Category Archives: Concert Reviews

Be it orchestral, chamber or something totally different, I try to write a review of every concert I go to. Sometimes they’re written in a spare five minutes, at others they become musings on bigger musical ideas.

London Klezmer Quartet

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Melba Hall free lunchtime concert – 25th March

Something a little different on the menu for Melba Hall’s free lunchtime concerts is always a welcome surprise. It was great to see that the London Klezmer Quartet drew such a large crowd – even if it did seem like a few members of said crowd had become a travelling fan club. Despite some technical difficulties, the quartet were mostly up-beat and played a wide range of tunes interspersed with a few songs.

I did wonder a little whether this was quite the right venue for such a group – though they certainly seemed unfazed by the wide stage and hushed audience. The problem was that all felt the need to be on their best behaviour, to applaud at the right times and to keep any extraneous body movement to a minimum. Something of an oxymoron when the music is so intrinsically linked to dancing! I certainly found myself jiggling away in my seat, and would much prefer to have been in a bar or at a festival. When the audience did join in with clapping, it was almost apologetic.

The group played with ease of ensemble and complete mastery of technique, but seemed just a little flat at times. Though this was probably a result of the group’s rather hectic touring schedule, I nevertheless left wanting a bit more. The concert’s musical highlight was certainly the set of two tunes group members Susi Evans and Carol Isaacs had written while in Thailand (of all places). Complete with a pithy introduction from Susi, the tunes were fresh, buoyant and just unusual enough to keep the audience on the edge of their seats.

I, as one of the un-initiated, felt that I wanted to know a little more about the history of Klezmer music than the program an general banter provided, but I was probably in the minority. Bass player Indra Buraczewska’s songs were a wonderful addition, featuring her remarkably low voice to great effect in a hilarious song about potatoes. The relative similarity of the instrumental tunes might have been broken up a little with one or two more songs featuring other members of the group.

Mozart’s Requiem – Melbourne Symphony Orchestra

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8th March, Hamer Hall, Melbourne

This was certainly a concert of grand ambitions, marrying Mozart’s epic Requiem mass with Bartok’s masterpiece, the Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste. Though not immediately clear, it is possible to find common ground between these pieces; both deal with the juxtaposition of forces as an integral part of their sound palette. They tread a similar path in their exploration of a dark, dramatic soundscape, though musical language is of course incredibly varied. Not so with the opening piece – Wagner’s Prelude to the Mastersingers of Nuremberg – which felt rather out of place on the program despite beautifully rich sonorities from the brass.

Both in the Bartok and the Mozart, the conductor and orchestra seemed to take a little while to get into their stride. The opening Andante tranquillo of the Bartok, in particular, seemed rather angular and a little bereft of melodic direction. However, this was more than made up for as the piece progressed, with brisker movements displaying cheekily discursive playing from the strings. Edward Gardner demanded a wonderful range of dynamics, and both he and the orchestra fully embraced Bartok’s stereophonic vision. The wonderful thing about this music is an exploration of colour, and this was always the central focus. The third, Adagio movement was stunningly eerie, and on more that one occasion I found myself amazed at the sounds Bartok and Gardner achieved by the combination of instrumental timbres. Gardner’s verbal introduction to this piece was great – informative and passionate. I really hope that it encouraged some less-experienced listeners to really give Bartok’s music a go!

For most of the audience, of course, the Requiem was the big event (I have to admit, it was for the Bartok that this concert was so prominently marked in my diary), and the orchestra didn’t disappoint. Though taking the first few movements to really settle into a feeling of absolute cohesion of intention, both choir and orchestra performed with a sense of drama and gusto. Tempos seemed on the brisk side, but this only seemed to add to the urgency and foreboding in the choral movements. Soloists Elena Xanthoudakis, Sally-Anne Russell, Andrew Staples and Matthew Rose were many not quite as spectacular as I would have liked on their own, but more than made up for the when singing as a quartet. Particularly impressive were the Recordare and Benedictus, where the blend of voices was stunning.

Marathon with a Capital B!

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3MBS Beethoven Marathon – 3/3/13 BMW Edge, Melbourne

I spent five hours on Sunday listening to pianists play Beethoven. an compared to some of the audience I felt like a distinct lightweight. The really dedicated had been there for seven hours by the time I arrived, and stayed for another two after I headed home to bed. Just piano, just Beethoven. Since I was volunteering at the event, I’m not going to give a review per say. Instead, this is something of a meditation on why musical marathons seem to all of a sudden be incredibly popular.

The basic premise is this: in one day, all 32 of Beethoven’s piano sonatas are performed by Melbourne and Australia’s top pianists. Organised into 2-hour sessions, audiences can either buy single tickets or a full day pass. Rather than being organised in chronological order, which would have put most of the weightier sonatas in the evening, each session was organised so as to provide a contrast of characters and periods. It was a great success by any measure: there was standing room only in every one of the seven session.

What appeals to audiences (myself included) about the intensity of this experience? The classical music marathon seems to have become a mainstay of late. In Melbourne alone there has been the Beethoven Symphonic Marathon (MSO 2011), the seventeen-hour Bach Organ Marathon (Calvin Bowman 2009) and the Impossible Orchestra (MSO 2012) which was essentially a 24-hour long concert.

On one level it seems quite bizarre, one of the excesses of our over-privileged society. Why just limit ourselves to a single, digestible concert when we can have a whole day of it? We can gorge ourselves silly on Beethoven cramming in every single luxurious note. In many ways, it feels like popular culture spilling into classical music making. The movie marathon, the day and weekend-long outdoor music festivals that are a staple of the Australian summer. The difference is, though, that there is a level of concentration in listening to this music that there isn’t in more popular genres. At Pyramid or Falls Festival you can move around, chat with your friends, have a drink. For a classical marathon, you must (still) sit quietly in your seat, just looking and listening. For some, this was clearly too much – a girl of about twelve sitting in front of me in the 7pm session looked (and acted) bored out of her brains, and she was only there for two hours!

In many ways, the marathon ideal makes me think of religious ceremony, the idea of a protracted vigil to show devotion. Except here, the object of meditation is Beethoven. In listening to so many different renditions of his music, the day becomes a homage to his creative genius, an acknowledgement of the profound impact that his music still has so many years after his death. It recognises his entire oeuvre for the keyboard, even those sonatas that are often overlooked in favour of the ‘greats’. Though I am a musician and a music student (though admittedly not of the piano), I heard sonatas that were new to me. Beethoven is revered as a great composer for the keyboard, and such a concentration of his music alone must only serve to confirm this, as each sonata adds something to the collection as a whole.

But is it possible to take in every moment of this musical experience? To appreciate each sonata on a level that one would in a normal-length concert? Of course not, the specifics of each performance must necessarily be sacrificed when presented on such a scale. Memories of individual pieces and performances quickly begin to mix and mingle, especially with less-familiar works.

Yet I wonder whether this is at once precisely the fascination and the challenge. On one level, we aim for total concentration, we strain to take in every note, every gesture, every phrase, and find an meaning in each of them. We want to remember this performer for her grace of melodic line, that one for his delicate staccato passages, another for the chords that he sends ringing round the hall. We want to etch each of these moments into our memory as stunning, but we cannot. Some memories will stay, others will be lost in the deluge of sound.

Instead, a bigger picture must emerge. Rather than thinking of each individual sonata, we think instead of the oeuvre as a whole. We remember the complexity of harmony, the dramatic rhetoric of line, the sincerity of writing. At 3MBS today, a fellow volunteer exclaimed that he had finally realised it was all about the slow movements in Beethoven’s writing. I agree, not only with the slow movements being truly stunning, but with the weight of this gentleman’s discovery. He has, through this listening experience, found a key to furthering his appreciation of Beethoven’s sonatas, to contemplate them on a deeper level. And rather than feeling he had had enough of the composer for a while, he was actually listening to a piano sonata! He wanted to understand this music still further.

For me, the diversity of interpretation and style was most striking. In five hours, I heard eight different pianists play eight different sonatas, and in each I had a profoundly different musical experience. And I think it takes each of them playing a sonata by the same composer to fully appreciate this. Some bemoan the uniformity of playing styles today, and yet I felt that each performer gave me something to meditate on. The physicality of playing the piano becomes incredibly noticeable; some lend the entire weight of their body to producing almost every sound, while others seem to effortlessly glide across the keys. The depth and variety of colour that they drew out of a single instrument was stunning All give everything – their intensity of concentration far outstrips that of the audience – and yet each is different in the way that this reflects on the music.

I don’t know whether I would have felt this sense of euphoria if I had been there all day – those that did all said they loved every minute. Another 3MBS marathon is already on the cards, and discussion naturally turns to what the subject will be. I’m hoping for a day of string quartets, though this is rather more challenging to organise that pianists! One thing’s for sure, for better or worse I will certainly aim to be there for the whole day, luxuriating in the intensity of such an experience. I’ll just be sure to take a cushion – those seats at BMW Edge ridiculously uncomfortable!

Tognetti’s Mozart – Australian Chamber Orchestra

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Wednesday 13th February (City Recital Hall, Sydney)

What is it about Richard Tognetti and the Australian Chamber Orchestra? How do they seem to break every rule in the book and yet get it so right, with the audience cheering and whistling in appreciation?

This concert saw the unlikely pairing of Australian composer Brett Dean’s new work Electric Preludes with a Mozart violin concerto and two Classical symphonies. On the program, it rather felt like it wouldn’t work, surely the Dean – scored for ‘violectra’ and amplified string orchestra – would come as too much of a shock. Surely there should be something to bridge the musical gap of 200 years between it and the other works. Add in that new compositions don’t always seem to be Richard Tognetti’s kettle of fish, and it is a decidedly odd combination. Yet the whole thing worked. The mirror image of symphony and concerto on either side of the interval balanced beautifully, and Electric Preludes nestled comfortably in between Haydn and Mozart.

I’m not the greatest fan of Brett Dean’s works, finding his Viola Concerto in particular rather grating. However, this concerto for electric violin was clever, with an incredibly well thought-out dialogue between soloist and ensemble. The six-stringed violectra, which could very easily have become merely a vehicle for showing off a whole lot of effects, was handled thoughtfully. At times, it was allowed to take on the sound of a rock guitar, but at others it was soulful and enchanting, almost devoid of its electrical effects and drawing closer to its acoustical cousins. To start the second movement, Tognetti gently blew across the strings, creating what can only be described as an audible shiver. While Tognetti posture and gesture suggested he still wasn’t quite at home with this music as he is with Mozart (understandably so), the ACO as a whole we superb in both their intimate phrasing and spectacular energy.

Mozart’s Concerto No. 3 in G major, the ‘Strassburg’, was equally impressive in artistic flair and downright energy. I was a little unclear as to why Tognetti chose to play his solo part hunched over the music and yet the tutti passages from memory striding round the stage, but aurally both were stunning. Cadenzas in this concerto – Tognetti’s own – seemed perhaps a little out of character ‘Mozartly’ speaking, but were played with such love for the violin and the melodic line that it didn’t seem to matter. The cadenza to the second movement, in particular, drifted away into the upper reaches of the violin with wonderful ease.

The two symphonies – Haydn’s No. 49 in F minor ‘La passione’ and Mozart’s No. 25 in G minor – framed the two concertos beautifully, showing that the ACO is just as stunning when front and centre. It is hard to know what is more enjoyable, the energy of fast movements (where they are always prepared to sit on the quicker side of tempos) or the moments in slow movements where they sigh and breathe as one. This group seems to have such a consistently innate sense of phrasing because it is intrinsically linked to physical movement, and while I’m sure that some of it is for show, they have also created a highly individual sound in the process. It occasionally felt that the winds (oboes, bassoons and horns in the Classical works)  weren’t quite as clear on the beat as the strings, but this was of little consequence in the overall adrenaline rush that the ACO and their music bring.

Radio National interview with Tognetti, Dean and sound designer Bob Scott

Legends by the Sea: Ashkenazy conducts Sibelius – Sydney Symphony Orchestra

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Friday 8th February

Vladimir Ashkenazy certainly knows how to choose ambitious and epic programs. The 2013 season opening, this concert focused almost exclusively on the orchestra, with only a small appearance by soprano Jacqueline Porter in Fauré’s Pelléas et Mélisande Suite rather than a full concerto. With the three works all hailing from the turn of the twentieth century, and all in some way programmatic, the focus of this performance was without a doubt the colour and variety of a modern orchestra.

The Lemminkäinen Suite, an early set of four tone poems by Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, is not often heard in full, with the lyrical Swan of Tuonela more often appearing alone. Here, the Swan poem was played second in the suite, though some conductors choose to start with it, as the musical material was originally drawn from the overture of an abandoned opera The Building of the Boat. This was very much a dramatic focus point of the performance, both for musical intention and execution. Cor anglais player Alexandre Oguey was lyrical and pensive, giving a feel of effortlessness and yet ever so slight yearning to the musical line. The other three poems – Lemminkäinen and the Maidens of Saari, Lemminkäinen in Tuonela and Lemminkäinen Returns – are trickier to digest thematically. Ashkenazy’s conducting showed that he had a clear direction for the music, but it didn’t always sound that way, and I’m inclined to feel that it is rather the musical material that feels somewhat disjointed. To be sure, there are moments of thrilling splendor; the rustic dance towards the end of the Maidens of Saari and the climax of Lemminkäinen Returns among them. But there were other points where musical cohesion was somewhat lacking and the whole thing felt rather muddy. Despite this, the orchestra played with energy and conviction. It was only a pity that the woodwinds (especially flute and piccolos) were for the most part lost in the texture, even at points of melodic importance. While the low strings’ start to Lemminkäinen in Tuonela was perhaps somewhat under-articulated, it nevertheless encapsulated the poem’s brooding atmosphere.

Gabriel Fauré’s Suite from Pelléas et Mélisande, by contrast, is strongly thematic without having to shout about it. Written in 1898 for the English production of Maurice Materlinck’s play, the five-movement suite calls for a soprano (Jacqueline Porter) for the penultimate movement Mélisande’s Song. Though the woodwinds remained on the quiet side, Ashkenazy’s exploration of colour here was stunning. The outer movements – somewhat weightier in scale – were well crafted, with sensitive interweaving of string lines. By far the most well known movement – the Sicilienne – was thoughtful and not too heavy, though principal flute Janet Webb could perhaps have varied her dark tone a little to explore the more playful side of the music. Jacqueline Porter’s singing was rich and expressive, capturing the folk-legend feel of this movement despite its brevity.

The choice to place Debussy’s La Mer at the end of this program (the Lemminkäinen Suite was originally destined for the ‘symphonic’ spot) was certainly a good one. Ashkenazy is totally at home in this music and the patchwork of colour it presents. Here, the three sketches made a wonderfully cohesive whole, with the orchestra tossing themes back and forth with seeming ease. This piece is very much about the idea of the sea rather than portraying any specific program, and it is clear that Ashkenazy felt the same way, striving for melody in its purest sense. The middle movement, Jeux de vagues (Play of Waves) was particularly impressive, with the interlocking rhythms coming together to give the performance a sense of gay abandon bordering with just the slightest touch of frivolity.