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Royal Theatre
January 20, 2018
It was almost a century ago that Mr. (as he then still was) Adrian Boult "first caused The Planets to shine in public and thereby earned the gratitude of Gustav Holst", as the composer inscribed on the conductor's copy of the score.
On 29 September 1918, Boult conducted the work in the Queen's Hall to an invited audience of around 250, a performance Holst always considered the first public outing of the music, which, although there were two partial performances in 1919 (again conducted by Boult), would not be heard complete by the public until Albert Coates directed it in 1920. Holst had wondered if, considering the very large orchestral forces required, anyone would ever be able to afford to perform it.
That 1918 premiere, for which the orchestra had a mere two-hour rehearsal after first catching sight of the music, immediately followed by the performance, was paid for by Holst's fellow composer, Balfour Gardiner, as a farewell gift: Holst was about to leave for Salonika to act as Musical Organizer for the YMCA, who undertook educational work among the troops in the Middle East. Holst had tried to join up immediately war was declared, but in the words of his daughter, Imogen, "the recruiting office had little use for a man who could hardly hold a fountain pen, let alone a rifle, and who was unable to recognize his own family at a distance of more than six yards". Of course, even as late as September 1918, nobody realised that the carnage had only another six weeks to run.
The Planets was an immediate and lasting popular success and has largely served to keep Holst's name alive when much of his music still languishes, mostly quite undeservedly, in obscurity.
Of course any astronomer will tell you that planets do not "shine", but then Holst's intention was never astronomical; nor was it, in terms of the horoscopical, astrological, although he was briefly a student of the latter pseudo-science, which he always referred to as his "pet vice", and he continued to cast horoscopes for his friends long after The Planets was complete, finding that astrology "threw an astonishing light on the strength and weakness of some of his friends".
The Planets, then, is best viewed as a series of archetypal character studies — or, if you prefer, simply a collection of brief, highly tuneful and dazzlingly orchestrated tone poems.
There really is no substitute for hearing the music live, no recording is ever going to convey the full panoply of effects Holst's enormous forces allow him.
It was truly wonderful, then, to witness the serried ranks of musicians packing, indeed overflowing the stage of the Royal Theatre after the interval on Saturday night. The inclusion of the Greater Victoria Youth Orchestra meant that not only was there a string section worthy of the big tunes, but that the other instruments were not only all present and correct, but some were even doubled: the score, for example, calls for six horns, I counted eight; instead of three trombones I believe there were six. The only serious omission — hardly surprising in view of the venue — was the organ, which I admit did leave a noticeable "hole" in the sound at the big climaxes in Saturn and Uranus.
Christian Kluxen directed a spectacular performance of one of the twentieth century's most abidingly popular works.
Mars, The Bringer of War was taken at a fairly brisk pace (Holst's own two recordings are even faster) and was none the worse for it. Arguably the very opening was a trifle too loud, it is, after all, marked piano and what we heard was more like mezzo-forte, but that slight infelicity pales into insignificance in comparison with the massive, frisson-inducing tuttis, which truly caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand.
When Holst conducted the first recording of the music, in August 1923, the old acoustic process was still in place and the orchestra had to to be crammed into a small studio within a few feet of the recording horn. So hot did the room become, that after thirteen takes of Venus, the horn player collapsed.
Fortunately conditions in the Royal were far more temperate and Alana Despins never looked in any danger, playing her part apparently effortlessly, not to mention beautifully. Indeed the whole of Venus, the bringer of peace was quite delicious.
Kluxen took Mercury, the Winged Messenger at a fairly steady tempo, this Mercury was clearly in no particular hurry to deliver the message, but the music still effervesced merrily along; his handling of the crescendo was superbly controlled and the delicate ending exquisite.
For many a conductor, Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity presents a series of pitfalls, mostly involving tempo choices. I am pleased to report that Kluxen got them "just right", from the jubilant opening, to the swaying triple-time section where, as Imogen Holst relates, at that initial performance "the cleaners at the Queen's Hall put down their brushes and began to dance", to the big tune, sometimes called "England's third national anthem" (after "God Save the Queen" and "Jerusalem") in which Holst simultaneously invokes the spirit of Elgar and his own close friend Ralph Vaughan Williams. The massed strings and horns produced a lush, resplendent tone for this all-important moment.
Holst's own favourite movement was Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age. Considering that — unlike many of us in the audience — few, if any, on the stage could have been intimately familiar with the delights of advancing decrepitude, this was particularly impressive. With its ominous tread and superbly-controlled crescendo it underlined the fact that, as a friend of mine puts it, "this growing old is not for sissies".
Uranus, the Magician was wonderfully unbuttoned and rhythmically vital; I especially enjoyed the mad xylophone part, although the instrument was invisible from where I was sitting.
In some ways Neptune, the Mystic is the most remarkable movement of the seven, with its offstage female chorus fading into silence with two chords which, to quote Imogen Holst for the last time, "are now common property, but they came to birth in Neptune, and for that one moment they opened the doors on an unknown world".
Kluxen controlled the music well and the offstage choir was excellent, with pin-point intonation. Perhaps it was the physical configuration of the Royal which meant that one could actually hear when they stopped singing, despite the closing of the side door. Ideally the audience should be unsure of this moment, but it was truly a minor blemish.
The musicians gathered on stage played the entire work with precision and spirit. And while I am sure that it was a tremendous experience for the members of the GVYO, I am also certain that it was at least as exciting for the audience to hear this orchestral masterpiece performed with (very nearly) full forces and so very, very well.
At the end Kluxen called GVYO Music Director Yariv Aloni and the choirmaster of the anonymous offstage voices Brian Wismath to the stage to take their richly-deserved share of the tumultuous applause.
Had the Holst been any less good, I should probably have devoted the lion's share of this review to Caroline Goulding's marvellous performance of Brahms' Violin Concerto.
For many music-lovers the Brahms is probably second only to the Beethoven in the pantheon of great concertos for the violin.
Both concertos feature lengthy opening movements, among their respective composers' longest, and herein both present a challenge to the performers: allow the tension to flag and either opening movement, despite the undeniable quality of the music, can easily seem long-winded and prolix.
I speak from bitter experience: there are few things quite so dispiriting, in my opinion, as a dull performance of a great masterpiece.
I am delighted to report, therefore, that this was one of the finest performances of any of the four Brahms concertos I have been fortunate to witness.
Kluxen shaped the introduction, taken at a flowing tempo, beautifully, summoning forth resplendent sounds from the entire orchestra, and the delectable second subject was cast in exquisite shades.
Goulding justified all of the advance publicity: her first entry was bold and dramatic, but she also found the infectiously puckish element in the music which is often overlooked. After her carefully controlled cadenza the orchestral pickup (bassoons and horns) was quite magical.
For the slow movement Kluxen abandoned his baton and, taking the music really quite slowly, imbued it with a plastic sense of rhythm. Michael Byrne's oboe solo was everything it should be, wistful, plaintive and sinuous; and Goulding was as lyrical here as she was dramatic in the first movement.
The finale was brisk and exuberant, the accompaniment crisp and precise, Goulding's virtuosity well to the fore, but never treated as an end in itself, only at the service of the music.
In a word: outstanding.
Jared Miller's new work, Neró was receiving its first performance. Dubbed a "concertino for small orchestra" it did indeed feature the smallest forces in an evening in which the orchestra, like Topsy, "just growed".
Neró, according to Miller, "depicts the voyage of water from its liquid state on earth...to its gaseous state in the sky", opening with bubbling winds against slowly-moving string chords, the music became increasingly complex and virtuosic (and I was informed by at least one member of the orchestra that it was far from easy to play, justifying the description).
Like other music I have heard by Miller, this was highly accomplished and contemporary-sounding, while remaining what one might call "audience friendly". Certainly this audience responded enthusiastically — and, as the Royal audiences have never been known for "boldly going", this speaks volumes.
A thoroughly enjoyable and rewarding evening.
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