Perfection

I’ve been a little restless today. I haven’t been able to put my finger on why exactly. Not until now.

I’ve wanted to write (since watching last nights Proms gig with the LSO) but couldn’t. So I read instead (about Vaughan Williams and the British perception of music and landscapes). Then I read Gretchen Ruben says about what Rebels can do to meet their inner expectations (spoiler: the secret is self-deception). Then I started work on a database service I’ve wanted to provide musicians for a couple of years. Endless displacement activities. Open book stuff.

At the tail end of all of this I discovered I’d massively cocked up and failed to turn up for a Zoom interview by an hour. And after that I felt I was ‘able’ or at least ‘motivated’ to write.

Back to the LSO’s blistering performance last night. Hearing a concert (or seeing it on TV) is, it seems, only the beginning of the classical music experience for me now. Hearing something when I’m not able to be physically present in the same space means I’m dependent on the moment when the music has the most impact on me – the moment when the musical experience takes me by surprise. And if it has (and it did) then reflecting on how much and why is important. Until that point is reached it seems the concert isn’t ‘over’.

That’s weird. I know.

Or at least it marks a shift. Because up until this year writing about a concert was something that I felt I should do in order to demonstrate my presence at a concert retrospectively. A sort of personal responsibility to advocacy of the genre. Now, a year later, writing about a concert is something I have to do in order to make sense of it to myself. To arrive at a sort of closure.

Rattle and the LSO was one of the most remarkable pieces of television (and radio – I’m listening as I write this in the bath) I’ve seen in a long long time. There was a detail to the sound mix which brought an urgency, relevance and immediacy to say the Elgar Introduction and Allegro that I’d not heard before. Every instrument sang. There was more punch in the overall ensemble. And the content – emotionally – seemed not only to reflect the implicit visual narrative (a space in which us at home were denied access) but also provide a soundtrack for what has happened to the arts over the past six months, but hints at what might be lost if the ridiculousness of this situation is allowed to continue.

That kind of programming isn’t an accident I don’t think. It’s a measure of how COVID has brought about an opportunity to experiment with a different way of bringing concert programmes to life. Look at it this way: if I’d seen Elgar’s Introduction and Allegro, the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Adès, Kurtag, and Vaughan Williams fifth symphony I might well have overlooked it.

But when you’ve been starved of something you love (and when an artist has the opportunity to programme works in response to present constraints) then the resulting concert has the potential to respond more immediately. And it did. With devastating effect.

After a gritty and impassioned Elgar, Mitsuko Uchida performance of the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata was terrifying. Crushing, even. The pieces by Kurtag created a displaced feel to them. Ades’s Dawn was other worldly. Transcendental – just as perhaps he’d intended.

And the Vaughan Williams. I ended up crying a lot during the third movement. It was though something had been lanced. Someone or a group of people had come along and presented a playlist of music live performing to a perceived audience. They not only entertained, but spoke to us and sought to represent us all at the same time. And in doing so they reinforced precisely the thing that makes this art form so utterly indispensable. And so vital right now. Music as a series of statements that speak to, reflect back, an articulate the mood of a collection of people the players can’t see in the moment.

The eyebrow-raising element for some will be this. After all my crowing and complaining about TV at the Proms last year, it was TV that came good this year. Because without the audience, a boom camera had the most access to the stage – more than ever before. With no audience in the Hall, the audience at home was able to experience a potent narrative made possible by the sight of a vast interior, access to the edge of the stage, and an enviable range of wide angle lenses. The script wasn’t needed to compensate. The music was allowed to speak for itself.

Not every concert can be like this. Nor every concert will be. But if you’re looking for an illustration of why this art form isn’t just relevant but needed, here was an example.

Quite a remarkable evening.

Reinventing TV amid a global pandemic: Tenebrae

It’s been ages since I’ve felt motivated to write.

I know that seems incredible given that the most recent posts have ostensibly been about sharing advice on how to tackle some of the current challenges we’re all facing.

That writing differs from this. That’s writing that seemed like a good idea to post.

This post is writing is something I’ve wanted to note down. This is journalling. This is documenting. This is writing when you’re ‘back in the saddle’.

I watched Tenebrae on BBC Four this evening. I had been aware of their isolation performance – 19 singers and conductor Nigel Short all performing in separate video feeds sync’ed together and presented as one on a composite background.

It is a remarkable thing to see. Something to marvel at. Wizardry, in a way. As though television itself is being reinvented right before our eyes. We have no choice but to accept an entirely different visual grammar. How quickly we adjust. How grateful we are for the considerable effort involved. How we take technology for granted.

At the same time as enjoying it (and seeing the Other Half completely focussed during the Miserere), I also found it quite painful.

On the one hand, here was something that had been made because of the COVID19 crisis, and because of isolation. On the other hand, here was something that was reminding us what we didn’t have because of COVID19: live performance.

Earlier today I spoke to an old friend who had read The Economist. He started talking about how there wasn’t a plan for how mass gatherings would be re-introduced because there wasn’t an exit strategy. At least there isn’t one being talked about. And until there was how could any ensemble motivate themselves to plan for a future season – to plan work for their staff.

Three weeks ago I thought I might step back in the Southbank Centre in the summer. Today I’m catastrophising and finding it difficult to imagine that will be possible this side of Christmas.

I appreciated hearing from my pal and for the reality check he offered. But seeing a visual reminder of what I didn’t have the freedom to experience in the same physical space (and no sense of when that freedom might be reinstated) made things almost unbearable in my particular bubble.

Isolation productions are double-edged experiences in this way. And I freely admit to finding the latter experience linger. I just hope the sense of urgency and momentum continues amongst performers and administrators alike. I cannot tell you how much the idea I can’t hear my favourite performers perform is a heartbreaking thing.

There was another unexpected twist to the Tenebrae broadcast. The production behind the programme were the same people behind last year’s Proms coverage. Remember that? It seems like a distant memory now.

So too the unnecessary contretemps that occurred on the blog and on Twitter as a result. Being able to articulate thoughts and responses to something I care about remains as vital to me now as it was then. I’m wondering whether our capacity to hold dissonant thoughts has changed at all in the meantime. I do hope so.

Biss at Wigmore

I’m 47. I didn’t ‘go out on a Saddurday night’ until my second year sixth. I didn’t understand the appeal of pop music for a long while after my contemporaries (by which I mean years), and it wasn’t until I was 20 I understood why women needed to use more than one tampon a month.

I blame my parents for all of this. My father adored the music of Glen Miller (and latterly Syd Lawrence), my mother considered even the televised diaries of Adrian Mole risqué, and the family never really talked about bodily things either.

Similarly Beethoven. As a result my perception of Beethoven is misty. It’s shrouded in a cheap net curtain that diffuses the true image underneath.

There’s so much bollocks assumed about Beethoven. The tropes, trite phrases and cliches mask the detail. It is the detail in Beethoven’s music that yields the pleasure. If only we could trust ourselves and others to focus in on that detail.

Jonathan Biss’ Wigmore Hall recital pulled back a lot of that net curtain for me.

It wasn’t ‘on paper’ perfect. Sometimes the breakneck speed resulted in a momentary lack of clarity in the right hand. Sometimes I wanted to hear more of the gaps in between the semi quavers. And yet, it was terrifyingly taught and controlled. It wasn’t flabby around the edges by any means. It was a firework display.

Ten days of stomach flu had prompted a last minute change of programme. Biss shared this news with the audience before the second half. I’d argue it wasn’t necessary to be quite so transparent to explain at the beginning of the second half: a more cynical individual than I would describe such an act as an apology. Or better, ‘managing expectations’.

There really was no need. Biss is a consummate storyteller, pinning you against the wall with a statement he probably wasn’t aware he needed to make until an hour or so before the recital got underway. In that way these Beethoven sonatas were short stories or librettos all given a set, a cast, an orchestra and a conductor for a ‘flash’ production. Electrifying. Hutzpah. Gripping.

There were errors. Two. Maybe three. That feeling one gets when one thinks there might be an error was prevalent, but it did rather make it exhilarating.

The errors didn’t matter because the emotional connection between music, interpreter, and audience member had already been established. The errors triggered a sense of jeopardy, which in turn made us feel for him, and when he’d recovered, a sense of relief.

In that way Biss was captivating. Ridiculously fast (even when it said Andante). Sometimes it felt like it might even be out of control – on the brink of falling apart. But that still didn’t matter. Because at such a pace we saw Beethoven composition in a different way – dramatic statements, constantly shifting material, and relentless variations. And we had to cling on as we listened.

That is what live performance is all about. If only I could have learned that twenty years ago.

Verdi’s Luisa Miller at London Coliseum

ENO’s production of Verdi’s Luisa Miller challenged musical and storytelling assumptions

I’ve waited a day before committing thoughts about ENO’s of Luisa Miller. There has been tremendous buzz about the production ever since press night, deservedly so it seems to me. At the same time, it would all too easy to go along with the crowd and say the same as everyone else.

Voices

©Tristram Kenton

Given that opera has so many different facets, taking time to reflect on how and why an experience resonated probably makes for better copy.

The top line message is undobutedly the strength of the voices. Right across the cast too Elizabeth Llewellyn’s smooth edged sonorities driven by unwavering support, kept close to the orchestral line. This created a solidity to the music-making that meant the fascinating score in itself held my attention.

Lewellyn’s voice combined with David Junghoon Kim (Rodolfo) made for some breathtaking duets – powerful expressions of love burnished with gold.

Similarly, bass Soloman Howard (Wurm) could have stood on stage and sung all night and I would have applauded like a mad thing. Like Llewellyn he sings with a consistent through-line, finished off with a warm tone and gratifyingly clear articulation.

Casting

©Tristram Kenton

What I appreciated most was how the casting challenged my assumptions.

It’s a difficult point to raise without running the risk of falling into a pit of diversity-related errors. There was a moment when the diverse casting spanning one family, and the seemingly unlikely-ness of the Rodolfo-Luisa pairing made me question the motivation casting.

Beyond that, Luisa and Rodolfo seemed less plausible than …. what?

That was when I began to identify what my assumptions were about casting. In short, I assumed I would have more obvious or overt visual cues as to the class divide between the characters. What I saw instead was (perhaps) a more international representation of divisions between race? And I appreciated being made to think about that.

Deeper appreciation of the score

During the production, identifying the assumption had another unexpected consequence: it prompted me to look beyond what I saw on stage and immerse myself more in the music and reflect on how that supported the storytelling.

This triggered a deeper appreciation of what was going on in the orchestra pit, and what surprised me the most where that was concerned were the unusual orchestral textures Verdi had created. To date, Verdi with all of his gilt edge, flamboyance and seeming sentimentality, was somebody I wanted to avoid. Now on the basis of Luisa Miller’s score I want to explore it further.

The set

©Tristram Kenton

There was a downside.

I wasn’t entirely convinced about the set. I liked its modernist feel. I really appreciated the house used in a variety of different permutations. I liked the inventiveness of the black ink seeping down the scenic backdrop during the third act. And I really responded to the movement in scene changes.

But this modernist feel demanded less distraction on the surface of the stage. It was the ‘mess’ on the stage which distracted my eye. Odd bits of direction too resulting in groups of dancers moving in different parts of the stage whilst action was going on elsewhere, also created a distraction. And whilst I appreciate that the daubing on the backdrops was important to the ongoing narrative, truth be told I did in the end find it a bit annoying after a while. Gratuitous maybe? I’m not quite sure.

A long conclusion

But there needs to be a parting shot. What was the last thing I thought as I left the auditorium? How very long the death scene felt. In terms of time it extended between ten and fifteen minutes (depending on where you see the deaths beginning), but it felt a lot longer. And I think that might be down to the direction.

There seemed to be a lot of shuffling around, but not very much dying. I’d need to look at the score and the libretto to reflect on exactly why Verdi devoted the time he did to the sequence, but it did leave me wondering whether the pace had dropped a bit.

The chorus

©Tristram Kenton

But let’s head towards the end on a high. The chorus was stunning, in particular when they sang from the front of the stage (The Coliseum feels like quite a barny old place in comparison to the Royal Opera House – I’ve no idea of the exact difference in size, indeed if there is one). When the entire ensemble sang as one my heart nearly burst – a remarkable power that provoked an unexpected emotional response.

Listen to Elizabeth Llewellyn in conversation about the role of Luisa Miller in an episode of the Thoroughly Good Classical Music Podcast.

Corinthian Chamber Orchestra at the Queen Elizabeth Hall with Nicola Benedetti

Back to the Queen Elizabeth Hall last night for the Corinthian Chamber Orchestra concert in a programme of Tchaikovsky and Berlioz, also featuring last minute stand-in soloist, Grammy award-winning violinist Nicola Benedetti.

The QEH is fast becoming my favourite London venue. The acoustic gives each individual sound and texture the room to breath (please forgive the tortured analogy), meaning individual lines have more prominence than they normally would. For those of who love detail, that’s a treat.

I maybe doing conductor Michael Seal a disservice there however. It might be that exposed lines are as much to do with the acoustic as they are to do with his direction. Most notable – the trumpet descant in the second movement of the Symhonie fantastique giving an already lively waltz extra emotional intensity.

Seal doesn’t hang around, nor does he let the players in the Corinthian Chamber Orchestra get entrenched in sluggish speeds when things get a bit difficult under the fingers. There were plenty of opportunities when that could happen – the programme was ambitious and demanding for all. But Seal has an energy about him (along with a clear beat and expressive movements) that sweeps people along.

The opening Tchaikovsky Capriccio Italien was all the more impressive as a concert opener because it was ‘on the nose’ pretty much from the start. Nicola Benedetti’s Tchaikovsky was a rich, folky, and magic affair, underpinned by a responsive orchestra fuelled by adrenaline and enthusiasm.

Given the choice between a professional band playing the same repertoire they’ve played for years or an amateur group playing music on their ‘big night’, I’ll always go for the latter. The energy levels are higher, the excitement is palpable, and the smiles on the platform make the whole experience considerably more gratifying.

A cracking night.

Beethoven 2 & 3 from Norrington and the OAE at the QEH, and the Beach Boys

On the one hand theres an element of guilt writing about a concert four days after it happened. Details can be lost; a reputation, such as it is, withers. People will roll eyes, probably even tut.

Not the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment however. They’re a groovy bunch. Always have been. They’ll know, just as I am reminding myself now, that there are no rules and, just as not all orchestras are the same, not all writers are the same.

A few days distance on the OAE’s electrifying concert with Sir Roger Norrington, thoughts have crystallized. These thoughts develop my thinking about Beethoven, about the second and third symphonies we heard on Tuesday night, and perhaps most interestingly for me, about communication.

Taking a break with recent posts, I’m going to section each observation off into a handy list. It’s easier like that, for me and, I suspect, for everyone else too.

Roger Norrington is a beguiling conductor

Norrington is 85. He shuffles gingerly onto stage with a protrusion from a light-fitting blouse, reaching for musicians to guide him to the podium where a swivel chair awaits. There is a glint in his eye, a flirtatious smile, and an unapologetic willingness to collude with the audience. ‘Clap when you want, perhaps after the funeral march will be a little tricky, but clap whenever you would like,’ was his instruction, or something along those lines.

In between each movement of the joyous and uplifting second symphony he swung around triumphantly to greet and thank, before moving on. And when the moment allowed during the third, he did the same perhaps revealing a little more of how taxing a work this monument to composition really is to both conduct and play.

Sometimes the signalling to the audience at the end of every movement became a little tired. But there can be no doubt that Norrington still illicits a great deal of enthusiasm on stage, his poise, delicacy and detail are a joyous thing to observe. He maintains a youthfulness of spirit which is utterly adorable.

He is too, speaking personally, the last of the rock stars – him referencing the London Classical Players took me back to Denis McCaldin at university introducing the notion of ‘authentic performance’ with the first recording I’d ever heard of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique on period instruments. It seemed like an another world when I heard that. Any opportunity to see in the flesh the man who I regarded then as a bit of an iconoclast is going to be a must-see.

Beethoven symphonies reveal stark contrasts and commonly held assumptions

We think we know Beethoven’s music because – certainly in the case of the most well-known works – the melodies are familiar and engaging. But take a historically-informed band conducted by an octogenarian who resists any attempt to wallow, and suddenly the detail is exposed – multiple layers with eye-popping detail brimming with dissonance, tricky counter-intuitive rhythms, and unexpected textures. When you lean into Beethoven 3 and listen attentively the detail is remarkable.

Shameless Beach Boys comparison

It’s the same with the music of the Beach Boys. Wouldn’t It Be Nice, God Only Knows, or Sloop John B from Pet Sounds are a case in point – seemingly simple infectious melancholic mid-tempo ballads, the pleasure of which eclipses the multiple layers of seemingly incompatible and utterly bizarre individual tracks that make up the whole.

Not written, forged

The detail in Beethoven 3 challenges our unwitting assumptions about what Beethoven’s music is. And when we’re confronted with what it really is then it comes alive there in front of us. And what the OAE achieved under Norrington’s direction was to present Beethoven as a progressive perhaps even fearsome creative and his third symphony as a creation forged in the white heat of the furnace.

To observe that or experience it or perhaps even momentarily see Beethoven 3 from that perspective, makes it impossible to listen to any performance subsequently in the same way again. Maybe.

Celebrating the man’s music is like one year-long Beethoven degree module

I went into this Beethoven 250 thing feeling a little daunted. Others sought to use the anniversary to embolden gender politics. Some others understandably and rightly used to continue to shine a light on the ongoing diversity of representation challenge. I realised quite early on that for a man that so many claim did so much to transform classical music, I appeared to be able to recall very little about him. And I had a music degree. And that seemed a bit strange.

Quite early on I now see Beethoven 250 as one long season of music that will challenge my assumptions, force me to research and remember key dates (they are important milestones which helped embed learning despite what any classical music marketer would have you believe), and help guide me in the discovery of a composer I possess very little knowledge about.

And I when I reflect on my knowledge starts and where I feel is moved on to just in the space of a month, I’m beginning to wonder whether most of our perceptions about Beethoven are to do with that damn opening of Beethoven 5 – a kind of musical trope that celebrates, ridicules, and pokes fun at the art form all at the same time.

Not too much and not too little

Which then brings me on to the writing insight. The past few months have seen me working on a project which seeks to evoke a positive reaction to the discovery of classical music in an audience wouldn’t normally consider listening to the art form. It’s what me and another journalist friend have discussed at length over wine as the classic challenge: needing knowledge, expertise, and familiarity with a particular subject, but having to find a way of communicating just a fraction of it in such a way that one entices but not alienates.

And the challenge isn’t just about fine tuning your own communication filter so that you’re not always reaching to look under the bonnet at the earliest opportunity. It’s also about recognising how commonly held assumptions, well-trotted out ‘factoids’, or the over-reliance on lazy historical tropes are in themselves damaging to classical music’s perception.

It isn’t for example, to merely say that one of the interesting things about Beethoven is that he’s suffered from a profound loss of hearing but composed anyway. That’s the starting point for understanding Beethoven and appreciating the impact of his music. And what’s challenging for me is professionally is understanding what’s sufficient information and what’s ‘too much’ for one blog post or article.  

Identifying the essence of what makes the discovery of Beethoven’s music a thrill and something to keep coming back to is the challenge in this 250th anniversary year. And every challenge brings with it a useful source of motivation too. Which is nice.

Beethoven 5 and 7 from Andrew Manze and the NDR Philharmonie

Beethoven isn’t my go-to composer. Never has been.

There’s nothing wrong per se about the man’s music. There is melody. There’s drama. In his symphonic works especially the textures in his orchestral writing are highly satisfying.

The problem is (or maybe it’s not a problem) I admire the creative achievement in the same way I admire a beautiful woman: I see it (her/them/they), I just don’t respond to it.

This odd position on Beethoven’s music (some would say contrary) is not fuelled by my usual resistance to hype of the kind we’re no doubt going to experience when Beethoven 250 gets into full swing this year. Sure, I’m curmudgeonly and despise following a herd of sheep. No. this is because there’s a hint of Beethoven leaving me cold.

But. This.

Tasty cover design; tasty typeface; brilliant music making.

Andrew Manze conducts Beethoven’s 7th symphony with the NDR Philharmonie in a release out last Friday. And it may possibly be a recording which helps me determine my ‘way in’ for appreciating Beethoven, if not actually responding to him emotionally.

Manze’s career is quite something. Back in the early days of my short-lived arts admin career, Manze was powerful force in the world of historically informed performance, in 1996 asssuming the associate directorship of the Academy of Ancient Music.

At that time there was an implicit assumption that this was the world Manze would continue to inhabit because of his in-depth knowledge, expertise and resulting reputation.

His appointment as Principal Guest Conductor of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra for the 2018/19 season threw light on a career I had overlooked. One which on closer inspection reveals a seamless and early transition from baroque to full-scale symphony orchestras in a relatively short space of time: 2006 working with the Helsingborg Symphony; 2008 with the Norwegian Radio Symphony; four seasons with the BBC Scottish; plus a whole host of guest spots with international bands to boot.

I think I can detect his historically informed roots in many of his subsequent symphony orchestra recordings. I hear a drier, tauter, earthier string sound thoroughout the first movement of his Beethoven 3 with Helsingborg. In fact, the strings in the second movement especially in the oh-so-quiet sections are a thing to behold – a kind of delicate precision that makes me think the idea of which can only have originated from those ‘authentic performance’ days.

And bringing out instrumental voices normally lost in the mush of a romantic sound can only be something that draws on his historically informed performance days (the opening movement of Brahms 1 on CPO from 2012 with Helsingborg features a bassoon line like I’ve never heard in Brahms’ epic symphony).

Whilst I’m not quite so enthused about his Mendelssohn ‘Italian’ with NDR from 2018, I do have this inkling that maybe the latest NDR release of Beethoven 7 is something great because of the way it echoes those same characteristics I hear in the Helsinborg Beethoven 3. If that really is the case, then its Manze who’s making that happen, because that’s the point of consistency.

There’s a starker string sound in the Beethoven 7 release, most evident in the opening of the second movement. Drier. Deader. Smoother. Everything has a chilling feel: not frightening; just something imperceptible; a question in search of answer.

And sticking with the second movement, there’s a committment to drawing out detailed articulation in the bass line. A mushier more romantically driven interpretation would gloss over those details, but here everything is given the necessary space for display.

At the same time, Manze’s speeds give the work fleet of foot. No one is languishing in tawdriness. The pulse keeps thing moving on. There is life, drive, tenacity and determination throughout.

And come the prompt final movement the all important detail that has driven things throughout is given its moment. Never has a grinding pseduo pedal-note bassline been quite so needed nor so gratifyingly experienced as 7’08” onwards. Props to the horn section whose taut articulation in the high register is something to behold. And at the time of writing I can’t quite put into words what I’m hearing at 6’32”, but I want to call on it whenever I’m in need of a bitter dispute, because with that kind of explosives in your armoury you’re bound to win the battle.

Does this recording make me love Beethoven? Does it make me think I might learn to love Beethoven? I’m not sure yet. But it does help me understand one way to appreciate his achievement: detail. There is so much detail to be heard in Beethoven’s music.

There are two bittersweet thoughts which emerge from that observation.

First, the inherent pathos in the story of a man who couldn’t hear but scored so much detail in his manuscripts.

Second, the present day assumption pedalled by those who claim to champion classical music that newcomers will be frightened off by detail.

Here is a composer whose love of detail was arguably fuelled because of his impairment.

And yet we deny the thrill of his music to those who don’t know it because we condescend that newcomers won’t understand or appreciate that detail? Tsk.

Listen to Beethoven 5 and 7 from NDR Philharmonie and Andrew Manze on Spotify

London Chamber Orchestra with Oliver Zeffman

London Chamber Orchestra plays Waley-Cohen, Mozart and Sibelius at Cadogan Hall

Technically speaking, this isn’t a concert review. Some of the experience was hampered by my unpredictable and still hacking cough, meaning I needed to duck out of the concert temporarily. Never have I been forced to leave auditorium quite so soon after a much-anticipated Concerto performance began, nor received such a clear signal so swiftly to do so as I did from the curmudgeonly audience member sat beside me.

So I ended up spending 30 minutes listening to George Li play Mozart 23 via the Cadogan Hall foyer monitors, clear enough to hear some moments of mildly disappointing intonation from the woodwind in the second and third movements; denied the opportunity to languish in LCO’s efficient lush string sound. Li’s encore (I forget what it was – Chopin?) was spectacular, prompting those of us in the foyer to lean in, focus and take a much needed moment to pause and reflect. Electrifying stuff.

Once a number of Strepsils had been administered I rejoined my plus one Lorna at the back of the auditorium for the second half performance of Sibelius’ 3rd.

Neither of us had heard it before. For Lorna it was only the second or third time at a classical music concert.

The back seat of the stalls isn’t a bad place to listen. The balcony overhang creates a cosy feel but doesn’t affect the acoustic adversely. The LCO played with spirit, enviable precision, warmth and ebullience – it makes a massive difference to me to see musicians visibly enjoying what they’re playing. Great energy exuded from the stage creating three movements of wonder and delight. I was transfixed.

The second movement in particular had a tenderness about it that was both playful and maybe even flirtatious. The gentle syncopation gave things a flirtatious feel. Deft. Listening back to Bernstein’s recording with the New York Philharmonic, it is the gentler pace adopted by conductor Oliver Zeffman with the LCO this week that I respond to more immediately. There was lift and drive, but a genteel kind of pace that created an appealing whole.

Word too on Zeffman whose generous confident conducting style seemed to draw out key musical lines throughout the concert, empowering musicians to shine. Sometimes I wanted him to take his time walking onto the stage in order to establish a more assertive presence when facing the audience. But there is a charming enthusiasm and pride in his work and the band he conducts. A strong horn section drove the Sibelius forward in the moments it needed it.

Freya Waley-Cohen’s UK premiere of Changeling displayed some enviable melodic lines for bass clarinet and violin, spikey string sequences, and enticing atmospheric scenes full of mystery and portent. A busy week for Waley-Cohen too – present at Cadogan Hall on Tuesday and at Wigmore Hall for a premiere the following day.

London Chamber Orchestra are back at Cadogan Hall on 9 February and 25 March 2020. They appear at St John’s Smith Square on 6 May 2020. They are heartily recommended.

Review: Amadeus Chamber Orchestra play Bach Keyboard Concertos

The Amadeus Chamber Orchestra of Polish Radio with their conductor Anna Duczmal-Mróz are a modest but proud bunch with a fierce attention to detail. They play a joint programme with the London Mozart Players in concerts this coming weekend in London and Edinburgh.

Their concert on Sunday 17 November in Poznan was an interesting highlight of my year. Efficient front of house procedures at AMU Concert Hall in Poznan, and generous uncluttered open spaces for audience members both inside and outside the auditorium, combined with a simple programme of four Bach keyboard concertos with ever more increasing numbers of pianos, made this concert fly by. These elements – distractions eliminated – increased attentive listening.

Dimitry Shishkin’s performance of BWV 1056 appeared sedate initially though retained a sense of elegance to it in the opening movement. The fortissimos combined with romantic textures from the strings sometimes made the first movement feel a little leaden.

The generous acoustic – billowy in rich textures, favouring detail in more pared-back orchestrations – did sometimes demand a faster pace to help keep moving things along.

An appreciation that the acoustic was an additional ‘performer’ in the mix really became apparent in BWV 1062 for two keyboards featuring Paweł Wakarecy and Lukas Geniušas.

With more piano in the mix, the balance was made right, the acoustic supporting the interplay between the two instruments and amplifying the antiphonal effects written into the two solo lines.

Though there were moments when it felt like ensemble and soloists were slightly running ahead during the second movement, there was tenderness and delicacy that rooted us in the approach taken for the concerto.

The challenge then for all on stage given the efficiency of the event and the works programme became ever more obvious as each successive concerto added another keyboard to the platform: orchestral players and soloists getting accustomed to an ever more expansive sound world as the concert went on.

By the third concerto – BWV 1064 – the balance was assured allowing space for joyous cascades across all three instruments in the first and third movements, with a thought-provoking darker more contemplative second movement sandwiched in between.

The question: are the three keyboards separate solo lines in their own right, or is the combination of the three one entire solo line? I’m still not entirely clear. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.

The most striking change came about in the final concerto – BWV 1065. Three of the four soloists shifted position to a different keyboard, bringing about greater clarity, a more resounding demonstration of ensemble especially with the delicate endings to phrases, and the final movement a joyous cavalcade of textures. Considerable industry abounded, the strings creating a pleasing cushion of sound.

Review: Joby Burgess plays Alex Groves at CLF Art Cafe

Prominent exterior signage would help at Peckham’s CLF. The former cricket bat factory has such a range of office, event and creative spaces that go under the banner of the Bussey that an ill-thought out stride through the wrong entrance could result in disappointment.

After visits there to see Opera Story’s production of Dani Howard’s Robin Hood, and one or two other events I always assume the main spaces are accessed via the side entrance. But there is a door at the front – leading up two flights of stone stairs to an white washed adorned with bulky post-war speakers hinting at its industrial past. That’s the key space for me. I probably just need to make a mental note.

This detail is worth stating again (not least because my archive of blog posts is currently unavailable due to a malware attack). CLF’s interior sets the tone, long before a note has been played. And if you’ve had a fraught day full of busy-ness that tone is distinctively one of escapism. A life never lived because you never dared, now possible because it’s open, uncluttered, unfussy and welcoming.

Joby Burgess at CLF Art Cafe, November 2019

Percussionist Joby Burgess has a similar air. Cool, passionate, proud and excited. He retains the cool-kid-who-plays-the-drums-from school vibe, at the same time as speaking with knowledge, experience and love about every composer’s work he brings to life

Wizard-like creations of live sequences permeated this intimate gig showing Burgess as nimble, light-footed, and assertive, marshalling multiple forces to construct imaginative worlds impossible to ignore. Becca Dale’s work written for Burgess – fun, atmospheric, playful and sweet – did much to set the tone. Spirit and verve gently squeezed out from each tantalising melodic cell. Gabriel Prokofiev’s Fanta Bottle riff was riveting storytelling reminiscent of any GCSE music students composition class, Burgess delivering deft theatre and effortless self-deprecation.

Composer, producer and curator Alex Groves Curved Form was scored largely for tam tams – provided a more reflective piece of storytelling. Not so much chilling as gratifyingly dark. An ambient creation that satisfied my NLP weaknesses, healing the flesh-wounds of the day that had gone before it.

Feldman’s King of Denmark – a whispered response to Stockhausen – continued the compelling listening experience but in comparative terms the material felt more a passive aggressive response to Stockhausen’s creative madness. In that way I’m not sure it worked quite so well in the running order – the other works shone brighter. Max de Wardener’s Winterreise infused exploration pushed us the edges of comfortable listening with anguished fragments of barely recognisable material and very loud drums. Some in the audience stuck their fingers in their ears.

Linda Buckley’s brilliant Discordia for sonic harp complete with rosin-coated gloves made for a mesmerising conclusion. This 2018 Barbican commission deserves more outings in evocative spaces after a recording has been released for streaming and download. An ambient-lover’s must-listen.

Alex Groves continues to show his creative and producer mettle with SOLO which combined with his gentle affability must surely project him and his work higher and higher. So too I hope for CLF Art Cafe which has over the past two years developed into a must-be-booked-at South London venue.