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Alix Goolden Performance Hall
October 4, 2014
That this performance of Dowland's music was proposed in a light-hearted vein is obvious from its subtitle, and emphasized by the exclamation point. So if any die hard early music practice Victorians ventured out and were disappointed, they had only themselves to blame. For the rest of us, apart from the lack of any Guinness on tap, the evening outstripped even the high expectations La Nef deservedly commands for the eclectic and painstaking research it undertakes in all its projects and collaborations.
From the opening notes of "Behold a wonder here" Michael Slattery held us in the palm of his hand, helpless as flies in amber, as accompanied by the startlingly Irish drone of the shruti box (he is not the first singer to exploit the connection between Delhi and Dublin, as the folk group of that name and others have already demonstrated) he set out on an intensely personal journey in his interpretation of Dowland's songs. Living, as we do, in an era where there is "no beyond, in art, in, science, even in religion" (the Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard has pointed this out in his much acclaimed work "My Struggle" ) it can be utterly refreshing to return to a time when death was not an enemy, melancholy an appreciated state of mind, and lament not a dirty word.
Much was made of the claim that Dowland might have been Irish, and there were moments of beauty and pathos that recalled some of the finer songs of the 17th century bard, Turlough Carolan. But there was far more on offer here, both in the extraordinary range and texture of Slattery's voice, and the deliciously satisfying aptness of the arrangements than any pub this side of the Elysian fields would be likely to provide.
Because, I suppose, sorrow is so unfashionable, I have been struck with how often performers like to emphasize the lighter side of what they are doing. Fearing that an audience may get depressed, they point out that this short lament will immediately be followed by a jig! Slattery, however has a voice that is so disciplined and so elastic that he can move through infinitely precise gradations of feeling with the economy and grace of a master calligrapher or a haiku poet. And one feels gratitude that a young man should dare explore the joys and pains of love, the awe, the wit and wisdom of death and loss so fearlessly - from the long slow releases of breath I could hear around me, the music had done its work as nothing else can.
Although the spotlight was on Slattery and his mesmerizing cadences, never losing sight of the meaning in a single note or breath - with unexpected wells of strength in his lower register, the instrumentalists did a wonderful job of supporting him. Flutes, whistle, recorder, Grégoire Jeay switched from one to the other without a pause, the cello joyfully robust or slowly gorgeous, the violin spirited and the lute as soulfully complex and disarmingly pure as only a master can make it. I would have placed the cittern to the front of the stage as its lighter sound tended to get lost, which was a pity, especially since it was apparently Sean Dagher's rendering of Come Again as a folk song at a Christmas party which provided the seed for this whole project. A friend I brought with me to the concert said afterwards that she was going to revisit Dowland. Like a stripped down and rebuilt classic car, the beauty and freshness of the original songs had totally surprised her. And much though I enjoy the stricter traditional performances of Dowland, the stamp of personal meaning with which Slattery infused each poem made this an unforgettable occasion.
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