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?