Monthly Archives: April 2004

in flagranti Geoffrey Morris ( guitar and bass guitar )

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Donatoni, Ferneyhough, Cage et al
ABC Classics 465 701-2

TPT 1:6:52

 reviewed by Stuart Hille 

With the exception of the harp, the guitar creates a unique ambience of intimacy when used as a solo instrument. When writing for it, composers often feel the need, partly to counteract its closeness and partly to take advantage of it, to employ rapid changes of tonal range and to examine a huge span of colouristic nuances. They should always bear in mind that because of the instrument’s susurrant quality a ‘piano’ for example, becomes very soft and mysterious or a ‘forte’ penetrating and voiceful. Therefore, extra care needs to be adopted to create a work that utilises these facets in the service of a convincing musical shape.

As we shall see shortly, not all the items on ‘in flagranti’ display a persuasive sense of orientation or direction ( ie. an architecture that can be aurally detected ) but firstly we should note that soloist Geoffrey Morris, no matter the difficulties imposed by various works, shows fleet-footed accuracy and refinement throughout. Nor should we forget the sound engineers and supervisors as the care needed to negotiate this medium requires a delicate sense of sonic footing.

When observing the many colouristic distinctions used by the composers featured on this disc it must be remembered that they are just that – differentia; and if these are used as major structural determinants they quickly become overwrought.

There is one work in particular – David Young’s ‘Jasmine’ – which appears to have missed this point. The leaflet notes inform us that there is considerable intellectual life in the music and this may well be true but it has become enshrouded by glissandi, quarter tones, difficult and wavering harmonics, rapid juxtapositions of dynamics and so forth thus denying the piece a palpable sense of shape.

One appreciates, on paper, Young’s inspiration arising from a jasmine plant and the implication of germination, growth and coup de grace ( the macro and micro musical equivalents being obvious ) but it is lost in the telling and, consequently, the abundance of gestures become self-defeating. And while ‘Jasmine’ is the most
obvious example to take, Young is certainly not alone in the obscuration of a simple image or idea.

Gabriele Manca’s ‘In flagranti’ ( the disc’s namesake ) uses a profusion of gestures and techniques, particularly ‘bottle necking’, in such a way that minor parameters are relied on for major scaffolding, thereby giving the music an amorphousness rather than firm foundation. Also, as with Young’s composition, the length of ‘In flagranti’, as a result of or a perception of meandering dialogue, seems inordinately long.

Similarly, Brian Ferneyhough’s ‘Kurze Schatten II’ ( Short Shadows II ) and Franco Donatoni’s ‘Algo: Due pezzi per chitarra’, while certainly not lacking audible shape, are overextended in duration. Both composers have a firmly established reputation for rationality or calculation. Donatoni is perhaps more accessible or relaxed in attitude and this is mirrored in his music but Ferneyhough has a penchant for complexity. His composition here is no exception and one strongly suspects that the temporal overreach is a result of a convolution that simply took this long to resolve. To reduce it to three movements would create a fine, engaging piece of music. But would, of course, be unthinkable for the composer.

Geoffrey Morris, undaunted by the technical intricacies of any of the works, proves his prowess and responsiveness time and again. There is also a naturalness or unpretentiousness in his approach that one finds refreshing. This is most useful in the rendition of Michael Finnissy’s ‘Two Motets’ ( which, in the disc’s general context, appears to be somewhat naive ).

Deborah Kayser ( soprano ) and Morris combine to give the work gentleness and an improvisatory quality through attention for rhythmic flexibility. Yet one still wonders why the piece, surrounded by the volcanicity of Donatoni, Young, Marca and Ferneyhough, is included in the recording. Not that its presence is unwelcome, just confusing. It is soon realised that its principal rÙle is to act as a foil – a penumbral backdrop for the fireworks to follow.

While the programming of the Finnissy might seem a little contrived, the choice of the final two numbers – ’15 Zwiefache’ by Walter Zimmermann and ‘composed Improvisation’ by John Cage demonstrates doubtless manipulation. The notion of contrast between the rational and the aleatoric, the us/them mentality has gradually undergone integration over the past thirty years resulting in new syntheses, new styles and new attitudes. So to find it resurfacing on a recent recording which begins with Donatoni and ends with Cage and is centred by Ferneyhough and Zimmermann, is not only pedantic but also dated.

A more satisfying format would have been the placement of ’15 Zwiefache’ between ‘In flagranti’ and ‘Kurze Schatten II’. In programming, heterogeneous balance is far preferable to one that draws attention to distinct differences.

In spite of this, there is a great deal here of interest – especially for the connoisseur of late twentieth century guitar music. The enforced historical layout is unnecessary but the album, nevertheless, is an excellent showcase for Geoffrey Morris.

With the exception of the final work, where his improvisatory skills show a need for fine-tuning and a deeper understanding that such music really only requires the need for the performer to act as a conduit for external sounds, he appears to have not only surmounted the athletic demands but has done so with considerable felicity and a fine perception of dynamic counterpoise.

© Stuart Hille 2004.

Theme and Deviations – the piano music of Sonny Chua

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SONNY CHUA (piano)
MOVE MD 3230
TPT: 01:11:20

reviewed by Neville Cohn 

Theme and Deviations features the music of Sonny Chua, performed by the composer who was born in Penang, Malaysia but now lives in Melbourne. Much of this delightful recital consists of short pieces, some less than half a minute long and many of which are irreverently tongue-in-cheek. Some of a 15-track bracket, called “assorted fairies”, have a zany, madcap quality – “twinkling fairy”, played high in the treble register, has a tinkling, musical box feel to it; “funky fairy” is a quirky miniature with its off-beat accents – and “cuckoo fairy” is instantly identified by that unfortunate bird’s characteristic call. “red hot rhapsodies” is memorable for its “Jamaican Fumble”, a little toccata in tricky 5/8 time.

 

The title work – “Theme and Deviations” – is a hoot with its allusions to Bizet’s Carmen, Arthur Benjamin’s Jamaican Rhumba and honky tonk a la Scott Joplin. I liked, too, Rodeo, a high-octane, cheerfully noisy romp. And Yo ho ho is a robust, very jolly jig. But it’s not all fun and games. Vision, with its peremptory chords, has a dark, sombre quality – and the “Preludio” of the Sonatina has solid, striding chords that give way to toccata-like measures to which the “Intermezzo” is an introspective foil; it leads into the rapidity and insouciance of the concluding “Rondo”.

 


Wallflowering (Peta Murray)

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Bruce Myles (director)
Playhouse Theatre

reviewed by Neville Cohn

For a little over two hours, with no intermission to break the spell, Noeline Brown and Doug Scroope bring to their roles as a long-married couple going through a troubled time the sort of understated artistry that critics dream about but seldom encounter in the theatre.

Past middle age, apparently childless (and therefor no grandchildren to bring some cheer into their drab suburban existences) and heading uncertainly into early old age, this couple who seem uncomfortable with, and unequal to, societal change (not least that of rampant feminism) bounce their concerns off one another with what Thoreau termed ‘quiet desperation’.

Scroope is Cliff Small, a timid man, so desperate to present himself as more significant than he really is, that to bolster his self image, he builds on a long-ago prize for ballroom dancing with his wife Peggy by buying blank trophies which he has engraved as if awarded to him for this or that fictitious win.

Peggy, despite being troubled by seeds of self doubt, is, on the whole, more self-confident and feisty than the insecure Cliff who compulsively – but hopelessly – draws up lists such as catchy titles for the book he will never write. His great achievement is to have mastered the art of self deception.

It’s impossible not to feel for Cliff’s plight even while thinking that a good shaking would jolt him out of the quagmire of self-pity he’s drowning in. Metaphorically peering at the world through a glass darkly, Cliff leaves the impression that nothing short of a huge Division One win in Lotto and the attentions of some reigning screen queen could repair his battered and cracked self-image.

Whether so intended or not, Anna Borghesi’s dark and ugly
backing set design parallels Cliff’s depressing self assessment. Rachel Burke’s unpretentious lighting design materially aids evocation of mood. And the couple’s occasional dance turns (choreographed by Tony Bartuccio)
on a small circular dais mid-stage have about them a bittersweet sadness, rather like raking over old coals now burnt out and very cold.

With scarcely a foot put wrong in both senses of the term, the pair mull over disappointments and unconsummated dreams. It’s no mean achievement to do so for two hours without an intermission or weakening of focus.

Brown and Scroope rise to the challenge with all the finesse one has come to expect as a matter of course from two of the most polished professionals treading the Australian boards. Bravo!

Copyright 2004 Neville Cohn


Ballet Nacional (Spain)

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Festival Theatre
Adelaide Festival Centre

reviewed by Deanna Blacher

 

This was an extraordinary dance season, not only for the quality of every aspect of the production but also for the emotions engendered – and the solidarity apparent between company and audience – in the wake of the horrific
train bombings in Madrid.

Dancing, as always, with genuine passion and sense of drama, intensified in the days following the Atocha
killings, the BN fully engaged the audiences that packed the Festival Centre, Adelaide for each performance of the season. Certainly, there was an awareness that we were experiencing dance theatre of greatness, only rarely encountered in years of viewing the best – and the worst ­ in dance. These performances, though, will live in the
memory long after the applause has died and the posters faded.

The dancers of the BN rank with the very best in the world’s top classical and contemporary companies. They do a daily ballet class and it is this innate discipline as well as unusual versatility that make a strong impression. In addition to the four main styles of Spanish dance (of which flamenco is only one), jazz and contemporary dance movementare part of daily practice. The BN choreographers thus have that rare breed of dancers with whom to work: those who, in technical and stylistic terms, can do just about anything. It results in dance that is exciting to watch and infinitely more interesting than an evening of unrelieved, albeit pure, flamenco. The BN’s artistry , not least its overall musicality, is exceptional. And the percussive nature of much of the company’s presentation adds to the visual elegance and grandeur of their dancing.

Former company member, now director, Elvira Andres, who brings her own experience and training as Spanish classical and flamenco dancer to her work, has created a unique blend of the traditional and the contemporary that so many dance practitioners seek but so seldom achieve. I particularly admired her choreography entitled Mujeres (Women) which comes across as a celebration of the female form in current Spanish dance terms.

In an environment where attention is often more focussed on the male dancers (who more usually receive the lion’s share of kudos), seeing women dancers so commandingly brought into the limelight made for an engrossing experience. This abstract piece represented the inextricable interweaving of dance in the lives of these performers. Six women in elegant gray gowns, different necklines underlining their individuality, mesmerised by the sheer beauty of the intriguing mix of classical, contemporary and flamenco dance movement, seamlessly-stated castanet obligati and set to an evocative contemporary score.

The artistry of the women and clever choreography gave substance to an idea that might have worked less well in
less accomplished hands. And the legacy of Victoria Eugenia’s influence with her intensely musical setting of
the castanets within a feminine dance style, was a welcome presence in Mujeres.

El Grito, a choreography by Antonio Canales, was the curtain raiser, opening with a Siguiriyas sung in the
purest of jondo styles. Dressed in pastel shades that were reminiscent of some of Goya’s tapestries, and led by
Ester Jurado, (a Sevillana carrying the purest traditions in her blood and bones), the dancers gave us Siguiriyas, Soleares, Alegrias and Tangos in impeccable style and compas. Backed by three guitarists, as many singers, a flautist and a percussionist on cajon, this was a splendid partnership.

Similarly, the Farruca danced on alternate nights by Oscar Jimenez and Francisco Velasco, was a memorable marriage of music and dance where footwork was an additional percussive dimension and an integral part of the whole. Both have prodigious techniques which admirably serve their different interpretations.

Having seen many interpretations of the role of Medea as choreographed by Jose Granero, featuring, inter alia, those of Manuela Vargas, Merche Esmeralda, Ana Gonzalez and Lola Greco – all flamenco dancers of greatness – I cannot readily recall so gripping an interpretation as that of Maribel Galliardo. Her finely wrought portrayal of Medea as a deeply troubled woman, scorned and in emotional pain was rivetting and unfailingly in character in every one of her performances of the Adelaide season. It was a tour de force.

Juan Mata as the father and Francisco Velasco as Jason led a strong cast that created a small miracle each night of the run.

Granero’s choreography, arguably the finest of his career, skillfully weaves flamenco, folk tradition and ballet into
a satisfying whole. The danced conversations were particularly succint in a way that made program notes superfluous; the message of the story was unambiguously conveyed.

I would have liked to experience Medea to a live orchestral accompaniment playing Manuel Sanlucar’s splendid score. The togetherness that would have resulted from a sympathetic conductor presiding over events was sometimes lacking – but in relations to the splendour of the production as a whole, this is little more than a quibble.

The lighting design was consistently appropriate to the changing moods of the production.

Copyright 2004 Deanna Blacher



Eileen Joyce: A Portrait by Richard Davis

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Fremantle Arts Centre Press

$29-95 264pp

 

Reviewed by Stuart Hille

 

Eileen Joyce

Eileen Joyce

 

 

One of the difficulties experienced when reading a biography is that we know the general outline of the subject’s life before the first page has been perused. For the biographer, the task is relatively straightforward – data collection and interpretation with a soupcon of anecdotes. The challenge is to combine all this given material in a way and at a pace that maintains the reader’s interest.

To Richard Davis’ credit, his biography ‘Eileen Joyce: A Portrait’ achieves just that. His style is fluid and trim , his analyses elucidate the material and he carefully avoids that uncomfortable sense of turbidity that imbues so many biographies ( generally when the author has a hidden agenda ). This book is indeed well – toned and attentively metered.

However, it can’t avoid what appears to be the inevitable lull experienced in all biographies. This occurs when the subject’s life goes through a period of stability or regularity ( in Joyce’s case : 1937 – 1946 ). It is here that the writer becomes ineluctably caught up in the mundane routine of the referent.

Obviously Davis can’t ignore the fact that Joyce’s artistic life, due to the travel restrictions imposed by WWII, was forced into a time of fixity. Being a compulsive worker, she relished the hectic pace of performing in hospitals, studios and all manner of concert venues throughout the UK and such stalwartness appears to have endeared her to the public and press while simultaneously turning her name into an eminently marketable commodity. But this does not afford a great deal of riveting biographical reading.

One appreciates the author’s impasse but perhaps this could have been alleviated somewhat if he had chosen a less inventorial approach. The reader can all but guess which of the ‘heroic’ concerti would be featured at a specific concert or which of the litany of cloyingly titled (and sounding ) pieces would jostle for face-room in a solo recital. Nowadays, one cringes with embarrassment at the very mention of naming a piece ‘Lotus Land’, ‘Rustle of Spring’, ‘Si Oiseau J’etais’ et al.

While the public life of the pianist had become repetitious, her private existence was anything but monotone. Her marriage to Douglas Barratt, despite the birth of a son (John), quickly deteriorated – assuming that there had been at least a modicum of feeling to begin with.

Douglas died under enemy fire while serving aboard the HMS Gossamer in 1942. On his final shore leave, Joyce made sure that her husband came home to an empty house – depriving him of the chance to see his son for what would have been the last time. It was an Eileen Joyce trait, as we shall later see, to show overt bitterness towards those who most piqued her.

It wasn’t long before she was again ploughing through her established performing schedule with admirable determination. Privately, she had met the entrepreneur Christopher Mann. By accounts, it was more than mutual infatuation for the two, according to Mann , some three years later, were married in 1943. Despite the fact that they lived together as husband and wife for thirty seven years, it has been questioned whether they did so in true conjugality. Davis puts it nicely: ‘The benefits of their union were great to both parties but, if they were not legally married, the ‘illegality’ added another skein to the web of subterfuge and more weight to Eileen’s baggage of lies’.

Her mendacity has become quite legendary in its breadth and confusing in its mission. She must have been gormlessly naive if she didn’t realise that her deceit would be unearthed before her death. Perhaps she neurotically believed that her lies created an artistic mystique. Whatever the case, it would have been difficult, as she grew increasingly senile, to remember why those around her were, let us say, celebrating a milestone birthday or how she came to be born in a tent in remote Western Australia when in fact she as born in a hospital in Tasmania.

One wonders whether Christopher Mann helped to forge and promulgate some of the later falsities and exaggerations. Being a highly successful agent and promoter, he certainly had the right pedigree. Moreover, like his wife – perhaps even more so – he could show rancour and induration. As a case in point, Mann’s treatment of his stepson, applied with the full collusion of his wife, could have been lifted from the darkest of Dickensian novels.

Davis deals with the subject towards the end of his book although, it is to be assumed, he can do little more than to touch upon its issues. Unless John Barrett decides to publish an expose, for cathartic purposes, we will never know the full extent of the psychological abuse. Equally so, we are left with inconclusive justification for Joyce’s persistent lies. There is, however, one incontrovertible reality that threads her attitude towards others although, given her profession, this in itself forms yet another ambiguity.

We need go no further than what is evinced by her playing (the book is accompanied by a disc of selected performances ) because there can be no duplicity or dissemblance here. One becomes somewhat awed by her craftsmanship: dynamics that span degrees from ‘the point of sound’ through to powerful fortissimi, phenomenal dexterity and an excellent adaptation of style – all demonstrated within a carefully measured framework. Yet the more one listens, the more one perceives a low emotional temperature. There are passages of grace and subtlety but not sincere poignancy; nimble but not Delphic; pyrotechnic but not full-blooded or rapturous. Her style forms the most elegant of hedgerows but it doesn’t allow us to see the garden just beyond. Or perhaps we really do not want to see it.

Here is a woman who adored haute couture, relished film roles, gave her audiences everything they asked for (in the true spirit of Edna Everage), practised with incredible sedulity and yet could spurn the love offered by her family, could be condescending in her treatment of the general public, coveted honours and was prone to create an intangible persona through deception. Ironically, she developed an altruistic facet later in life as we know well from her generous donations to the University of Western Australia’s music department. Such apparent philanthropy would not seem to have been motivated by any sense of penitence but rather from a realisation that, with her life drawing to a close, she needed to leave a meaningful legacy. This she achieved.

Richard Davis, with complete objectivity, follows all the convolutions of his subject to create a fascinating biography. He offers the occasional explanation or interpretation to allow the reader to pause and reflect. However, one aspect of the book, evident from the earliest chapters, is its lack of reference to any episodes of levity or humour in Joyce’s life. One conjectures there was very little comedy in the way it was lived.

© Stuart Hille 2004