have been more than usual interest in a performance by the University of Western Australia Choral Society at the weekend as this was Jangoo Chapkhana’s debut as director of this long- established choir.
It was an impressive presentation with Handel’s Ode for St Cecilia’s Day memorable for often-splendid choral corporate tone and tempo choices that sounded intuitively right.
A cornucopia of musical delights included trumpeter Jenny Coleman’s vividly realised contribution in ‘The trumpet’s loud clangour’. And after intermission, Evan Cromie, too, did wonders on the trumpet.
Incidentally, collectors of musical trivia might be interested to know that Handel’s Ode was premiered at a time when England was at war with Spain – and the work’s many martial flourishes would have stirred the blood of a goodly number of English concertgoers at the time.
Confident attack, well maintained momentum, phrasing of finesse and clarity of diction augur well for a choir that sounds refreshingly alert and revitalised as in ‘From harmony’.
An orchestra led by Daniel Kossov gave us finely managed dotted rhythms and clean lines in the overture and a gracefully stated Menuetto. Strings, overall, were in excellent fettle.
I liked the tenderness that informed much of ‘The soft complaining flute’ but singing was not always quite on the note here.
There was much that gave listening pleasure, too, in Bach’s Magnificat in D with the choir once again strikingly in form – and evoking what one commentator has so perceptively described as the work’s “unearthly jubilance”. Stewart Smith was beyond reproach at the organ.
In ‘Suscepit Israel’, vocal soloists Stephanie Gooch, Sarah-Janet Dougiamas and Meredith Wilkie sang to fine effect with Robert Hofmann coming into his own in ‘Quia fecit’. David Woodward brought a supple and musicianly voice to his arias. Earlier, we heard pleasingly idiomatic contributions from recorder players Jordi Corall and Tamara Gries in ‘Eurientes implevit bonis’.
In ‘Fecit potentiam’, singing oscillated between spot-on brilliance and incoherence.
There was also a deeply felt presentation of Bach’s O Jesu Christ, Mein Lebens Licht.
In passing: for the benefit of those concertgoers – and critics – who make a point of arriving in good time for events such as this, could something be done about latecomers who thoughtlessly walk into the hall mid-aria or chorus, their footsteps on the uncarpeted wooden floor providing a thoroughly unwanted clattering obbligato to Bach and Handel’s best efforts? What is the point of having ushers on duty if they do next to nothing about this maddeningly intrusive practice?
In many decades of attending – and writing about – concerts, I had never experienced a program presented by a male vocal harmony chorus ie until the weekend when I heard a performance by Vocal Evolution at Sir Thomas More College Chapel on the campus of the University of Western Australia.
Only brief moments into the curtainraiser – an altogether beguiling account of Blue Skies – it became unambiguously apparent that Vocal Evolution is a male voice ensemble of high order. From first note to last, its singing was an essay in ultra-professionalism with nary a wrong note, let alone a discord or a lapse in intonation.
Corporate tone could hardly have been bettered – and chording was everything one could have hoped for. With a unanimity of attack that most critics dream about but seldom encounter in reality, there was abundant evidence as well of care lavished on diction. Every word was as clearly enunciated as one could possibly expect it to be. It was an object lesson in how to do this sort of thing very well.
Vocal Evolution’s performance suggests it is an ensemble that rehearses regularly and intensively. Certainly, there were no passengers in this vocal group which harmonises with the ease that comes only from rehearsal that is totally focussed.
It is hardly surprising to learn that Vocal Evolution has won a swag of awards for its singing. At the Australian Association of Men’s Barbershop Singing National Convention in Hobart last September, Vocal Evolution won gold medals in every category it entered which, on the evidence of Saturday’s performance, is hardly surprising.
This is no stand-and-deliver group. On the contrary, the ensemble has a repertoire of discreetly choreographed movement that adds a pleasing visual dimension to the performance, enhancing the overall quality of excellence that informs everything Vocal Evolution presents. It is, moreover, clear that the singers relish performing – and this adds a further dimension to the overwhelmingly positive impact of the singing.
In so uniformly excellent a presentation, it is perhaps invidious to single out this item or that but it would be ungracious not to particularly mention Nexus’ account of You are my Sunshine (a near-faultless essay in pianissimo singing) and a memorable account by 3 Men and Adrian of Come Fly With Me.
Africa (by Toto) provided untrammelled listening pleasure; it deservedly brought the house down.
Are there any commercial recordings of Vocal Evolution? If this performance is anything to go by, there ought to be.
Although intended for performance at Callaway Auditorium, a last minute hitch prevented this happening which placed committee members under huge pressure to find another, suitable venue – very quickly. And this they did: St Thomas More College Chapel fitted the bill admirably, not least for its fine acoustic.
Immediately prior to the concert, the Royal Schools Music Club’s AGM took place.
Every committee member of every arts association in Australia should attend the RSMC’s Annual General Meetings to learn how to do this sort of thing in the most efficient way. Instead of the often meaningless time wasting on trivial matters that can make such meetings a seemingly endless, mind numbing experience, the RSMC committee gets through the agenda in minutes. Not a moment is wasted and the main business of the evening – the music – gets under way.
My first encounter with John Exton as performing musician was at a recital about 25 years ago in which he played a work that Bach had written for unaccompanied cello. John, though, most unusually, played it in a transcription for viola. I was at the time struck by the profound musicianship he brought to the task. It was a novel take on an established masterwork – but John, more often than not, approached life on his own, often unusual, terms.
Alan Bonds, who teaches violin at the University of Western Australia, recalls long ago domestic chamber music sessions presided over by John.
“It might start with a snack and a drink followed by an hour or two of Haydn and Mozart quartets, more refreshments, then Beethoven or Schubert dragged out, then, after a midnight snack, Brahms might make an appearance – the quartets or sextets – which often saw us to dawn. A swim at the beach might follow. I vividly remember John’s son Peter, then about 10 years old, appearing at the door of the living room around 2am, asking ‘Are you all totally mad?’ ”
John viewed the world through a singular prism, a man of very strongly held views, not easily swayed by a contrary opinion and not infrequently obdurate in defence of a point of view.
Young John took up the violin at the age of eleven and in 1950 became leader of the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain. He then read music at Cambridge, as a scholar, research student and later Fellow at King’s College.
He studied composition in London with Matyas Seiber who is believed to be the only composer to have met his end as a result of being sat upon by an elephant – and, after winning the prestigious Mendelssohn Scholarship for composition, he studied with Luigi Dallapiccola in Florence.
Two years’ National Service, involving work in acoustics with the R.A.F., bore fruit some fifteen years later in connection with an electronic studio in Perth.
Returning to Cambridge in 1960, John married Gillian Chadwick, a cartographer at Clarendon Press, and spent the next three years composing in an ancient thatched cottage with roses over the door and a huge open fireplace. He was awarded a Doctorate of Music by Cambridge University in 1964. He was then Director of Music at Bedales School in Hampshire for three years, before coming to Perth with sons Peter and Stephen. Gill recalls “we saw there was more room here, so we filled some of it with Jane. We bought an old house in Claremont, and John did things to it which gave him enormous satisfaction.“
During study leave from UWA in 1972, John visited several electronic music studios in USA and worked in one in Cardiff, Wales – and bought a fine 18th-century viola, an instrument after which he had long hankered but only played consistently from this time.
John would often swim against the tide. Although a product of Cambridge University, where the retrieval and preservation of early music performance practice was an article of faith, John would have none of it. His interest was in live performance – and he disapproved of recordings which he felt fossilized the experience of a piece of music.
As Alan Bonds points out, however, although John might have had little time for the music of, say, Elgar or Vaughan Williams, he would nonetheless use some of their works for the Student Chamber Orchestra at UWA and direct them with diligence and fidelity to the score – and there were adventurous excursions into lesser known repertoire by, inter alia, Purcell and Skalkottas.
Bonds, too, recalls with pleasure John’s immaculately prepared recitals with, among others, Madame Alice Carrard in repertoire which ranged from Bach to Webern.
John’s compositions range from orchestral pieces such as “Ryoanji” for 40 strings and percussion to works for solo oboe and solo violin. There are also seven string quartets and some electronic music works. An affinity for instrumental music and instrumentalists did not deter him from creativity in vocal music, producing, for instance, a setting of Hilaire Belloc’s Bad Child’s Book of Beasts for a concert by Kings College choir and a “Story of Christ’s Nativity according to St Luke for Bedales School. A highlight of his work in Perth was presiding over a performance of Bach’s St John Passion.
John’s interest in Buddhism, mainly Zen, had its origin around 1970 and developed
steadily. After a second trip to India in 1993, he encountered Theravada Buddhism which became important to him.
At John’s funeral, wife Gill said: “Our family has always been close and dear to us and some of our most valued times have been around the candlelit dining table, camping in the bush together and building our house in Kalamunda which we completed as a family team.”
Gardening was a long term delight and wife Gill says “he admired nature taking its course and interfered minimally with a mower or hand saw when grass grew or trees fell down. He grew vegies in Kalamunda when the family was at home but not by method. Results were variable.”
His garden, John said, had no weeds, for weeds were plants you don’t want and his were all welcome – and kangaroos came regularly to keep the grass short.
John Exton is survived by wife Gillian, children Peter, Stephen and Jane and eight grandchildren.
Neville Cohn
Stuart Hille contributes this recollection:
On, or very close to, John’s last teaching day within the (then) Department of Music, I came into his office to ask him a question about a particular student. By this time, I had just returned from my studies in the USA and had taken up a teaching fellowship at UWA. Of the many tutorials and lectures I gave, at least four were related to John’s course titled ‘Techniques of Musical Structure’. Every student undertook this course over his/her first two years of the Mus.B. program. It was a rite of passage about which, even to this day, I have never heard a word from a past student that wasn’t praiseworthy.
Without this two year course students would have had no understanding of modern counterpoint (or how counterpoint, in general, functioned, for that matter), harmonic and linear – including dodecaphonic – negotiation of atonality, and a assortment of related areas of creative techniques of prolongation. John had designed and re-designed the course in his quest to make its content as creatively and mentally stimulating as he could, mindful of the knowledge he would, initially, need to clear away the musty, derivative and lazy thinking of the secondary school system. And it was presented to students with a wit they wouldn’t have previously encountered, and in a manner that left no doubt about the depth of knowledge, and adoration of the art of music, of its presenter.
So, on this final day, I knocked on the door and entered the room. There was John, standing up and leaning on a floor to ceiling bookcase (a position he often adopted when completing the cryptic crossword of The Australian newspaper) and he was discarding, what I assumed to be, a clutter of useless papers and files….clearing out the premises, as it were. But, to my astonishment – no, my horror – he was throwing out ALL the folders and sheets, two year’s worth of indispensable education, of the entire course.
“What are you doing?” I asked with genuine dismay. “It’s useless now. This ‘lot’ (sic) won’t know what to do with it” he replied. I then responded: “Well I do and I’ll take it” as I, presumptuously, reached into the rubbish bin and rescued every file. I added: “And I’ll take these too” as I reached across for the other files awaiting to be similarly disposed of. John then said: “You’re welcome to them Stuart. Good luck!”. My telling of the incident is poor because it disguises the fact that he and I were both somewhat outraged that such a vital body of information had nowhere else, other than the trash bin, to go to be further utilised. The reader would need to have been present to hear the tone with which these words were spoken.
Over the years since, I have browsed through this course material and I have thought of ways to up-date it in places and to extend its reach to include ways of rhythmic variation, timbre as a unifying parameter, and even, during an additional year to start to introduce some higher level analysis (rather than the usual abrupt bolt to Schenkerism). On the whole, I think John would have been pleased with the evolution of his course and I feel it’s about the finest tribute I could make to commemorate such an intensely gifted and creative thinker.
Each page brings back a memory of the day it was presented to me, as a student in class: “Stravinsky went slowly downhill after Le Sacre” or, my personal favourite: “The organ’s nothing more than a box of whistles…it’s true, think about it”. So many gems, as they appear now, that felt like nasty stings at the time. These memories show an important part of John’s educative strategy: to hit them when they least expect it and, while the gap thus created – between conscious searching and shock – is there, insert the new information. This is the essence of masterful teaching.
I don’t know what I’m going to do the new ‘Techniques of Musical Structure’ and perhaps, for the time being, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t extricate the files to assuage John’s dark feelings about the department, for that was not my concern. I delivered them for what they contained and how they could be further enriched. It was unimaginable to me to try to visualise this mass of intelligence, insight and experience being ditched with the daily collected refuse of sandwich wrappers and cigarette butts.
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