Romaniw/BBC SSO/Kapuła - Henze, Schubert, Mahler, and Strauss, 9 September 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Henze: Erlkönig: Orchestral Fantasy on Goethe’s Poem and Schubert’s op.1
Schubert: Symphony no.8 in B minor, ‘Unfinished’, D 759
Mahler, arr. Britten: What the Wild Flowers Tell Me
Strauss: Four Last Songs

Natalya Romaniw (soprano)

BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra

Paweł Kapuła (conductor)

Images: BBC/ Chris Christodoulou

September is a month of melancholy. Temperatures drop. Nights draw in ever more markedly. We return to work, studies, ‘normal life’, insofar as we have ever been away. The last gasp of the summer festival season draws to a close. For the Proms, this comes ultimately with the notorious ‘Last Night’. Occasionally I have wondered about giving it a try, if only to say that I have, but adventure takes one only so far. This year, Four Last Songs, its own ‘September’ and all, seemed a good time to bow out: Malven notwithstanding, Strauss’s farewell to the world, the Lied, the orchestra, and, in eerie familiarity once again, to a civilisation that had long since given up the ghost. 

Here, we worked up to that final farewell, first of all with a composer for whom the murderous, genocidal taint of that civilisation, from which he could nonetheless never break free, would condemn it for many years to come: Hans Werner Henze. His centenary this year has been extraordinarily muted. The buzz of his Erlkönig was better than nothing, but frankly the Proms, like many other organisations, could and should have done more. From the BBC SSO and Paweł Kapuła, it made for an urgent, typically abundant, and ultimately involving concert opener, very much what it said on the ‘orchestral fantasy’ tin, Schubert recomposed by one who would like to be more Stravinskian than Schoenbergian, yet cannot help who he is—and at the last, does not even wish to. It drew one in with a hint of Romantic magic and devilry. 

The concert moved to Schubert proper, in an unusually intimate, yet compelling account of the ‘Unfinished’ Symphony, emblematic of that German Romanticism to which Henze continued to be drawn. Its first movement was relatively swift, yet never unduly driven, urgency and chiaroscuro rightly emerging from the material, sonata form ‘becoming’ rather than merely ‘being’. The fearful hush of its liminal passages sent shivers down the spine, building thereafter in Gothic horror, albeit without exaggeration. The second movement flowed as a drama in itself that was both consequent to the first and mysteriously, ‘unfinished’ or not, a satisfying finale, even farewell, with nothing left to say. It invited us to listen and rewarded us for doing so. 

The second movement from Mahler’s Third Symphony, rescored by Britten, was for me the only disappointment. It feels strange to hear this on a smaller orchestra, perhaps stranger than a more radical arrangement, but I do not think it was only that. Kapuła showed a tendency to fussiness, overtly moulding Mahler’s lines. Balances, especially earlier on, sounded odd, even on occasion inside out. Tempi never seemed quite in proportion, either a little too fast or a little too slow: not necessarily intrinsically, but in relation to one other. Later on, a welcome sense of irony tentatively asserted itself, but its motivation remained elusive.   

And so, Natalya Romaniw joined orchestra and conductor for the Four Last Songs, in the hall in which they were premiered (in 1950, by Kirsten Flagstad, the Philharmonia, and Wilhelm Furtwängler). What struck me in the orchestral introduction to ‘Frühling’ was how much the sound took its cue from the Schubert performance in the first half, detail and urgency again to the fore, neither rushed nor maudlin. (None of this should be, of course, but certainly not an evocation of spring, however backward-looking.) Romaniw was crystal clear, verbally and musically, perhaps with a slight musical ‘accent’, bringing the music closer, say, to Tchaikovsky than to Mozart, but there is no one way with these songs, nor should there be. In a programme interview, she said she intended ‘to make the meaning as clear as possible to listeners, even if they don’t understand German,’ which she certainly accomplished, adding the unquestionable truth that ‘the orchestra’s music says so much as well,’ which again it did here. From soloist, orchestra, and conductor alike, there was a sense of beginning—even if the beginning of the end. 

Our month, ‘September’, followed on ‘naturally’, however much art may conceal art here (an echt-Straussian idea in itself). Mood may have been changing and, more fundamentally, time passing, but this was the turning of the year (and life), nothing abrupt. The celebrated horn call was tender, moving, and paved the way for a darkened rather than dark close. Here, I am afraid I must register unhappiness with the audience, a good part of which insisted on applauding between every song, doing its damnedest to break mood and continuity. An elephantine sneeze, heard from the opposite side of the hall, was not the ideal introduction to a ‘Beim Schlafengehen’ that was nonetheless beautifully judged, imploring, and led but not determined by Hermann Hesse’s words. An exquisite violin solo soared, however soiled the cliché, like the ‘soul, unguarded … free in flight’, preparing the way for a noble close, beyond good and evil, as the avid Nietzschean composer would have understood. The final sunset of ‘Im Abendrot’ was painted in just the right colours. It lingered, yet justly no more than a little. Voice and words, moreover, were part of it, distinction between various forms of text dissolved. Larks sang, solo violin, orchestral horns, and more made their valedictory bows. It was a song, perhaps, closer to a verbal tone poem than to anything from the operas. Radiant, dignified, and beckoning a beyond in which Strauss may have claimed not to believe, it was, premature applause notwithstanding, a true last song.

Argerich/Munich PO/Shani - Farrenc, Beethoven, and Brahms, 5 September 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Louise Farrenc: Overture no.2 in E-flat major, op.24
Beethoven: Piano Concerto no.2 in B-flat major, op.19
Brahms: Symphony no.4 in E-minor, op.98

Martha Argerich (piano)

Munich Philharmonic Orchestra

Lahav Shani (conductor)

Images: BBC/ Chris Christodoulou

With the best will in the world, much of the audience in such a concert will be there for the soloist. That intends no disrespect to Lahav Shani or the Munich Philharmonic, but Martha Argerich is, well, Martha Argerich—and one takes whatever opportunity one can to hear her. It took me several false starts in the face of cancellation before finally I did, but I have never regretted it and certainly did not now. Whether rehearsal time had been targeted accordingly, I do not know, but Beethoven’s Second Piano Concerto proved the unquestionable highlight of the evening, alongside deeply disappointing Brahms and a well-played nonentity of a concert overture by Louise Farrenc. 

An interesting historical figure both as pianist and composer, Farrenc has her advocates, but this E-flat Overture proved little more than a series of introductions to introductions, wearing a little too obviously influences on its sleeve, from Gluck and Beethoven to Cherubini and Rossini. It began impressively, implying a true curtain-raiser, even without an opera to come. Its over-reliance on tonic-dominant harmony – yes, Beethoven can do this too, but how! – might not have mattered too much, but the lack of anything in the way of intrinsic musical interest did. Still, it was a welcome opportunity to hear this music for oneself, and the orchestra was on good firm, powerfully directed by Shani. 

The Albert Hall offers an ideal acoustic for very little, if anything, certainly not for an early Beethoven concerto performed with chamber-orchestral forces (ten first violins down to four double basses). One had to listen in here, but rewards were many for having done so, from the fresh opening tutti onwards. Argerich’s entry had it all: chiaroscuro, beautifully pointed, and unerring line, Beethovenian goal-orientation never in doubt. In that, it offered a prospectus for the whole, the first movement in particular notable for counterpoint as crystal-clear as it was harmonically founded and directed. It was often a more inward account – these things are relative – than one might once have expected from her, but it was not without vehemence either, the world of the later composer summoned and very much with us in the cadenza. If the opening of the second movement exposed Shani’s inability, as yet, to work out how, in this acoustic, to present Beethoven simply, balances awry and much a little too fussy, then things settled soon enough on the return of the soloist. Thereafter, Shani proved a sure and sensitive accompanist. Perhaps the close was a little too drawn out, a little too loved, but if so, that is a fault in the right direction. Cultivated, directed orchestral playing and flashes of the tigress of old characterised the finale, its Scotch snaps worth the price of admission alone. ‘Le Jardin féerique’ form Ravel’s Ma Mère l’Oye made for a slightly surprising encore. It took a while to find its feet—or better, its balance, but Argerich’s glissandi will linger long in the memory of all who heard them. 

Brahms’s Fourth Symphony brought out the best in neither orchestra nor conductor. If the first movement opened wistfully, its lack of textural clarity presaged one of several recurrent problems. That may have been in part an acoustical matter, but general listlessness and dissipation of tension were surely less so, likewise surprising thinness of string tone. At times, we heard more committed playing, but it was unclear where it had come from or why. Such issues were carried forward into a second movement whose mixture of petulance and strange balance – often, downright lack of balance – meant it never really had a chance. It suggested Brahms, here at the height of his powers, had simply given up. The third movement began more promisingly. It bounced along, a little too jolly but with greater precision—until tone thinned again and it became merely hard-driven, disintegrating thereafter. The finale likewise seemed to have a stronger sense of structure at its opening, but that was not to be maintained. A strange emptiness at its heart was engendered by scrappy playing and Shani’s apparent lack of musical understanding. What presumably was intended to sound hushed sounded merely uncertain. It was all a bit of a mess, and though it gathered a reasonable head of steam later on, that was too little, too late. Contrast with the courageous witness of Ilan Volkov at least year’s Proms could not have been starker.

BPO/Petrenko - Elgar and Tchaikovsky, 2 September 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Elgar: Variations on an Original Theme, ‘Enigma’, op.36
Tchaikovsky: Symphony no.4 in F minor, op.36

Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Kirill Petrenko (conductor)

Images: Berliner Philharmoniker/Lena Laine

Elgar and Tchaikovsky are not exactly strange bed-fellows, but nor are they frequently programmed together. Their harmonic and, in some cases, melodic worlds have more than some might suspect in common—and can be nudged further in that direction in performance, as I think probably happened here, from Kirill Petrenko and the Berlin Philharmonic. Indeed, in a decidedly un-English performance, the theme of the Enigma Variations already danced a little closer to St Petersburg than I have previously heard. It only struck me afterwards that both works on the programme, that and Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, were their respective composer’s op.36. It would seem a strange reason to programme the two works together, but it would also seem a strange coincidence. Maybe Petrenko first thought of them on that account and pursued the idea further to the extent of recognising the combination might work. 

First, I should state that I stand warmly in favour of celebrating Elgar as a great European rather than ‘English’ composer. We need not rehearse here his musical antecedents, Richard Strauss’s praise, and the rest: they are by now common currency, though perhaps more in criticism and musicology than in performance. I cannot recall hearing Elgar from this Petrenko before, though I have done so from his namesake Vasily and been greatly impressed. Perhaps more to the point, I have heard Daniel Barenboim and another great Berlin orchestra, the Staatskapelle, more than once in this music, and raved. There was much to admire in this performance, not least the ever-outstanding playing of the Berlin Philharmonic, not to mention the still-too-rare opportunity to hear it play Elgar. There is a ‘but’ coming, as you may have sensed, yet I should like first to attend to the positive, often highly so, side of the ledger. From the outset, this was warmly expressive, cultivated playing which yet never curdled into narcissism. Petrenko clearly had his own ideas about the score and knew very well how to pursue them with his players. Every variation had sharply etched character, had seemingly been approached anew, developed within, and often offered contrast with its predecessor and successor. I shall not list them all, but a good-natured ‘R.P.A.’, in which we reheard Mendelssohn through Brahms, exquisite solo viola-playing in ‘Ysobel’, and a truly rollercoaster ‘Troyte’, propelled by wondrous timpani, more Berlioz than Brahms, were three that lay at the heart. A flighty ‘Dorabella’ had one hear the music newly, as did a ‘Nimrod’ that unfolded with the most natural, warm Romanticism one could imagine. There were some variations, however, that to my ears and sensibility felt driven too hard: perhaps most of all a ‘B.G.N.’ that came dangerously close to a mere showpiece. There was some of that to the finale too, though I greatly appreciated the way Petrenko had its opening somehow sound and feel as if it were the final movement of not only a set of symphonic variations but a symphony. It was ultimately, though, in that sense rather than its far from unwelcome heterodoxy, that I felt the performance added up to less than the sum of its parts. There is more to the relationship between these variations than individual character and contrast. A guiding thread founded on harmonic motion, such as we should unquestionably have heard from Barenboim, proved elusive. Moreover, comparison with Petrenko's superlative way with another Barenboim speciality, Schoenberg's Variations for Orchestra, op.31, might also suggest this to be something of a work-in-progress. I hope he will return to Elgar and develop his often interesting thoughts further. 

For three of the four Tchaikovsky movements I felt that more keenly. (Perhaps not entirely coincidentally, this was also repertoire in which Barenboim excelled.) The opening of the first movement felt more idiomatic, more ‘inside’ the music, the trumpet fanfares already drawing back in dialectic relationship to a Fate that must be obeyed yet from which the subject in performance must surely also recoil: thereby grief-laden without so much of a hint of the mawkish. At some point Petrenko dropped his baton, later to be retrieved by concertmaster Noah Bendix-Balgley, but it mattered not a jot to the cohesion and persuasiveness of the performance. It chilled just as much, perhaps even more so, in its eerie, nether passages, again evoking the world of Berlioz (in whom I should be very keen to hear Petrenko). Struggle was felt, not merely observed, throughout, as was a sense that it might become too much, the falling nature of motifs itself becoming a motif. The second movement again ‘spoke’ as well as sang beautifully—and consequently. ‘Soul’ and form seemed as one in its unfolding. Pain, pride, all manner of sensitivities vied beneath the surface and in turn helped shape it. In its bitter, pizzicato introversion of a balletic world, the third movement edged us a little closer to Mahler, without forsaking the composer’s own palette or sentiment. There was always, moreover, ambiguity: a sense, sometimes achieved in the trio, that something more joyous might break through, albeit not without a welcome dose of Prokofiev-like sardonicism. 

And so, when all that pent-up energy exploded at the outset of the finale, the performance seemed truly to have arrived. Alas, it was here that I felt its narrative fell apart somewhat. Yes, one can drive this music hard: it is marked ‘Allegro con fuoco’. But it is, or should be, with fire rather than like a machine. Technical accomplishment was beyond compare, but it seemed more hysterical, even Shostakovich-like, than deeply felt. It came and went, like a whirlwind, yet seemed not only out of proportion, but also a little out of meaning. At any rate, a London audience increasingly starved of high-profile orchestral visits during its normal concert season, responded with great enthusiasm.

Van den Heever/MET/Nézet-Séguin - Strauss, 26 August 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Strauss, arr. attrib. Artur Rodziński: Der Rosenkavalier, Suite
Strauss: Salome, final scene; Ein Heldenleben

Elza van den Heever (soprano)

MET Orchestra

Yannick Nézet-Séguin (conductor)

Images: BBC/ Chris Christodoulou 

For the first of its two Proms in its first ever visit to the series, the MET Orchestra under Yannick Nézet-Séguin offered an all-Strauss programme, perhaps not coincidentally on considerably firmer ground in the operatic first half than the symphonic second. The mysterious Rosenkavalier Suite – still no one knows who wrote it, though Artur Rodziński remains a favoured candidate – began with a Prelude full of contrasts yet clear of narrative. That the Metropolitan Opera’s music director and its orchestra have chemistry and mutual understanding was clear from the outset, Nézet-Séguin ‘playing’ the ensemble as his own. There was, moreover, a fine, Straussian sound without undue (however tempting) clotting of the cream. It made me long to hear the rest of the opera. That could not quite be arranged, but there followed a welcome whistle-stop-tour. If the Presentation of the Rose was milked slightly, who can blame them? There are worse things than time standing a little on the still side, as the Marschallin would doubtless counsel us. For me, it worked as if a dream of the opera house itself, cruelly interrupted by Ochs’s ‘hallucinations’. What is ‘real’ here anyway? If that brief intervention sounded a bit odd in itself, out of context, it nicely divided the second act from the first hearing of the Baron’s own waltz. The waltzes in general had idiom, charm, and a keen sense of delight: excellent solo playing from all concerned. And if part of me wishes the suite would close in a different way from that chosen by its compile, whoever he may have been, the other part smiled at it for what it is and for how it was played. 

Elza van den Heever joined the band for the final scene from Salome in a performance of visceral, all-encompassing commitment, perhaps the finest I have heard from her. The orchestra’s switch at the opening to full-on expressionism displayed a versatility and judgement that ran through the scene: no sugar-coating from anyone concerned. The soloist’s diction, moreover, was second to none, all the more important here as a way to bring the drama into being without scenery or context within the greater work. Sometimes I felt Nézet-Séguin might have moved things on more quickly, but I could understand why not. And when death came – ‘der Geheimnis des Todes’ – it was truly horrible, as if van den Heever’s voice had turned first to stone, then to blood of the deepest crimson. She gloried thereafter in what she had done, with the memory and legacy of that kiss, in a welcome dose of old-fashioned glamour. 

Ein Heldenleben fared less well, marred by strange tempi choices that seemed counter-intuitive and failed, at least to my ears, to justify themselves. The opening intrigued, given with what seemed, after Salome but also on its own terms, a model of Classical restraint. There were oddities of balance, though, which haunted the rest of the piece, doubtless less familiar to the orchestra (though an old favourite of the conductor). Introversion ensued; it is a point of view, I suppose, but an odd one when applied either to the hero’s adversaries or his companion. A welcome flick of the switch came to something warmer, more blooming, but if detail was always present, greater structural awareness was less discernible. Much of the battlefield sounded magnificent, offstage and onstage trumpets included, but the works of peace felt too drawn out, often merely listless. Ultimately, the reading did not cohere for me, though much of the audience clearly felt otherwise. A rich-toned ‘Zueignung’ came as encore, van den Heever and Nézet-Séguin recovering with grace and humour from the former’s initial memory lapse.

NYO/Adès - Liszt, Adès, and Berlioz, 8 August 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Liszt: Mephisto Waltz no.1, S.110/2
Adès: Dante: Part 2, ‘Purgatorio’
Berlioz: Symphonie fantastique, op.14

National Youth Orchestra

Thomas Adès (conductor)

Images:  BBC / Chris Christodoulou

To hear the National Youth Orchestra is always a treat. The enthusiasm of young musicians, not a cynical bone in their bodies, can hardly be gainsaid; but enthusiasm will only get one so far. These musicians have technical and musical capabilities beyond their years; many will have professional careers ahead of them. Just look at the NYO’s alumni. They will have many more rehearsals than a professional orchestra could every hope for. (Eat your heart out, Celibidache!) There is also the sheer joy of hearing an orchestra of this size too, again unaffordable on the professional scene for almost anything but Gurrelieder—and often not even then. Berlioz knew a true orchestral pianissimo required a far greater body of musicians than one was ever likely to hear, rendering his works either utopian or unperformable or, on some measure, inadequately performed in reality. What we hear today from ‘period’ and ‘modern’ orchestras alike, whatever the ideological claims of the latter, will almost always fall short of what he required. Such is life, at least under capitalism. We stretch our resources to breaking-point and beyond, and ultimately make do with less than perfection; otherwise, we should hear nothing at all. It was nonetheless a treat to hear the Symphonie fantastique played with musicians within the range of his expectation, if still towards the lower end (albeit with more powerful, modern instruments). 

Before that, the first half of this concert conducted by Thomas Adès offered music by Liszt and Adès himself. The greatest musical avant-gardist of the nineteenth century, Liszt was stranger neither to ideas nor to practice in the realm of musical ‘progress’: neither on the piano nor the orchestra, inventing for the latter the new genre of the symphonic poem. So important were they to Wagner that he actually played down some of his own prior innovation, here strictly preceding that of Liszt, so as to incorporate Liszt’s poems into his musico-historical schema. The first Mephisto Waltz has a not dissimilar conception, reminding us that there were orchestral works before Liszt, as there have been many after, that may not strictly be classified in that way, but which at least come close. (Ask Berlioz, for one.) No one writes – plays, listens – in a vacuum. Coming to this music for the first time or the hundredth – the latter unlikely, for we hear it far less often than we might – no one would have failed to register the NYO’s musical, indeed human energy from the conductor’s first downbeat, indeed before that too. Unanimity of sound, but also of purpose, reached through collaboration rather than dictatorship, was apparent here and throughout the entire concert, whether in the opening phrase or the whirlwind that ensued, string crescendi a remarkable case in point (more difficult than they might sound). It was quite a ride for all of us. Handling the sudden change of tempo for the love music is a difficult task: how to ensure necessary contrast but also ‘symphonic’ continuity. If Adès proved stronger in the former than the latter, there was nonetheless much to admire and be thrilled by—especially in the return to full throttle. Moreover, all orchestral solos were taken exquisitely (again, very much the case throughout the concert). 

Adès’s ballet Dante was written for the Royal Opera House and Opéra de Paris for the septcentenary of Dante’s birth. Here we heard the second of its three parts, ‘Purgatorio’. Its performance seemed once again to be outstanding, NYO musicians clearly relishing the opportunity to work with a composer on his music, in a performance it is difficult to imagine being surpassed. I felt decidedly ambivalent to it as music, though, a promising opening leading to outright bathos. The first six of its seven sections contains recorded material: baqashot chants, as revealed in Edward Venn’s useful note, connecting both with the composer’s family history and themes in Dante. They were fascinating to hear, as was, at the music’s best, their incitement to and/or emergence from orchestral material, be it for solo instruments, groups, or something approaching a full ensemble. I am not sure the writing always escapes orientalism, arguably all the more pronounced in frequent combination – almost as if we had not progressed from Saint-Saëns – of tonality and ‘fantastic’, ‘Oriental’ colouring. The microtones of the ‘real thing’ had considerably more intrinsic character. Despite the tendency towards film music, one could imagine it danced—and that was of course part of the point. 

There were certainly thrills to be heard when we reached the final ‘Ascent’ in ten horns or five trombones standing together to play. When joined by bells, though, the score ended up sounding uncomfortably close to a television ‘Christmas special’. It made a noise, as did the orchestra, but beyond that? Wagner advised Liszt not to write a ‘Paradiso’ movement for his Dante Symphony, declaring depiction of paradise beyond the powers of music: advice Liszt wisely heeded, substituting a ‘Magnificat’. Given the nature of this musical approach, I think I shall similarly refrain as listener. Whatever my misgivings, a poorly-behaved audience – slurping ice cream, dropping things on the floor, taking phone calls, air conducting, and more – loved it. 

And so, to Berlioz, gifts of conductor and orchestra united in a performance that threatened to raise the roof even of the Albert Hall, yet lacked nothing in subtle detail. The first movement received as fine a performance as I can recall for a long time, its introduction barely registering as such, but rather as one stage, full of potential yet equally absorbing on its own terms, in an ever-developing, shortish symphonic poem of its own. NYO energy could be experienced as coming direct not only from the players but their instruments: testimony to Adès’s wise stewardship in pursuit of Berlioz’s goals. I was especially intrigued by the darker corners, timbre, harmony, tempo, and more united in production of colour and motion. All manner of shades between them and the composer’s signature manic Romanticism made for another captivating journey, as did a graceful, yet at-times-menacing second-movement ball, here given with cornet solo. (Truth be told, I prefer it without, but in this context, it would have been idiocy not to give the soloist his moment to shine, as he certainly did.) 

Once the ballroom had been brought to eyes and ears, the ‘Scène aux champs’ unfolded with every bit as keen a sense of musical narration. Excellent use was made of the Albert Hall; in veritable coups de théâtre, both oboe echo of cor anglais solo (excellent in both cases) and thunder-drums above in stereo with their siblings below made fine use of the gallery. Berlioz would have loved the spatial drama, as, I am sure, he would the Beethoven rarely more than a little below the surface, underpinning the movement’s structure. The darker timbres of the ‘March to the Scaffold’ echoed and extended the aforementioned corners in the first movement, lugubrious and extravert twin sides to the same fateful coin. If ever you had wanted to experience the sound of eight bassoons standing from within an orchestra, here was your opportunity. That was not in itself the point, but rather what was done with them—which proved to be of equal excellence.

A duly rollicking finale combined narrative and musical coherence to the extent that it would have been inconceivable to divide them. As black sabbath bells pealed from the gallery, witches and skeletons came to life and partied below. Coordination was no mean task in itself; bar one slightly precarious moment, quickly salvaged, there was no problem at all. The chase to the close, full of incident, imparted a properly Gothic thrill in this monstrous hall. If it were no surprise to be treated to an encore, the choice of music perhaps was: a darkly sensual John Barry ‘Space March’ from the score to You Only Live Twice. Now that is how you do film music.

Oberon, Proms, 6 August 2026

Royal Albert Hall

Oberon – Nicky Spence
Reiza – Jennifer Davis
Sir Huon – John Findon
Sherasmin – Yannick Debus
Fatima – Rachael Wilson
Puck – J’Nai Bridges
Mermaids – Charlotte Bowden, Jessica Cale

Narrator – Tamsin Greig
Emma Doherty (stage director)

Orchestre Révolutionnaire et Romantique
Monteverdi Choir (chorus-master: Richard Wilberforce)
Mark Elder (conductor)

What to do with Oberon? Staging it ‘as is’ – or ‘was’ – is barely an option, though it would be far from without interest for those of us who care deeply about its music. Even if we resolved, as well we might, never to see it again like that, we should have gained a greater sense of its conception. The problem lies squarely with James Robinson Planché’s English libretto for Covent Garden, a product of taste (or lack thereof) and time rather than straightforward incompetence, and in its way an object of fascination, yet hardly enough for someone to take the plunge. It lies of course more broadly with the state of English opera at the time. Even if we were to avoid value judgements, taste and expectation are so utterly removed from ours – far more so than, say, eighteenth-century opera seria at the height of its alienation from a Romantically inclined public – that it will not happen. 

Value judgement, moreover, is pretty much impossible to avoid in this case. However much I may attempt to resist temptation – in truth, not so very much – I shall eventually end up quoting Donald Tovey, so may as well do so here. For this strange spin-off from Wieland and Shakespeare, perhaps lost in translation yet also at least a window on a Romantic window on traditions and conceptions that are not ours, Weber ‘poured his last and finest music into this pig-trough’. Or as Clive Brown, only a little more diplomatically, wrote in the New Grove: ‘It is a remarkable testimony to Weber’s operatic genius that, notwithstanding the unmitigated awfulness of its libretto, Oberon has maintained a toe-hold in the repertory. To a very considerable extent he was able to compensate for triviality and inconsequence in the libretto by skilful musical treatment.’ It is not simply the quality of the libretto, though, but the nature of the ‘work’ to which the composer was obliged to contribute. In the words of him who, advancing consumption notwithstanding, had hurriedly and with marked success learned his English lessons in order to provide for his family: ‘The intermixing of so many principal actors who do not sing, the omission of the music in the most important moments – all these things deprive our Oberon the title of an opera, and will make him unfit for all other Theatres in Europe; which is a very bad thing for me, but – passons la dessus.’ 

So, what to do? Or rather, what was done here in this semi-staging – perhaps closer to ‘concert staging’, though the boundaries are as porous as for opera, semi-opera, Singspiel, etc. – from the Monteverdi Choir and Orchestras (here in Orchestre Révolutionnaire et Romantique guise)? In a resourceful conception of its own, brought to the Proms rather than conceived by it, the orchestra formed the centre-piece around which Emma Doherty’s direction of the singers took place. Oberon’s horn, seen and heard first from the organ loft, later from its own solo spot onstage, rightly took its place as fons et origo of the action. There was a good deal of activity, running- on and offstage and even, in one case for Sir Huon and Sherasmin, lost en route to rescue Reiza, on the arena. The fate of near-eternal gardening prior to reunion of our pairs of lovers, was illustrated with watering cans and so on. It did not take itself too seriously, but nor did it merely send things up or wallow in self-regard. 

Would that I might say the same for Timothy Knapman’s new English narration, replacing Planché’s dialogue. It was not his fault that many characters simply disappeared from the stage; imagine, say, an Entführung without Bassa Selim. Nor was it necessarily a bad idea to condense those aspects of the action into verse narration. The all-too-obvious quotations from Shakespeare, forced rhymes – readily amused members of the audience laughing some time before their delivery on account of surtitle pre-emption – and general air of facetiousness quickly grew wearing. True, something had to substitute for what would – should – have been theatrical spectacle. It would have been lovely to have had some of that, in some sense reimagined, but that was never on the cards. But there is a line between not taking oneself too seriously and not taking anything seriously at all. One might have been tempted to ask: why bother at all?

Fortunately, Weber and his performers prevented one asking that, and ensured audience gratitude for what is, after all, a rare opportunity. (Covent Garden was due to stage the work a few years ago, but unceremoniously withdrew. My sole previous live encounter was an enterprising performance from New Sussex Opera in 2014.) Bar a couple of highly noticeable occasions when string tuning went horribly awry, the ORR played beautifully. Under Mark Elder’s guidance, the orchestra had none of the inflexibility and astringency forced upon it – and us – by its founding conductor, departed to fight (literally) other battles elsewhere. Accustomed to modern instruments, my ears took a little time to adjust, but Elder and the orchestra brought a lovely intimacy to musical proceedings, feather-light, gossamer intimations of Mendelssohn, equally germane recollections of The Magic Flute and Die Entführung, and more than occasional foreshadowings of Wagner all part of a rich historical mix nonetheless centred upon Weber’s particularity. It was arguably a little too introspective at times, a little too loved by Elder; but if so, that was a fault in the right direction. For herein lay genuine love for the opera less in evidence from narrative condescension. 

This was, moreover, a performance in the best sense considerate to a fine cast of singers that was yet not, for the most part, Wagnerian as we understand the term. As Oberon, at least in this version, Nicky Spence has relatively little to do, but did it well—and with undeniable sense of theatre. His fellow tenor John Findon had considerably more on his plate as Sir Huon of Bordeaux, and rose to Weber’s challenges with winning ease. So too did Jennifer Davis, of course very much a Wagnerian, in the parallel role of Reiza. Both gave spirited and subtle performances that made the most of the dramatic opportunities this particular brand of staging could provide. Much the same might be said of the ‘lesser’ couple – think Papageno and Papagena, albeit with greater balance in their minutes of music – of Yannick Debus as Sherasmin and Rachael Wilson as Fatima: both animated, and stylish throughout, Wilson offering a touching, lovelorn ‘A lonely Arab maid’. With a lovely mermaid duet (Charlotte Bowden and Jessica Cale), all the more bewildering without much in the way of context, a spirited J’Nai Bridges as Puck, and a fine collection of soloists in their own right from the Monteverdi Chori, the score and some at least of its context were brought vividly to life. Tamsin Greig, moreover, delivered her narration with collaborative ease and the keenest ear for verse. As in any ‘version’ of the work, content was not the responsibility of the performers. 

Had Weber lived to return to Germany, he would almost certainly have revised the opera for its stages, introducing recitative and doing away with some of its more problematic aspects. (Hearing it in German translation, however inauthentic on a literalist level, is in aesthetic terms a great improvement.) Maybe some day, someone will offer us Planché’s 1860 revision in Italian (by then, more to the taste of opera-going London). Mahler’s version, which I have never heard in the theatre, probably offers the best way forward in German, treating us not only to the revision of one of the opera house’s greatest animating forces, but also to Mahler’s own extension of Weber’s material for transitional music. But there are worse things than a work that confounds possibilities for performance. (So too, in different ways, do many others—Schoenberg’s Moses und Aron included.) This was a valiant attempt, offering a proper degree of bewitchment. Now where is Euryanthe?

BBC SSO/Volkov - Gabrieli, Stravinsky, and Brahms, 11 September 2025

Royal Albert Hall

Gabrieli, arr. Maderna: In ecclesiis
Stravinsky: Requiem Canticles
Gabrieli, arr. Maderna: Canzone a tre cori
Brahms: Symphony no.2 in D major, op.73

Jess Dandy (contralto)

Ashley Riches (bass-baritone)

National Youth Choir

BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra

Ilan Volkov (conductor)

Images: BBC / Andy Paradise

A splendid Prom, whose programming was not only fascinating on paper, but grew in fascination, connection, and meaning as the evening progressed, aided no end by fine performances from soloists, the National Youth Choir, the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, and Ilan Volkov. Both halves opened with Bruno Maderna orchestral arrangements of works by Giovanni Gabrieli. First was the polychoral motet In ecclesiis, published posthumously in 1615, and arranged by Maderna in 1966. The variety yet consequential nature of Maderna’s choices concerning antiphonal responses shone through in ravishing performance. A Monteverdian sultriness to chamber passages, the grandeur of a fuller orchestra, adept handling and communication of metrical changes, and the sheer wonder of hearing this music – at long last – on modern instruments made for a wonderful curtain-opener resounding in Venetian splendour. Less ‘faithful’ passages with woodwind, harp, and eventually tubular bells brought similar joy to the ears. It built magnificently and subsided with discernment. Those sectional and consequential qualities were also to be heard in Maderna’s 1972 revisiting of the Conzon XVI à 12. Warm, lively, and highly rhythmical, it was again full of colour, not in an over-the-top Respighi-like way, which has its place, but in an unquestionable effort to communicate the essential qualities of the music to a modern audience. The intrinsic qualities of Gabrielian brass, married to warm, incisive strings and unfailingly well-chosen tempi, would have given pleasure to all but the most narrow-minded of authenticists. 

In between came one of the greatest jewels not only of Stravinsky’s late, serial period, but of his career, the Requiem Canticles heard at the composer’s Venetian funeral in 1971: of the same time, then, as Maderna’s arrangements and hailing from a less dissimilar musical world than some might suspect, old and new similarly united and inseparable. Intensity of drama and excellence of playing marked the opening Prelude: a clear indication of ‘serialism, Jim, but not as we know it’. It could only ever be Stravinsky, of course, and so it sounded, with fresh energy and commitment. The ‘Exaudi’ came to our ears as the Symphony of Psalms heard through a prism of Webern. There was something also of a musical object, even of a religious icon, to it: fitting in so many ways. The National Youth Choir’s warmth, diction, and intonation here and elsewhere were striking, as for instance in the distilled, almost homeopathic power of the following ‘Dies irae’. Ashley Riches joined trumpets and bassoons for an implacable yet human ‘Tuba mirum’, bassoon duetting continuing, amongst a quartet of flutes, and others in a duly hieratic ‘Interlude’ that unmistakeably echoed the music of Gabrieli (at least in this context). The ‘Rex tremendae’ said or sang all that need be said or sung, serial process joyously apparent. Was that Mother Goose putting in a guest appearance, courtesy of a rich-toned Jess Dandy, in the ‘Lacrimosa’? The composer’s direct Verdian homage in the ‘Libera me’, partly fragmented through unforgettable chatter of choral souls, brought us to a world of crystalline, celestial perfection in the ‘Postlude’, Messiaen a closer kindred spirit than I had ever previously imagined. 

The final work on the programme was Brahms’s Second Symphony, here given a thoughtful, striking, never less than coherent reconsideration by Volkov. It was fascinating to hear the lines of its opening texture after – in more than one sense – Gabrieli, whose music Brahms programmed amongst much alte Musik in his Wiener Singakademie concerts. The first movement unfolded relatively swiftly, though never unreasonably so; indeed, the composer’s marking ‘Allegro non troppo’ would be a pretty good summary of what we heard. Volkov handled the many tempo changes convincingly, likewise other, related changes of mood. Here, quite rightly, was a world of perpetual motivic transformation, always ‘becoming’ in developing variation: Schoenberg rather than Schenker, one might say. This was not an especially autumnal Brahms, but rather vernal music – horn calls and all – with decidedly darker undercurrents. It surprised, though never for the sake of surprise – telling phrasing here, a sudden diminuendo there – and cohered throughout, the BBC SSO’s multifaceted strings an ever-shifting backbone, if such a thing can be imagined. 

An involved (emotionally, intellectually, and texturally) second movement again brought the quality of Brahms’s counterpoint to the fore, the composer moving closer still to Schoenberg, yet also to Mozart. I am not sure I have heard this music sound more volatile, ever threatening to bubble over, its deep melancholy and Innigkeit part and parcel of a greater humanism. The third movement’s inheritance from Mendelssohn and Schumann was beautifully clear, though the other side of the coin was a tale of twists and turns, of continued suppression of darker truths. Its darkness was quite different, say, from Furtwängler’s, yet I could not help but think the older conductor might have appreciated it and nodded approvingly. And for all its ambiguity and complexity, there was a not entirely dissimilar overall clarity, even simplicity, to it. When the final movement erupted, hard driven at times yet always flexible, it proved thrilling and satisfying in equal measure, conceived both dramatically and symphonically, yet perhaps closer in scale and even temperament to a homage to Haydn rather than to Beethoven. It made, at any rate, for a winning, boisterous way to close a concert full of treasure.

And yet, meaning no disrespect to this excellent concert, the most electrifying and necessary item was yet to come: not an encore, though a return to the podium by Volkov, in which, visibly and audibly anxious, he, as an Israeli, addressed the audience in heartrending fashion concerning the genocide in Gaza. He gave those who did not wish to hear opportunity to leave, even in the face of abuse from malcontents. It would be remiss of me not to report this, though the BBC, it seems, has declined to do so. (The broadcast had by that time finished, it seems, although footage is widely available from elsewhere.) By the same token, I do not think this is quite the place to enter into any discussion of his words, other than to say I marvelled at and was inspired by his courage and stand in solidarity with him. His words (I hope I have transcribed them correctly) should now speak for themselves: 

In my heart there is great pain now, every day for months. I come from Israel and live there. I love it: it’s my home. But what’s happening is atrocious and horrific on a scale that’s unimaginable. I know that many of us feel completely helpless in front of it. Innocent Palestinians being killed in thousands, displaced again and again, without hospitals and schools, not knowing when's the next meal. Israeli hostages are kept in terrible conditions for almost two years and political prisoners are languishing in Israeli jails. Israelis – Jews and Palestinians – won’t be able to stop this alone. I ask you, I beg you all, to do whatever is in your power to stop this madness. Every little action counts while governments hesitate and wait. We cannot let this go on any longer; every moment that passes puts the safety of millions in risk. Thank you.

Thank you, Ilan (if I may). The conductor has since announced that he will no longer work in Israel.

VPO/Welser-Möst - Berg and Bruckner, 8 September 2025

Royal Albert Hall

Berg: Lulu-Suite (extracts)
Bruckner: Symphony no.9 in D minor

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Franz Welser-Möst (conductor)

Images: BBC/ Chris Christodoulou

Returning to the ‘cavernous’ (typical euphemism) acoustic of the Royal Albert Hall from the better suited venues of the Salzburg Festival takes some getting used to: for the listener and doubtless for the Vienna Philharmonic too. Still, it was heartening to be part of what approached a capacity audience despite severe transport disruption owed to Tube workers’ industrial action, and the ears – expectations, at least – adjusted as I was drawn in to fine performances of Berg and Bruckner, conducted by Franz Welser-Möst. 

It was perhaps a little odd only to hear three Lulu movements (without soloist): the Rondo, Variations, and Adagio. If the music felt slightly listless to begin with – Boulez, for instance, would have imparted a greater sense of forward impetus – Welser-Möst’s paths through the VPO’s silken-smooth Rondo-labyrinth contributed in its different way to a sense of connection throughout the work as a whole and indeed with Bruckner’s writing too. It flowed at first almost imperceptibly but with increasing inexorability. Darker undercurrents occasionally flowed over, but solo instruments in particular proved the principal voices of different threads in quasi-chamber music that highlighted points in common with, say, the Lyric Suite and indeed with Mozart and Schubert, a duly post-Mahlerian close to the movement notwithstanding. A new burst of energy heralded the Variations, well balanced and directed in a more obviously urban soundscape: both more overtly of the interwar years, of ‘Weimar culture’ broadly construed, and also more overtly Classical-Romantic in form and expression. The final movement brought greater and more tragic malevolence from the off, already offering presentiments of the darkness at the heart of Bruckner’s Ninth Symphony (and the path Europe would take following Berg’s death). Open, serial lines pointed to the musical future, but also to a close that, not unlike Wozzeck, stops rather than concludes. ‘Lulu! Mein Engel!’ could only be voiced by strings, yet was no less moving for that, as if the epilogue to the hopes and possibilities not only of a woman, but of an age grimly consonant with our own. 

Following music from Lulu, another celebrated unfinished work—although, likewise, important attempts have been made at completion (not heard here). If Berg and Webern – perhaps Friedrich Cerha, should one venture into the postwar world – sound as some of the last, epilogic gasps of the Austrian Catholic Baroque in music, Bruckner perhaps offers the final full instalment, if not so unmediated as some might have one believe. At any rate, Berg and Webern – their great Jewish-Lutheran teacher too – were present as ghosts, as immanent as those of earlier Austro-German Romanticism. Sonic combination of translucency and depth brought the Vienna Philharmonic’s character, and that of a Bruckner inclined to modernity, even modernism, to the fore. Was it in the shadows, though, and in other liminal passages, that the truest ‘meaning’ lay, here in the first movement and beyond? Poisonous offshoots from the Ring suggested Bruckner’s own response to his touchingly naïve Bayreuth question: why does Brünnhilde burn? Or was it in the unisons, in the approach to the dedicatee of the symphony, Bruckner’s ‘dear God’? In the wayward yet consequential melodic and harmonic twists and turns, or in the orchestral colours that at times seemed to pre-empt Schoenberg’s Five Orchestral Pieces? There was no definitive answer: far from a bad thing. Yes, of course even this music, Bruckner at its greatest, does not develop like Brahms or Beethoven. It takes its own path(s), though; here they sounded unerring, unlike the sometimes unfortunate attempts of his earlier symphonies. Welser-Möst may not have been so ferociously possessed as Furtwängler – who is? – but this performance had its own dramatic trajectory, at times fragile, even threatening to fragment, yet never doing so and quite clear after the event. The movement’s close was hair-raising, without the slightest over-egging. 

The Scherzo sounded as if Schubert, even Bruckner himself, were celebrating a black mass. It was not all malevolence, but, as if in anticipation of Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder confrontation with the Almighty, the standpoint was clear in a drama of belief. The Trio offered, beautifully, nervily, and not a little frighteningly keen contrast in some of the most outstanding orchestral playing London will hear this year.  And the Scherzo’s reprise was heard through that contrast in greater ambiguity and sheer terror, an Upper Austrian Devil stomping his foot to create before our ears an Oberammergau passion within a passion. When sunshine emerged from behind the clouds, one could not but ask, without ready answer, how and why. If the close slightly disappointed, that was because convincing tonal conclusion no longer seemed possible; the world of Lulu and others now seemed inevitable. 

That slightly forced conclusion was nonetheless offset by the coming of the ‘final’ Adagio in all its Wagnerian richness, eloquence, and grandeur. For whilst this was unquestionably a symphonic performance of what is unquestionably a symphony, it was informed by the deepest immersion in music drama too, above all that of Parsifal; how could it not be, given the orchestra? That was combined with a world that lay eerily ‘beyond’, historically and metaphysically, less unlike that of Mahler than we might often think, although the nature of its subjectivity remained close to diametrically opposed. Welser-Möst built the movement patiently, without evident moulding. What a welcome contrast with the flailing incomprehension of a Klaus Mäkelä in his recent Mahler Fifth. And it was striking how many presentiments of Mahler, from Das klagende Lied to his incomplete Tenth, were to be heard. The realm into which we were led disoriented and disconcerted, irrespective of how much one might ‘know’ the work. There was a sense of having attempted to reach something we could – and should – not, Wagner’s Grail meeting something more traditionally transcendental, before a necessary turn aside so as, if not to conclude, then to end.

BBC SO/Lintu - Boulez and Mahler, 4 August 2025

Royal Albert Hall

Boulez: Rituel in memoriam Bruno Maderna
Mahler: Das klagende Lied

Carlos Gonzales Napoles (treble)
Malakai Bayoh (boy alto)
Natalya Romaniw (soprano)
Jennifer Johnston (mezzo-soprano)
Russell Thomas (tenor)
James Newby (baritone)

Constanza Chorus (chorus master: Joanna Tomlinson)
BBC Symphony Chorus (chorus master: Neil Ferris)
BBC Symphony Orchestra

Hannu Lintu (conductor)

For my generation, as well as for me personally, Pierre Boulez’s Mahler was probably the most influential of all. My Mahlerian coming of age coincided with his decisive return to the composer, as recorded by Deutsche Grammophon. I recall hearing music from the Sixth Symphony for the very first time, on Radio 3’s Building a Library and immediately rushed out to buy the CD. I would hear Boulez conduct the work live twice, with the LSO in 2000 and with the Staatskapelle Berlin in 2007 (during those extraordinary Festtage in which Boulez and Daniel Barenboim between them performed all of the completed symphonies and most of the orchestral songs). Alas, I never heard him conduct Das klagende Lied, though he recorded it twice. Nor, unless I am forgetting, did I hear him conduct his Rituel in memoriam Bruno Maderna, though I was privileged to hear him conduct much of his music. (Alas, no Répons either, though surely the Ensemble Intercontemporain in 2015 continued to bear some of his imprint.) If London tributes to Boulez in his centenary have not been so plentiful as one might have hoped – surely Répons would have been in order somewhere – then many of us will continue to hear his repertoire through a Boulezian lens, not least when given by an ensemble such as the BBC Symphony Orchestra.

Rituel emerged paradoxically – a mixture, perhaps itself paradoxical, of dialectic and mystery – out of something and nothing: not quite creatio ex nihilo, but not entirely unlike it either. The precedent of Berg’s op.6 Orchestral Pieces came strongly to my mind, but there are many others too. That quality of being neither one nor the other and of the music lying in that encounter extended to other apparent oppositions too: subjective and objective; involved and observed; regular and irregular (though never imprecise); tuned and untuned (though never, it seemed, unpitched). But above all, this was an immersive ritual, in which order and process, heard and felt, revealed.  Arabesques, flourishes, spirals, repeated experience of a figure so familiar from the composer’s future, all unfolded in eminently ‘natural’ fashion, Hannu Lintu knowing precisely when to conduct and when not. (In that, he reminded me of Peter Eötvös in a 2015 performance with the LSO.) It was a procession for the ears but also for the eyes, the spatial element readily appreciable in both ways. A mass of detail combined into something both complex and remarkably simple, or so it seemed. An array of different attacks on a single triangle was not only palpable, but connected with other musical parameters on that instrument, with others in its instrumental group, and beyond to other groups, mirroring, responding, combining. Reverberation, timbre, pitch, and so much more grew indissoluble: the very idea of serialism, one might say, as a musical and emotional necessity. Ultimately, it was the mesmerising, well-nigh Mahlerian quality that remained with us, long after the music had ceased; indeed, one doubted that it had ceased. 

For Das klagende Lied, the Proms programme heading (not Monika Hennemann’s informative programme note) told us we should hear the ‘original version, 1830’: a rarity indeed from thirty years before Mahler’s birth, contemporary with the Symphonie fantastique. This mysterious prenatal version, however, sounded pretty much the same as the more familiar ‘original’ written between 1878 and 1880 and could be experienced as such. Boulez gave the first British performance and made the first recording of the excised first movement, ‘Waldmärchen’. (His two recordings of the cantata as a whole are of the 1898 revision, as was his 1976 Proms performance.) One can go round in circles discussing versions, revisions, and editions, often to little avail. Suffice it to say I should always rather hear the full three movements; more to the point, Lintu and his musicians duly vindicated that choice. 

It was fanciful, no doubt, but in context perhaps not entirely absurd to hear the opening emerge similarly to that of Rituel, before taking a very different path. Mahler’s ‘voices’, as Julian Johnson has shown, are many. One of the many striking things about this work in particular is how many of them already seem to be here: not only stylistic traits, compositional method, even thematic material, but aspects of subjectivity such as we had already heard explored in Boulez’s work. ‘The great novel is sketched,’ as Boulez once wrote of this cantata, and we should ‘read its chapters progressively in the works to come’. From this orchestral introduction to ‘Waldmärchen’, Lintu seemed to have the music’s measure. If, occasionally, I found he drove a little hard, more often there was splendid flexibility, the BBC SO responding in further hallucinatory quality to his direction, Romantic vistas opening up before our ears. The Lied elements of this movement were also clear from the outset, or at least from when voices entered, as was Mahler’s Wagnerian inheritance. Uncanny choral singing – here from outstanding joint forces of the BBC Symphony Chorus and the amateur Constanza Chorus – already imparted a ghostly element, doubtless founded in German Romanticism but extending far beyond it; again in context, the versicle-response quality to Rituel endured. At least from where I was seated, the female solo voices made greater impact than tenor and bass, but that may have been as much a matter of acoustics as anything else. Natalya Romaniw switched from almost instrumental blend with Mahler’s woodwind to hochdramatisch declamation. Jennifer Johnston sounded splendidly Erda-like, harps a further Ring-echo. If there were inevitable echoes of Götterdämmerung in the choral writing, what struck in general was how little could have been written by anyone else, how intensely, convincingly personal this music was already. Harmonic coincidence with – at this stage, it could not be influence from – Parsifal, aptly enough on the words ‘Ihr Blumen’, pointed back to Tristan und Isolde, though again spoke clearly on its own merits. 

That sense of a page turning, of a new ‘chapter’, was readily apparent in the orchestral introduction to the second movement, ‘Der Spielmann’. One could almost see the illumination, even the script. Chorale snatches disconcertingly yet unmistakeably pointed to the Mahlerian future, the Rückert world of the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies. Courtly echoes of Wagner’s ‘Romantic operas’ Lohengrin and Tannhäuser cast their spell, off-stage bands suggesting the former’s festivities turned (still more) sour. Johnston’s perfectly judged match of emotional intensity and humanity helped the tale on its way, at the close of the movement turning to an inheritance from Waltraute. The two boy soloists sang very well so far as I could tell, though evident amplification (perhaps necessary, though a pity) made it difficult to discern more. Throughout, the orchestral narrative was both founded in and punctuated by Mahler’s fateful descending scales. That is the composer’s doing, of course, but it was also a matter of performance to have it felt in our bones. The riotous celebration of the final ‘Hochzeitstück’ was, quite rightly, never without its dark side. The ‘proud spirit’ of the ‘proud queen’ was always going to be broken. Mobile telephone (really!) notwithstanding, the hushed close rightly took its time and made its mark.

BBC SSO/Wigglesworth - Birtwistle and Beethoven, 28 July 2025

Royal Albert Hall

Birtwistle: Earth Dances
Beethoven: Symphony no.3 in E-flat major, op.55, ‘Eroica’

BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra

Ryan Wigglesworth (conductor)

This was a strangely disappointing Prom, which promised much in programming, received excellent playing from the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, and yet was somewhat let down in the first half, rather more than that in the second, by Ryan Wigglesworth’s conducting. Birtwistle and Beethoven offer in many ways an excellent pairing: much in common, not least aspects of temperament, an indomitability of what we might still cling to as embodying human spirit, and much that contrasts too. The goal-orientation that Birtwistle often – not always, and not always fully – eschewed is unquestionably central to Beethoven’s music, nowhere more so than in the ‘middle period’ more or less inaugurated by his Eroica Symphony. By the same token, the importance of continuity, no matter what the obstacles, remains crucial to both. Birtwistle himself pointed to the ‘wonderful example’ of Beethoven in ‘order or disruption of order’: ‘He never does what you think he is going to do. The surprise is perpetual.’    

We could have done with more surprise on this occasion, in both halves, though Earth Dances fared better. I should not be unduly harsh about what was in many ways a fine performance. Wigglesworth conducted The Minotaur at Covent Garden twelve years ago: very well, I thought, though I see now that I noted a certain ‘Classicism’ to his approach, which might be read in more than one way. Here, that translated, if indeed it were a similar thing at all, into apparent reluctance, doubtless furthered by the Royal Albert Hall’s cavernous acoustic, to let the music have its head. Clarity of detail was admirable and the performance was not without cragginess, but it came perilously close to drifting at times, especially during softer, slower passages. That said, there was a proper sense of the primordial at the beginning, of an aural landscape that had both always been and yet was anything but constant. It is difficult not to summon up some sort of images here, but the grit remained, as it should, in the music ‘itself’ and its tectonics, its dances not balletic but rather stratified and hieratic successors to Stravinsky’s Rite via Symphonies of Wind Instruments. Brute force and melancholy emerged as near-dialectical opposing forces in a world that lay beyond good and evil, a world that might be that of Nature yet is surely not only so. The performance was strongest when its dances registered as such, when fractures opened, volcanoes erupted; sometimes, though, it would have benefited from a stronger, not necessarily more interventionist but more determined (even Beethovenian) hand in having them do so. A due sense of return, not complete, not merely cyclical, proved nevertheless necessary and palpable at the close. 

The ecstatic reception accorded the Eroica in the hall bewildered me. To my ears, it never so much as stirred, at most skimming the surface in a performance that, to quote Dorothy Parker, ran the gamut of emotions from A to B. Put another way, it moved from an amiable first movement to a merely inconsequential finale, with only a hint of something more interesting in a Funeral March that disintegrated into something approaching stream of consciousness. It felt long, although it was probably on the quick side. (The two tend to go together, whatever metronome enthusiasts may tell you.) The first movement was certainly Allegro, arguably more than that, though brio was more or less entirely absent. It was less Bonaparte, let alone the memory of a great man, than Petit Trianon—with apologies to Marie Antoinette, in reality a far more interesting figure than that might imply. It had line, though scant sense of harmony, with a little more ib the way of temperament as time went on. Sadly, though, it was a matter of too little, too late. 

The second movement opened with greater promise. Although on the swift side, it was not unreasonably so; one sensed both greater character and more appropriate character. It was hardly granitic, yet there was nonetheless a darkness emerging from instrumental timbre without being limited to it. The turn to the major was odd, by turns tentative and insistent. Without a stronger – much stronger – sense of harmony, it all sounded rather episodic and empty. If designer Beethoven were your thing, the scherzo might have been it: sleek and, if not quite empty, little more than blithe. Exquisite horn playing notwithstanding, the trio offered little in the way of contrast. The finale offered a disjunct if pretty set of variations, with little in the way of humour, defiance, exultancy, anything Beethovenian. If ever there were a time in which our world needed to hear from the symphonic Beethoven, it would be now. Alas, he seems more distant than ever.

Hadelich/BBC SO/Oramo - Stravinsky, Mendelssohn, Davis, and Strauss, 24 July 2025

Royal Albert Hall

Stravinsky: Chant du rossignol
Mendelssohn: Violin Concerto in E minor, op.64
Anthony Davis: Tales (Tails) of the Signifying Monkey (European premiere)
Strauss: Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche, op.28

Augustin Hadelich (violin)

BBC Symphony Orchestra

Sakari Oramo (conductor)

Stravinsky seems unfashionable in London right now. Maybe it is my imagination, or maybe it is a consequence of increasingly non-existent public funding that what once stood at the very core of twentieth-century repertoire is now not considered ‘safe’ enough. I am sure, though, we used to encounter his music more frequently. Like the opera from which it is drawn, the Chant du rossignol seems always to have been curiously neglected. Goodness knows why; both are magical works and not obviously ‘difficult’. Boulez was, of course, a persistent and compelling advocate. It is perhaps especially fitting, then, that the BBC Symphony Orchestra should programme the work in his centenary year for the music festival at which Boulez was a longstanding, greatly valued guest, probably in no composer more often than Stravinsky. 

Sakari Oramo’s predecessor would surely have admired the éclat with which this performance opened and might well have heard more than a little of his own compositional history in what followed. Not that Oramo neglected Stravinsky’s ‘Russianness’ in a colourful, detailed, incisive, and magical performance that also boasted a good measure of Debussyan languor when called for, humour too (for instance in downward trombone slide). Echoes – more properly, pre-echoes – of Petrushka and The Rite of Spring were to be heard in harmony, metre, timbre, and much else. Narrative was clear and meaningful, in what duly sounded as a drama in (relative) miniature. Perhaps, though, it was the haunting stillness at the work’s heart that lingered longest in the memory. Solos – flute, violin, trumpet, and others – were all finely taken by BBC SO principals. I have little doubt Boulez would have loved the harp playing too. 

I cannot recall offhand whether Boulez ever conducted the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto, but I imagine he might have done. He certainly admired the composer’s orchestral music, contrasting it and that of Berlioz to Schumann’s, in that one would never retouch or rebalance, given the composers’ perfect scoring. The opening is tricky, though it should never sound so—and certainly did not here, in a beautifully ‘natural’-sounding performance of the first movement that flowed fast without ever sounding rushed. Conductor, orchestra, and the simply outstanding soloist Augustin Hadelich captured Mendelssohn’s world, emotional as well as stylistic, to a tee. A poignant second subject was never remotely sentimentalised. Indeed, all had just the right sort of Romantic ardour and humanism to it. There was a wonderfully fresh sense of discovery too; at times, one might almost have been hearing it for the first time—and doubtless some in the audience were. The movement’s concision once again astonished me: seemingly over before it had begun, and just as dramatic in its different way as the Stravinsky. Transitions between movements were equally well judged, the central Andante given with a rapt lyricism that was far from restricted to the violin. Unendliche Melodie, as Wagner might have been compelled to admit. Like the concerto as a whole, it was deeply moving without evidently trying to be. An elfin finale, as infectious as anything in the Midsummer Night’s Dream music, emerged bright as a button, Hadelich’s playing both splendidly old-world and very much of now. The encore – which I have had to look up – was his own arrangement, effortless in idiom and despatch, of Carlos Gadel’s ‘Por una cabeza’. 

It is probably better to pass over what Boulez might have made of the European premiere of Anthony Davis’s unabashedly tonal Tales (Tails) of the Signifying Monkey, drawn from his opera of the same year (1997) Amistad. Davis clearly has a fondness, as his admirably informative programme note made clear, for unsual metres: dances in 11/8, 13/8, and so on. Likewise for ostinato: perhaps one of Stravinsky’s deadlier legacies. He knows what he is doing in writing for the orchestra too, and deftly brings in sounds from the jazz world. I could not help thinking, though, that what we heard sounded considerably over-extended and might have worked better illustrating a television series. Applause was polite yet reticent; I think the audience had it right. The United States is truly a foreign country, nowhere more so than its musical culture. (Consider Boulez in New York.)

Till Eulenspiegel is a relatively rare example of a Strauss work Boulez conducted. There is an excellent live recording with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, once released by the orchestra itself and which seems to be available on YouTube too. How different things might have been, had Wieland Wagner’s death not brought to an end the prospect of Boulez and him collaborating on Salome, Elektra, and Ariadne auf Naxos. An endearingly, acutely strange commercial recording of Also sprach Zarathustra suggests they would have been as different from hitherto received wisdom as the Wagner and Mahler that changed the way we hear and understand that music forever. Back to the present, Strauss’s tone poem received a finely judged performance from Oramo and the BBC SO that lacked nothing in requisite virtuosity, yet likewise did not take that virtuosity for musical substance. If I found it occasionally a little hard-driven, there was plenty of flexibility where called for. Episodes were discerningly characterised whilst taking their place in the grander narrative. Counterpoint was admirably, necessarily clear, characters and situations leaping off the page. The BBC may have been in anything but safe hands since Boulez’s time; Radio 3 is now reduced to screaming ‘Adventures in Classical’ from garish banners hung around the Royal Albert Hall. Its eponymous Symphony Orchestra continues to do very well indeed.