Aufstieg and Fall der Stadt Mahagonny, Royal Opera, 10 March 2015

 

Images: ROH/Clive Barda

 

(sung in English)

 

Royal Opera House

Leocadia Begbick – Anne Sofie von Otter

Fatty – Peter Hoare
Trinity Moses – Sir Willard W. White
Jenny – Christine Rice
Six Girls – Anna Burford, Lauren Fagan, Anush Hovhannisyan, Stephanie Marshall, Meeta Ravel, Harriet Williams
Jimmy McIntyre – Kurt Streit
Jack O’Brien – Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts
Bank-Account Bill – Darren Jeffery
Alaska Wolf Joe – Neal Davies
Bar Pianist – Robert Clark
Toby Higgins – Hubert Francis
Voice – Paterson Joseph

John Fulljames (director)

Es Devlin (set designs)
Christina Cunningham (costumes)
Bruno Poet (lighting)
Finn Ross (video)
Arthur Pita (choreography)

Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renata Balsadonna)

Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Mark Wigglesworth (conductor)

 

At long last, Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny has come to the Royal Opera House. Kurt Weill’s teacher, Busoni, remains scandalously ignored, but a season which includes house firsts both of this opera and Szymanowsi’s King Roger, cannot be all bad. The unresolved tension, much of it fruitful, some of it perhaps less so, between Brecht and Weill, came through loud and clear in this estimable performance, given in a new translation by Jeremy Sams (which was certainly preferable to his ‘versions’ of Mozart, even if not entirely free of the translator’s habit of drawing attention to himself rather than to the work). Is it an opera? Yes, of course. As David Drew pointed out long ago, in a 1963 Musical Times article,  one of the most pernicious ideas about Mahagonny has been ‘one that menaces even the most generous-hearted listener – the idea that Weill intended the work as an attack on the body of the operatic convention by means of parody or an injected virus (jazz, cabaret etc.). This idea is wholly false.’ As Drew continued, Weill had far too much knowledge of and respect for the operatic repertoire, above all Mozart, but others too (not least, and ominously for his collaboration with Brecht, Wagner), but he was also genuinely excited by the new paths opened up by composers such as Janáček and Stravinsky. (He was also a great defender of Wozzeck.) The problem, for me, is that sometimes, though not always, the musical material does not present the composer at his strongest; in general, and despite the songs and tunes we know and love, I find him the more compelling the closer he comes to his time with Busoni. The Second Symphony and Violin Concerto are surely his masterpieces. Mahagonny’s music, however, remains on an entirely different level from Weill’s disappointing music for the United States. (Whatever his apologists may claim, that is surely where, in aesthetic terms at least, he ‘sold out’.)



Trinity Moses (Willard White), Leocadia Begbick (Anne Sofie von Otter), Fatty (Peter Hoare)

The greater problem still, though, lies in the collaboration with Brecht, whose strengths are quite different, and whose adamant refusal to sentimentalise may sometimes be undone by Weill. (Not that Weill is sentimental as such, but his æsthetic is undoubtedly different, less didactic, unquestionably less concerned with alienation, more concerned perhaps with ‘opera’). It is no mean achievement of John Fulljames’s production of this difficult, perhaps impossible, work, that Brecht’s stature as, after Beckett, perhaps the greatest of twentieth-century playwrights comes across with increasing immediacy. There is no attempt to make us ‘sympathise’, although Weill sometimes does not help in that respect. The conceit, as with that of the work itself, is admirably simple, though certainly not simplistic.  Mahagonny and Mahagonny grow from a splendidly designed lorry. The accoutrements of capital, of ‘entertainment’, of neo-liberal barbarism sprout necessarily: garishly, of course, but retaining focus. Voice-overs and video projections do excellent work, Brecht’s placards reimagined for our computer-screen-obsessed age. Perhaps the acting does not always convince as strongly as it might as acting, but that is part of the trade-off between Brecht and Weill: an immanent criticism as much as, perhaps more than, a shortcoming. Choreography is sharp and to the point, for instance during the ‘Mandalay Song’, as the men of Mahagonny – and what an indictment for us this is of male behaviour, the Widow Begbick notwithstanding! – await their turn with the prostitutes. I wondered whether the Christ-like imagery at the end was exaggerated, but to be fair, it is no more so than it is in the work. Besides, we are at liberty to interpret God’s coming to Mahagonny as we will.

 

 

For, in general, the action is non-specific enough for us to be able to relate it to when and where seems most appropriate. (It would surely be bizarre, if in our age of bankster-crime run truly riot, we did not think of our own characters such as HSBC's The Revd Prebendary Baron Green of Hurstpierpoint, surely an invention who would have been too much, too far-fetched, too agitprop, even for Brecht.) Price variations do their evil work, and Fulljames, whilst not entirely ignoring the ‘American’ element, does not overplay it. Weill was certainly alert to the danger of the work seeming as if it were too much ‘about’ America, writing to his publisher: ‘The use of American names for Mahagonny runs the risk of establishing a wholly false idea of Americanism, Wildwest, of such like. I am very glad that, together with Brecht, I have now found a very convenient solution … and I ask you to include the following notice in the piano score and libretto,’ although, oddly, it would only appear in the full score, not in the piano score: ‘“In view of the fact that those amusements of man which can be had for money are always and everywhere exactly the same, and because the Amusement-Town of Mahagonny is thus international in the widest sense, the names of the leading characters can be changed into customary forms at any given time. The following names are therefore recommended for German performances: Willy (for Fatty), Johann Ackermann (for Jim), Jakob Schmidt (for Jack O’Brien) [etc.]”.’ In an English-language version, we necessarily tilt more towards Americana – the exhibitionist piano-playing of Robert Clark is an especial joy! –  but not too much. Moreover, whilst those of us with Lotte Lenya in our mind’s ear, may miss her and the rest of the Wilhelm Bruckner-Rüggeberg crew, we know that this is not a work to be confined to nostalgic conceptions of Weimar culture.

 

Jenny (Christine Rice)

Mark Wigglesworth is surely one of our most underrated conductors, although let us hope his forthcoming tenure at ENO will change that; he conducted a punchy, intelligently varied account. If I found the ‘Alabama Song’ a little on the slow side, it was slow rather than sentimentalised. Weill’s Neue Sachlichkeit generally won through, and where more typical ‘operatic’ impulses threatened Brecht’s conception, that suggested its own humane rewards. Choral singing was well-drilled and not without ‘expressive’ quality: never too much, though. The chorales did their formal, almost Stravinskian (think not least of The Soldier’s Tale) work, reacting both with ‘tradition’ and with Brecht. There was certainly a characterful, properly parodic sense of what Drew, in that Musical Times article, called ‘the fairground banalities of the trial scene,’ likewise of the horrifying ‘stormtrooper tunes of the boxing scene’. Where, though, was the Crane Song? Everything is permitted, of course, its omission certainly so, but it seemed a pity. We should at any rate be grateful that the once-popular ‘Paris version’, a travesty, with no warrant from Weill, in which songs from the Songspiel were interspersed with a few instrumental pieces from the opera, is no longer favoured.

 

 

 

The tension between Brecht and Weill was perhaps most clear in the vocal performances. How to approach these roles as opera singers, in so large a theatre? For the most part, the cast coped well enough; if their performances fell somewhat uneasily between (at least) two stools, then perhaps that is unavoidable in a presentation of the work so conceived. Willard White balanced gravity and sleaze as Trinity Moses. Kurt Streit as Jimmy had his lyrical moments – but also, alas, his moments of would-be lyricism. Christine Rice’s Jenny veered uneasily between home-spun Oklahoma and operatic vibrato, but her transformations were not so blatant as those of Anne Sofie von Otter’s Widow Begbick. Stylistically, she was all over the place, but I assume that in some sense was the point.  In any case, the whole, as the cliché has it, was more than the sum of its parts.

 

At the time of its first performance, Adorno’s was one of the few critical voices raised in favour of the work: ‘Apart from the diametrically opposed operas of the Schoenberg school, I know of no work better or more strongly in keeping with the idea of the avant-garde than Mahagonny … Despite and on account of the primitive façade, it must be counted among the most difficult works of today.’ That difficulty may have lessened, as indeed has that of Wozzeck or Von heute auf morgen – now when shall we see that in London? – but it remains, the chill with which Brecht and Weill react against each other perhaps no less than ever.

 

Maltman/Drake - Eisler, Hollywood Songbook, 1 June 2013

Wigmore Hall

Hollywood Songbook

Christopher Maltman (baritone)

Julius Drake (piano)

 

‘Fascinating’ hardly begins to describe Hanns Eisler. A pupil of both Schoenberg and Webern, who to a certain extent rejected Schoenberg and the mainstream of ‘New Music’ on account of his political convictions, Eisler proved a surer collaborator with Brecht than Weill had ever done. (Weill’s selling out in his American exile is one of the saddest stories of twentieth-century music, the composer of the Violin Concerto. the Second Symphony, and Mahagonny reduced to non-ironic churning out of popular song.) Exiled from the Third Reich, Eisler would eventually be expelled from the McCarthyite USA too, despite support from luminaries as diverse as Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, Thomas Mann, Albert Einstein, Henri Matisse, and a good few others. The final phase of his career would be spent in the GDR, where the collaboration with Brecht would continue. Berlin’s Hochschule für Musik continues to bear Eisler’s name.

 

The Hollywood Songbook, as one would expect, comes from Eisler’s years in Los Angeles, being made up of songs written in 1942 and 1943. As Christopher Maltman pointed out in his engaging spoken introduction to the recital, one thing about LA – at least from a European standpoint – is simply how far away it is from home; Eisler’s émigré status, not without bitterness, shines through, and clearly offered a starting point to Maltman and pianist Julius Drake, whose idea it had been to perform the Songbook. It was a splendid opportunity, though there were times when I wondered whether performing Eisler alongside music from the traditions, past and more present, from which he had been uprooted and indeed from which he had uprooted himself, from Schubert to Schoenberg, might have been a better idea. One can argue fruitlessly, though, about immersion versus contextualisation; both have their advantages. I cannot imagine that anyone in a clearly appreciative Wigmore Hall audience would have been disappointed, either with the songs performed or the excellent performances.

 

The first half was devoted to Brecht’s ‘Flight’ songs. Having Brecht’s original texts printed in the programme enabled one to hear the good number of changes Eisler made to then, often minor but not always so. Poised somewhere between Schoenberg and Hindemith – a rough and ready description, but one that might help to place him for those unacquainted with his music – Eisler’s voice sounded strongly from the outset, a language not so distant from Schoenberg’s period of ‘free atonality’ evident in the piano introduction to ‘Der Sohn’. (I thought more than once of the op.11 Piano Pieces.) And when ‘her heart kept beating so loud’ (‘Ihr Herz, das pchte so laut’), it certainly did, Drake having mastered rhetoric as well as musical language; the anger in the first song’s conclusion was palpable. Maltman’s excellent German diction and fine communicative skills proved just what was required, very different from Matthias Goerne (whose recording offers an inevitable frame of reference): less dark, in a sense, but finely attuned to the shifting moods of both Brecht and Eisler. The second ‘Sohn’ song thus offered a well-judged balance between the helpless and the defiant, the latter characteristic undeniably present but never exaggerated; words and music did the job largely for themselves, or so it seemed. A sardonic approach, for instance in ‘In den Weiden’, works so much better than caricature. ‘Little’ touches, such as the eloquently spoken ‘das Hoffen’ (hope) with which ‘Frühling 1942’ concluded, proved splendidly telling, followed as it was a postlude somehow both nonchalant and felt. The richness of Maltman’s description of beer, goat’s cheese, fresh bread and berries in ‘Speisekammer 1942’ was such that one could almost taste the goods so cruelly denied the emigrant across the seas. Deep sadness characterised ‘Über den Selbstmord’, again all the more so for the lack of self-imposition from the artists; one felt duly numb at the end. In the barrage of ‘Gedenktafel für 4000 Soldaten, die im Krieg gegen Norwegen versenkt wurden,’ Drake’s piano part proved fiercely relentless, likewise Maltman’s vocal delivery, just the right side of hectoring. Succinct, even spare, the ensuing ‘Epitaph auf einen in der Flandernschlacht Gefallenen’ made its point all the more clearly after that. Attention to detail made all the difference, for instance the second recounting of the words ‘ich bin noch da’ (I’m still here) in ‘Spruch’, not only louder, but richer in tone. ‘Der Kirschdieb’ was skittish but not carefree; unease manifested itself in the piano’s disintegrating dance rhythms, whilst its chromaticism, in ‘Winterspruch’ drew one in emotionally, both in terms of work and performance. A darkly sardonic – perhaps more Goerne-like – rendition of ‘Panzerschlacht’ offered a Lehrstück of sorts, yet remained above all a song, a Lied, perhaps the ultimate defiance, Eisler’s echoes of Schubert’s Erlkönig reminding us of great distance, both geographical and chronological.

 

The second half opened with the ‘Anakreontische Fragmente’, by way of Hölderlin. High spirits, not notably evident before, offered contrast in the opening ‘Geselligkeit betreffend’, rendering Maltman’s imploring performance of the ensuing ‘Dir auch wurde Sehnsucht’ all the more touching in its sadness. In many of the songs, the semi-autonomous nature of the piano part – again, Hindemith came to mind, if only as a starting reference – came equally to the fore, the strength of musical structure in, for example, ‘In der Frühe’ readily apparent. The balance, or dialectic, between what we might call ‘subjective’ and ‘objective’ was finely projected in the ‘Zwei Lieder nach Worten von Pascal’, Pascal’s Pensées (in English) offering an ideal condensation of form and expression. ‘Erinnerung an Eichendorff und Schumann’ provided, as its title suggests, a moving remembrance of both Eichendorff and Schumann. (It would be renewed in the encore: Schumann’s original setting of ‘Aus der Heimat’.) Head voice offered a degree of characterisation in the Goethe setting, ‘Der Schatzgräber’, unearthly, with a proper sense of the sinister, whilst a more involved, ‘German Romantic’ quality reasserted itself upon a return to Hölderlin, in ‘Andenken’. There was, similarly, an aching sense of ‘lateness’, of the ‘hopelessness’ of the ‘too late’, in ‘An eine Stadt’, dedicated to Schubert, with its gnawingly memorable, seemingly ‘remembered’, harmonies. Much the same could be said of ‘Erinnerung’. A post-expressionist nightmare briefly summoned itself in ‘Nightmare’: angry, chilling, surreal, or all three? If that aggression were echoed in the first of the five Brecht ‘Elegien’, the second offered an almost Strauss-like, yet far from incongruous, Romanticism, albeit heavily ironised in its postlude. ‘Vom Sprengen des Gartens’ summoned up a longing for the gardens of home, but the final ‘Die Heimkehr’ remained clear-eyed about what return might bring. What would the native town (‘Vaterstadt’) look like after the bombers had done their work? Such was the tragedy, or part of the tragedy, of post-war Germany; the song’s bitter truthfulness once again proved all the more telling for the lack of histrionics.

Von Otter/LSO/Tilson Thomas - Debussy and Weill, 2 February 2012

Barbican Hall

Debussy – Dance sacrée et danse profane
Weill – Die sieben Todsünden
Debussy, orch. Robin Holloway – En blanc et noir
Debussy – La mer

Anne Sofie von Otter (mezzo-soprano)
Bryn Lewis (harp)
Synergy Vocals (Paul Badley, Gerard O’Beirne (tenors), Michael Dore, Paul Charrier (basses))
London Symphony Orchestra
Michael Tilson Thomas (conductor)


I failed to discern any rationale behind programming the Brecht-Weill ballet chanté with various works by Debussy, one orchestrated by Robin Holloway. The performances certainly extended beyond typical concert length, not helped by a ten-minute delay in beginning, and more to the point, the programme rather felt as if there were one too many piece. How, then, fared what for many was presumably the main attraction, Anne Sofie von Otter in The Seven Deadly Sins? Patchily, I am afraid. There were several problems, but most of all von Otter herself, whose performance seemed quite misconceived. From the opening of the Prologue, her reading lacked edge, seeming far too well-mannered. There is not a single way to perform this repertoire, and not everyone is Lotte Lenya – indeed, of course, no one else is – but, despite the microphone, von Otter sounded either ill at ease or merely pleasant (as in the second of the sins, ‘Stolz’). The performance seemed more an example of that most dubious of enterprises, ‘classical crossover’, than social critique. Oddly, on the occasional instances when she ditched her microphone, vocal production sounded more idiomatic. As for the would-be cool foot-tapping in ‘Zorn’, let us not dwell upon it. The gentlemen of Synergy Vocals were on far better form, though I am not sure that the nature of the amplification helped them. Theirs at least added an edge quite lacking elsewhere, rendering the Family’s hypocritical bourgeois morality all the more repellent. Perhaps surprisingly, Michael Tilson Thomas’s conducting of the London Symphony Orchestra was also rather tame, at least for a good two-thirds of the work. ‘Faulheit’ at least brought something of a wind band sonority, but for much of the performance, the pleasantness of Anna – whether I or II – had apparently proved contagious. In ‘Habsucht’ and ‘Neid’ there was at last some splendid orchestral playing, the LSO properly given its head, the results redolent of Mahagonny, even if Weill is here perhaps a little too obviously imitating his former self. The encore, ‘Speak low’ was preferable in every respect: everyone seemed more relaxed, and there was a far surer grasp of idiom.

At the beginning of the concert, Danse sacrée et profane had mysteriously replaced the advertised Last Pieces, Debussy as orchestrated by Oliver Knussen. LSO principal, Bryn Lewis, gave a good account of the harp part, though Tilson Thomas alternated between the deliberate and the subdued, especially in the first dance. The second showed its kinship to Ravel, but was perhaps overly moulded by the conductor. Holloway’s 2002 orchestration of En blanc et noir, by contrast, proved a revelation. The opening movement brings a glittering edge, at first not especially Debussyan – though it does not seem that Holloway is trying to be so – but perhaps more school of scintillating Dukas. As time went on, flashes and more than flashes, of Debussyan orchestral sonority manifest themselves: informing, but not controlling. This is certainly no attempt at pastiche. The second movement is, unsurprisingly, darker in hue, though not without metallic, militaristic glitter. A poignant trumpet solo lingers in the memory. Likewise the vivid realisation of the confrontation between Ein’ feste Burg and the Marseillaise: almost Ivesian, but better orchestrated. In the final movement, I fancied that I heard, albeit briefly, creepy shades of Bartók, supplanted by Ravel – and that is praise indeed for any orchestration.

La mer, which concluded the programme, opened promisingly, with a fine sense of ‘emerging’, all sections of the LSO on excellent form. ‘De l’aube à midi sur la mer’ flowed well, apparently on the swift side, but not to its detriment. However, by the time we reached the brass fanfares – included, doubtless to the chagrin of some, though I have no problem with them – doubts had begun to set in. So much was a little, and sometimes more than a little, too brash, and I do not think it was just a matter of the Barbican acoustic. Similarly, the glitter of ‘Jeux de vagues’, at first stimulating, soon seemed a little de trop. La mer was veering dangerously close to mere orchestral showpiece, as would be confirmed by the final movement, in which the conductor had it approximate to a decent film score. Direction was present, throughout, to be sure: there was no meandering. And there were some ravishing woodwind solos. But Debussy is so much more interesting, so much less straightforward, than he sounded here. Let us hope that Tilson Thomas does not resolve to tackle Pelléas.

R.I.P. Joachim Herz, 1924-2010

News just in from Leipzig: the director Joachim Herz has died today (18 October). His 1973-76 Ring for Oper Leipzig, where he served as director of opera from 1959 to 1976, presaged the more celebrated Bayreuth 'Centenary Ring' of Patrice Chéreau. Wagner as a serious, sophisticated critic of modern capitalism was on stage – and would not easily be pushed away again, however much devotees of horns and helmets might wish otherwise. Herz bravely, however, dissociated Wagner from Marxism too, not least in his crucial decision to leave the end of Götterdämmerung open (again, compare the ‘watchers’ in Chéreau); he therefore came in for considerable criticism from more doctrinaire commentators, of whom there were many. Nevertheless, Der Union, a Dresden newspaper, went so far as to declare that Leipzig had overtaken Bayreuth, and that the focus of Wagner interpretation had passed from West Germany to its socialist confrere. (For more on the production and reactions to it, see Patrick Carnegy's excellent history of Wagner production, Wagner and the Art of the Theatre).


In 1976, Herz would succeed Walter Felsenstein at the Komische Oper, Berlin. For a director in the GDR, Brecht could hardly fail to loom large, of course - and he already had in Herz's Ring. Here is a clip from Herz’s Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny:

And here, an example of Herz's work in rather different repertoire:

Alexander Goehr: Promised End (world premiere), English Touring Opera, 9 October 2010

Linbury Studio Theatre, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

King Lear – Roderick Earle
Gloucester – Nigel Robson
Edmund – Nicholas Garrett
Edgar – Adrian Dwyer
Goneril – Jacqueline Varsey
Regan – Julia Sporsén
Cordelia/Fool – Lina Markeby
Knight/Servant - Jeffrey Stewart
Servant/Captain - Adam Tunnicliffe

James Conway (director)
Adam Wiltshire (designs)
Guy Hoare (lighting)

Aurora Orchestra
Ryan Wigglesworth (conductor)


This latest opera from Alexander Goehr – probably last, he says, but then so did Henze about his L’Upupa – promises in subject matter as well as name the makings of a testament, but there are signs aplenty of new life too. Promised End draws its name from Kent’s ‘Is this the promised end?’ when Lear re-enters, the dead Cordelia in his arms. The late Frank Kermode assembled the text exclusively from Shakespeare. This, apparently, was insisted upon by composer and librettist, and who can blame them after the miserable doggerel to which Meredith Oakes reduced The Tempest for Thomas Adès? There are twenty-four sections, ‘preludes’, but the action, bar an interval, is continuous.

Beckett looms large, though not overwhelmingly so, and how could he not in a Lear for our times? Ours is an age often preoccupied with reception history; it is not an age for naïve art. Some cultured despisers sneer at that, but what is the alternative: ignorance? We have far too much of that already, aided and abetters by those whose interests it serves. If Beckett is a strong presence, so is Brecht, not least in the creation of a chorus, which comments, punctuates, structures. The tension between existential devastation and alienation is productive, enhancing and questioning both.

Constructivist tendencies are also manifested in the pairing of Goneril and Regan, who seemingly cannot work without each other, and yet ultimately gain nothing, or at least nothing of value, from having done so. The pairing put me in mind – though this may just have been coincidence – of Morgan Le Fay and Lady de Hautdesert from Birtwistle’s Gawain, though without the sense of framing: Shakespeare’s unruliness is too great for that. Cordelia and the Fool are brought together in a further tightening of the casting-parallel noose. At the heart of both libretto and music lies the parallelism between Lear and Gloucester. Too old men, rendered foolish – and not in the Fool’s way – by power, have much to undergo before they can come together in the scene of transformation: a recognition scene not so much in the Elektra sense but recognition of themselves, of something concerning the true bleakness, as opposed to self-pity, of the human condition. Whatever happens in Elektra, it is certainly not that. There is no sub-Wagnerian redemption in this recognition; it is all too late. That, however, does not render it any less necessary.

Goehr’s score is of course the crucial thing. Endlessly inventive, we hear a dark generative activity that seems genuinely inspired by the short ‘prelude’ structure: shades even of Wozzeck, perhaps, in the tension between smaller forms and the greater whole. Sonority from his chamber orchestra – the fine Aurora Orchestra playing under Ryan Wigglesworth’s taut yet expressive direction – offers intimations of twentieth-century Neue Sachlichkeit: Hindemith at his more interesting and Weill sprang to mind, as well as Schoenberg. They remain intimations, however, certainly not imitations. Stravinsky’s graveyard harpsichord (The Rake’s Progress) makes its presence felt, both as soloist and quasi-continuo player, the organ proving a complementary and opposing force, perhaps a reference to Goehr’s beloved Monteverdi and The Death of Moses? There is little purely orchestral music; the pace is fast, though not, I think, cinematic, notwithstanding Goehr’s admiration for Eisenstein. However, we hear something akin to a battle symphony – the ghost of Handel? – when Edgar goes away to war. A notable feature of Goehr’s ensemble is its brace of tubas, sparingly used, yet a lugubrious and still melodious evocation of the wheel turning full circle.

The Fool’s songs, accompanied by guitar, evoke – at least for this listener – Monteverdi at his most Shakespearian; the parasite Iro (Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria) meets Beckett. That strange existential world is assaulted by Brecht and Weill, but is never vanquished; indeed, it emerges all the stronger. Vocally, there is typical precision and concision: never expansive, but somehow seeming dramatically ‘right’ in its urgency. Foucault, whom Goehr cites as an influence in this respect, would have pointed to the constructed nature of madness: here it is compositionally apparent.

James Conway’s production, aided by Adam Wiltshire’s designs, contributes greatly to the Beckettian mood and its Brechtian challenge. Japanese Noh theatre – recalling both Goehr’s Kantan and Damask Drum and his dream of Lear in Japanese, which provided the opera’s initial inspiration – is a presence too, though a contributory reference rather than an agent of excessive stylisation. The production seems to take its cue from the work, rather than to force itself upon the latter. As the action unfolds, the chorus is not static but re-assembles, so that observation remains to feed subsequent commentary.

Performances were all of a high standard: a true and worthy feather in the cap of English Touring Opera. Roderick Earle’s Lear commanded the stage and moved without inappropriate emoting. Nigel Robson’s Gloucester ran in parallel but remained differentiated: this was not a king, or an ex-king, but a senior courtier. Adrian Dwyer portrayed with touching acuity the transformation of Edgar into Poor Tom, whilst Nicholas Garrett’s leather-clad Edmund proved as devilish as his recent Don Giovanni for Opera Holland Park – and more cunningly fiendish. Jacqueline Varsey and Julia Sporsén offered what seemed the just admixture of repellent, individual ambition and structural complementary duet as the unlovely sisters, a true contrast with Lina Markeby’s haunting Cordelia and Fool.

Three cheers, then, for English Touring Opera. Let us hope that other companies, both in England and further afield, are listening, for Goehr’s earlier dramatic works demand revival, and sooner rather than later. And surely another company could offer him a commission he would find too intriguing to refuse?

'Pastiche, politics, and all that jazz' - Royal Academy of Music students, 12 September 2010

St Pancras Room, Kings Place

Weill – Die Moritat von Mackie Messer

Stravinsky – Piano-Rag-Music
Three Easy Pieces

Eisler – Über den Selbstmord
Lied einer deutschen Mutter
Mutter Beimlein
Lied des Händlers

Stravinsky – Tango
Ragtime

Weill – Je ne t’aime pas


Katie Bray (mezzo-soprano)
Jonathan McGovern (baritone)
Edwige Herchenrode and Reinis Zariņš (piano)


No one could seriously accuse Kings Place of a lack of ambition. This weekend festival boasted no fewer than a hundred concerts. I felt slightly embarrassed to be attending just the one, but such is life. At any rate, this seemed an appealing programme – and so it proved, though I was a little puzzled by the title. ‘Politics’, yes; ‘jazz’, well, sort of, if not quite; but ‘pastiche’? More importantly, however, to present Eisler not only with Weill but Stravinsky too made for a good mix.

Jonathan McGovern delivered the Ballad of Mack the Knife with an impressive command of Weill’s – and Brecht’s – idiom: nasty, without melodrama. McGovern’s Lied des Händlers was, if anything, more impressive. The biting satire of Brecht’s text and its desolate conclusion – we do not know what rice is, only its price, then the same for cotton, and finally for men – chilled, and reminded us that critique of capitalism is at least as necessary now as then, and nowhere more so than in London. (It so happened that, on the bus to the concert, I had been reading Vittorio Negri’s The Constitution of Time, a brave response to a totalitarianism of capital Brecht and Eisler would have understood only too well.) Which of the City’s bankers know what a man is? They probably cannot even be bothered with his price any more, unless there be a few hundred of them to trade. Eisler’s piano part was clearly delineated by Edwige Herchenrode. The halting progress of Mutter Beimlein, wooden leg and all, was wryly observed, in music as much as words.

Katie Bray was entrusted with the rest of the vocal programme. I wondered whether she was a little too emotive in the Eisler songs. Lied einer deutschen Mutter, the lament of the mother who now could see that her son’s brown shirt was his burial shroud, benefits from a little more distance: not quite Mother Courage, but something edging in that direction. Bray’s command of French – that most difficult language in which to sing – impressed, verbally and stylistically, in Weill’s setting of Maurice Magre, Je ne t’aime pas.

The solo Stravinsky items were performed by pianist Reinis Zariņš. Even the Three Easy Pieces are far from ‘easy’, especially in musical terms. Stravinsky loves to set straps and to defy expectations. His polemical dryness is a good deal of the story, but not the whole tale. There are moments of tenderness, for instance in the adorable Tango. (I recall playing it once as an encore, which even certain audience members of conservative bent enjoyed – until I informed them it was by Stravinsky.) But such moments must never, ever be milked, no more than in The Rake’s Progress; Zariņš had their measure. Motor rhythms not unlike those of Prokofiev’s seventh piano sonata, invaded the Piano-Rag-Music to thrilling effect. Ragtime similarly impressed: clear, yet never merely dry. Such chips from the master’s workbench are akin, say, to Beethoven’s Bagatelles; in both cases, they will only shine as gems in good performance.

All in all, then, a most enjoyable performance and an excellent showcase for the RAM. It was a pity, though, that the performers’ names were not included upon the sheet with texts and translations. I had to visit the Royal Academy’s website to find them.

Dessau/Brecht - Die Verurteiling des Lukullus, Komische Oper, 12 December 2007

Komische Oper, Berlin

12 December 2007

Kor-Jan Dusseljee – Lukullus
Markus John – Commentator
Jens Larsen – Judge of the Dead
Hans-Peter Scheidegger – The King
Erika Roos – The Queen
Gabriela Maria Schmeide – The Fishwife
Christiane Oertel – The Courtesan
Christoph Späth – The Teacher
Peter Renz – The Baker
Karen Rettinghaus, Miriam Meyer, Karolina Andersson – Women’s Voices
Anna Kokhanov – First Child
Sophia Duwensee – Second Child

Choir, Children’s Choir, and Orchestra of the Komische Oper Berlin

Eberhard Kloke (conductor)

Katja Czellnik (producer)
Hartmut Meyer (designer)
Nicole Timm und Sebastian Figal (costumes)
Franck Evin (lighting)

The Komische Oper has been named Opera House of the Year by German critics. It certainly proved worthy of that title by mounting Paul Dessau’s Die Verurteilung des Lukullus, ‘The Condemnation of Lucullus’. The text is by Brecht, closely following his radio play, Das Verhör des Lukullus, ‘The Trial of Lucullus’, also the title of the opera in its first version. At the time of its premiere at the Staatsoper, the opera became embroiled in a dispute over its alleged formalism, for failing to conform to the dictates of socialist realism, yet would soon be acknowledged in East Germany as a canonical work, receiving four new productions in East Berlin alone. It also gained considerable recognition in the West, although has rather fallen out of favour since reunification. To hear Brecht (and indeed Dessau) in Berlin, and in what was East Berlin, is of course an opportunity in itself.

At this remove, it is perhaps difficult to understand why the work proved so initially controversial, although it seems that Dessau made some concessions in the second, definitive version. Musically, it will scare off no one acquainted with Kurt Weill, hints of Stravinsky and perhaps Hindemith notwithstanding. The omission of upper strings gives a Weill-like edge to the orchestral band, replete with prepared piano and trautonium (an early synthesiser). And its political message, its abhorrence of dictatorship – this was composed and received very much in the shadow of the Nuremberg trials – could hardly be stronger. The dictator Lucullus, having died, must reckon for his deeds if he is to enter the after-life. Various witness-interrogators establish beyond reasonable doubt that his sole humanitarian achievement, introducing the cherry tree to Rome, is hardly enough to erase the loss of 80,000 lives. He must instead be consigned to eternal nothingness, as the plebeian jury gains its redress.

Falschfilm’s video clips of dictators past and present accompanied the political leader’s obsequies, making its point very clearly and yet without hysteria. Beyond that, Katja Czellnik’s production and Hartmut Meyer’s designs did not always make things easy for the innocent viewer. There was always a great deal going on, often to good effect, although the profusion of what was sometimes rather bizarre imagery, not least in terms of Nicole Timm und Sebastian Figal’s garish costumes, could grow a little wearing. Less would undoubtedly have been more, at least at times. Fortunately, the cast’s diction was generally excellent, so that I could understand most of what was being said or sung, even without titles. This was doubly important given that the text was by Brecht no less.

For if I had some misgivings concerning the production, the performances themselves could not fail to win one over. Kor-Jan Dusseljee put his considerable tenor voice to good use as the anti-hero. Like the rest of the cast, he could act too. Markus John, in the spoken role of the Commentator, ensured that we had little doubt understanding what was going on, or at least what should have been going on. The world of more conventional operatic beauty made a welcome cameo with Erika Roos’s Queen, and Jens Larsen impressed with his powerful deep voice as the Judge. Perhaps the most moving portrayal was that of Gabriela Maria Schmeide’s wronged Fishwife, struggling to come to terms with the loss of her son. She seemed to me to strike just the right balance between musical and dramatic demands, a tricky business in Brechtian works.

The orchestra sounded excellent throughout. Rhythmic power and precision were married to an impressive ear for Dessau’s palette in Eberhard Kloke’s fine interpretation. Moreover, the choral singing, from children and adults, was uniformly excellent. Once again, diction was not a problem, but this was never at the expense of warmth of tone, at least where required. The jury’s final consignment of Lukullus to nothingness presented a due sense of catharsis, even though Dessau’s ultimate resolution sounded a bit too much like a socialist realist cop-out: a little more Verfremdung would not have gone amiss.