« February 2006 | Main | April 2006 »
Fifty thousand tall and strong and young men were killed on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in a war which lasted four years.
...Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world...
Pre-War Requiem, I did also think when I was in Oslo, is there anything as evocative of the twentieth century as the saxophone solo in Rachmaninov's Symphonic Dances? Sad and beautiful and knowing too.
Ian Bostridge is singing Britten at Zankel Hall, and over here I am playing the War Reqiuem.
I have used this title before, but Britten's words never really leave me:
"It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful. It has the beauty of loneliness and of pain: of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love."
Resonating with it in my mind are Das Lied von der Erde's 'Der Abschied', which first prompted Britten's famous lines - and, now, the War Requiem.
...Ich sehne mich, o Freund, an deiner Seite
Die Schönheit dieses Abends zu genießen.
Wo bleibst du ...? Du läßt mich lang allein!
Ich wandle auf und nieder mit meiner Laute
Auf Wegen, die vom weichen Grase schwellen.
O Schönheit! O ewigen Liebens - Lebenstrunkne Welt!
Das Lied von der Erde
|
Tenor Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. |
|
|
Soprano and Chorus Lacrimosa dies illa... |
Soprano and Chorus Oh this day full of tears... |
|
Tenor Think how it wakes the seeds - Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear-acheived, are sides, Full-nerved - still warm - too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? |
|
|
Soprano and Chorus ...Qua resurget ex favilla... |
Soprano and Chorus ...When from the ashes arises... |
|
Tenor Was it for this the clay grew tall? |
|
|
Soprano and Chorus ...Judicandus homo reus. |
Soprano and Chorus ...Guilty man, to be judged. |
|
Tenor - O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all? |
|
|
Chorus Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen. War Requiem Alex Ross writes in the New Yorker: "I don’t remember anything about how Bostridge sang the last words, “How long, how long?”—only the storm of emotion that was contained in them, the desperation, sorrow, rage, and hope." |
Rupert Christiansen mourns castrati. Any volunteers, boys?
Just as well it's not an option for me. Keeping my fingernails short is sacrifice enough.
Aside from my own opinion that the newly-legal civil partnerships in Britain are a jolly good thing (it's 2006, for goodness' sake. We call ourselves a civilised society. What on earth has taken us so long?), TwTwTw is enjoying brisk business playing at them.
I arrived today at the hotel to find unshaven paparazzi lurking outside. "Someone must be in", thought I. "Maybe there'll be a famous person at my gig". The guests and happy couple trooped in to begin their afternoon tea. The grooms introduced themselves. That was all very nice, and I played the harp and slurped pink champagne and ate 8 salmon sandwiches and 3 cream buns.
All continued peacefully until groom 1 came over for a chat. It turned out groom 2 had been in a band.
A very famous band. Most of my classmates at school had his poster on their wall!
Celebs, be assured TwTwTw is very discreet - particularly as the chances are she won't twig who you are in the first place. I did this when I taught a well-known politician as well - in I went for our first lesson and said "so, do you go out to work? Will it be difficult fitting in the time to practice?"
Never trust a conductor who combs his hair on the podium.
He'll go to the bad, you mark my words.
Siker was everi gode harpour
Of him to have miche honour.
And leyd theron his wittes scharp;
A better harpour in no plas.
In al the warld was no man bore
That ones Orfeo sat bifore
And he might of his harping here
Bot he schuld thenche that he were
In on of the joies of Paradis,
Swiche melody in his harping is.
Sir Orfeo
(I have deleted my post about the terrible political rifts between harpists. The irony was too much for me)
Norway. Number of times fallen over on ice: 6. Kroner spent on booze: at least 600. Picturesque snow scenes: 83. Reindeer steaks: 1 ("Rudolph murderer", said Tom)
It's funny how one's diary works out sometimes. I got back from Trondheim + then Oslo phoned, so I was back on a plane to Norway 24 hours later.
Working in Norway is good for several reasons. The orchestras have their own harps and hunky Vikings to lift them around for me. We rehearse four days for every concert. Musicians arrive an hour early to warm up.
The only downsides are the price of wine + TwTwTw's Norwegian is even worse than her Polish, which is saying something (the first time I went to Poland, I believed my guidebook: almost nobody speaks English, but "German is widely understood". It's certainly true that almost nobody speaks English, but no-one wants to speak German, as you can imagine. The second time I arrived resplendent with about 35 words of essential Polish, such as "can I have the key to practice room 104, please?" and "hangover"). Fortunately all Norwgians speak English, to a level that disses the British education system, were any extra shame required. Still, I have mastered rehearsal numbers, "from the top", and farn! - which the first horn assures me is a mild profanity.
