Proms Saturday Matinee 4, Natalie Clein, BBC Singers, Britten Sinfonia, Gubaidalina, Tavener, Tippett, Cadogan Hall/Tasmin Little Literary Passions, Royal College of Music/Prom 65 BBC National Orchestra of Wales, Marc Andre Hamelin, Elgar, Michael Berkeley, Rachmanninov, Kodaly, Royal Albert Hall
In yesterday's Times crossword, the clue for 5 down was 'Four or five men left in the concert venue (5,6,4)' and the answer was 'Royal Albert Hall', the four or five men being Roy, Al, (Al)bert and Hal plus an L for left.
How did they know. It's the sort of uncanny occurence that would make one believe in any and every superstition that there is until one reflects on how many times I've done crosswords on trains and they hadn't contained my destination among the answers and that every single other thing that happened during the day was not in the least coincidental. But I suppose they are just the endless mass of non-coincidences, the exceptions that prove the rule.
My first stop, though, was the Cadogan Hall to see Natalie Clein, the cello player in this dreadful, demonic duel for my musical affections with Tasmin Little. There isn't time to dwell on the pieces by Tippett because John Tavener's Popule Meus was a major attraction here, a 'lament on man's turning away from God', a battle between the dark, threatening timpani and the clear, serene light of the cello. Natalie put in a passionate performance, one couldn't help but compare the piece with the famous Protecting Veil and then a frail Tavener was brought from the audience to take a huge ovation from those, like me, who were absolutely thrilled to be in his mystical, humble presence.
Sofia Gubaidalina wasn't, unfortunately, present to hear her Canticle of the Sun, a longer piece with choir, a 'battery' of percussion and cello that was at least as unusual as this maverick, idiosyncratic composer would be expected to have written. At first, in a way, it made me think of the paintings of Miro, whose canvasses are often populated by an array of shapes and doodles, the 'teeming creation in which we are all a part of each other'. Based on a poem by Francis of Assisi, this interpretation might not have been quite as first envisaged by the author, fragmentary and using wine glasses filled with water to create notes by running a finger around their moistened rims. Natalie was expected to put down the cello and contribute to the percussion, too, and it was beginning to occur to me that this extraordinary composition was really old Sofia just getting them at it. But it built from there, with Natalie loosening the bottom string I think four times to produce even lower notes from the instrument in one passage, hitting the strings with a drum stick and ending on a remarkable riff which I think might be called glissando, running off the top of the fretboard on the top string to bow no more than two inches of string in notes that, eventually, I suppose, just disappeared off the scale into silence, a tremendous climax and a massive artistic success from such adventurous ideas and resources. This was wonderful and put Natalie right back where she belongs in the stratosphere of my affections- that she never left- because she could do the glamorous bit all day long if she wanted and get away with it but she didn't. She was consumed by the music and brought off what I assume to be a fairly challenging piece. Whether I could play the cello quite so well myself is hard to say. I've never tried.
One stop further along the District Line, I moved from Chelsea to Kensington and was able to include Tasmin's recording of the interval talk for Radio 3 on her literary passions which included Hamlet, Hesse and Hilaire Belloc whose surname the presenter (to hilarious effect) did a bit of Spoonerism with which meant a quick re-take of that line. Having nearly got myself lost in returning from the washroom, I might still be there now among the noises of students practicising their tuba scales in various rooms if my sense of direction hadn't miraculously returned. But I can bear witness to the fact that all the gorgeous sounds of concert music are born of some less demure noises made repeatedly and sometimes woefully in private.
We queued to be Prommers for Prom 65, standing with not the best view of the orchestra for the bargain price of five of our British sterling pounds. A bottle of beer costs nearly that much in there and doesn't last anywhere near as long. One doesn't want to moan too much about such a fine thing as the Proms but it has to be said that the price of a refreshing plastic glass of drink in there is outrageous. But at least nobody will be getting drunk on such a tariff.
It really felt like the Proms when it kicked off with Elgar, the Cockaigne Overture which, it turns out, came from the remains of an attempted symphony. You can stand there and think, here I am, listening to Elgar at the Proms. Let the inner cities burn and the hordes loot and pillage if they must but I am an Englishman and I'm here doing this.
Michael Berkeley was the second major living composer I saw on the day when he took a bow at the end of his Organ Concerto. To be as fair as possible to the piece, the trumpets spread up in the galleries were very effective at the beginning and end and the orchestra did some good work but, no, thank you, Michael. I meant it much more while I was applauding John Tav. Not impressed. If we want you back, we'll let you know but don't sit by the phone all day.
Of course, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Why not. In the early parts it seemed to be played in snatches by Marc Andre Hamelin but, there again, maybe that's how it's written. For me, the slower passages brought us the lush Rachmanninov that it would take a very strict disciple of other codes not be enamoured by and the piece improved as it went through its variations. And the highlight of Kodaly's Hary Janos Suite was undoubtedly the cimbalom of Ed Cervenka, reminding me of my much neglected Indian raga CD's of Shivkumar Sharma caressing the strings of his santoor with sticks.
It wasn't a Prom I'd picked for advance booking like the Handel opera or the Gubaidalina but it's a good value ticket for an evening out with a mate of now 40 years standing, and counting, who always provides the kindest and most considerate hospitality on my trips to London which is nothing less than saintly of him when you consider what a rough and ready guest I make. It was a weekend of sustained interest, wonderment and not a moment of doubt that this is how life should be and, just occasionally, is.
Many, many thanks to all those mentioned above for making it so.
