Me and My Beast

At six years old

I met a ghastly beast

A hound of hell

At very least

With gnashing teeth

All black and white

Eighty-eight with which to bite.

By seven the beast

Was even worse

Our weekly encounters

A child’s curse

The jaws did snap

The sinews twang

Sending me cowed back home again.

At eight I faced

My childish fear

With heart in mouth

And voice quavering clear

Declared that I was master here

And so for a time

We were doing great

Travelled together

Grades one to eight

Enjoyed successes

Made Mum proud

Played together

Impressed the crowd.

It seemed the beast

Was tamed at last

And people agreed

It had happened fast

Complacency however,

Is a dangerous thing

Learn to talk before you sing!

At sixteen years old

My beast was back

Hulking, crouching

Gleaming black

Glowering from the corner at me

Mocking mediocrity.

“You think you know me?”

It seemed to say

“You’ve barely started,

Hardly under way!”

So much more you need to learn

In order to the beast reform.

And so I locked myself away

Hour upon hour

Day after day

And spent my time

Playing the part

Practising hard

Re-learning my art.

And here I am

Most twenty years of age

My beast and I

On St Martin’s stage

And together we will play us

Beethoven, Chopin and Amadeus.

Undine

In Undine's mirror the cutpurse found
Five candlesticks by magic drowned,
Like boughs of silver . . . and pale as death,
Biting his beard, till the rogue's own breath
Shook all their gourds of fire, he stopped,
Eyed the gilt baskets, gaped half-round . . . .
Then down to the floor his pistol dropped . . . .
No sound in the dark rooms . . . the clank
Of metal and beam died fast . . . and flank
Pressed in strange fear to Undine's bed,
The robber stared long, and bent his head
To that soft wave . . . then hand on silk,
Plumbed the warm valley where nightly sank
Undine the water-maid, caved in milk.
And over those pools, the rogue could smell
Rich essences globed and stoppered well
On Undine's table . . . and row by row,
Jars of green china foamed stiff with snow,
And crystal trays and bottles of stone
Bowed like black slaves to that ivory shell,
The body of Undine . . . but Undine was gone.
Only below the candles' gleam,
In one small casket of waxen cream
With sidelong eyes the thief could follow
That rosy trough, the printed hollow
Of Undine's finger . . . then out to the street
He sprawled and fled . . . but still on the beam
His pistol waited for Undine's feet!

Undine the water sprite who craves a mortal soul has inspired generations of art, poetry and music including Carl Reinecke’s Flute Sonata. The sad story unfolds to an intimate audience at St Martin’s with Claire Overbury’s rich flute tones and Elspeth Wyllie’s delicate touch at the keyboard.

Would we wish an immortal soul on anyone?

Mair Dew performs Mazurka in G Minor

Quiet self-assurance only thinly veils

The quaking excitement, a quick drawn breath

That wails over a familiarly dry palate.

Don’t think too much, you’ll be fine.

What empty platitudes?

Who can think under the soggy, cotton wool miasma of nervous anticipation?

Through the double doors they wait, attitudes.

Can she hide,

Last night’s restless stomach crawling?

Voices calling,

Tired hands and cramped neck, “Try it again”, “Concentrate”, “Again”, “No, one more time” follow

The line of busy notes across the blurring page.

Try it again.

They wait

And bow in hand

She is as ready as she’ll ever be to make her stand.

And suddenly it is here

And clear, the doors open with a smiling face, boy, girl or otherwise in its place.

The sharp heel clip strikes through applause, pause,

Bow low,

Slowly self-conscious, don’t look the beast in the eye least you falter and fall

Drop the wall and let the tension drown all.

Take the seat and to the tune of the deafening thunder of your heartbeat

Adjust the height and settle the spike.

Bow in hand, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be and adjusts the stand.

Hair to string and key to hammer, with a shout

They’re off

And G minor takes an early lead.

Melodic fingers feed the ripples of sound

That race across the hallowed, St Martin’s ground.

Gilded (ceilings and) Youth

On such a grey, drizzling, blustery, humid-and-yet-oddly-chilly abomination of a day as Friday 1 October, the gilded and glowing interior of St Martin’s provided a very welcome refuge for a large number of tourists disenchanted by the rigours of outdoor tourism, elderly people who had risked life and limb on the wet and slightly greasy pavements, and distrait musicians (such as myself) who needed a valid excuse for not attending to their diminished arpeggios for an hour.  Indeed, the soul-purifying benefits of sitting in a church, combined with the aesthetically-improving benefits of hearing a fine concert would undoubtedly outweigh the dubious merits of mastering a diminished seventh on B-flat – after all, it is highly unlikely that anybody will ever pay me to perform such a feat in public.  In addition to all that, Friday’s concert was particularly heart-warming because its performers are all young people, and really young people at that, still at secondary school.  It was a great pleasure to hear performances from three pupils who study at the Purcell School for Young Musicians, accompanied with characteristic style by Daniel King-Smith.  Solo appearances in a St Martin’s concert series are just one of the privileges enjoyed by students at one of Britain’s specialist music schools, and performing in front of a large audience in one of Britain’s most well-known concert venues is a vital and enriching part of their musical development. 

First we heard Chinese violinist Chendi Zhang, a self-effacing young man who seemed quite astonished by the number of people in the audience.  However, his response was to play absolutely beautifully with a very mature and generous tone and great elegance. The only problem he faced was that in his second piece – Beethoven’s Sonata in A major, Op. 12, no. 2 – his sound was slightly submerged by that of the piano.  He was not at all put off by the rustlings and scrufflings and throat-clearing in the audience (the first day of October clearly signals the true beginning of the catarrh season), and made the most of the gorgeous acoustic. 

Lavinia Redman, an oboist with an assertive stage persona, was the next person to play.  A semi-finalist in the 2010 BBC Young Musician of the Year, and (when she was only 12) a contestant on BBC Classical Star, Lavinia gave a very strong account of Poulenc’s Oboe Sonata.  For all its humour and occasional whimsy (sophisticated French whimsy…), this is a piece that requires real commitment and technical skill. Awareness of this very particular idiom is vital if an interpretation is to work, and Lavinia clearly knew the piece inside out.  She also has a strong, rich tone, and good breath control. 

Finally, the piano:  Mr Philip Dimitrovski’s programme alluded to this year’s Chopin anniversary by giving us the Scherzo in C-sharp minor and the Barcarolle in F-sharp major.  All of it was played with great assurance, but it was only in this performance that there was any indication of nervousness, or perhaps self-consciousness.  Aside from the technical aspects of this music, which didn’t seem to trouble Philip, we were reminded that when playing Chopin poise and grace are as important as courage and grandeur.  Playing Chopin beautifully must be one of the hardest things for a pianist, because like Mozart, he seems to inhabit his music – possibly because there is no other music comparable (in style and imagination and construction) with that of Chopin. Chopin and Mozart are both such elusive composers, and yet so present.  It seems to be impossible to understand them, or to hope to do anything as well as they could.  With the Poulenc Oboe Sonata, as I have said, the performer has to understand the idiom and the spirit, but somehow it is a far more intelligible idiom – and the same goes for Beethoven.  Beethoven, obviously, was possessed of a genius of unfathomable proportions, but for some reason, it is comprehensible. To put it bluntly, we can ‘get’ Beethoven.

  Now I have said all this, I am anxious that people may interpret my comments about Philip’s Scherzo and Barcarolle as negative, but this is not the case at all.  That a young male of his age has the courage and conviction to play these pieces as he did is testament to his musicianship and assurance – as soon as he allows himself to be inhabited by, and immersed in, that exquisite and unique idiom, then he will be armed with a tremendous gift.

The overall impression of this concert was that youth is no obstacle to mature, well-crafted interpretations of challenging music.

(from our reporter in the field, C. Sharpe)

The Organ: Don't Put Your Foot In It.

When I was seven, I announced to Mum that I absolutely must play the organ. Given that this decision came a matter of weeks after my resolution to study the bagpipes, Mum suggest that a good place to start would be to continue my piano lessons. In fact, she helpfully suggested, I might even like to try practising the piano between lessons and refraining from suggestions that Bach or other composers were deranged and that the music should be like the way I’d played it rather than the way it was on the page. I scoffed as only a seven year old can scoff at the very suggestion and explained to my imbecile parent that the piano was too small, too easy.

“I want to play something BIG, something GRAND”.

My Mother’s was an extraordinarily kind and effective parenting method. She arranged with an organist acquaintance for me to sit in the organ loft of the local cathedral for a service and see the playing of the organ in person. In fact, I was given a very special task, at the opportune moment, I was to pull out one of the stops for the performer when she gave me “the nod”.

Thrilled to bits and having conceded for the only time in my life to being dressed in a dress for the occasion, I proudly took my perch on a page-turning chair at 12.45pm ready for the 1.00pm service. Wide-eyed, I surveyed the keys; rows and rows of them, gleaming and polished and disappearing over my four foot horizon. I jumped down from the stool and stepped closer, a small, tentative finger out-stretched to touch, to feel, to run my hand across the smooth surfaces, to wonder at the repeated pattern of pale chestnut and deeper, rich brown. As I did so, my foot came down hard on the uneven surface beneath the keyboard and a thunderous E natural roared its way around the walls, rushing up the curved wooden pillars and billowed through the open doors and onto the street. I sat down hard and far below a gentleman clutched his chest where his heart had skipped a beat and let loose a stream of language more suited to the football pitch than the cathedral.

“Don’t touch anything, dear”.

A kindly voice gave tardy warning and the organist had arrived.

Shaking with fright, I meekly re-took my seat. Feet suspended carefully mid-air and hands clamped firmly under armpits, I listened to the instructions. Yes I understood, no I promised, I would not touch anything other than the stop indicated for my big moment. Yes, I would watch for her nod and pull it out, yes I would do it quickly, yes I would pay careful attention. What? Pedals, ah... yes, yes I was acquainted with them and would be careful when I stood up to pull out the stop.  

The service progressed and my palms began to sweat. My legs ached from holding my feet in the air as far from the treacherous pedals as could be. After what seemed like an age, my piece arrived and I stood carefully and placed a damp hand on the correct stop. I fixed my eyes on the folds of skin which hung where the organists chin should have been (halfway between the purple flowered scarf and lip-stick mouth) and held my breath. The first chord echoed out across the church and my gaze flicked in wonder to the small hands with fat fingers which scampered nimbly over the keyboards, switching effortlessly between the two. Suddenly there was a great heave and my eyes flicked down to take in the agile feet tapping across the pedals. Hands AND feet? I watched with increasing wonder until suddenly I became aware of a vigorous wobbling of the chins which could only be symptomatic of a nod. Brought sharply back to the task in hand, I braced myself and pulled sharply and firmly on the stop. There was an extraordinary groan and then a wail which faded into a moan and then, abruptly, silence. Not daring to look up, I examined the object in my hands; the stop, wrenched in its entirety from its slot.

When we got home, I went straight to the Front Room and shut the door. After some time, there was a gentle knock and Mum came in.

“I spoke to the organ teacher and she would be happy to give you a trial lesson if you like?”

“Oh I don’t think so.” I paused, brow creased, “You see Mum, the organ is not as cool as the piano so I think I’ll get good at the piano instead.” I turned back to the keyboard and back to C major, two octaves in contrary motion.

Since then, I’ve had a great deal of respect for organist. They are a strange and mysterious breed not unlike the mythical wizard or sorcerer with the ability to summon extraordinary musicality from the great, piped beast with an apparently easy flourish. There is truly something magical in that moment before the organ sounds; the church holds its breath, the pews waiting, the altar still, the window expectant. Then, all of a rush, the great pipes open and the glorious music flows forth and fills the expectant void. No tuning, no procession on to the stage, no conductor to take his bow, nothing but the quiet, and then suddenly, the fullness of sound.

Waiting here at St Martin’s for the Organ Series concert to begin, I close my eyes and fill the quiet with the history of music within these walls, Mozart played the organ here and even earlier, Handel, and today, following in their footsteps, one of today’s great organists Tim Wakerell. Organist at St Paul’s Cathedral his is the touch on the keys which invites his audience to enjoy whether it be their first experience of the organ, or whether they’ve come specifically.

Hearing Loss

Does the attraction of composing a blog lie in the intense satisfaction of being able to yell like a maniac into the cyber void knowing that nobody will think you odd?

If you stopped in central London and stood in the street, turned your eyes heavenward and shouted,

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!”

Nobody would take any notice, granted (Londoners are good like that) but under their umbrellas, they would be deeply startled. A kind soul might even pause to ask if you’re lost and would you like directions to the nearest rehabilitation centre. A blog however, is a forum in which you can mutter and mumble to yourself without people moving to the next carriage on the train. You can shake your fist in words and people won’t cross the road and hide their children away. You can say everything or nothing and nobody will care, much.

Really?

Alarmingly, this is not true and having laboured under this misapprehension, this contributor to Ear to the Flagstones has been duly warned that I “Ought to be a bit careful about what you say”. One wouldn’t like to come across you see, as a self-indulgent bigot expounding the antiquated middle-class views which, over time, are probably responsible for classical music’s ‘snobby’ reputation. Particularly not when in reality, you’re the kind of person who had to look up most of the words in that sentence before typing them. Of course, one can always blame spell-check or auto-complete – an excellent example being when I recently complained to a friend that having only two ‘followers’ for Ear to the Flagstones was “bad for my moral”.

Taking in to consideration the startling revelation that despite my homepage telling me so, more than two people have read Blog; I must change my tune. No longer am I free to vent my impotent rage or insolent views, (I may even have to change that sentence about Nick Pritchard) no, dear readers (more than two of you) from now on I will be a model of decency, intelligence, interest and wit...

“Hearing Loss: The Lost Art of Listening”

Or

“Ode to an ‘Ear”

It is extraordinary to observer the complete inability of fully grown, healthy human beings to sit either still or quietly for longer than five minutes at a stretch unless given something to look at. Whatever happened to the world’s ability to listen? Here I am at the Pianists of the World concert given by Beth Chen. Born in Taiwan and raised in New Zealand, she has given a gorgeous performance of Debussy’s L’isle Joyeuse and La fille aux cheveux de lin alongside extraordinary works by fellow Kiwis Ross Harris (The Swans) and Jenny McLeod (Meditation on Psalm 134) and we’ve reached the crowning moment of the recital and, if I’m entirely honest, the reason I am here; a performance of Poulenc’s Barbar the Elephant. Now, Harris’s piece is 2 minutes in duration, McLeod’s 4 minutes and Debussy’s no more than 10 minutes combined and yet at least four people have managed to develop acute tuberculosis in that short time. It started with a gentle clearing of the throat over to the right, followed after a few peaceful seconds by a Jeeves-esque cough to the left. Suddenly, near the front, a man hurumphs loudly and another back in row P says, “Garrghhmmmph” and before you know it, an epidemic has snowballed its way around the church in a Mexican wave of disturbance which flows effortlessly into the applause. Barbar is here however, and how could a room full of adult concert-goers possibly be restless when presented with beautiful music, a dryly humorous story and the rather attractive and un-elephant like narrator Paloma Bruce? I was secure in my knowledge that as the piece was written at the behest of the composer’s three-year-old cousin, it could not possibly be too challenging for this audience.

You would be surprised!  

By the end of the introduction (when Barbar is comfortably settled into the city with the kind old lady who knew very well that every little elephant just wants a fine suit and a fast car) I had lost the plot. A gentleman had got up to light some candles and knocked over the metal stand. Another had wandered down the aisle to look at the South Africa Memorial just as Barbar’s Mother expired dramatically. The performance itself was wonderful, animated and engaging but people just don’t sit still and listen! Later, I looked back over my notes where I had thought to record the story of Barbar – they read something like this:

“ – Barbar in Forest, mother killed by hunters and he runs off. (Late-comers to concert are so NOISY), Rocked to sleep by mother, playing with a shell, Riding on Mother’s back, (why don’t people just LISTEN), ends up in town after death of mother, drives car, two years pass ... IF YOU WANT A PEACEFUL CONCERT EXPERIENCE – COME EARLY AND SIT IN THE FRONT!”

Evidently, I was having a bad day and having spoken to a number of other members of the audience, it became evident that I was being a little over-sensitive about the whole thing. It did get me thinking however, about listening and I realised that we are not very good at it, as we’re seldom called upon to practise it.

St Martin’s recently joined Twitter and (sensibly, I thought) before embarking upon the great social-networking adventure, I read up on Twitter’s advice for new users. Explaining the name, the founders said,

“We came across the word "twitter," and it was just perfect. The definition was "a short burst of inconsequential information," and "chirps from birds." And that’s exactly what the product was.”

Further down the page, I came upon the following ‘tip’.

“Tip: To listen in on the conversations happening right now, search Twitter for the name of your company, product or brand. If you have a Twitter account already, your home page has a handy search box on the right side. If you don’t yet have an account, try typing in the box below or go to search.twitter.com.”

I’m confused by the many references to the ‘sound’ made by birds and to ‘listening’ in on the conversations. So far as I have been able to make out, like email, text, facebook and most modern means of communication, Twitter is a visually driven method of communication. But what isn’t any more? How about the telephone, the quintessential instrument of speaking and listening? Well, the telephone has rapidly been taken over by the mobile phone and if you want to sign up to a new plan, the options for 3G web browsing time and text messages far outweigh the relative insignificance of ‘minutes’ with which to actually talk which might require a person on the other end to actually listen. We live in a visually driven society. What does this mean for our concerts?

The Tenor

There are days when central London is inexplicably quiet. I mean 'quiet' relatively and in the sense of 'less bodies pushing along the pavements'. (Unfortunately, the wail of sirens and roar of traffic continues unabated com rain, shine or bank holiday.) Today is one such day and as a result, the atmosphere in the lunchtime concert is one of peaceful intimacy./ There is much to be said for a Full House (see Friday’s blog: http://eartotheflagstones.blogspot.com/2010/09/full-house.html ) but if I am honest, today’s is far preferable. The 150 people in the audience have come specially and why wouldn’t they? Whether they’re here for the lustre of Nick Pritchard’s tenor voice, or lust for Nick Pritchard himself, there is any number of incentives to be here.

Early in the proceedings, I wonder whether I ought to offer a drink of water to a lady in the side-aisle seats who, eyes closed, looks ready to swoon – I then realise she is not ill exactl so much as quite carried away by “Dies Bildris ist bezaubernd schon” from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflote’. Presumably, she knows more about singing than I do. Yes, I have a confession to make and there is no time like the present, I am not a singer, nor have I ever aspired to be one. My Christmas carol renditions are ‘throaty’ at best and not in a husky, sexy, Dusty Springfield sort of way. Thank goodness then, that Ear to the Flagstones is not a review of these concerts as much as a commentary. With all technical respect to Nick, I’ve no idea whether he is ‘just’ good or actually very good (thought by the end of the first item on the programme, I’m beginning to suspect the latter). I will therefore, apply the same measure of standard which I use with wine – who cares whether it is regarded a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ bottle with a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ nose and from a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ vintage? Does it taste any good?! I’m not sure how Mr Pritchard tastes, but he sounds rather lovely and is sensitively accompanied by Andrew Saunders at the piano contributing to a gentle and enjoyable programme.

Pleased with my assessment, as the pair embark upon the final song in Finzi’s “Oh Fair to See”, I read the biographies in the printed programme and am pleased to note that, contrary to popular belief, I must in fact be something of an unsung genius when it come to the recognition of vocal talent. It turns out that both Nick and Andrew come highly recommended, thank goodness, this could have been most embarrassing!

As “Since we loved” draws to a gentle close, the last consonant is rendered inaudible by enthusiastic applause and the interpretation of Finzi’s conclusion is left to the imagination of the audience.

“My love, my quee …..”

Nick Pritchard will appear in the role of Count Almaviva in rossini’s “The Barber of Seville” at Oxford’s Sheldonian Theatre in February 2011.

Full House

Full House

The “Full house!” whispered to me by the steward on the door as I sneak in to today’s concert a few minutes late is self evident. The nave at St Martin’s is bursting with concert-goers (and a few casual passers by who look somewhat bewildered at where they’ve found themselves). I never get tired of surveying the audience here. There are the regulars who claim the front five or six pews as early as 12.30pm for the 1.00. A minority prefer the anonymity of the back rows or side aisles where, eyes closed they can soak up all, or sometimes just a work or two from the programme. One or two clients of the Connection at St Martin’s are just such regulars though today, their side-aisle boxes are shared with anoraked tourists and be-suited business men.

Then there are the ‘first-timers’, tourists and locals. Retired parties of ladies, popping down to London for the day with matching shoes and handbags, to take in some “Culcha”, visiting business people with an hour to spare between meetings, tourists laden with backpacks and money belts and trying to work out which coin is £1 for a donation. The church is full of London’s finest: workers, slackers, un-waged, retired, nose-parkers, busy-bodies, quiet connoisseurs, know-it-alls and wide-eyed innocents, the worldly and the world-weary and they all listen beneath the “arching Baroque splendour”, a gathering of honest diversity.

I cut off these thoughts before they drift too far in the direction of the superfluous.

A full lunchtime contingent is seldom a quiet or still audience. The creak of 18^th century pews, raincoat rustle and flick of programmes is a background murmour to which one either grows accustomed or which, on occasion, is enough to drive you mad. In such circumstances, it is best to slep discreetly out the side doors before the urge to leap up on a pew and shout “QUIET! PEASANTS!” becomes too strong. Ironically of course, no amount of caution in sneaking will stop you actually contributing to the noise from which you are beating a hasty and irritated escape. That is however, what it is all about, a free concert, open to everyone in the Church of the Open Door. That doesn’t stop it being annoying sometimes.

The majority of the time however, The Atmosphere is something of which I have become increasingly fond (and not a little proud).

Today’s artists, the Scotney Ensemble (an Octet from the Royal Academy of Music) perform Schubert’s Octet. It is an interesting choice of programme for this particular concert series. First, at a little over 50 minutes in duration, it is rather longer than the specified 45 minute concert length though the majority of the 400-odd audience members are content to sit with only sporadic burst of fidgeting, coughing and programme crackling. The ensemble themselves however are less stalwart and their performance wavers, frequently losing intensity and thread through the six movements. Unfortunate intonation from the upper strings serves to wake those listeners becoming too complacent with the altogether loose concept of ensemble. They are not bad players, in fact there are moments of true loveliness however, these unfortunately come from individual instruments rather than from the group as a whole. As they eventually embark upon the dramatic tremolo opening bars of the final Allegro, I find myself thinking of a fresh-faced cellist swaggering into a quartet rehearsal many years ago in First Year at University. Confident in my grasp of Shostakovich’s ninth string quartet I was astounded to realise by the end of the session that learning the notes in my part, even being able to play them quite well, was only the very beginning of a rehearsal process which would take months before we felt truly ready to perform. I remember learning over that time to play with my three compatriots as one, to feel the expression of the viola line in my own body and instrument and above all, to hear the whole and not the many parts. From back here in Row P, it seems pretty obvious that we are listening to the music, not the musics of eight players. Members of the Scotney Ensemble however, are still at a point where each part wandered only for a time hand in hand with the others.

Not that anyone seems to mind in the least. There is an air of the Proms about the place and several enthusiasts insist on clapping vigorously between movements. Unperturbed by the frowning silence and stern looks of other patrons, they continue to show their appreciation – something even a snob like me is all for. One particularly beautiful turn of phrase from the horn player has me wanting to call out “BRAVO!” and raise an un-caring eyebrow to the disapproving glances. It was a lovely phrase and probably the most memorable part of the whole concert.

After rapturous applause (they are an enthusiastic and supportive bunch) I cornered a lovely retired couple from West Hampstead to ask them what they thought. They explained that they come regularly and always enjoy the programmes (they had nothing but praise for Monday’s Hindemith!) and said they just liked to watch experts at work. After a lovely conversation, I retire to write up my notes and reflect on my close-mindedness. What are a few bung notes and ill-timed entries between friends if 400 people enjoyed it and one couple will come back, again and again?

Therefore let me finish by saying “Bravo!” to the applauders who defy convention in favour of appreciation and to the performers who have performed and the audience who have enjoyed. “Bravo”.

Michael L. Roberts

Michael L Roberts is a composer, performer and poet and St Martin-in-the-Fields is delighted to host the premiere and CD launch of his Avocatus Suite as part of our New Music Series. Between sessions in the studio, Michael took time out to talk to In the Pipeline.
ITP: Michael, thank you so much for taking the time out to have a quick chat with us. It may be the first time we’ve had the pleasure of chatting with a (and I hope we’ve got the term right) bona fide ‘Jazz Cat’. I hope you don’t mind if we dive right in and ask, should we be expecting something ‘a bit jazzy’ from your concert on Tuesday 28 September?

MLR: Jazz cat... I like..!

Well, in terms of certain structural and harmonic elements of the suite, my language as a composer is always born out of my experiences as an all-round musician. All composers, whichever genre they consider themselves immersed in, are improvisers until they put pen to paper, however, the stylistic approach of the Avocatus Suite is not ‘jazzy’ in any way.

ITP: In that case, maybe we’ll drop the ‘cat’ and stick to ‘Michael’! So what will we hear?

MLR: Avocatus is written for solo soprano voice and piano within the spirit and tradition of the European Classical/Romantic Art Songs and Song Cycles.  As a jazz musician, influence from the likes of Debussy, Ravel, Shostakovich, and Rachmaninov is, of course, ever-present, but it was a combination of hearing Debussy’s beautiful work of art the song cycle Songs of Bilitis and Strauss’ epic Four Last Songs back-to-back one evening that first inspired me to venture into similar territory. As is always the case with great music, the more you listen the more you learn! Upon hearing the Four Last Songs that night I considered again the thematic reasoning behind their creation – themes of death and journey’s end that, in Romantic terms, would ordinarily be treated with a sense of bravado and defiance but, in this case, are almost caressed with a sense of calm and gentle acceptance.
Having endured a sustained and cathartic life threatening illness in 2003, I’m all too familiar with the necessary elements of calm acceptance and quiet contemplation, and my poetry writing over the last seven years has more often than not reflected my imagining of life’s experiences and imagery.

ITP: So we will hear not only your musical voice but also the voice of Michael the poet?

MLR: Yes. The text of the Avocatus Suite Part 1 is a somewhat mythological reading of my experiences during that time of illness inspired stylistically by the likes of Pablo Neruda, Octavia Paz, Gabriel Garcia Lorca and the expressive freedom of the Beat Poets.  I crafted a musical language around the text that I had written over 7 years in moleskin notebooks and on scraps of paper here and there. It represents an almost reverse journey to that presented in Strauss’ work.  Rather than depicting the slow descent into death I begin with a death, sending the soul, as protagonist, on a journey through an afterlife of imagined trials and landscapes.

ITP: How did these two voices develop into your artistic voice from the towering influences you’ve cited?

MLR: Musically, I would say that the compositional and stylistic language of those great names mentioned above has always been a part of my creative consciousness, just as prominently as, say, the language of such jazz luminaries as Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett, Herbie Hancock, John Coltrane etc. It’s always a case of channelling those influences and creating your own soundscape that, while remaining true to that which came before it, speaks honestly out of your own centre and provides a creative definition of who you are and what myths you live by!

ITP: You’ll be performing alongside soprano Elisabeth Toye. Was she also involved in any way in the creative process?

MLR: Elisabeth and I had taught in adjacent practice rooms at Wellington College in Berkshire for a few years and, upon deciding to embark on this project, there was no doubt in my mind that hers would be the voice to interpret my compositional efforts.  She possesses an ideal balance of beauty and gravitas that I felt lent itself to the subject matter.

I presented the first of my songs to her for her appraisal and she sight read the handwritten manuscript with an expressive and impassioned tone. As a result I quickly set about writing more and more and the suite was born! Her contribution was very much centred around the contours of her voice and how I could make adjustments to provide the best vehicle for her to express the sentiment of the given lyric.  It is certainly true that the work would not have gained so much momentum compositionally for me had it not been for her very strong and assured first time readings of each song.  They really made me want to hear more!!

ITP: One fascinating aspect of the New Music Series at St Martin’s is to hear new music in a historic setting. How do you think St Martin’s long musical history will contribute to Avocatus in performance?

MLR: As a musician, there are few greater privileges in life than to see your compositions realised in a historical setting that so many truly great Masters have graced before you and there is no doubt in my mind that my suite will benefit considerably from having its premiere performance, and indeed Record Launch through the ‘Notabene’ Label,  at so prestigious a venue as St Martin-in-the-Fields. The New Music Series is a wonderful example of a supportive initiative that serves the continued development and enjoyment of music in the best possible way and I’m delighted to be a part of it!

ITP: And we feel genuinely privileged to be a part of the unveiling of this extraordinary new work. Thank you.

What: Michael L. Roberts’ Avocatus Suite – premiere and CD launch.

When: Tuesday 28 September, 1.00pm

Where: St Martin-in-the-Fields – Free Entry.

Liszt and Chopin

Yesterday morning as I arrived at work I stepped gingerly between the inert lumps of mildewed duvet, last week’s Metro and cardboard. Understandably there was a bellow when my boot wavered uncertainly over what could have been a section of paving and then came down heavily on a hand. Apologising profusely, I fumbled about for my keys while trying not to add insult to injury by spilling the piping hot contents of my coffee cup over the sleepers. The owner of the crushed fingers peered blearily up at me from under a mop of blond hair.

“Good morning.”

Startled, I dropped my keys in his lap and stumbling to retrieve them, stood on his ankle.

“Ouch!”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s perfectly alright. It was time to wake up anyway.”

He grinned crookedly at me.

“What’s on the programme today?”

“I beg your pardon?!” (I’ve never actually said “I beg your pardon” to anyone in my life, but you know those occasions when it’s really the only phrase which captures the essence of surprise.)

“The Lunchtime Concert, anything interesting?”

He sat up, leaning his back against the door jam and awaiting my response with frank interest.

“Well I, erm, yes. I mean, well, I think it is a pianist.”

He smiled again, patiently, as if encouraging a cute but slightly slow child.

“Her name is Jessica I think, but what’s the programme, you know, what will she play?”

“Oh right, oh, the programme …” I trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Well I can’t remember, I think it’s some Liszt and Debussy.”

He nodded sagely.

“They go in for Liszt a lot here, Liszt and Chopin. Anyone’d think no one else had written for the piano.”

“Indeed.”

“Easier than yesterday’s though, you know, Janacek and Hindemith and whatnot.”

I started guiltily, had he read the blog? Immediately defensive “Well there’s nothing wrong with a bit of variety, it is nice to have a change!”

At 1pm Jessica Zhu performed a very accomplished programme which did in fact feature Debussy’s ‘Images’ from Book 1 and Liszt’s ‘Verdi: Rigoletto Transcription” . I searched the 300 strong audience for a shock of blond hair but couldn’t find his among the faces of visitors, foreigners, locals, grandparents, music-lovers, students, professionals and children. He was nowhere to be seen.

Sweet Chilli Sauce and Hindemith

In the back row, there is a man snoring in double time which only adds to the complexity of Paul Hindemith's "Kleine Kammermusik" (Little Chamber Music) for Wind Quintet.

A friend from music school once dropped a jar of Mr Wong's Genuine Sweet Chilli Suace on the floor of our house in the dank depths of the 'student district'. The jar's contents seeped accross the linoleum of the floor collection in its tide the various flotsom and jetsom native to student kitchens everywhere. Startled, my friend looked down and said, "Goodness, its just like Hindemith. A little too much of a good thing with lots of sharps bits and a trace of egg."

Which is hardly fair.

The Albion Quintet (whose name recently changed to the Osiris Quintet when its members discovered the Albion Ensemble featuring Philippa Davies) however, gave a truly valient and accomplished performance contending not only with the "challenging" nature of Hindemith and the other composers of the programme's (Ligetti and Janacek - evidently a gentle walk in a soundscape park on a sunny Sunday afternoon was what they had in mind) reputations, but with the persistent buzz of a Westminster city Council sponsored concrete cutter, a lady in row R wiht a persistant cough and of course, our friend snoring in the back. Yet they managed to hold a dedicated (if subdued) audience of about 150 until the final, impressive notes.


But that's just one opinion.

I'll be back tomorrow with my ear to the flagstones at St Martin's.