Masks, op.3 (1969)
Three
Little Fantasias, op.6a (1970, rev.1983)Trumpets, op.12 (1975)
Songs Without Voices, op.26 (1991-2)
Sonya’s Lullaby, op.16 (1977-8)
Océan de terre, op.10 (1972-3, rev.1976)
Martha Lloyd (flute)
Maud Millar, Olivia Robinson
(sopranos)Richard Uttley (piano)
Guildhall New Music Ensemble
Richard Baker (conductor)
Autumnal, op.14 (1976-7)
Variations, op.24 (1989)Secret Psalm (1990, rev.2003)
Prayer Bell Sketch, op.29 (1997)
Ophelia’s Last Dance, op.32 (2009-10)
Alexandra Wood (violin)
Ryan Wigglesworth, Huw Watkins (piano)
Flourish
with Fireworks, op.22
(1988, rev.1993)
Choral, op.8 (1970-72)Whitman Settings, op.25a (1991, orch.1992)
Horn Concerto, op.28 (1994, rev.1995)
Two Organa, op.27 (1994)
Requiem – Songs for Sue, op.33 (2005-6)
Symphony no.3, op.18 (1973-9)
Claire Booth (soprano)
Martin Owen (horn)BBC Symphony Orchestra
Oliver Knussen (conductor)
The Barbican and BBC have
done Oliver Knussen proud on his sixtieth birthday. Following magical
performances of his two operas on the Saturday night, Sunday saw three concerts
plus a typically informative, well-crafted, and enjoyable film from Barrie
Gavin, made for Knussen’s fiftieth and now re-shown here. The only real
disappointment was the round-table discussion following the film, which
suffered from an evident lack of preparation, degenerating into, or rather
never raising itself above, generalised, aimless chat. Anyway, enough of that.
The first concert, for which
the Guildhall New Music Ensemble formed the backbone, presented various chamber
works. Masks from 1969 was the
earliest as well as the first. Written for solo flute with ad lib. glass chimes, it is harmless, though the flautist’s
wandering around now seems very much of its time. Martha Lloyd (with George
Barton on percussion) performed it ably; I fear that, unless the composer is
Debussy or Berio, I am not the most responsive of listeners to the solo flute,
its arabesques and so forth soon resembling each other all too readily. A step
or two steps up nevertheless from the vapid conservatoire pieces one often endures
from the instrument. Three Little
Fantasies, for wind quintet (flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn) was
more interesting. For me, the first movement’s opening bars echoed in their
intervals – and sonority – Schoenberg’s First Chamber Symphony. Soloists all
had their chance thereafter to shine. (I am not sure why Bayan Northcott, in
his notes, described this movement as ‘very short’; it did not seem much
shorter than either of the other two.) The slow movement benefited from
Stravinskian poise, though its predecessor might have benefited from greater
precision at times, especially from the horn. Canonic procedures came audibly
to the fore in the third movement. Trumpets,
for soprano and three clarinets, sets a text by Georg Trakl. Language, vocal
line and instrumentation – I immediately thought of Schoenberg’s op.29 –
combined to give the piece a recognisably post-Schoenbergian air. Clarinet
flourishes were expertly handled by all concerned, Millar offering a nicely
variegated performance.
Songs
without Voices is in
four movements. The instrumentalist offered a much sharper response than in the
wind quintet piece, suggesting that here, as in Trumpets, they benefited from Richard Baker’s presence on the
podium. A string presence too was welcome, not only from the point of view of
variety, but also because the Guildhall string players, the violinist and
cellist in particular, played so well, the latter clearly relishing his second
movement solo. Each movement was intricate and focused, both as work and
performance. In Sonya’s Lullaby, for
solo piano, Knussen echoes Debussy, Ravel, and Schoenberg once again. It is a
finely wrought piece, the tritonal tension between B and F audibly pervasive –
and I am sure it would be, even did one not have the technical language to
describe it. Richard Uttley’s performance was as assured as the piano writing
itself. The dark instrumental opening, de
profundis, of Océan de terre
registered deeply in every sense, Knussen’s material arising out of those
depths, creating a ravishing sound-world, especially beautiful in terms of solo
writing for violin and flute, as well as an active percussion section. Olivia
Robinson’s deeply resonant, admirably detailed vocal performance deserves
special praise.
The second of the two
Guildhall-based concerts involved music for solo piano, solo violin, and violin
and piano. Autumnal, the piece for
violin and piano, showed, should anyone have doubted this, that audibly generative
serial processes need not be opposed to freedom; indeed, they can act as its
guarantor. Shades of Britten in the harmonies were brought to the fore lovingly
by Alexandra Wood and Huw Watkins. Ryan Wigglesworth’s performance of the piano
Variations brought us closer to
Webern, as the title – and form – might imply. Again, Knussen’s developmental
writing was ably brought out in performance. Secret Psalm, for solo violin, was a memorial piece for Michael
Vyner, Artistic Director of the London Sinfonietta. Northcott’s notes referred
to the slow movement of a nineteenth-century violin concerto as the music
closest to Vyner’s heart and Knussen’s point of reference; Wood’s warmly
Romantic performance eventually revealed this to be the Brahms concerto.
Schoenberg – op.11 and op.19 – was again evoked in the Prayer Bell Sketch, performed by Wigglesworth, Debussy too, even if
mediated by Takemitsu, for whom the piece acts as a memorial. Its powerful
climax is mitigated yet brought into retrospective relief by a magical falling
away, tolling in the distance. Watkins performed the newest piece, Ophelia’s Last Dance with equal
artistry. Knussen’s side-slipping harmonies put me in mind of Prokofiev; I even
wondered whether the ‘graceful source melody’, in Northcott’s apt description,
had a hint of Poulenc to it, but perhaps that was merely my fancy. Ghosts of Gaspard de la nuit certainly seemed to
be fleetingly apparent – and could one ask for a better pianistic model than
that? – if without Ravel’s hyper-virtuosity.
The final, orchestral concert
opened with Flourish with Fireworks,
scintillating as work and performance, debt to and difference from Stravinsky
equally apparent. Choral, for wind,
percussion, and double basses. It did not seem to me an especially
characteristic piece, almost akin to Stockhausen’s surprisingly conventional Jubilee, which I heard Knussen conduct at the Proms in 2010. The Whitman Settings, sung by the ever-wonderful Claire Booth, served
once again to remind us of Knussen’s gift for vocal composition – and his
evident love of the soprano voice. Perhaps there was here a hint of Copland,
injected into a world recognisable from the operas. The magical orchestral
background of ‘A Noiseless Patient Spider’ reminded us, should anyone have required
that reminder, of the mutually beneficial experiences of Knussen’s work as
composer and as conductor. The sense of open space – quite aptly for Whitman –
seemed as much metaphysical as anything else. Martin Owen joined the band for a
remarkable performance of the Horn Concerto, the soloist’s delivery as flawless
and as committed as the conductor’s and the orchestra’s. (It is a while since I
have heard the BBC SO on such excellent form: a cause for rejoicing in itself.)
Perhaps it is a matter of the solo instrument as much as anything else, but
late Romantic resonances seemed to abound, turns of phrase echoing Mahler and
Strauss, the latter also seemingly an inspiration (Till Eulenspiegel) for the virtuosic orchestral writing. I wonder
whether he also inspired, in his Second Horn Concerto, the interplay between
solo and orchestral horns. Such fantastical Romanticism also brought the Henze
of, say, the Fourth Symphony or König
Hirsch, to mind. (Knussen has certainly conducted the symphony. Now if only someone would schedule
the opera...)
The white-note musical box ‘Notre
Dame des Jouets’ is, orchestrated, the first of the Two Organa. Its mechanised play provides a link, despite the very
different chromatic language, with the finely yet densely layered second. Both
exhibited, once again, Knussen’s characteristic brand of orchestral fantasy.
Knussen dedicated the performance of Requiem
– Songs for Sue, written as a memorial for his wife, to the memory of
Henze, not just as composer, but as Knussen reminded us, a vital part of the
ecosystem of London musical life, having assisted three generations of
composers in this country as well as his own. The different languages –
English, Spanish, English, and German – of the four songs elicited differences
in vocal style, ably projected by Booth, but the character of each song was not
so much a ‘reflection’ of the language as evidence of the synergy of setting
and formal progression in combination.
Finally, we heard the Third Symphony.
A fantastical sound world once again announced itself, with all manner of
possible correspondences: Henze, Stravinsky, Ravel, Dukas, et al. But that is not to say they were necessarily ‘influences’,
for this is very much a coherent whole; orchestral mastery sings its own
praises. Structure, on both a micro- (motivic, cellular) as well as a
macro-level was always admirably clear, without any sense of abstraction or imposition;
it always seemed inherent in the material, which of course it is. The use of a
chorale perhaps inevitably brought Messiaen to mind, though the differences are
more telling. There is none of the hieratic quality of the French master in
this work; it is far too busy, a star burning bright. And, unlike Messiaen,
Knussen is never tempted, at least not on the evidence of these three concerts,
to overstay his welcome. He only takes as much time as is absolutely necessary:
a welcome attribute indeed.
