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February 4, 2019
Philip Larkin's Annus Mirabilis tinkers slightly with dates: the ban on D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover came to an end when its publishers, Penguin Books, were found not guilty of obscene publication on November 2, 1960; the Beatles' Please Please Me LP was released on March 22, 1963.
But he was spot in on one regard: the early 1960s were indeed a time of increased public sexual awareness in Britain, typified by the scandal of the divorce trial in 1962 of the Duchess of Argyll. The woman born Margaret Whigham had already had a fairly scandalous life (at fifteen she was made pregnant by the seventeen-year-old David Niven and had a termination) when she became the Duke of Argyll's third wife (he was her second husband) in 1951. But the divorce trial, at which she was accused of having affairs with no fewer than eighty-eight men, propelled her to a whole new level of notoriety.
Indeed, it was probably only the Profumo Affair — involving a government minister involved with a would-be model who was also involved with a Soviet military attaché, which broke in March 1963, brought about the downfall of Prime Minister Harold Macmillan and arguably contributed to the Conservatives losing the 1964 General Election — which overshadowed the case of the "Dirty Duchess", as the press dubbed her.
Until 1995, that is, when Thomas Adès' chamber opera Powder her Face was premiered, complete with onstage portrayals of some of the more salacious details from the trial, to considerable controversy.
Monday's concert by the Victoria Symphony under Music Director Christian Kluxen opened with a dazzling performance of the Three Dances which Adès arranged from the opera in 2007.
We immediately entered the world of 1950s Britain in the overture, which, for me, had reminiscences of film scores by composers such as Francis Chagrin, Georges Auric or Benjamin Frankel, but cast in a decidedly late twentieth-century style. There was an undoubted air of sleaze from the smirking clarinets, the rude contrabassoon and the muted trombones. The final, violent chord summoned forth chuckles from the audience.
The ensuing waltz was fairly brisk and its orchestration decidedly pointilliste in nature; for some reason I was put in mind of Saint-Saën's Danse macabre, probably not entirely inappropriately, before the finale took us back to the time when Britain still had a film industry. And sex was apparently unknown.
This is clearly far from easy music, technically speaking, but it was played superbly and the audience responded with far more enthusiasm than "modern" music usually receives in the Royal.
Even newer music came from pianist Stewart Goodman, who was the soloist in his own Callaloo, composed in 2016.
The five-movement suite is, the composer tells us, inspired by his Trinidadian heritage.
And it most certainly brought a feeling of the Caribbean to Victoria. The opening movement was both melodic and rhythmically-charged. It had something of the feeling of Milhaud's Le Boeuf sur le Toit, which is based on Brazilian choros melodies. (This is perhaps less strange than it seems: Trinidad is just 11 km from the coast of South America.) Given that I love the Milhaud, this should not be taken as a criticism.
The second movement was highly syncopated, with an ostinato from the pianist's left hand and the violins. Here, as in much of the work, the piano's rôle, although highly virtuosic, is less concertante, more a part of the whole. Primus inter pares perhaps.
The gently swaying third movement was really rather lovely, although arguably a little long. The fourth movement is a solo cadenza with frantic passagework which at one points evokes the plainchant "Dies Irae" and at others the onslaught of Conlon Nancarrow's player piano pieces.
The attacca transition to the finale was perfectly dispatched and the movement fairly fizzed along, although I did feel that the percussion parts, which seemed to rely altogether too much on the hi-hat, needed some revision.
There was, however, no mistaking the audience's opinion as they rose to their feet amidst cheers and whistles.
It is good to know that it is still possible to write music which appeals so immediately. And surely the performance, which was spectacular, helped.
There was no doubt, though, that the evening's main event was Carl Nielsen's Symphony No.4, "The Inextinguishable" (the Danish is sometimes rendered as "The Unquenchable" which is hardly any more elegant).
From the turbulent opening bars it was clear that, firstly, this is truly and indisputably great music and, secondly, that Kluxen undoubtedly has the measure of the work.
Throughout the opening movement he maintained the tension, even in quieter passages, and the orchestra responded magnificently. I must particularly mention the trombones in this regard, the more so as what is otherwise probably the greatest performance of the work I know — a 1965 Prom performance under Sir John Barbirolli — is disfigured by a trombonist who simply cannot keep in tune.
The transition into the second movement was beautifully handled and the movement itself featured some superbly characterful wind playing (the score calls for triple woodwinds).
The dramatic strings in the third movement made a marvellously full and rich sound and the fugato whipped up the excitement before Corey Rae signalled the opening of the finale (in fact the third movement ends with the four hammered E's from the second timpanist, a fact which is only really obvious from an examination of the score).
The finale with its fabled duel between the two timpanists — both Bill Linwood and Rae were outstanding and definitely produced the menacing tone called for by the composer — was a maelstrom of sound building inevitable to the life-affirming final bars.
This was undoubtedly the performance I've been waiting these many years to hear. For which I am deeply grateful.
I must, however, register one small(ish) complaint: why was it felt necessary to have Rae dash from the auditorium onto the stage and seat himself (barely) in time for his first notes?
This struck me as being needlessly melodramatic. And, worse, given that he had already changed into civilian clothing, gave the impression either that he had wandered in from the street and decided to give the timpani a try or, for those who recognised him from the first half of the programme, the feeling that he had only just realised, after getting ready to leave, that he had not finished playing.
I think Nielsen's music is quite capable of making its impression without such hi-jinks, although I may simply be confirming my membership of the GCA (Grumpy Critics Association). But, for me, it was a blemish, no matter how slight, on what was otherwise an outstanding evening's music-making.
One final plea to MD Kluxen: as we've heard the other Nielsen symphonies in Victoria over the past couple of decades; could we now have the Espansiva? Please?
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