ALDEBURGH
FESTIVAL
Aldeburgh is a very special place at any time of the year,
but during the Festival it takes on an added dimension. Benjamin Britten
becomes such a presence, and even my hotel, the White Lion right on the beach,
radiates its place as one of the locations of Peter Grimes, along with the Moot
Hall, just a few yards away – not to mention the shacks where the nightly
fish-catches are speedily smoked, skinned and gutted, or dressed.
These were a blissful four days in my reviewing calendar,
beginning with an evocative afternoon at the Red House (home to Britten and
Peter Pears), in which young artists from the Britten Pears Young Artists
Scheme, informatively introduced by Christopher Hilton, Head of Archive and
Library, Britten Pears Arts, revealed Britten’s early and continuing
fascination with the viola, along with the influence of his teacher Frank
Bridge.
Among the immensely talented performers, violist Miguel
Sobrinho and accompanist (one of three) Hebba Benyaghala were particularly
outstanding (****).
The charming Aldeburgh Cinema, one of the oldest in the
country still working, hosted a screening of the 1966 BBC filming of Billy
Budd, an absolutely amazing production of that harrowing opera. Thanks to the
format we could experience both the intimate motivations of the polarised
characters, the agonised good (Peter Pears’ definitive “starry” Captain Vere)
and self-loathingly evil, the almost Fafner-like malevolence of Michael
Langdon’s Claggart, as well as the huge crowd scenes, bustling with activity as
skirmishes against the Napoleonic navy approached.
It was fun spotting the young talents emerging in the cast,
including John Shirley-Quirk, Robert Tear, and above all, Peter Glossop, whose
stature, generosity and sheer undemanding attractiveness as Billy Budd created
an example very difficult for successors to emulate.(*****)
The excitement in the Snape Maltings Concert Hall that
evening was overwhelming, looking forward to a visit from beloved regulars the
City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra and their brand-new principal conductor
Kazuki Yamada; nothing disappointed, but indeed all expectations were
surpassed, orchestra giving its all in youthful freshness and enthusiasm,
Yamada expending so much selfless energy in delineating absolutely every
telling detail in the scores in question.
We began with Holst’s Japanese Suite (perhaps a sop to the
orchestra’s forthcoming tour of Japan, Yamada taking his orchestra back home to
meet his folks). There is nothing in this piece remotely identifiable as Holst
(despite his abiding interest in oriental subjects), but it was pleasant enough
listening, conscientiously delivered.
Totally identifiable as to its composer was the wonderful
Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings by local boy Benjamin Britten. Ian Bostridge was the tenor, his delivery of
these nocturnal texts actually physical in their communication, and Elspeth
Dutch, CBSO principal horn, brought such a range of colour and articulation to
her evocative partnership with the singer.
Among all the gripping highlights was “Dirge”, Bostridge mesmeric,
Dutch increasingly catatonic, and the CBSO double-basses grindingly implacable.
Finally came Elgar’s First Symphony, Yamada the latest in a
long string of Japanese conductors displaying a huge empathy for this most
English of composers, and poised to take it back to his own homeland. His
immediate identification with the troubled soul underlying much of this
symphony was palpable, so the ultimate triumph, so effortfully arrived at, was
wonderfully achieved. Just before the end of that journey, the wonderful
episode in which the strings gradually build (in halved time) the finale’s
opening theme, moulding it into a heart-wrenching episode over rippling harps,
will live long in the memory. (*****)
The next evening’s visit from the BBC Symphony Orchestra
came with a couple of addenda: replacing the announced conductor was the
much-vaunted Hannu Lintu, and there was an added prelude to the programme, Ciel
d’hiver, by the recently-passed Kaija Saariaho.
This stellar, concentrated piece (with shades of Charles
Ives’ The Unanswered Question), tightly delivered, knocked what followed
brutally into touch. Anna Thorsvaldsdottir’s AION, here receiving its UK
premiere, proved a 45-minute essay in three-movement tedium, paint drying with
the occasional droplet of interest, such as a couple of welcome melodic surges.
There was no sustained rhythmic activity to enliven the
piece (and engage the attention of the players), there was predictable resource
to gimmicky string rhetoric, and any time we felt the ,music was moving towards
something positive our expectations were knocked back. For some unaccountable
reason the performance received an enthusiastic ovation – acclaiming the Emperor’s
New Clothes?
Lintu had conducted the first half with his hands, their
distortions evoking yearnings for the past-master of batonless conducting,
Pierre Boulez. his laconic fingers fluttering to such effect, and creating a
virtual second pinkie – and he conducted The Ring thus!
For Mahler’s First Symphony Lintu did indeed use a baton,
but this emerged an effortful account nevertheless. For all its youthful
ardour, the work needs to be delivered with a natural grace which Lintu was
unable to find. Highlights were the BBCSO’s principal double-bass at the start
of the third movement, whiskery and macabre, and the horns throughout; the
sight of all eight of them standing at the finale’s denouement was impressive
indeed. (***)
Both these orchestral concerts had been delivered on the
flat, jeopardising balance, but for Saturday’s concert from the remarkable Sinfonia
of London there were risers, assisting the commercial filming thereof.
John Wilson was the conductor, relishing the piquant orchestrations
of Dukas’ Sorcerer’s Apprentice, controlling the epic grandiosity of Respighi’s
Pines of Rome, and providing attentive and sensitive accompaniments to Sally Beamish’s
Four Songs from Hafez, here performed for the first time in their orchestra
version – such delicate tracery in the figurations! Baritone soloist Roderick
Williams brought insight and nuance to his delivery, with the warm intelligence
we have come to expect from this much-loved performer.
Finally came Rachmaninov’s swansong, the Symphonic Dances,
lithe and muscular, but also poignantly nostalgic (such an eloquent saxophone
in the opening movement). We could not escape, of course, the composer’s Dies
Irae signature tune, and how grippingly did the violas dig into its announcement
towards the end of the finale! Wilson and I have already agreed to differ over
the tam-tam’s concluding stroke at the very end. He cuts it short, I think it
should die away into the ether (check the score). *****
Christopher Morley