Duo Sol & Li-Wei Perth Concert Hall

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Duo Sol & Li-Wei

 

Perth Concert Hall

reviewed by Neville Cohn 

As we have seen in saturation coverage of the Olympic Games, teamwork is (almost) everything. And that applies to music as well. Certainly insofar as cellist Li-Wei and the musicians of Duo Sol – pianist Caroline Almonte and violinist Miki Tsunoda – are concerned, their ability to work as a team deserves gold medals and laurel crowns. In fact, what these youthful, dazzlingly gifted three do NOT know about teamwork – and a good deal besides in music terms – would not cover the tiniest laurel leaf.

Li-Wei was born in Shanghai and came to Australia when he was thirteen years old. Since his sensational win as 1993 ABC Young Performer of the Year, he has gone on to an international career. And since the earliest of Duo Sol’s recordings came on the market, it was clear that these two players had way-above-average rapport in performance.

This was the first time I have heard these musicians as a trio. I have no idea whether they intend to continue working as an ensemble. I sincerely hope they do because, on the evidence of an astonishingly fine account of Dvorak’s Dumky Trio, it is clear that their musical chemistry borders on the exceptional.

Even the most casual follower of chamber music is likely to be familiar with the Dumky work; there are dozens of recordings of it on the market and it is one of the most commonly broadcast of chamber works. But if there were any oh-not-again thoughts as the three launched into the work, they would have evaporated almost immediately as the opening measures were played with a heart-stopping beauty. And as violinist and cellist, their bows dipped deep in the stuff of high inspiration – and Almonte at her winning best at the keyboard – soared through to a medal-winning finale, it proved to be one of the most satisfying accounts of the work I’ve listened to in ages.

On the way, each of Dvorak’s six exquisite takes on the Dumky, a type of Ukrainian folk music that became widely adopted in Slavonic countries and raised to sublime level by Dvorak, was presented with an artistry that was extraordinary, not least for rhythmic ebb and flow of the subtlest sort as the music oscillated between passion and a deep melancholy. Not even ear-grating outbursts of coughing and throat clearing from the audience inbetween its many movements could lessen the pleasure that this splendid offering provided.

Li-Wei plays a 1721 filius Andreae Guarneri cello (on loan from the Australia Council) as if it was an extension of his musical persona. He is entirely worthy of this magnificent instrument which, in his hands, sang with a singularly seductive sonority. It – and Li-Wei’s musicianship – were heard to stunning effect in a work new to me – Brett Dean’s Huntington Elegy, an opus in three movements , one of which is a threnody for Jason Brodie, a young winemaker taken by cancer.

Some of music’s most profound moments have been triggered by the passing of a friend – as here – or the death of a group as in Dennis Eberhard’s Shadow of the Swan, written in memory of the doomed crew of the Russian submarine Kursk. Dean’s touching music memorial found exponents of exceptional merit in Li-Wei and pianist Almonte who drew from a deep well of expressiveness to convey musical ideas that sounded the quintessence of bereavement.

Its impact was all the greater, coming as it did after a curious episode called Swarming, an evocation of a gathering of bees for which a cello happens to be ideal with Li-Wei drawing from it a range of murmurings and buzzings that uncannily resembled those of the tiny pollen gatherers; it provided one of the evening’s more unusual moments.

The Nightsky movement was less persuasive with rather tired compositional devices such as requiring the pianist to pluck piano strings with her fingers or tap them with a soft-headed mallet, effects which, in the event, sounded so tonally self-effacing (when listened to from a seat in the 17th row) as to be all but inaudible.

There was also a rare airing of Richard Strauss’ massive Sonata for violin and piano. It’s fun to play Spot the Composer here. Strauss liked to borow bits and pieces from other people’s music and those with keen ears might have noticed thudding repeated notes in the middle of the slow movements which are a sly crib of Schubert’s famous Erl King lied – and there’s a snatch of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata, too, as well as a hint of Wagner’s Tristan. More importantly, this youthful work is a trailer for the magic that was to pour from the mature Strass’ pen. Throughout, the duo seemed to relish coming to grips with music that is often cruelly demanding. Much of it needs to be played at white hot intensity – and that is exactly what Tsunoda (in a stunning crimson gown) and Almonte gave us.

This was one of Music Viva’s most fascinating presentations this year.

Copyright Neville Cohn 2004


FAUST (Gounod) W.A.Opera Company and Chorus W.A.Symphony Orchestra

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FAUST (Gounod)

W.A.Opera Company and Chorus
W.A.Symphony Orchestra
His Majesty’s Theatre

 

reviewed by Neville Cohn 

 

 

What elevates this production of Gounod’s Faust to a special category of excellence is its unequivocal and powerful anti-war message. Of many presentations of Faust encountered over the decades, most of them significant in one way or another, not one – until now – has so effectively conveyed the madness of armed conflict. In every other production I’ve seen, the Soldiers’ Chorus scene, that most instantly recognisable of all Faust excerpts, has featured in an unambiguously celebratory way with flags fluttering, soldiers proudly marching and sweethearts and parents jovial, proud and smiling.

This has become an operatic cliché, that is to say, until this production which sweeps away this jingoistic hokum, a patently false notion of war as fun. Instead, we’re given a stunningly different dramatic statement. Here we see disfigured and dying soldiery, the maimed on crutches, some on stretchers, others pasty-faced, shell-shocked, blankly staring. It made for powerful viewing and listening (not that it’s ever likely to stop old men with too much power sending young men – and now women – to often pointless deaths).

Also memorable was that other crucial episode in which the devil reveals his Achilles heel, cowering as dark-clad choristers show him the sign of the cross as they sing the Chorale of the Swords.

Bruce Martin was a good choice as the Devil; he has cornered the local market insofar as diabolical types are concerned. And here, his sardonic, leering presence (with his improbable retinue of muscle men in Arabian Nights-style garb) could hardly be faulted.

Keith Lewis was unfailingly expressive in the eponymous role although occasionally his voice let him down with a cracked note her and there high on the register. But in visual terms, he appeared far too youthful in the opening scene. Faust, after all, is a very old man with fading libido, contemplating suicide, when he has his satanic encounter and, in what turns out to be a very poor bargain, sells his soul in return for youth and women.

In this production, though, he seemed, to begin with, little more than middle-aged, neither grey-haired nor balding as one would expect of someone nearing the end of life. And removing his spectacles for his transformtion did almost nothing to make him look any younger.

His scene in which Faust stabs Valentin, Marguerite’s brother, to death – his knife guided by the devil – came across powerfully, even more so because – in a rare departure from the norm – Siebel, too, is fatally knifed by Faust.

For much of the evening, Elisa Wilson, as Marguerite, shaped to the demands of her role like wine to a goblet. Sounding more vocally assured than I can readily recall in some time, she was, variously, modest, coquettish and – pregnant with Faust’s bastard child – deranged.

This latter incarnation, though vocally persuasive, bordered on melodrama, Marguerite’s pasty white face more appropriate for, say, a distressed heroine in some 1917-era silent movie; it was over the top. But there was compensation in her aria about the King of Thule; it was altogether pleasing.

And the descent to Hell, in a clinch, of Faust and Mephistopheles was, visually, a moment of such inconsequence as to almost entirely drain it of dramatic force. Unusually, the closing scene, traditionally set in a prison, was an insane asylum. And instead of Marguerite’s soul being seen to be borne aloft by angels, as Gounod envisaged it, we see her dying against a tableau of asylum inmates gesturing heavenwards and watched by two nuns who charmingly keep their charges under control by bashing them with wooden clubs.

There was some inspired casting in smaller roles. Fiona Campbell, unrecognisable as Siebel, the young man charged with protecting Marguerite, was, as ever, in glorious voice. (Why is this exceptional singer not heard in more substantial roles?). Also a delight was Sarah-Janet Dougiamas as Marguerite’s neighbour Marthe Schwerlein. Every note and gesture was here made meaningful; she, too, is a singer to watch. Mark Alderson as Wagner and Lucas de Jong as Valentin made the most of minor roles.

In this Olympic season, it was conductor Stephen Barlow who thoroughly deserved a laurel crown, drawing from a reduced W.A.Symphony Orchestra in the pit, some of the most persuasive accompaniments I can recall hearing at an opera at His Majesty’s Theatre. Strings sounded gratifyingly fine and oboist Joel Marangella and Alan Meyer (clarinet) provided outstanding contributions.

There were any number of imaginative directorial touches such as placing the chorus under umbrellas with what was presumably the pre-recorded sound of rain heard in the background. Dressing the chorus in dark blue or black was an inspiration, adding memorably to the brooding, oppressive nature of much of the opera. But most unusually for a WAOC production, the chorus was not always quite synchronised with the accompanying orchestra.

I admired Matthew Barclay’s choreography which, unlike most dance presentations in Faust, was cleverly woven into, rather than gratuitously imposed on, the action. Shane Collard, with clean line and strong presence, shows much promise.

John Gunter designed the sets, that of Act 1 – Faust’s study – cluttered with the detritus of a scholarly life, a place clearly foreign to any cleaning lady’s ministrations. Nigel Levings’ lighting design splendidly underscored the prevailing mood of the moment.

Copyright Neville Cohn 2004


PORTRAITS Jean-Yves Thibaudet (piano)

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thibauChopin, Liszt, Francaix, Gershwin, Debussy, Mendelssohn, Nyman, Ellington, Satie, Ravel

TPT: 2:28:44
DECCA 476 159-5 (2-CD)

 

  reviewed by Neville Cohn

 

 

In yet another fine 2-CD issue in the DECCA SBS series, pianist Jean-Yves Thibaudet is showcased in a compilation that lasts just under two and a half hours. Especially in the French repertoire, Thibaudet shapes to the demands of the music like Moet and Chandon to a goblet.
I savoured his account of Debussy’s Pour le Piano. In the Prelude, and unlike that famous recording of some decades ago on a Columbia LP by Walter Gieseking which is informed by a softly mellow sound, Thibaudet brings glittering tone to flawlessly stated note streams. I admired, too, his account of the Sarabande which comes across like a little marvel of dignified introspection ¬ and the lightness of touch in the Toccata is everything one could have wished for.
In Ravel’s Piano Trio, Thibaudet is joined by stellar co-musicians violinist Joshua Bell and cellist Steven Isserlis in a recording of breathtaking quality. Pantoum is magical with its delicate, quasi-pointillist sounds and feather-light buoyancy. The inherent solemnity of the Passacaille is near-perfectly evoked, the perfect foil for the finale in which gossamer-delicate, souffle-light textures at high speed astonish the ear.
Central to much of Thibaudet’s playing is a quality of elegance, wonderfully apparent in Mendelssohn’s Andante and Rondo Capriccioso, drawing on the deepest wells of expressiveness in the opening pages and demonstrating prestidigitation in the capriccio that places Thibaudet comfortably to the fore of current finger-Olympians. Thibaudet’s interpretation impressively captures the elfen nature of much of the writing; it is an interesting contrast to Julius Katchen’s famous DECCA LP recording made years ago which is tonally very much more substantial.
Thibaudet’s skill in executing rapid, silvery-toned, delicato treble traceries with the nonchalance of mastery is much in evidence in Liszt’s Rigoletto Paraphrase.

And of his account of Chopin’s Piano Concerto No 2, it is the slow movement that is most memorable, coming across in so thoughtfully lyrical a way as to sound like an extended, beautifully considered nocturne briefly interrupted by abrupt declamations midway. Thibaudet is soloist with the Rotterdam Philharmonic conducted by Valery Gergiev. And he is a flawless soloist with the Orchestre Symphonique de Montreal under Charles Dutoit in Francaix’s engaging Concertino – but sounds not entirely in sympathy with Liszt’s Hungarian Fantasy.
Can there be a more hackneyed Chopin nocturne than his opus 9 no 2 in E flat, regularly massacred at the hands of earnest young piano players at eisteddfodau. Listen, then, to Thibaudet’s account – and give thanks that such artistry exists to unlock the exquisite potential of this little piece.
There’s also a vignette by Duke Ellington – A single petal of a rose – its quiet, introverted beauty evoked to the nth degree.
© 2004


Convict Harpsichordist

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convict1Elizabeth Anderson (harpsichord)

MOVE CD 3242

 

reviewed by Neville Cohn

Harpsichord playing at a very high level, meticulously researched notes with fascinating illustrations and CD-ROM images combine to unusually satisfying effect here.

Who was John Grant and how does he fit into the colonial history of New South Wales? What did he do that, centuries later, makes him a figure of fascination? The story, very briefly, is this: Grant had taken a fancy to one Anna Ward who lived in London. But her mother and one John Townsend, who was her mother’s lawyer (and Anna’s guardian) were dead set against the match and told Grant in no uncertain terms.

This infuriated the touchy Grant who challenged Townsend to a duel. Townsend, instead of trying to calm the agitated Grant, inflamed the situation by walking away from it – and grant then impulsively shot Townsend in the buttock (whether right or left is not revealed in the liner notes). For this rash act, Grant was sentenced to death. But only hours before the sentence was to be carried out, King George III commuted the sentence to transportation for life to the then-infant colony of New South Wales.

And when Grant set sail for the antipodes in 1804, he took along his harpsichord, this being the first ever such instrument brought to the antipodes.

As soon as he landed, Grant began his quest for a pardon, lobbying anyone whom he thought might advance his case. But his abrasive manner did him little good initially as he got up the noses of various NSW bigwigs, often gate-crashing governmental garden parties and button-holing anyone he thought could advance his case.

The versatile Grant also put in stints as lay preacher on Norfolk Island and as lay clergyman at Coal River near Newcastle. He even asked Governor Bligh (of Bounty mutiny fame) to help get him pardoned. Perhaps, just to get him out their hair, Grant was eventually pardoned and sailed home in 1811 to be re-united with his mother who had herself applied more than a little pressure to the newly-appointed Governor Macquarie when he took tea with her at the old lady’s Sloan Street home in London where she doubtless bent the governor-designate’s ear as she spoke of her yearning to be re-united with her son.

How all the aforegoing relates to the music on this compact disc is this: while it cannot be said with certainty what sort of music Grant played on his well-travelled harpsichord, all the works on this compilation were freely available in London at the time Grant was bundled off to NSW. Elizabeth Anderson, who, some time ago, made an impressive recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, is here in magnificent form. Certainly, her magisterial readings embody a quality of nobility that is only very rarely encountered on CD – and all the more satisfying for that.

I especially admired Scarlatti’s Sonata in F minor, K386, with Anderson’s artistry drawing the listener ineluctably into the composer’s idiosyncratic sound and mood world. And Handel’s Suite No 5 is given a frankly magnificent reading; the disc is worth having if only to listen to playing of such impeccable style.

The sound engineers, doubtless inspired by Anderson’s Olympian readings, have done her proud; recorded sound is uniformly excellent.

Adding to the pleasure of this exceptional product are fascinatingly illustrated liner notes, a 19-minute CD-ROM video about John Grant’s extraordinary story as well as a specially commissioned work for harpsichord by Ron Nagorcka – This Beauteous Wicked Place in which harpsichord sound is overlaid with Australian bush sounds including bird song – and there are the sounds of clapping sticks and didgeridoo as well.

Adding yet another dimension to this idea, Elizabeth Anderson together with an actor reading extracts of Grant’s letters and official documents of the time, have, in the context of the City of London Festival, presented the story and music in quasi-theatrical terms in a foyer of London’s Old Bailey where Grant had been sentenced many years before.It has also been performed in this way in Melbourne.

*In years of reviewing compact discs, many of the highest quality, I have never encountered so satisfying a product as this MOVE CD. For quality of content, fullness of liner notes with accompanying illustrations as well as a fascinating CD-ROM visual component. This is a product that ought to be recognised as the model it is; it deserves the very highest praise.

© Neville Cohn 2004

 


Aaron Copland Music for Piano

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Raymond Clarke (piano)
Passacaglia; Piano Variations; Piano Sonata; Piano Fantasy

The Divine Art 25016
TTP: 1:16:52

reviewed by Neville Cohn

 

 

 

The other evening, I conducted a snap mini-poll among some friends. What, I asked, were the two works that sprang first to mind on hearing the name Aaron Copland? All of the eight polled named Appalachian Spring as a first choice, and, as second, three chose Fanfare for the Common Man, two named Rodeo and the remaining three opted for El Salon Mexico. But when I asked how many of Copland’s works for solo piano they could name, none of the eight – each an enthusiastic and experienced follower of music – could come up with an answer.

Passacaglia, with its stark and sombre octaves in the left hand, conjures up images of implacable, giant-like strides across a landscape. Here, Clarke, at a superb Steinway piano, hurls massive chunks of sound through the speakers; it’s presented with immense authority, taking all Copland’s contrapuntal ingenuity in his stride.

Copland’s Piano Variations is music that ranges from the tender and lyrical to measures that bristle with brusqueness, music that startles with, for want of better words, its sneering, in-your-face quality. Other variations irresistibly call up images of torment, of a barely contained hysteria. And there are, too, moments which would be an entirely appropriate soundtrack for a movie scene depicting vindictiveness and spite.

Somewhere, Copland has written that for his Variations to succeed in performance, the whole should seem to be greater than the sum of its constituent parts. On the evidence of this recording, Raymond Clarke succeeds in this – and succeeds well. Certainly, this is a performance to which I’ve returned again and again, with each hearing providing fresh insights into a work that ought to be far more frequently heard.

Copland’s Fantasy runs for just over half an hour. Much of it is couched in improvisatory-like terms, music that takes the listener across constantly changing, sometimes startling musical territory. In less authoritative hands, this could well sound meandering, formless and tedious.

Clarke, happily, has a rare gift, an ability to give point and meaning to even the most abstruse and esoteric of writing, and succeeds in conveying a sense of logic, no mean feat in so complex a work. The score is dotted with directions to the pianist: “hurried and tense”, “gradual return to poetic, drifting”, to which Clarke responds with an answering depth of expressiveness. It’s a major achievement.

Clarke, in fact, turns the work into musical gold with magnificent washes of sound, moments of heart-easing tenderness with, elsewhere, tone that has an altogether pleasing needle-sharp, diamond-bright quality. I especially admired Clarke’s exponential skill some twenty minutes into the work where we hear what sounds for all the world like some frenzied carillon and muscularly emphasized note clusters.

This ability to bring cogency and clarity to what in other hands could sound impenetrable, is impressive. This is musical problem-solving at a high level.

Neil Butterworth once described Copland’s Piano Sonata as ‘abstract music of ascetic introversion’. And who, hearing the work, would gainsay him? Although not without its strident moments and lively, syncopated rhythms, it is the musing quietness of much of the writing that lingers longest in the memory. The central vivace is a delight with its puckish, nimble outbursts that are the quintessence of impudence.

Hopefully, Clarke’s accounts of Copland’s works will
gain them the audience they deserve. Certainly, they’ve languished too long in the shadows of Copland’s more frequently heard works.

© 2004 Neville Cohn