Murray/Müller-Brachmann/Martineau - Brahms, 13 January 2013

Wigmore Hall

Heimkehr, op.7 no.6; In der Fremde, op.3 no.5; Der Überlaufer; Liebestreu, op.3 no.1; Ständchen, op.14 no.7; An eine Äolsharfe, op.19 no.5; Der Gang zum Liebchen, op.48 no.1; Wehe, so willst du mich wieder, op.32 no.5; Wie bist du, meine Königin, op.32 no.9; Keinen hat es noch gereut, op.33 no.1; Sind es Schmerzen, op.33 no.3; Am Sonntag Morgen, op.49 no.1; Die Mainacht, op.43 no.2; An die Nachtigall, op.46 no.4; Von ewiger Liebe, op.43 no.1; Auf dem See, op.59 no.2; Regenlied, op.59 no.3; Ach, wende diesen Blick, op.57 no.4; Meine Liebe ist grün, op.63 no.5; Therese, op.86 no.1; Mit vierzig Jahren, op.94 no.1; Sapphische Ode, op.94 no.4; Kein Haus, keine Heimat, op.94 no.5; Schön war, das ich dir weihte, op.95 no.7; Auf dem Kirchhofe, op.105 no.4; Mädchenlied, op.107 no5; Wie komm’ ich den zur Tür herein; So wünsch’ ich ihr ein’ gute Nacht; Schwesterlein; Denn es gehet dem Menschen wie dem Vieh, op.121 no.1; Wenn ich mit Menschen- und mit mit Engelzungen redete, op.121 no.4

Ann Murray (mezzo-soprano)

Hanno Müller-Brachmann (bass-baritone)

Malcolm Martineau (piano)

 

I am ashamed to say that I was unaware of this series, ‘Songlives’, the brainchild of Malcolm Martineau, until the present concert. Each instalment attempts to show the development of a song-composer throughout the entirety of his career. With Brahms, this worked very well. Indeed, though much was, of course, missing, there was little or no sense of glaring omission, and a proper sense of narrative progression, not least since the programme was organised under six headings: ‘The early years,’ ‘Neue Bahnen’, ‘First Maturity’, ‘Established in Vienna’, ‘The last twenty years’, and ‘At the end’. Martineau was joined by two fine artists: Hanno Müller-Brachmann and, replacing Bernada Fink, Ann Murray. The former was on typically rich-voiced form, whilst the latter’s patent sincerity and generosity of delivery amply compensated for any loss of vocal bloom.

 

The recital opened with Heimkehr, Brahms’s first extant song. (Notoriously self-critical, Brahms destroyed a frightening number of earlier and indeed later works.) Though published in 1854, it was composed in 1851, and, according to Susan Youens’s informative booklet note, is only twenty-one bars long. Though the predominant mood is of agitation, Müller-Brachmann nevertheless achieved considerable subtlety of shading. The next song, an Eichendorff setting, In der Fremde, fell to Murray, the singers alternating for quite a while. A sense of Heimweh offered welcome contrast with the first song; likewise the grave simplicity of the following Der Überlaufer and the dark Romanticism of Liebestreu. Opening the second section, Müller-Brachmann’s – and Martineau’s – Ständchen proved nicely anticipatory, even though we all knew and/or sensed that hopes would be dashed. Brahms himself was the star of An eine Äolfsharfe, the ravishing harmony on ‘melodische Klage’ – a melodious lament indeed – quite taking one’s breath away, though Martineau should of course also take credit for its communication. The post-Schubertian quality of Der Gang zum Liebchen was well captured by Murray.

 

We then entered ‘First maturity’, allotted at first to Müller-Brachmann. The Platen setting, Wehe, so willst du mich wieder, was turbulent in mood yet benefited throughout from clarity of piano line. Müller-Brachmann’s melting vocal delivery of the Hafiz translation, Wie bist du, meine Köngin, was very much a high-point of the recital, bringing the odd tear to these eyes. Keinen hat es noch gereut was vividly pictorial, Tieck’s nimble steed (Roß) springing to life before our ears. The same poet’s Sind es Schmerzen received a setting and performance again haunted by the spirit of Schubert, albeit with typical Brahmsian ‘lateness’, a word that came to mind again and again, despite – or, on some occasions, even on account of – the strophic quality of a number of his songs. Murray’s Am Sonntag Morgen received a subtly ambiguous, subtly knowing performance: never overdone, but nevertheless aware. Die Mainacht was beautifully hushed, pregnant, with a brief vocal blooming upon the doves’ cooing. An die Nachtigall and Von ewiger Liebe were also Murray’s, the former benefiting especially from Martineau’s telling, unexaggerated delivery of piano syncopations, whilst the former offered a strange yet familiar marriage between tradition and alienated modernity that was very much Brahms’s own.

 

The singers shared ‘Established in Vienna’, following the interval, Murray opening with Auf dem See. Müller-Brachmann responded with Regenlied, not the text indicated in the programme, but Brahms’s op.59 no.3., from which he hauntingly quotes in the first violin sonata. The involved writing of Ach, wende diesen Blick, sounded very much of Brahms’s maturity, Murray’s Meine Liebe ist grün a touching pendant from Felix Schumann.

 

Murray’s Therese was the first from the ‘last twenty years’ group, followed by the anything-but-cheery Rückert Mit vierzig Jahren, Müller-Brachmann’s rich tone an especial boon upon such melancholy terrain. Murray’s Sapphische Ode not only charmed but moved; her Schön war, das ich dir weihte a plangent contrast with the brief fury of her partner’s Kein Haus, keine Heimat. High Romanticism, or rather Late High Romanticism, was once again the order of the day in Auf dem Kirchhofe, to which Murray’s Mädchenlied offered winning contrast. Both singers were employed in each of the three ensuing folksong settings: beautifully judged, with inevitable glances forward towards Mahler, despite the difference in style. Schwesterlein in particular emerged as decidedly ‘late’, an evocation of childhood that was haunted indeed. Müller-Brachmann’s two songs from the Vier ernste Gesänge were powerful yet restrained, Brahms’s apparently timeless archaism in reality anything but. Dark echoes of Ein deutsches Requiem led us to ultimate consolation – of sorts. Much the same could be said of the folksong and ‘lullaby’ encores with which this enlightening recital came to a close.  

Murray/Burnside - Schumann Lieder, 2 October 2010

Kings Place, Hall One

Gedichte der Königin Maria Stuart, op.135
Frauenliebe und –leben, op.42
O ihr Herren, op.37 no.3
Volksliedchen, op.51 no.2
Singet nicht in Trauertönen, op.98a/7

Ann Murray (mezzo-soprano)
Iain Burnside (piano)

This was one of the two concluding concerts in Kings Place’s Schumann 200 Festival, curated by Lucy Parham. I wish I had been able to attend the masterclass given by the same artists earlier in the day, for this song recital proved a winning contribution to the Schumann bicentenary.

If Schumann’s late Gedichte der Königin Maria Stuart (‘Poems of Mary Queen of Scots’) are finally receiving greater attention, that is some testimony to what such anniversary celebrations can achieve. Robin Holloway’s delectable transcription and encasement was premiered at the Proms last month; now it was time for the original. Ann Murray and Iain Burnside caught the dignity and starkness of this little, much misunderstood cycle with an intense yet understated musico-dramatic reading that at times looked forward to Wagner. The distilled necessity of what one heard was just right for these songs. More will so often be less here, but there was no attempt to overburden them with extraneous ‘emotion’. Diction and musical clarity were second to none.

Frauenliebe und –leben takes one back to a happier time, not just biographically but musically too. There were occasions when Murray could not disguise the loss of bloom in her voice, likewise odd intonational slips, but these counted for little when set against her moving response to verse and music. Schumann’s multifarious responses to the possibilities of life and love were treated in exemplary fashion, from youthful impetuosity to the marital devotion of Du Ring an meinem Finger. Burnside ensured that the cyclical quality of Schumann’s writing was very much to the fore. Detailed musical responses throughout, clarity of part-writing especially notable, were knowingly encased by the prologue and the concluding return of its material. Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan (‘Now you have caused me pain for the first time’) signalled both withdrawal and return, the truest poignancy, as so often with Schumann, in the piano. Simplicity that was never simplistic characterised the delightful Rückert settings, Volksliedchen and O ihr Herren, whilst a remembrance of things past, of youthful expectation, was not only to be heard but also felt in Singet nicht in Trauertönen.

The Turn of the Screw, English National Opera, 22 October 2009

The Coliseum

The Governess – Rebecca Evans
The Prologue/Peter Quint – Michael Colvin
Miles – Charlie Manton
Flora – Nazan Fikret
Mrs Grose – Ann Murray
Miss Jessel – Cheryl Barker

David McVicar (director)
Tanya McCallin (designs)
Andrew George (movement)
Sirena Tocco (movement revival)
Adam Silverman (lighting)

Orchestra of English National Opera
Sir Charles Mackerras (conductor)

I have long thought The Turn of the Screw Britten’s finest opera. It is a superior work to Peter Grimes, for instance, which boasts an excellent story, set to music of variable quality; only English insularity could possibly explain the wildly extravagant claims one often hears for it. In The Turn of the Screw, however, genuinely interesting, highly ‘constructed’, music adds to the story, engendering an artwork inevitably different from, yet far from unworthy to be ranked alongside, Henry James’s original tale.

Sir Charles Mackerras certainly made one hear Britten’s score that way. Mackerras’s was an outstanding achievement: if only he would devote, or indeed had devoted, more of his time to repertoire such as this than to his increasingly hard-driven, often downright charmless, Mozart. (A recent Don Giovanni was, I admit, something of an exception.) Here, however, the music lived, breathed, developed with deceptive ease; it responded to and incited the drama, its structure clearly delineated in musical and dramatic terms. As the conductor himself noted in a brief post-performance speech, following a presentation, there are only thirteen players in Britten’s orchestra, yet the composer suggests more extensive forces. There is no monotony but a wealth of instrumental colour and variation. Such economy undoubtedly puts Peter Grimes to shame. And the ENO orchestra was on top form. Every player might justly be mentioned, yet, if only on account of his part’s prominence, Murray Hipkin’s piano playing is perhaps worthy of especial mention.

A fine cast had been assembled. Rebecca Evans was a sympathetic Governess: victim of the supernatural or hysteric? Who knows? Her musical qualities were as high as her dramatic ones, vocal lines retaining an integrity of their own. Ann Murray was at least equally fine as Mrs Grose. Truly inhabiting the character, her suspicions, doubts, and humanity were readily apparent. Cheryl Barker had less to do as Miss Jessel, but was disturbingly malevolent on stage and in voice. I was less impressed by Michael Colvin’s Peter Quint: weird, certainly, but lacking in insidious charm. His intonation sometimes wavered too. Charlie Manton seemed a very young Miles, which has implications for how one considers the character, who thereby comes across as considerably less knowing. Nevertheless, his was a splendidly sung and acted performance, which would have put to shame many adult professional singers. Nazan Fikret seemed to me somewhat miscast as Flora; one can get away with a young Miles but a Flora who looks more than twice his age is unfortunate: a bit too much Little Britain. She sang well enough though. Female diction was not always impeccable, but I have heard far worse.

David McVicar’s production, first seen at ENO – though not by me – in 2007, and before that at the Mariinsky Theatre, is pretty much an unqualified triumph. Where I thought his Salome for the Royal Opera too sensationalist – the work hardly needs it... – this production responds to words and music in so telling a fashion, like a horribly realistic dream, that one can hardly imagine it being done otherwise afterwards. Set ‘in period’, the period is not fetishised as an end in itself, but employed as a source of strangeness. Tanya McCallin’s sets deserve credit here, likewise Adam Silverman’s lighting. All of the characters seem exceptionally well directed. The twisted nature of the story is relished – surely Daily Mail writers and readers should be protesting outside the Coliseum – without being exaggerated. Disturbing realities concerning children, their sexuality, and adults’ responses thereto are portrayed bravely and with sensitivity. If there is a problem with the ghosts, that they are perhaps too apparent, then that is inherent in the work itself. The extras’ movement was originally undertaken by Andrew George and is skilfully revived by Sirena Tocco. All told, and very much more than the sum of its parts, this was an excellent performance, wholeheartedly to be recommended.