The orchestra continues its superb run of form with Julia Wolfe’s vision of the aftermath of 9/11, Bomsori’s virtuosic violin-playing in Tchaikovsky, and Berlioz’s opium-induced visions
Like Manchester’s two Premier League football teams, its two symphony orchestras, the Hallé and the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra, are reaching their peak towards the end of the season. Recently, the Hallé Orchestra and Choirs gave a superb performance of Vaughan Williams’ Sea Symphony. On Saturday evening, it was the turn of the BBC Philharmonic.
The concert began with Big Beautiful Dark and Scary by the orchestra’s Composer in Residence, Julia Wolfe. Nearly 25 years ago, on September 11 2001, she was two blocks away from the Twin Towers when the two planes hit them. She wrote the piece in response to the attack.
‘The piece captures the feverish post-apocalyptic feeling of living in the aftermath of 9/11 with an ominous, full-throttle wall of sound.’
From CD sleeve notes, Cantaloupe Records
Bang on a Can All-Stars premiered the chamber version of the work in April 2022. Wolfe wrote, ‘This is how life feels right now.’ On Saturday, the Philharmonic played the orchestral version, which premiered in May 2013. The piece began with shivering strings, surrounded by swirling woodwinds, playing a rising, ominous chromatic scale that felt like the Shepard tone used by Hans Zimmer in his score to Dunkirk (2017). A huge bass drum rumble and a disturbing syncopated piano added to the terror. A brief hiatus led to a contemplative section, still fizzing with fear and gently frenzied. A single repeated brass note was suspended above a dark bass melody that sank into the depths. There was a short release as a new woodwind melody challenged the chromatic melody. Clarinets and brass joined the battle against the main melody. The battle continued until the end of the piece, creating a spellbinding cacophony superbly crafted by the orchestra. Brass and violins reached a final truce, and this remarkably visceral piece ended with a gong that faded into nothingness.
MUSIC AND 9/11 Various composers responded to the 9/11 attacks. The German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen described 9/11 as ‘the greatest work of art imaginable’, which caused immediate condemnation and disgust around the world, although he later claimed he had been misunderstood: ‘I am as dismayed as everyone else about the attacks in America.’ More respectful responses came from John Adams, who wrote On the Transmigration of Souls (2002) with pre-recorded voices listing the names of some of the victims, and Steve Reich, who wrote WTC 9/11 (2009-10), which included recordings of air traffic controllers. The latter piece wasn’t without controversy; the original cover of the first recording featured an image of a plane flying towards one of the Twin Towers, which drew a lot of criticism before the album was released. Reich asked his record label, Nonesuch, to withdraw the image: ‘I want people to listen to my music without something distracting them.’
Steven Wilson – Collapse The Light Into Earth (The Future Bites Sessions) 6 November 2020
Other artists repurposed their work in response to the attacks. The American avant-garde composer William Basinski completed his ambient work The Disintegration Loops on the morning of the attacks and dedicated it to the victims: ‘When I woke up in the morning, the towers had been struck, and the whole world changed.’ Steven Wilson was working on a song in his studio when he heard about the attacks. He immediately abandoned that song and instead wrote ‘Collapse the Light Into Earth’ (from In Absentia, 2002): ‘It’s like William Basinski’s Disintegration Loops. It’s got nothing to do with 9/11, but there’s a quality in that music which somehow connects with that time and that event.’
The first half ended with Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto featuring the South Korean violinist Bomsori. Her debut with the BBC Philharmonic was at the Proms three years ago, playing Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 under the baton of Saturday’s conductor, Anja Bihlmaier. She played with a lovely, bright, youthful tone, with less vibrato than some, creating a purity of tone. Throughout, she played this virtuosic piece with great ease and facility. The cadenza was stunning, with double-stopping, plucking and glissandi, all beautifully shaped. The intonation on her high notes was perfect. The audience sat quietly in rapt admiration of her astonishing virtuosity. Bihlmaier smiled as the orchestra rejoined, and after her pyrotechnics played a serene melody. Bomsori moved expressively as she played a spectacular duet with the orchestra.
The second movement began with a thoughtful chorale by the woodwinds and horns. Bomsori played a lyrical, delicately sorrowful melody with great emotion. The orchestra guided her gently into a new world with a livelier tune. There was a sense of Russian melancholy in her gentle dance with woodwind soloists, with gorgeously quiet playing. The opening chorale returned. Without a break, the orchestra roused itself into the final movement. Another mini-cadenza, a passionate Russian dance with mud on its boots, led to an incredibly fast dance. Stephen Johnson, in his programme note, described the Finale in these evocative phrases,
‘full of the flavour of Russian folk-dance music – a heady aromatic cocktail of vodka fumes, fried onions and creaking, high-kicking leather boots.‘
The orchestra and violin rose to the challenge of creating these flavours, before a melancholy passage brought a moment of contemplation. Bomsori challenged the orchestra to match her virtuosity, which they did. Another heavy peasant dance led to a thoughtful section for violin and chamber ensemble. Violin and orchestra dashed to an exuberant end, drawing huge and well-deserved cheers and applause.
Bomsori’s encore was Schön Rosmarin (Lovely Rosemary) from Alt-Wiener Tanzweisen (Old Viennese Dances) by Fritz Kreisler, arranged by the Italian violinist Gabriele Campagna, a playful and virtuosic showpiece, delivered with great panache, and warmly received by the audience.
The second half was devoted to Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. He wrote the piece when he was 27, completely infatuated with the Irish actress Harriet Smithson, who he saw performing in Shakespeare’s Hamlet in Paris,
‘The supreme drama of my life … In the role of Ophelia, I saw Harriet Smithson, who five years later became my wife. The impression made on my heart and mind by her extraordinary talent, nay her dramatic genius, was equalled only by the havoc wrought in me by the poet she so nobly interpreted.’
The symphony, titled ‘Episode in the Life of an Artist: Fantastic Symphony in Five Parts’, describes the young ardent lover. Berlioz wrote a very detailed programme note, beginning with his dreams of his beloved seen from afar, then a countryside interlude when he begins to doubt her, followed by an opium-induced nightmare where he dreams that he has killed her, is led to the scaffold where he is executed, and a ‘ghastly crowd of ghosts, sorcerers, monsters of every kind’ gather for his funeral. The French composer Saint-Saëns later wrote that the programme for the work had gone out of fashion, but ‘the musical work is still as youthful and astounding as on its first day.’ Berlioz revised the programme note, describing the entire work as being opium-induced.
The composer’s youthful passion for his beloved is depicted in the ‘idée fixe‘, a rising ardent motif, reminiscent of the youthful puppy Idéfix (gloriously translated as Dogmatix) in the Asterix comics. The motif unifies the symphony, but becomes increasingly hidden and fragmented as the protagonist becomes more anguished.
Idéfix the Dog from the Asterix comic book series (René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo/Hachette Livre) vs Berlioz’s idée fixe motif
Although Berlioz distanced himself from his earlier programme note, he kept the titles to each movement, and they still provide a useful guide.
On Saturday, the opening movement, ‘Rêveries – Passions’ (Dreams – Passions), began with morose violins playing in perfect ensemble before a magical, anguished climax, describing the ‘Rêveries’ of the title. Lush strings and brass played joyfully, before falling back again. A dancing theme expressed supreme joy. The idée fixe motif appeared as a huge Romantic melody above marching lower strings. An ambiguous passage suggested the protagonist had lost hope; the music struggled, like trying to climb a mountain and sliding back again. Eventually, there was a glittering statement of the idée fixe, before a stunning climax which turned out to be a false ending, before sorrowful horns settled into a peaceful ending. Whatever your view is about the programmatic nature of the score, the orchestra superbly illustrated a series of restless moods, like those of a young lover.
The second movement, ‘Un bal’ (A ball), began with shimmering strings and lovely flourishes from the two harps, introducing an elegant waltz, joyfully played with the sense of inevitability that characterises many great performances. The waltz continued with an excitable section as the dancers swirled elegantly in a frenzy of joy, as a solo clarinet provided a fragmented statement of the idée fixe.
The ‘Scène aux champs’ (Scene in the fields) was an interlude in the countryside, opening with a cor anglais solo answered by an offstage oboe, representing two hunting horns conversing across a valley. There were strong echoes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 ‘Pastoral‘, as the orchestra played with formidable precision, describing the lover’s loneliness. The idée fixe appeared briefly in a passage for flute and oboe, before the cor anglais reappeared. This time, there was no reassuring answer from the oboe; no fewer than four timps represented an oncoming storm, like the storm in Beethoven’s symphony, but also reflecting the protagonist’s emotional state.
By the fourth movement, ‘Marche au supplice’ (March to the scaffold) – if not sooner – the opium had kicked in. Sinister horns and ominous timps introduced a march on lower strings, with brutally sarcastic bassoons, creating a terrifying sound, elegantly conducted by Bihlmaier. This movement was a supreme example of an orchestra at the top of its game, all working incredibly hard, as the conductor danced on her podium. A brief snatch of the idée fixe on clarinet led to a coup de théâtre when two drummers marched solemnly down the steps of the choir seats, playing military drums, introducing the final movement, ‘Songe d’une nuit du sabbat’ (Dream of a night of the sabbath). The idée fixe was now transformed into a terrifying jig, the combined demonical forces dancing in the face of death. Funeral bells sounded offstage, introducing the horrifying Dies Irae funeral theme, played so memorably in the opening scene of Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 psychological horror film The Shining. A deeply sarcastic mini-fugue led to a spooky, ghostly passage, then the diabolical dance combined with the Dies Irae to bring this tremendous performance to an end.
Julia Wolfe Big Beautiful Dark and Scary Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto Fritz Kreisler Schön Rosmarin (encore) Hector Berlioz Symphonie fantastique
Performers
BBC Philharmonic Orchestra Anja Bihlmaier conductor Bomsori Kim violin
Sources
Bang on a Can All‑Stars: Big Beautiful Dark and Scary (Cantaloupe Music) Terry Castle, Stockhausen, Karlheinz (New York Magazine 27 August 2011) Steve Reich, Steve Reich Comments on the “WTC 9/11” Album Cover (Nonesuch Records Journal, 11 August 2011) John Doran Time Becomes A Loop: William Basinski Interviewed (The Quietus 15 November 2012) Nick Holmes, Porcupine Tree on track (SonicBond 2021, revised and expanded 2025)
The concert was recorded for broadcast on Radio 3 in Concert on Tuesday 5 May at 7.30 pm. It will be available for 30 days after broadcast via BBC Sounds
Last Thursday evening’s concert, with The Hallé conducted by the young Finnish conductor Tarmo Peltokoski, began with Mahler’s Rückert-Lieder. The composer set five songs by the Austrian poet Friedrich Rückert for voice and piano in 1901 and 1902. He published them as separate songs and never intended them to be performed as a set. He didn’t even orchestrate them all – it was left to the critic and publisher Max Puttman to complete ‘Liebst du um Schoenheit’ (If you love for beauty) in 1911, after Mahler’s death that year. And there’s no fixed order when they are performed as a set – it’s left to the singer and orchestra or pianist to decide.
There are several different approaches to the songs, particularly in the way the singer performs them with orchestra: compare the wide operatic vibrato of Sonya Yoncheva, the gorgeous operatic mezzo of Christa Ludwig, the lighter approach of Anne Sofie von Otter, and the superb classic recording by Janet Baker, which Richard Wigmore in Gramophone described as ‘lovingly attuned to these most private of Mahler’s songs.’
On Thursday, the baritone Huw Montague Rendall sang the songs, and it was clear from the opening song Blicke mir nicht in die Lieder! (Do not look into my songs), that his approach would be closer to that of a lieder singer in a solo recital than to that of a singer on the operatic stage. His voice was rich and warm, light on the higher notes and gently lyrical, perfectly matched by the playful orchestral accompaniment. He began Ich atmet’ einen linden Duft! (I breathed a gentle fragrance), with a gorgeous sotto voce, beautifully offset against running strings and solo oboe. Throughout the collection of songs, he addressed the audience with calm poise, thoughtfully immersing himself in the music.
Rendell sang Liebst du um Schönheit (If you love for beauty) with a lovely head voice in the top notes, gently ardent in this song about love. In the most dramatic song, Um Mitternacht (At midnight, he sang with richer vibrato and more powerful lower notes, bringing real passion to the climax in the last verse. The orchestra played superbly in the final song Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (I am lost to the world), with excellent string ensemble, characterful woodwind and a pivoting harp, creating a dark sound world; Rendell’s voice rose from the depths. There was something of the great German baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau in the beauty of his tone and the expressiveness of his word-painting; there can be no higher praise than that.
After the interval, Rendell was joined by the Finnish soprano Silja Aalto, who had stepped in at short notice (although she sang with such confidence, you wouldn’t have guessed it). The whole of the second half was devoted to Vaughan Williams’ Symphony No. 1, ‘A Sea Symphony’. The work is a choral symphony, but not in the sense of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, which ends with a setting of Friedrich Schiller’s Ode to Joy. Perhaps the nearest comparison is to Mahler’s Symphony No. 8, where the choir sings throughout, although as the symphonies were first performed within a month of each other in the autumn of 1910, it seems unlikely that Vaughan Williams was directly influenced by Mahler. A more obvious influence – acknowledged by Vaughan Williams himself – is Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius, whose musical influence can be heard very clearly at times. But Vaughan Williams was keen to stress that his work was a symphony rather than an oratorio,
‘The shape of the work is symphonic rather than maritime or dramatic, and this may be held to justify the frequent repetition of important words and phrases which occur in the poem. The words as well as the music are thus treated symphonically.’
Vaughan Williams set four maritime poems by the American poet Walt Whitman, three from his 1855 collection Leaves of Grass and one from his 1871 collection Passage to India. Whitman’s poems provide a vivid depiction of life at sea, but they also describe the journey of the soul, another link to The Dream of Gerontius, although the text of John Henry Newman in the latter work is much more explicitly religious.
On Thursday, the vast choral forces were made up of the Hallé Choir and the Hallé Youth Choir; there were so many singers in the choir seats that some of those standing in the back row needed their own lights on their scores. The first movement, ‘A Song for All Seas, All Ships’, began with an astonishingly visceral opening statement from choir and brass, ‘Behold, the sea itself.’ It was immediately clear that the choirs were on superb form; the sheer energy and passion of their singing was infectious. Later in the movement, there was a delightful duet between the choirs and baritone Huw Montague Rendall, his noble solo voice contrasting with the massed voices. The choir’s soft singing was equally impressive, contrasting with the sheer volume of the opening. They sang ecstatically, echoing the baritone’s words, ‘A pennant universal’, and there was a much more subdued restatement of ‘Behold the sea itself’ at the end of the movement. The section that began ‘Flaunt out, O sea…’ had strong echoes of Gerontius, which gave the text a spiritual dimension where it describes a flag for ‘the soul of man, one flag above the rest/A spirutual woven signal for all nations…’ Silja Aalto’s voice, slightly more operatic than Rendell’s, carried beautifully over the choirs and orchestra.
The second movement, ‘On the Beach at Night, Alone,’ is overtly spiritual, with its evocation of ‘the clef of the universe’ and the ‘vast similitude [that] interlocks all.’ It called to mind another Victorian poem, Dover Beach, by the English poet Malcolm Arnold, set to music by the 20th-century American composer Samuel Barber.
The movement began with serene lower strings, punctuated by a falling brass theme, setting the scene beautifully. Yearning woodwind, shimmering strings, and evocative brass illustrated Rendell’s word-painting, his tone here reminiscent of the English baritone Thomas Allen. There was a huge sense of spiritual affirmation from the choirs as they sang ‘this vast similitude’. A stunning brass fanfare suggested that the optimistic outlook would continue, but we were suddenly plunged into darkness and doubt as Rendell returned with the opening words, ‘On the beach at night, alone’ before the orchestra finally brought a moment of peace.
The third movement, ‘Scherzo: The Waves’, is a vivid description of life at sea, without any spiritual or philosophical element. It’s set for choir and orchestra only. It’s difficult music for singers, and the words are sometimes set rather awkwardly, but the choirs on Thursday handled it with aplomb. They were superbly rhythmic in their overlapping phrases, creating a joyful evocation of the sea. A triumphant orchestral passage led to a huge, Elgarian melody with a lovely passage that passed through several keys. The movement ended with an exultant cry of ‘Following’ from the choirs.
The final movement, ‘The Explorers’, was much more contemplative at the start, with gentle men’s voices describing the beauty of the Earth (the ‘vast Rondure’) seen from space, as in Samantha Harvey’s Booker Prize Winner Orbital, ‘swimming in space’, or Steven Wilson’s top-five album The Overview. A majestic orchestral section led to an early highlight in this long movement, the creation of humankind and the Garden of Eden, with lovely sotto voce singing. Processional music from the orchestra was reminiscent of the Pilgrims’ Chorus from Wagner’s Tannhäuser; the Hallé recently performed the Overture. There was a magical moment when a cappella upper voices sang, of ‘that sad incessant refrain, wherefore unsatisfied soul?’ The orchestral playing, describing ‘captains and engineers’ was magnificent. The emotional, religious and intellectual climax of the movement, the description of ‘the poet worthy of that name/The true son of God’, became a huge affirmation of faith, with the organ ringing out. There was a gorgeously serene duet from the two soloists, and another stunning climax from the choirs in ‘Greater than stars or suns.’ A jolly sea shanty launched the soul on its journey; the choirs sang ecstatically, and the sopranos were particularly fine here. The ending was thoughtful and lush by equal measures, as the yearning soul sailed into the sunset.
Sunday’s concert, repeated from last Thursday, was billed as ‘Mullova Plays Brahms.’ It’s been over 40 years since she first came to prominence when she won first prize in the International Jean Sibelius Violin Competition in Helsinki (1980) and the gold medal at the International Tchaikovsky Competition (1982). Her 1986 debut album of the Tchaikovsky and Sibelius violin concertos with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and Seiji Ozawa was awarded the Grand Prix International du Disque. Her 1995 album Bach: Partitas For Violin Solo was nominated for a Grammy.
Mullova’s performance of the Brahms concerto was bookended by two orchestral pieces, performed by the Hallé Orchestra under their Principal Conductor, Kahchun Wong, beginning with Wagner’s Tannhäuser: Overture.
“Tannhäuser symbolises the clash between two fundamental principles that have chosen the human heart as their main battlefield – the struggle between flesh and spirit, between hell and heaven, between Satan and God. And this inner conflict is depicted, right from the overture, with unparalleled skill.”
Charles Baudelaire, Richard Wagner et Tannhäuser à Paris (1861)
Wagner’s opera combines the sacred and profane, with appearances by Venus, goddess of love, the spirit of the Virgin Mary and the Pope. But we began with a chorus of pilgrims, a stately woodwind and brass opening. Rich violas and lower strings introduced a romantic string melody. A brass climax led to a section with a falling, repeated violin theme, played more staccato than in many performances. There was a lovely pianissimo as the woodwind and brass theme returned. The orchestra stirred, as, in Wagner’s words, ‘a rosy mist swirls upwards [and] sensuously exultant sounds reach our ears.’ There was some lovely, characterful wind playing and a gorgeous clarinet solo from Sergio Castelló López. Wong beautifully shaped the music as it slowed, then accelerated to a rousing climax, with added percussion, pulsing strings and excitable brass. A falling brass theme, with circling strings, dropped away. The Pilgrims’ Chorus reappeared on woodwind, with swirling strings. Wong’s pacing of the music was lovely here. The music gained sudden energy and headed to a glowing climax with robust, majestic brass. The brass section received well-deserved applause at the end.
“Brahms casts his soloist not as the conventional virtuoso hero but as a thinker and a poet, who is busier than the orchestra but also more inspired.”
As Robert Avis writes in his insightful programme note, Brahms’Violin Concerto depicts the soloist as a ‘thinker and a poet.’ Mullova stood with her back to the audience, facing the orchestra, as if taking in what they had to offer in their introduction. She watched the violins closely, and they duly obliged her by playing superbly. She turned round, and her violin was part of the orchestra’s texture, playing looped arpeggios. The orchestra held back in deference with long chords.
Mullova played with beautiful control and intonation, even on the very highest notes. Her tone was sweet at the top and rich at the bottom. She played a mellower passage superbly, with lovely legato, then dug in more with double-stopping but still maintaining the legato line. The orchestra began to take a more active role, and she elegantly picked up their lilting waltz-like theme. The violin slowed almost to a halt, and there was a lovely contemplative moment with subtly discordant double-stopping. She took over again, her violin projecting over the orchestra as she executed an amazing run from top to bottom of the violin and back again. Even in the most complex parts, her violin tone remained mellow. There was a sorrowful section that Mulllova turned into a spellbinding cadenza, as the audience sat rapt.
At the start of the second movement, the orchestra regained control, as Mullova turned to watch them again. A gently nostalgic horn chorus led to a lovely solo by the oboist Stéphane Rancourt, who had a major role to play in the movement. Mullova turned round to pick up the melody and joined a chamber music section, joined by a small ensemble of horns, woodwind, and violin. She took over, with a wider vibrato and a lush, warm sound, creating a moment of serene beauty. The orchestra rose up to meet her as the violin played gorgeous, long, held notes. A melancholy, melodic section featured a duet with two horns. Mullova’s playing at the end of the movement was ardently, sumptuously romantic.
Brahms wrote the concerto for the Hungarian violinist, composer and conductor Joseph Joachim, and the final movement began with a fiercely rhythmic Hungarian dance. Mullova played joyfully, creating a continuous line with a sweet tone even when playing with the full orchestra. The orchestra shared her joy, playing superbly here. Mullova worked incredibly hard in this movement, reaching a mini-cadenza which the orchestra soon joined, her playing fiercer here. There was a lovely syncopated section with sparkling flutes. The music scampered to the end with a final flourish. An audience member near me uttered ‘Wow!’ Well, exactly!
“The general mood of the work represents, apart from the jesting second movement, a gradual transition from the sternness of the first movement and the lugubrious death-song of the third, to the life-assertion of the last one.”
Béla Bartók, 1944
If the first half of the concert featured a virtuosic soloist, the second half featured a whole orchestra of soloists. Bartók wrote his Concerto for Orchestra in 1943. He had moved to America three years earlier and told his wife, ‘Under no circumstances will I ever write any new work.’ Then the conductor Serge Koussevitzky stepped in and commissioned a new score for the Boston Symphony Orchestra. The composer died in September 1945, but not before he had heard the premiere of his concerto in December of the previous year.
The first movement began with mysterious lower strings and tremolo violins, a magical, almost spiritual sound, the strings playing with superb ensemble. A stunning climax led to an oboe theme with tenative harps, unusually placed in the middle of the orchestra to bring out the detail. The woodwind sparkled, and a brass fanfare splintered into fractured melodies. A robust melody kept trying to start in the lower strings, the violins ran with it, and dashed to a stunning brass fanfare.
Launched by a side-drum, the second movement featured a series of superbly characterful, witty duets, which Bartók marked as ‘couples’: bassoons, oboes, clarinets, flutes and trumpets. A brass chorale, warmly played, and a lovely horn quartet brought brief respite before the duets returned as trios. Wong brought out the detail superbly here, keeping the movement superbly rhythmic.
The highlight of the piece was the ‘lugubrious death-song’ of the third movement, showcasing Bartók at his best. It began with the night music of the first movement, the solo oboe singing like a lonely bird. This passage was reminiscent of the ‘lake of tears’ behind the sixth door in the composer’s Bluebeard’s Castle, written 20 years earlier. The orchestra played with incredible intensity, bringing out the amazing variety of colour. A keening piccolo solo, set against a desolate landscape, brought the movement to a melancholy end.
The fourth movement began with more birdsong and a folky dance as the woodwind shone again. The violas played a huge, Elgarian tune that the violins picked up, echoed by an anxious cor anglais. There was a nod to another great 20th-century composer, Shostakovich, in the sarcastic parody of his Leningrad symphony, superbly played here. But the movement ended with a moment of stasis, with a gently questing flute solo.
The finale began with a stunning horn fanfare and a restless string dance. Wong was more animated here, bringing out the strings that were spinning like a whirligig. A folky dance accelerated, with virtuosic brass, and the strings were almost out of control in ecstasy as they reached a huge climax. After an earlier failed attempt by the woodwind at a fugue, the strings began a fiercely executed fugue of their own. The orchestra played with precise syncopation, before a thrillingly triumphant final statement brought this superb performance to an end. Wong acknowledged all the soloists, which took a while, as there were so many of them. Then, with a cheery wave, he was gone.
Many contemporary artworks and installations describe themselves as ‘immersive’; the word is perhaps overused now. A concert in a former swimming pool (yes, actually in the pool) could have been immersive in another sense, but fortunately, the water had been removed first. For a choral concert to be truly immersive is very unusual, and it’s a tribute to Ellie Slorach, Kantos Chamber Choir’s Creative Director and Conductor, that the concert’s staging was so effective. The music ebbed and flowed, creating a continuous narrative and a musical argument, so that it was sometimes difficult to tell where one piece ended and the next began. The generous acoustics of the former swimming pool immersed us in sound, creating a lovely bloom around the voices, but it was still possible to hear individual voices perfectly. The huge golden sun, or ‘Helios’, created by the artist Luke Jerram, was suspended above us, immersing us in a sun-baked landscape.
Slorach greeted us with a cheery ‘good morning’; it was 5.00 am, and the sun was about to rise. Magically, a Dawn Chorus of singers surrounded us, singing from changing cubicles that were transformed into birdboxes. Above the backdrop of offstage chords, individual singers sang birdcalls. Being neither a twitcher nor an ornithologist, I was only able to identify a cuckoo, but composer David Matthews says ‘they’re not exact replicas, but artistic approximations.’
Meredith Monk’s Early Morning Melody was passed among the singers as they moved around the old baths, processing like monks singing plainsong. Slorach conducted from the middle of the audience as the singers surrounded us, singing Eric Whitacre’s Lux Aurumque(Light and Gold). This piece described ‘Light, warm and heavy as pure gold’, like the sun above us. Whitacre’s falling chromatic harmonies sometimes felt like those of the Italian composer Carlo Gesualdo, born 460 years ago.
The men of the choir dashed to their positions at the front to create the Dawn and Dusk sounds in Ken Stevens’ piece, chanting like the All Blacks performing the Haka. There was clapping, finger-clicking, animal noises, amazing vocal swoops and joyfully syncopated polyrhythms. The Eternal Sun, as depicted by John Tavener, featured lovely key changes and dissonances, uneasily shifting yet ecstatic, while an offstage choir sang fiercely nostalgic chords.
Two composers described the Morning Star. Nathan James Dean took Milton’s words, ‘Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger/Comes dancing from the East’ to create a lively, dancing theme like some of John Rutter’s Christmas carols, with syncopated lower voices. At the end, voices fell over each other like birdsong. Arvo Pärt’s Morning Star was a highlight, with rich, warm vibrato from the basses.
George Harrison’s Here Comes the Sun is The Beatles’ most popular song, with 1,788,000,858 plays (and counting) on Spotify at the time of writing. As the sun rose, the song was uplifting in Kirby Shaw’s close-harmony arrangement. Ben Nobuto’s Solwas a more frantic yet playful view of the sun than Harrison’s gentle, welcoming one. It featured repeated words, snatched syllables, excerpts from romantic songs, and a human menagerie, with manic chatter. This was virtuosic music, virtuosically sung.
The hall darkened, and Eric Whitacre’s gorgeous dissonances returned in Nox Aurumque (Night and Gold), which sings of night and death. This was another highlight, with robust, passionate singing; the sopranos shone on their high notes, and the tenors sang with a bright, ardent tone. Hendrik Hofmeyr’s Desert Sun was a dense, complex song of the Kalamari Bushmen, saluting the setting sun with falling, chromatic melodies at the start and cacophonous chanting later, all beautifully executed by the choir.
Night and sleep came quickly now. Emeli Sandé’s Where I Sleep, arranged by Alexander L’Estrange, felt like a spiritual, with superb tenor and alto solos. Nightfall was depicted by Meredith Monk, with a repeating bass line, as in Purcell’s An Evening Hymn, which begins,
‘Now that the sun hath veil’d his light, And bid the world goodnight; To the soft bed my body I dispose…’
Monk’s piece features wordless voices, but the sentiment is the same. After the complexity of some of the previous pieces, Monk’s simple, tonal world felt cathartic. The choir gradually left the stage, like musicians in Haydn’s FarewellSymphony. Slorach herself then left, leaving a single bass and a soprano decorating the bass line. They left, too, as the birds retreated into their bird boxes again. A stunning end to a concert that was not just a concert, but a life-affirming experience.
Kantos Chamber Choir: Soprano Emily Brown Gibson, Eleonore Cockerham, Felicity Hayward, Sarah Keirle-Dos Santos, Emily Varney Alto Louise Ashdown, Toluwani Idowu, Rachel Singer, Lucy Vallis Tenor Alistair Donaghue, Jonny Maxwell-Hyde, Louis de Satgé, James Savage-Hanford Bass James Connolly, Jonny Hill, Joshua McCullough, David Valsamidis Ellie Slorach Creative Director & Conductor Luke Jerram Artwork
Repertoire
David Matthews Dawn Chorus Meredith Monk Early Morning Melody Eric Whitacre Lux Aurumque Ken Steven Dawn and Dusk John Tavener The Eternal Sun Nathan James Dearden The Bright Morning-Star Arvo Pärt Morning Star George Harrison arr. Kirby Shaw Here Comes the Sun Ben Nobuto Sol Eric Whitacre Nox Aurumque Hendrik Hofmeyr Desert sun Emeli Sandé arr. Alexander L’Estrange Where I Sleep Meredith Monk Nightfall
Luke Jerram’s Helios installation is at Victoria Baths until the 6th April 2026
Jan Vogler travels the world as an internationally acclaimed cello soloist. He was in the UK in February to perform with various orchestras, including a superb performance of Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto No. 1 with the Hallé in Manchester under the baton of Kahchun Wong. He has been Artistic Director of Dresdner Musikfestspiele (Dresden Music Festival) since 2009. The annual Festival was established by government decree in 1978 when Dresden was still part of the German Democratic Republic (GDR).Nick Holmes Music spoke to Jan in New York via Zoom earlier this month.
The Dresden Music Festival
Nick Holmes Music: How did you become involved in the Dresden Music Festival?
Jan Vogler: I developed an interest in festivals in the 1990s. I was very lucky to be a guest artist at the Marlboro Music Festival in Vermont, directed by Rudolf Serkin, when I was a young man. And Serkin was very interested in Eastern European players. He really helped me to get out of East Germany, which was very difficult, to come to Marlboro. And when I came to Marlboro, I saw the combination of excellent musicians, good programming, and a summer atmosphere, and I understood what a festival was right away.
After four summers in Marlboro, I founded the Moritzburg Festival in 1993, together with my brother Kai and a friend who’s also a cellist, Peter Bruns. We learned about financing, ticketing, organisational skills, stage crews, and all the details one needs to know. And by about 2001, I had taken over the running of the festival.
“I like organising…”
I had installed an office in Dresden, had a couple of non-profits supporting the festival, and learned how to direct a festival. Even if you’re called ‘artistic director’, it means you are the one everybody will call when they don’t know what to do. I was fine with that. I like organising. I was always interested in the process: how does music get from the musician to the audience? Because it’s a process that in the 19th century involved musicians much more than today – think about Clara Schumann writing out her own tickets for concerts and inviting guests by handwritten letter.
At the end of the 20th century, we became a kind of protected species, soloists who travel around the world, everybody arranges everything for you, and you’re supposed to just think about your concert. I never really liked that. I wanted to get my hands dirty, wanted to understand how it works, and see if I could help bring the music to the audience in a more innovative way. And that was all expressed in the Moritzburg Festival.
Then in 2007, the mayor of Dresden invited me for lunch, and he said, “Would you be interested in taking over the Dresden Festival?” The festival was not doing too well, and my first thought was, should I really do this? Should I really cut out more time from my playing career to dedicate to the festival? But a lot of people around me, including family and friends, were excited that this would be a great thing for me to apply some of my ideas.
I took the job and started in 2009, and we rebuilt the festival in a more modern way with more entrepreneurial involvement. I wanted to make sure that I applied everything I’d learned in America with the Marlboro Festival, that you can do a festival even if there’s no defined space from the government funding for it before. So I applied some of those experiences to my work with the Dresden Music Festival, and now we have a festival that is up to 80% financed by ticket income and sponsorship, which is very high for Germany and very unusual. So this way we could enlarge our budget, have more wonderful musicians come, and have a more glorious festival.
Artistic Changes
Nick Holmes Music: What’s changed artistically under your control?
Jan Vogler: A lot. My vision was always to both observe changes in classical music that are coming anyway, and at the same time bringing my own ideas to the table. I think every director who ignores the trends in classical music will sooner or later have a problem because the audience is our main supporter. But at the same time, adjusting to what the audience is asking you to do is not always right, because they also want to be led a little bit, and they want the music to be curated as well. So I think finding a good combination of those took about five years.
I started with very high-quality music; I invited all my friends. At this point, my career was going pretty well, so I could invite lots of partners, like Hélène Grimaud, with whom I played duos. Or the New York Philharmonic. I had just played my debut in 2005 and toured with them. So I could ask Zarin Mehta [president and executive director of the New York Philharmonic]. It was a bit scary. He was a very, very strong leader. I wrote an e-mail: “Would you consider coming with the New York Philharmonic to Dresden?” He was like, “Sure, we could come. It will cost a lot of money, but we can raise it together.” And that brought the festival back on the map and also helped with sponsorships and ticket sales.
Other Genres Apart from Classical Music
But then I thought, what about other genres, such as crossover created for example by the Yo-Yo Ma and Bobby McFerrin album [Hush, 1992]. Crossover was already well-established, but it was blooming, and people were listening to playlists across different genres. So I really focused on having all these genres present and started with world music from people like Anushka Shankar. I went to jazz, and even did some rock because I liked British rock music from my childhood on. I’m a big fan of Queen and Eric Clapton.
Eric Clapton came to a concert in London. He didn’t come backstage, but I heard he was there. And then he came backstage at another concert in Edinburgh, and I recognised him, and I was like… starstruck. But then we talked about how strings feel under the fingers, and he asked me how cello strings differ from guitar strings, and he was very interested. I texted him: “Would you consider coming to Dresden to play a concert?” He said, “Yes, if you play along with me.” So we made a deal.
“Classical listeners still whistle pop songs in the shower”
Then I was in London for a Wigmore Hall concert. I had studied all his songs and had studied a little bit of rock and blues. I was super nervous, but everything went well in the rehearsal, and then we played together in the concert. And I really internalised that the same audience that would buy tickets to the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra or the LSO would buy tickets to the Eric Clapton show. It was not a different audience. It was, of course, some new people, but I realised that classical listeners still whistle pop songs in the shower. It was a great honour that Sting came, another hero of mine.
Nick Holmes Music:Was it important to you that Sting is a fellow bass player, playing at the low end of the music?
Jan Vogler: Exactly. I always thought of Sting as his own musical life insurance, the bass line. There was this fantastic bass guitarist in Eric Clapton’s band, and he was my life insurance. I looked at him all the time. If he played a certain note, I knew I was in the right key. But wonderful musicians.
I’m still curious how we can be inventive and progressive with our festival, and I think it helps me that I live in New York, because the two cities are very different. Dresden is a cultural icon and incredibly dense culturally. New York is more artificial because it’s not grown as naturally here, but it’s incredibly lively and incredibly high quality, just like the big British cities like London or Manchester. So it helps me to have this perspective because lots of things will fall through if I look through my New York glasses at the programmes.
“Some human values come into play, which, for me, is important to convey through music; values that are in danger of being lost in every generation“
I want to bring the idea of a globalised cultural world that is still extremely specific in specific places, like, for example, the sound of the Hallé Orchestra compared to the LPO [London Philharmonic Orchestra]. This is wonderful, these differences, but we still have to see it in context, especially when you do a festival. What is so different about the orchestra and the sound, and which repertoire suits them? How can I host a special cultural event in Dresden that represents a certain culture with all its refinements, while still giving you an idea of how big and beautiful our whole world is? So it’s an idea of tolerance, too, and some human values come into play, which, for me, is important to convey through music; values that are in danger of being lost in every generation.
Elgar and the LPO at the Festival
Edward Elgar. Source: Wikimedia Commons
Nick Holmes Music: And talking of the LPO, they’ve got a residency at the festival, haven’t they?
Jan Vogler: That’s very exciting. At first, I think my team was a bit shocked when the idea of an all-Elgar residency came about. The LPO said Edward Gardner [Principal Conductor] would like to do two complete days of Elgar. And I was like, “That is a great idea.” And everybody was shocked. They were very silent. My two artistic administrators looked at me like, “What did he smoke?” I said, “Look, who has ever done this in Germany? When did you last hear an Elgar symphony?” And the LPO are masters of this music. They really know this music better than most performers in the whole world. So why don’t we do it?” And it’s selling very well. So I’m very happy.
Edward Gardner. Photo by Mark Allan
Nick Holmes Music: I come from the land that was famously “without music” for a long time. And then Elgar came along, and we thought, thank goodness we’ve got a good composer, finally. How is Elgar viewed in continental Europe and in New York as well? Because obviously, I view him very much through English eyes.
Jan Vogler: That’s an interesting question. I do feel that Elgar is a little bit like a bathroom where the bathtub overflows. I think the BBC Music Magazine named Elgar’s Cello Concerto the most popular cello concerto. I read that while I was in Great Britain playing Elgar last week, because I did play two Elgars, one with the Hallé in Middlesbrough, and one with the LPO in Eastbourne. It was enlightening to play Elgar with British orchestras because it seems so natural. Mostly, they are more modest than an American or German orchestra playing the Elgar, but sometimes it’s very pompous, but naturally pompous. It’s a little bit like British humour, extremely unique somehow, the way Elgar is played.
I feel in some parts of the world, there’s so much excitement about Elgar. I would say the whole of Great Britain, and then big cities outside of the UK. So if the Elgar Cello Concerto is played in Berlin, Paris or New York, it’s very enthusiastically received. I’m going to play it in Taiwan in a couple of weeks. where I think Elgar is played less. So they asked specifically, “Would you be willing to play the Elgar? We haven’t had that for a while.” And I hear that quite often in some regions. But it’s so popular in so many places that I think it’s spreading very fast. That’s why I said it’s like a bathtub overflowing, because if there is enthusiasm in the world for something, somewhere, it always spreads, because we have such fast communications. We have such wonderful ways to communicate these days that this enthusiasm will be communicated, and therefore, I expect Elgar to still grow.
“That was a mistake I made for 25 years. I always played the [Cello Concerto] so seriously and with so much darkness..”
Now in Germany, The Dream of Gerontius is being played here and there, and there are more pieces being picked up by these orchestras. It used to be entirely the Cello Concerto or Enigma Variations, but now it’s really the full Elgar repertoire that is played by the great orchestras around the world. When I play the piece, I feel that the main thing Jacqueline du Pré invented about Elgar, in a way, that made his Cello Concerto so popular, was that she understood it was a dark piece that was about empire falling and about things crumbling at the time when it was written. But she understood that the enthusiasm in it is probably just as strong.
That was a mistake I made for 25 years. I always played it so seriously and with so much darkness and everything. And the audience went, “Thank you” [he claps politely]. And then I thought, hmm, what is missing? Lately I discovered, it’s this enthusiasm that runs throughout the piece – Elgar always gets up again and he tries again, with this kind of counter-stream of positive energy. I feel that British orchestras know that there has to be positivity, even in darkness.
Nick Holmes Music: But in some ways it’s quite playful, isn’t it?
Jan Vogler: It is quite playful. And we cannot just see this very serious side. Outside of the UK, many, many countries see this as very serious music, and very, very late Romantic. But there is a lot of positive energy that counters that, and then you see the sun, and then you see the clouds closing, and then you see some melancholy, and then it all makes sense. But without this enthusiasm, of which Jacqueline du Pré was the perfect example, the music is not as effective.
Wagner on Period Instruments
Nick Holmes Music: Talking of late 19th-century music takes us to your Wagner project – Götterdämmerung – which is coming up for rehearsal very soon?Tell me about using period instruments in Wagner?
Jan Vogler: Yes, that’s another project that’s a little bit crazy. The outcome was definitely completely unclear when we took it on. But I personally believe very much in period instruments, because my father in East Germany had the early [Nikolaus] Harnoncourt recordings of the Monteverdi operas. So I grew up with these very early Harnoncourt recordings, which were extremely fascinating.
My father was a cellist. Later, he also became a fan of the [Dutch] cellist Anner Bylsma. I found Anner Bylsma’s Bach interpretations, so when I was in school in East Berlin, I was the only one playing these fast tempos in the Bach Cello Suites. And all the teachers were like, “What the hell is he doing?” Because they were still taught by the Russians with these very slow and very heavy tempos.
I studied with Heinrich Schiff, who was close to Harnoncourt and very interested in performance practice. I had a strong interest in bringing the best period instrument groups from all over the world to Dresden, and we did. We founded our own Festival Orchestra playing on gut strings about 12 – 13 years ago, and we thought, what if we get the best players on period instruments to Dresden, and play pieces created in Dresden in the Romantic era, with a different sound from the other orchestras.
That worked well, but it didn’t really make a big wave, because we would have only one or two concerts a year. It would be expensive to get all the musicians, all freelancers, to Dresden: lots of people from the UK, from [John Eliot] Gardiner’s band, and lots of great players from London. That was the first step.
Then Kent Nagano came to me – we are friends, we have played a lot together – and said, “I have this idea about doing The Ring on period instruments.” I started a little bit with Concerto Köln, but there was no chance because we didn’t have the organisational structure, the funding, or enough players. And I said, “Well, I have the [Dresdner] Festspielorchester, and it’s a fabulous group, and you can bring some of your musicians from Concerto Köln, and then maybe we can combine them, and we can attempt to do the whole Ring. I can try, on the fundraising side, to work with the Federal Government in Berlin and integrate the project into the Festival.”
Finding Period Instruments
Nick Holmes Music: In this context, though, I’m really interested to know what you mean by period instruments? You mentioned gut strings, but the symphony orchestra was pretty much established by the end of the 19th century, wasn’t it? So what are you doing that’s different from a modern symphony orchestra?
Jan Vogler: We found some original Wagner Tubas, which were very different from the ones used today. And wind instruments changed a lot during Wagner’s time; they sound a lot thinner and clearer than the wind instruments used later. The wind players who travel around Europe and play period instruments have four different flutes. They have one for 18th-century repertoire, one for early 19th-century repertoire, one for mid-19th-century repertoire, and one for Wagner. They were very excited.
Some of them collect instruments like crazy. We have a trumpet player who collects anything from percussion instruments to trumpets from this time. And he buys them at auctions for very little money. Some of them are original instruments, but they are no longer playable. There are experts in Germany who rebuild these brass instruments for these period players.
“All these little details make a huge difference when added together.”
The discussion about instruments was very detailed, and we had musicologists. That was Kent’s idea. Kent is a very interesting guy. He’s very academically interested, and his idea was to let the musicologists lead. So we have a little army of musicologists who go into the score and sit in on rehearsals. We have one musicologist, Ursula Hirschfeld, just for language, just for the way the German words were pronounced in Wagner’s time. So she would correct the singers all the time.
And all these little details make a huge difference when added together. I would say not every detail is conceivable when you hear just that one detail. But in the end, it’s stunning that, for example, in Die Walküre, when the fire starts around the mountain where Brünnhilde is captured, I suddenly saw the fire: the sound was fascinating. I saw the fire in front of me.
One of Josef Hoffman’s 14 set designs for Wagner’s Rheingold in 1876. Source: Viktor Angerer, via Wikimedia Commons
At the beginning of Rheingold, there’s a lot about running water, and everybody always says, ” Why does [Wagner] stay in the same key for so long at the beginning, and can you please speed up the tempo?” And many conductors tried to do it just faster. Suddenly, it was incredible, with the three Rheintöchter [Rhine Maidens], you could understand every word.
“[Wagner] said, the theatrical effect is most important. If you can sing it, speak it.”
So certain effects are almost like Debussy was later, very descriptive of nature and other subjects. The transparency of the sound allows the singers to have much more differentiation in dynamics. I’m quoting the musicologist because I haven’t read enough; apparently, Wagner liked pronouncing the words very much, sometimes even as spoken words. He said, the theatrical effect is most important. If you can sing it, speak it
And so musicologists pulled up some recordings from singers who worked with Wagner, for example, songs like Erlkönig. And it’s incredible. They change intonation. When it gets depressed, they go lower. They change the tempo all the time. That’s something Wagner encouraged, he said, “change the tempo as often as you want. If it’s dramatic, go faster. If it’s Romantic, take your time.” We learned almost the opposite: to be strict with the tempo and metronome, stay in this tempo, and be very static.
So all these little revelations would add up. For example, Matthias Naske, the director of the Konzerthaus [in Vienna], came to one of our performances in Amsterdam of Die Walküre, and he said it was maybe the most single, most impactful opera performance of his life. I don’t see it this way because I hear it too often. Kent Nagano is a very modest person. He always says, “Well, Jan, it’s different, right?” So it’s definitely different, I would say!
A Different Type of Singer
Nick Holmes Music: You were talking about singers. Does that mean that you can go for a different type of singer? I mean, we’re all familiar with Wagnerian sopranos and tenors, and the huge voices they have to have to rise above a massive orchestra?
Jan Vogler: Exactly, with our Siegfried, it was very much like that. But then, of course, our singers get picked up by the Wagner people because they hear that they’re singing with us. So sometimes it’s hard. We discover a lot of talent this way. We have a wonderful young Norwegian Brünnhilde, Åsa Jäger, who is a huge talent. Now we can hardly book her for our complete Ring because she’s making a big career. People observe her, and they hear her, and say, “Oh, we want to have her – we are fine having some influences from [period] performance practices!” So we lose some of them: Derek Welton has become quite famous. He’s a wonderful Wotan, and of course, now the Deutsche Oper [Berlin] or Bayreuth even ask, “Can we have them as Wotan?” I understand.
Playing the Cello
Jan Vogler with members of The Hallé. Credit: Alex Burns/The Hallé
Nick Holmes Music: How did you find the cello? Were you following in your father’s footsteps, or was there something personal to you about the cello that attracted you?
Jan Vogler: It was put in my hands because my brother had the violin. And so, as the middle child, I got the cello, my sister got the piano. I felt a connection right away, a physical connection to the cello. And I really became very competitive to make it sound better. It was pretty clear when I was something like 10 years old that I wanted to be a cellist. And my luck was that I had two musician parents who were very strict and said, “We know you like to play soccer and meet your friends, but if you want to be a serious cellist and not end up in a very, very depressed situation, you have to practice hard.”
So they took my ambition and kind of weaponised it against me in a very good way. And they knew that teenagers can take a lot of work and a lot of pressure . I was very, very lucky when I was studying to feel that, somehow, with the cello, I’d found something special.
Nick Holmes Music: My wife came with me to watch you doing the Shostakovich at the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. She said it felt as if the cello was an extension of your own body. Does it feel like that to you?
Jan Vogler: My ideal is to try to forget that it’s a piece of wood with four strings. I’d like to feel that I can make it come alive. And it helps if you have a good instrument. I am very, very fortunate to have a very, very fine instrument. Of course, it helps. And then the cello shows you the way. I don’t think I will ever reach 100%, but I’m trying to make it sound alive so you forget it’s coming from four strings. And that’s the ideal.
Nick Holmes Music: And again, looking back on that concert, I was struck by your playing style. Many players who perform the famous concertos seem to be battling with their instrument. Are you as calm as you look on stage?
Jan Vogler: No, no, no, I’m not! I’m constantly trying to improve things. But what I do feel is that the orchestra is a mass of energy, lots of individuals who unite to give energy. And the soloist has to be a dialogue partner with the orchestra. So I have to be extremely strong, because the orchestra is the energy of 60 people or something like that, with very, very strong players, and I’m alone.
“If something goes wrong, I let it go and do not worry about it”
So I team up with my cello, try to be at one with it, and then talk to the orchestra. So that’s my idea. I’m not at ease, of course. I always have my own struggles like everyone else, but I do feel that if I can somehow create a connection with the cello at home, that is not a discussion at the concert.
Even if something goes wrong, I let it go and do not worry about it, and still keep talking to the orchestra, because the orchestra is my main partner, and the audience is kind of an observer, but once in a while, you can also turn to the audience and preach a little bit. The German way of making music is a little bit like a pastor in church. Sometimes it can be too much, but when we play Bach’s Cello Suites, we tell stories to the audience.
So I feel that in the concerto, you have these few moments when you turn to the audience, but you also have a lot of moments when you try to converse with the orchestra and the conductor. And I felt with The Hallé, it was wonderful, because they were very lively, excellent musicians. And I also had a good connection with Kahchun [Wong]. And he told me afterwards he liked somehow the way I played the Shostakovich, and he said, “Does it have to do with your childhood in East Berlin?” I said, “Who knows, but possibly, you know.” I try not to copy my colleagues, even if I like a colleague very much. I try to find my own way to play.
The Reopening of the Frauenkirche in Dresden
Dresdner Musikfestspiele and Jordi Savall in the Frauenkirche, Dresden. Photo: Oliver Killig
Nick Holmes Music: Yes, and talking about East Berlin, I think one of the highlights of your career to date has been performing at the reopening of the Frauenkirche in Dresden in 2005, after it had been destroyed in WWII. And as an East Berliner, as an East German, how did that feel?
Jan Vogler: I was in the green room preparing a few minutes before, and I couldn’t feel anything. I was like, “Just remember the piece. Is everything okay?” I was very prepared, I must say, and I had created a good connection with Lorin Maazel during the rehearsals, thank God, because he was supposed to be a difficult man. He was very kind to me, almost fatherly. I had worked with the New York Philharmonic before. I recorded Dvořák’s Cello Concerto a year before with the New York Philharmonic and David Robertson. So I knew the orchestra a little bit, and Maazel had accepted me. That was a big compliment already.
So there I was in my green room, I thought, okay, this is one of those concerts. You just focus on this. My father was there. My father didn’t want to come initially. He didn’t come to many of my concerts. He was too scared. I had exceeded his expectations, I think. For him to sit in the audience, and I’d be on the stage, and anything could happen, I think it scared him very much.
But he did come to Dresden, and my mum was there. And then I came on stage and I focused and when the whole thing was done, I felt like, okay, I had I played my Schumann and the Colin Matthews, the way I could play it. And my father came, and he said, “Well done.” That was the biggest compliment he would ever give by far. But that he accepted my playing that night was already a lot.
“It was one of those moments when you can’t fold, you have to hold on”
And then I thought, the orchestra accepted [my playing], the conductor, my partners, the audience had lots of tears because the event itself, you know? But it was one of those moments when you can’t fold, you have to hold on, because your career will always have these moments, and often you play a piece that’s dear to you. If you’re lucky, you can play the Schumann or Shostakovich. Those are some of my favourite pieces. You can play something you can tell a story about, then people will trust you, maybe with more work.
It was almost like my audition in Dresden when I became principal cellist [at the Staatskapelle, at the age of 20]. Dresden. It was similar. I worked very hard. To my surprise, I got the job, and then I knew, okay, this is just the first step. Now you have to focus and learn all this music.
The Rebuilding of Dresden
The ruins of the Frauenkirche in Dresden in the early 1990s. Credit: Alison Howe
Nick Holmes Music: How do you feel about the rebuilding of Dresden? Is that something that moves you?
Jan Vogler: Yes, it does. I guess every generation feels that, but do we keep all the memories of history, have we learned the right lessons from history? I still remember my grandmother telling me how she took my father and his brother to the basement when there were fire alarms in Leipzig, and how she wrapped them in wet towels so they wouldn’t catch fire, if there was a fire. I grew up with the Cold War, and there was a constant fear that the whole situation would explode. And then 1989 came, and we were all like, “Oh my God, we have new hippies or something!”
The rebuilt Frauenkirche in Dresden, showing how existing stonework was incorporated in the new church
And then the Frauenkirche was rebuilt, and it became a symbol of the healing of the wounds of war and the whole of Dresden is a testimony to this incredible story of how humans can overcome great tragedies. So it does move me very much, and I get shivers when I talk about it, because I feel, aren’t those the great stories of humanity that we can overcome something? Those things, I think, are wonderful.
“We are all humans, and don’t we all want peace, harmony, and fun?“
If humans could sometimes forget the past and move on, and say, “let’s just do something positive,” remember the past as a learning experience, and go into the future with a fresh, open heart.And that’s what we all felt in the Frauenkirche, because we felt like we were enemies in the war, but aren’t we all humans, and don’t we all want peace, harmony, and fun? It was really, really very basic in a way.
And I just played last week, excuse me for the digression, but it was really wonderful. I just played the Schumann Concerto in Seattle with Xian Zhang, who was Assistant Conductor to Maazel during the concert. She said, “Oh, you don’t have to play the Schumann for me because I remember it. I was sitting in every single rehearsal.” She also remembered that trip as one of the highlights of her life.
Nick Holmes Music: Thank you very much. It was a real pleasure speaking to you today.
Jan Vogler: Same here, same here!
This interview has been edited for length and clarity
The Dresden Music Festival, ‘Lightness of Being’, runs from 14 May to 14 June 2026. For more information, click here
A viscerally powerful production of Britten’s masterpiece
John Findon as Peter Grimes and Philippa Boyle as Ellen Orford. Credit James Glossop
In his programme note for Opera North’s performance of Peter Grimesat Lowry in Salford on Friday, Andrew Mellor compares the central character in the opera with the Peter Grimes of George Crabbe’s poem The Borough (1810) that provided Benjamin Britten’s inspiration,
[Grimes] appears in just one poem out of Crabbe’s 24. He does so as a scoundrel: a villain unequivocally guilty of murder. As they sketched out their scenario, [Peter] Pears (destined for the title role) and Britten reimagined the character.
Britten, his partner Peter Pears and the librettist Montagu Slater turned Grimes into a morally ambiguous anti-hero, a dreamer and a visionary with a darker, more violent side – like Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In doing so, they raised profound questions about the nature of society and its relationship with outsiders. Phyllida Lloyd’s stunning production takes Britten’s subtle characterisation and adds a further layer of complexity, providing empathy without denying the violent volatility of Grimes’ character: a tragic hero for our troubled times.
John Findon (Grimes) and Toby Dray (John, Grimes’ Apprentice) in Grimes’ hut. Credit James Glossop
In Lloyd’s production, the opera opens in silence with the half-naked figure of Grimes dead on the stage; in the libretto, we learn that Grimes’ boat is ‘sinking at sea’, but we don’t see his body. In the scene in the pub, where Grimes sings his aria ‘Now the Great Bear and Pleiades’, the townspeople gradually rise from the floor and seem briefly to share his vision of the stars beyond our world, before dismissing him as ‘mad. or drunk.’
Later, we see the second Apprentice walking above the stage, before his death, in a ghostly vision, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father on the battlements at Elsinore. Grimes reacts in horror at this premonition of the boy’s death. In a dumb show, we see Grimes and Ellen Orford married (‘I’ll marry Ellen’) and celebrating with the townspeople, illustrating his vision of marital bliss, ‘in dreams I’ve built myself some kindlier home.’ His vision is brutally shattered.
Like many contemporary directors, Lloyd uses the orchestral interludes (four of which Britten later arranged as the orchestral suite Four Sea Interludes) to add further layers to the story. (Britten wrote them to cover scene changes while the curtain was down.) Lloyd uses the fifth interlude at the start of Act III as a threnody for Grimes’ second Apprentice, as Grimes carries the dead boy and holds him aloft in agony. The contrast with the dance music’s frivolity as the townspeople come onstage is heartbreaking.
Friday evening’s performance was a revival by director Karolina Sofulak of Lloyd’s production. The tenor John Findon played the central character in an intensely moving and powerful portrayal. We shared his dreams and recoiled at his violence. He projected his voice superbly, and coped with the high tessitura of the part wth ease. His lower register had a lovely, rich baritonal quality. He was a brooding physical presence, in Britten’s words, a ‘visionary and highly skilled fisherman, [who] is very unpopular with the community, just because he is different.’
Philippa Boyle was a hugely sympathetic Ellen Orford, with a gorgeous, lightly florid soprano voice. The domestic calm of her scene with the Apprentice while the villagers were at church was heartwarming. Her true concern when she discovered that Grimes had bruised the boy was a demonstration of her practical morality, in contrast to the townspeople’s false piety as they sang hymns and intoned prayers in church. Like Grimes, she was an outsider. She was incredibly moving in the scene in which the townspeople confronted her, and she described the shared dream she briefly shared with Grimes of their life together, ‘We planned this time to share…’ Much later, when she found the pullover she had embroidered for the Apprentice, which signified that he was dead, she sang of her ‘dreams of a silk and satin life’ of luxury, contrasting brutally with the reality of the life that Grimes had forced on her.
The Chorus of Opera North. Credit James Glossop
In 1945, Britten wrote of ‘the perpetual struggle of men and women whose livelihoods are dependent on the sea.’ In the early part of the opera, the townspeople’s struggle to make a living and their genuine fear of the oncoming storm were drawn sympathetically. But they soon displayed the terrifying hypocrisy and brutality of humans united in a group against an outsider. When they formed a lynch mob to flush out Grimes from his hut, one of them carried a cross, giving false religious legitimacy to their mission. There was a terrifying scene when they ripped the head off a life-size effigy of Grimes and waved it triumphantly aloft. They left the stage, revealing the real Grimes as a tragic figure, a sweet violin duet adding to the poignancy. The chorus singing was superb throughout; their spine-chilling cries of ‘Grimes’ will live long in the memory.
Claire Pascoe (Mrs Sedley), Nazan Fikret (First Niece), Ava Dodd (Second Niece), holding the effigy’s head, Blaise Malaba (Hobson), and the Chorus of Opera North. Credit James Glossop
The staging was highly imaginative; there were no fixed sets, which allowed the orchestral interludes to be used for dramatic purposes as mentioned above. A huge net represented, at different times, an actual fishing net, the walls of the pub and a physical barrier between the townspeople and Ellen Orford. At the end, the nets swayed gently in silence as normal life returned to the town, a moment of catharsis after the drama and tragedy we had experienced. Simple wooden platforms were used as furniture in Swallow’s court, as a wooden barrier, and as the walls of a dance hall. Grimes’ hut sprang up before our eyes, with a vertiginous drop.
The supporting cast was very strong. Simon Bailey made a robust and sympathetic Captain Balstrode, with superb diction. Claire Pascoe was excellent as the scheming busybody Mrs Sedley. Blaise Malaba, as Hobson, had a lovely, rich voice, similar to Willard White’s. James Creswell was suitably pompous as the lawyer, Swallow. The two Nieces, Nazan Fikret and Ava Dodd, were flirty but steely when rejecting unwanted advances. Hilary Summers was a characterful, down-to-earth Auntie. There was a gorgeous moment when the Nieces, Auntie and Ellen Orford joined in a Mozartian quartet. As conductor Garry Walker wrote in his programme note, the characters are ‘suddenly furnished with great depth by the quality of the music.’ The Orchestra of Opera North was absolutely superb. They played with passion and precision, inexorably ratcheting up the tension in the most dramatic sections, bringing out all the power and relentless rhythmic energy of Britten’s remarkable score.
Performers
John Findon Peter Grimes, a fisherman Philippa Boyle Ellen Orford, schoolmistress, a widow Simon Bailey Captain Balstrode, retired merchant skipper Hilary Summers Auntie, landlady of The Boar Nazan Fikret First niece, Ava Dodd Second niece: main attractions of The Boar Stuart Jackson Bob Boles,a fisherman and Methodist James Creswell Swallow, a lawyer Claire Pascoe Mrs Sedley, a widow Daniel Norman Reverend Horace Adams, the rector Johannes Moore Ned Keene, apothecary and quack Blaise Malaba Hobson, a carrier Dean Robinson Dr Crabbe Toby Dray John, Peter Grimes’s Apprentice Chorus of Opera North Townspeople and Fishermen Children of the Borough Maneli Bahmanesh, Ethel Brand, Olivia Dunning, Isaac Falkingham Charlotte Gould, Charlotte Handforth, Finlay Lothian Holm, Joni McElhatton, Leon Sumi-Cathcar
Garry Walker conductor Phyllida Lloyd director Karolina Sofulak revival director Tim Claydon revival director/movement director Anthony Ward set and costume designer Paule Constable original lighting designer Ben Jacobs lighting designer
Sources
Garry Walker, To Hear and Sea: A Personal Reflection on Peter Grimes (Opera North Programme Notes) Gavin Plumley The Outsider (Opera North Programme Notes) Andrew Mellor Peter Grimes An Opera for the English (Opera North Programme Notes)
Peter Grimes will be performed at Newcastle Theatre Royal on Friday 20 March at 19.00
The Bach Choir’s 150th Anniversary season, which opened last October with a superb performance of Mahler’s Eighth Symphony, was marked on Sunday with Bach’s St Matthew Passion, part of the Choir’s repertoire since 1894. For nearly a century, the Choir has performed the work at least once a year, starting with the conductor Adrian Boult in 1930 at the Queen’s Hall, then moving to the Royal Albert Hall. For nearly 70 years, the Choir has performed the Passion annually at the Royal Festival Hall, with a short break during the Pandemic. Sunday’s performance was the 177th by the Choir.
According to Katharine Richman’s very helpful programme note, the Choir has usually performed the work on the day of a significant Christian festival associated with the Passion of Christ, such as Passion Sunday, Palm Sunday or Good Friday. For the first time on Sunday it was performed on the Third Sunday of Lent, which is a less important day in the Christian calendar. But this still felt like a deeply religious occasion, partly due to the request that the audience reserve their applause until the very end of the work, and the fact that the soloists all wore sombre clothes. The concert had a devotional, ritualistic feel, enforced by the fact that it started at 11.00 on a Sunday, as Christian services often do; this in itself, together with the long lunch break, has become a ritual for these concerts, dating back to at least 1935. The audience played its part, too, sitting in respectful and sometimes spellbound silence as this most moving of narratives gradually unfolded; there was a real sense of this being a special occasion.
Bach wrote the Passion in German, his native language (see Bach and Luther below for the importance of this), and it wasn’t until 1930 that the Choir began singing it in English. The composer was keen for his work to communicate in the language of his audience, even though, as Richman writes, it has been a challenge to find an English singing version that matches Bach’s rhythms.
On Sunday, Toby Spence told the story in English as the Evangelist, a superb and tireless communicator, with very clear diction. He sang with a light, lyrical tenor with a touch of vibrato, from within the orchestra, joining the continuo players.
The Choir opened the concert after a short and stately instrumental introduction. Early Music performances of the Passion use much smaller forces, but the Choir’s decision to use its traditional large forces was completely vindicated by the precision with which they sang, and maintained a long and worthy tradition. The opening chorus, ‘Come, ye daughters, share my weeping’, illustrated the Choir’s excellent diction and conductor David Hill’s superb shaping of the vocal lines. Spread across the choir seats above the stage, the stereo effect created by the two choirs was an important part of the drama (again, see Bach and the acoustics of St Thomas Church below for the significance of this.) The London Youth Choir stood in the middle and often sang together with the adult singers. But the opening chorus was a chance to hear their soaring legato part, sung with great purity, brightness and precision, contrasting with the more staccato-sounding voices. It would be difficult to find choirs, including professional choirs, that could perform the work better than these.
BACH AND LUTHER
Bach’s St Matthew Passion was first performed in St Thomas’s Church nearly 300 years ago, on Good Friday, 11 April 1727, at the Lutheran Vespers. Around 200 years earlier, it’s thought that Martin Luther posted his Ninety-five Theses on the door of All Saints’ Church, Wittenberg, Germany, widely considered the catalyst for the Reformation. Luther’s translation of The Bible into German is thought to have played a crucial role in making it more accessible to the laity. It’s important, therefore, that the text of Bach’s Matthew Passion used a German translation: St Matthew’s Gospel (Chapter 26 and 27) for the narrative, and the work of the German poet Christian Friedrich Henrici (known as Picander) for the reflective arias and choruses.
The bass-baritone Neal Davies played the role of Jesus. A seasoned veteran, Davies won the Lieder Prize at the 1991 Cardiff Singer of the World Competition – 35 years ago – and is still in superb voice. His interpretation was devotional, inward-looking, and thoughtful for much of the first half, reminding us that Christ is often a passive character in this story: the words passion and passive come from the same Latin root (pati to suffer; passivus suffered). His voice was often surrounded by a halo of strings, adding to the profundity of his utterances. As Richman points out, a notable exception to this is in Part Two, where he cried out ‘My God, my God, why has Thou forsaken me’, in an anguished, passionately lyrical voice. After Jesus ‘yielded up the ghost’, there was a profoundly moving silence.
Mezzo soprano Carolyn Dobbin shared Davies’ thoughtful approach: for instance, in her first aria,‘Grief for sin rends the guilty heart within’, with a lovely running accompaniment from woodwind and chamber organ. Her tone was gently conversational with expressive body movements.
We soon heard from soprano Lucy Crowe, who had excelled as Fiordiligi in Mozart’s Così fan tuttein Manchester a week earlier. In her aria ‘Break Open, Thou Loving Heart’, she sang with subtle passion, her creamy voice lovingly caressing the words as she immersed herself completely in the music.
There was more, luxury casting in the baritone Christopher Purves, who stunningly sang the title role in Béla Bartók’s Bluebeard’s Castleso memorably in Manchester recently. As well as singing the bass arias (of which more later), he sang the smaller roles of Judas, a robust Peter, and an operatic High Priest, and Pilate, communicating urgently with the audience in these character roles.
A highlight of Part One was when the tenor Benjamin Hulett and the Choir sang ‘O grief! how throbs his heavy-laden breast’/’O saviour, why must all this ill befall me?’, the soft-grained warmth of the Choir contrasting with Hulett’s gently operatic voice.
And there was a moment of high drama when the two female soloists sang the lilting duet, ‘Behold, my Saviour now is taken’ while the Choir sang of ‘lightnings and thunders’, superbly articulated and powerful.
According to Professor Trevor Cox of the University of Salford, in his book Sonic Wonderland: A Scientific Odyssey of Sound, the acoustics of St Thomas Church had a profound effect on the composition of Bach’s Passion, ‘Before the Reformation, the priest’s voice took 8 seconds to die away in the church… In the mid-16th century, galleries and drapes were added that muffled the reverberation, dropping the decay time to 1.6 seconds.’ According to Cox, Bach ‘exploited the reverberance to write more intricate music with a brisker tempo. Cox quotes the acoustician Hope Bagenal, the senior acoustician at the Royal Festival Hall, as stating that the insertion of galleries into Lutheran churches such as St Thomas Leipzig was ‘the most important single fact in the history of music because it leads directly to the St Matthew Passion and [Bach’s] B Minor Mass.’ The balconies that faced each other at St Thomas Church also allowed Bach to write for double choir and orchestra, exploiting the stereo effect to heighten the drama of his music.
In the second half, Hulett returned with the recitative ‘He holds his peace’, demonstrating the quality of his lower range, with lovely legato in contrast with the broken-up chords of the orchestra. Reiko Ichise on Viola da Gamba was stunningly virtuosic here.
The orchestral leaders Huw Daniel and Gabriella Jones provided superb solos in the arias ‘Have Mercy, Lord, in me’ (the renowned aria, Erbarme Dich, mein Gott) for mezzo soprano and the bass aria ‘Give, O give me back my saviour.’
It felt as if the Earth had stopped turning and time was suspended as Lucy Crowe sang her intensely moving aria, ‘For love my Saviour now is dying’, accompanied by high woodwind solos. And there was a remarkable moment as Purves briefly broke down during his recitative describing the ‘evening hour of calm and rest’ after Jesus’ death. Conductor David Hill gently put a hand on Purves’ shoulder in a subtle gesture of humanity.
But Part Two belonged to the Choir, often singing now without scores, adding to the drama as they faced the audience. Their interjections in the scene with Pilate were perfectly controlled. They sang their immensely complex running lines in the chorus ‘He saved others’ with accurate aplomb. Elsewhere, they were suitably mournful and tender, with excellent blend and dynamics. It was appropriate, therefore, that they brought the concert to an end with the final chorus, ‘We bow our heads in tears and sorrow.’ Hill let his hands drop slowly, and after the silence was broken, this spellbinding performance was honoured with a standing ovation.
Toby Spence Evangelist Neal Davies Christ Lucy Crowe Soprano Carolyn Dobbin Mezzo soprano Benjamin Hulett Tenor Christopher Purves Baritone
The Bach Choir London Youth Choir Florilegium director Ashley Solomon Huw Daniel. Gabriella Jones leaders Philip Scriven Organ Continuo David Hill conductor
Sources
Cox, T., Sonic Wonderland: A Scientific Odyssey of Sound (The Bodley Head Ltd, 2014) Richman, K., The Bach Choir and the St Matthew Passion (Programme Note, 2026)
English National Opera is rapidly establishing a foothold in Manchester, with appearances at the Manchester Classical festival last summer, a production of Benjamin Britten’s Albert Herring at Lowry, and a forthcoming production of the new opera Angel’s Bone by the Chinese composer Du Yun at Aviva Studios in May. Last weekend, ENO performed Mozart’s Così fan tutte on Friday and Saturday in a semi-staged version at the Bridgewater Hall.
Alexander Joel conducted the orchestra, which was on stage throughout, in a stylish rendition of the overture, with well-controlled tempi, a fleetness of foot and a lovely lilting motion. The orchestra continued with precision and excellent ensemble throughout the evening.
Andrew Foster-Williams, as Don Alfonso, the cynical schemer behind the opera’s partner-swapping shenanigans, was nattily dressed as a ‘spiv’ in a bright yellow suit and white-topped shoes. He sang with a rich, warm voice and excellent diction, relishing his role. Lucy Crowe, as Fiordiligi, was luxury casting, with a gorgeous, creamy soprano. Mezzo Taylor Raven was Dorabella, with a lovely edge to her voice and magnificent control. Her early duet with Crowe, where they proclaimed that without their lovers they would be in despair, was delightful, their voices perfectly matched.
Darwin Prakash sang Guglielmo with a substantial baritone voice, easily filling the Bridgewater Hall’s cavernous acoustic. Joshua Blue, as Ferrando, sang with great animation. Both singers clearly enjoyed the physical comedy their roles provided. They clearly relished their roles as the disguised lovers, overacting deliciously as they declared their ‘love.’ But there was genuine emotion when Blue sang his ardent aria, ‘I know she adores me’ and broke down. An early highlight was when all five of these singers sang together; Don Alfonso’s comment ‘What a performance’ seemed appropriate here.
But the soprano Ailish Tynan, singing with an Irish accent as the maid Dorabella, stole the show. It was impossible to take your eye off her when she was on stage; she was a superb character actor, drawing all the comedy out of any situation with conspiratorial glances and rolled eyes. Even the way she walked was amusing. Yet she was more than just a character actor; her singing in the aria on fidelity was stunning. She had great fun when she dressed as the ‘doctor’, in a suit and a white Einstein fright wig and moustache. Her high notes were astonishingly good here.
The chorus of English National Opera appeared in the final gala concert of Manchester Classical last year, and also entertained the crowd outside the Bridgewater Hall in operatic excerpts. It was good to see them in a full-length opera, although Mozart doesn’t give them a great deal to do. They sang robustly from the Choir Seats in front of the Hall’s magnificent organ. They enthusiastically waved flags as Ferrando and Guglielmo headed off to war, in the splendid chorus ‘It’s a soldier’s life for me.’ Whether they were waving goodbye with their flags or using them for semaphore as in the Monty Python Wuthering Heights sketch was unclear.
At the start of Act Two, Tynan had another chance to shine as she wittily explained that even a chambermaid such as her could attract admirers. She excelled herself near the end of the opera when she came on dressed as a lawyer, a ‘cowboy’ in both senses of the word, with a prodigious Stetson and an American accent to match. She did a line dance as she described her legal practice, making Saul Goodman (the lawyer from Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul) seem prim and proper in comparison. Yee-hah!
But this production also brought out the underlying pathos and emotion of Mozart’s comic opera. There was a moment of contemplative beauty when Lucy Crowe sang Fiordiligi’s aria, ‘I have sinned’, bathed in pure white light, standing like a lonely, fallen angel in the Choir Seats. She sang the aria very sweetly, with a pure but full voice, genuinely moving. This moment was the highlight of the whole opera. Joshua Blue also revealed genuine emotion of a different kind when he sang his ‘I will be avenged’ aria, revealing the true depth of Ferrando’s character.
As this was a comedy, all ended well as the reunited lovers sang ‘Peace and love will win the day.’ There was huge, well-deserved applause from the packed house at the end. There continue to be good omens for ENO’s ongoing work in Greater Manchester.
Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood has been a classical composer for the last twenty years. His film scores, including There Will be Blood (2007), Phantom Thread (2017,) The Power of the Dog (2021), and One Battle After Another (2026) have received multiple award nominations. On Thursday evening, the Hallé, under the baton of Hugh Tieppo-Brunt performed two of his works, including his new Violin Concerto. He also played bass guitar and tanpura, a four-stringed Indian instrument with a long neck.
Greenwood is a huge fan of twentieth-century classical composers, including Olivier Messiaen, Krzysztof Penderecki, and Steve Reich, whose work we heard in the second half of the concert. The concert opened with a piece by the Polish composer Witold Lutosławski, his Musique Funèbre(Funeral Music) for string orchestra, written in the 1950s in memory of the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók, who died in 1945. There are strong echoes of Bartók’s music in Lutosławski’s piece, but it also marks the beginning of a new modernist language in his work, including the use of twelve-tone technique: the piece begins with a twelve-note row.
Musique Funèbrebegan with a mournful, lugubrious tone row on solo cello, joined by a second cello and viola, with an eerie sense of mystery. The rest of the cello section made the texture denser, and the violins joined like trees sprouting in a dense forest. The music became obsessed with the tritone, giving it a sense of anxious instability. An elegant orchestral dance, beautifully controlled by Hugh Tieppo-Brunt, was filled with sadness, with Bartókian offbeat rhythms, the lower strings offset against the upper strings in fierce dialogue. The music reached an anguished climax with a repeated twelve-tone chord. A rich and imposing unison melody arrived, like a threnody. The tritone returned, with a chamber music section that reminded us of Bartók’s skill as a composer of some of the finest string quartets of the 20th century. The piece ended with another tribute to Bartók, a canon that symmetrically mirrored the opening section, a device the Hungarian composer used in his string quartets and his Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta (1936). It felt as if the cellos were creeping dolefully back to where they came from, and we ended where we started with a solo cello. The magic of both Bartók and Lutosławski is that powerful emotions are drawn out of tight musical structures, which the Hallé strings did superbly here.
Jonny Greenwood and tanpura. Photo credit Sharyn Bellemakers/The Hallé
Jonny Greenwood’s Water is inspired by lines from the poem of the same name by the English poet Philip Larkin, who died in 1985. Larkin’s poem celebrates water not as a liquid essential to life on our planet, but as something on which a secular religion could be constructed. Greenwood’s piece has a ritualistic element in its use of the tanpura drone on which the work sits. The piece also views water from many angles, as in the glass of water in Larkin’s poem.
And I should raise in the east A glass of water Where any-angled light Would congregate endlessly.
Philip Larkin, 'Water' from 'The Whitsun Weddings'(Faber,1964)
The piece began with limpid, watery textures on the upper strings, piano and organ. A revolving, minimalist theme was underpinned by the richly exotic sound of the tanpuras, played on Thursday by Greenwood, Sharona Katan and Mehrbaan Singh. The music felt like light glinting on water, then it rose like water constantly rising. Changes of key came in watery waves. The music endlessly cycled back on itself, creating a glittering sound world within a narrow compass of light and optimism. A low organ pedal note added another kind of drone. The music flowed like water, endlessly moving until the tanpura drones were revealed in a solo passage. Harmonics from the upper strings joined the drones, like sunlight dancing on water. There were two particularly magical moments: a duet between piano and strings, unfolding like gorgeous lilies floating on water; and swelling organ chords that led to a section where the drones dropped out, and all the strings pulsated. There was a brief expression of ecstatic joy, then the main theme unwound itself gradually. Sparkling organ chords that could have been written by Messiaen led to a final, frenetic violin solo.
‘Like lilies floating on water.’ Image: White Water Lilies. Source: nathanieljoyce/Wikimedia
The second half of the concert began with Pulse by the American composer Steve Reich, which Greenwood performed with the orchestra in the Manchester Classical festival last summer. It’s an attractive, melodic piece for winds, strings, piano and electric bass. According to the score, it never rises above mezzo-forte, and it’s a calm, contemplative work. In his note on the piece, Reich wrote that it was a reaction to his Quartet of 2013 which ‘changed keys more frequently than in any previous work’ of his,
In Pulse I felt the need to stay put harmonically and spin out smoother wind and string melodic lines in canon over a constant pulse in the electric bass and or piano.
Pairing the piece with Greenwood’s Water brought out the airy lightness of Pulse, which moved on continually like long sections of Greenwood’s piece. Greenwood played a gentle bass part that was rhythmic and propulsive. The bass felt like the drone in Water, an almost constant presence. When the bass dropped out, we felt it by its absence; a subtle effect. Tieppo-Brunt conducted calmly, keeping a simple beat going. The pleasure of this music was partly listening out for subtle changes, such as the key changes, which were rare but delicious when they came. There was a moment of hope when the bass line began rising, before falling back again. The piece ended with a light-infused section when the bass re-joined with the opening theme. Greenwood left the stage first, with a shy, gentle wave to the audience.
Daniel Pioro. Photo credit Sharyn Bellemakers/The Hallé
The concert ended with Jonny Greenwood’s Violin Concerto, an almost complete rewriting of Horror Vacui, which premiered at the Proms in 2019. In his note on the piece, Greenwood wrote that he was inspired, tonally, by the electronic works of the Japanese composer Isao Tomita, who is perhaps best known for his arrangements of classical works on his pioneering 1974 album Snowflakes Are Dancing. Greenwood was also inspired by Penderecki’s ‘orchestrations of the electronics and sounds’ of the 1960s, and his conviction that ‘the same sounds could be conveyed more interestingly with strings.’ The piece is scored for solo violin and ’56 solo strings’, which were arranged on Thursday in a semi-circular formation.
The piece began with swirling strings; we were immediately lost in a dense, terrifying forest. Violin soloist Daniel Pioro played a theme that could have come from a classical interpretation of a gypsy dance. The strings provided what sounded like an artificial studio reverb, on one of the many occasions in this work when Greenwood used the orchestra to recreate digital and analogue sound processing, to stunning effect. The concerto also used whole-tone intervals and microtones to brilliant effect. An evocative sinking theme often recurred. Another theme. with a Tomita-like analogue synth tone, passed around the orchestra. Pioro played a romantic lead line, gently virtuosic. The orchestra then asserted itself with strings that could have come from a film noir soundtrack by Bernard Herrmann. Pioro played an almost cadenza-like section, but with orchestral accompaniment. The orchestra roused itself again, as pulsating notes drifted down microtonally, chopped up as if treated by gated reverb. At one point, glancing up from the notes I was writing, I looked for the effects unit that was creating all these effects, then remembered it wasn’t there…
Music that starts and ends with the push of a space-bar appeals less and less to me: where’s the peril? In this work, the conductor is key. I think of it as a piece of music for solo violin, string orchestra and conductor – as three equals.
Jonny Greenwood on his Violin Concerto (2026)
This was a mature work from a highly accomplished composer. It created its own unique sound world, often the mark of a great work. In a remarkable passage, the strings wound themselves up again like an infernal machine, and Pioro valiantly tried to assert himself against a wall of noise. The violin gradually asserted itself, sometimes joined by harmonies from the massed strings. Had the violin won? Pioro played a mournful melody that could have come from the Lutosławski piece we heard earlier; another threnody? In reply, the whole orchestra seethed, wheeling up and down like the bellows of a giant steam engine. Pioro, whose performance was superb throughout, played an eerie, slippery line, which the orchestra echoed sarcastically with fractured echoes. A romantic violin solo found the orchestra almost in agreement with the soloist, surrounding him with a halo of consonance. An ecstatic Baroque section felt like Vivaldi thrown out of shape, heard in fever dream. The concerto ended with a single held solo note, with consonant harmonics like the end of a conventional violin concerto… until it drifted off into the ether, unstable to the end.
Jonny Greenwood, Daniel Pioro, Hugh Tieppo-Brunt and members of The Hallé. Photo credit Sharyn Bellemakers/The Hallé
Repertoire
Witold Lutosławski Musique funèbre Jonny Greenwood Water Steve Reich Pulse Jonny Greenwood Violin Concerto
Performers
The Hallé Orchestra Hugh Tieppo-Brunt conductor Daniel Pioro violin Jonny Greenwood bass guitar and tanpura Sharona Katan and Mehrbaan Singh tanpura
Sources
Programme notes by Steve Reich and Jonny Greenwood
Love is a fragile thing: superb performances of Albarn Berg, Sergey Prokofiev and Cassandra Miller by Lawrence Power and the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra
Composer Cassandra Miller, Viola Player Lawrence Power and Members of the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra. Credit: Chris Payne
On The Cure’s comeback album Songs of a Lost World (2024), Robert Smith sang, ‘This love is a fragile thing.’ This line could have been the title of Saturday’s concert by the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of French conductor Ludovic Morlot. The concert featured: Alban Berg’s character Lulu from his opera of the same name, whose relationship with her lovers is ephemeral; the fragility of love, and of human existence, addressed in Cassandra Miller’s I cannot love without trembling; and Sergey Prokofiev’s setting of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet depicting the tragic fate of the ‘star-crossed lovers.’
There was a secondary theme in Saturday’s concert: composers persecuted by the regimes in which they lived, and their attempts to subvert those regimes. Alban Berg had become a successful composer in Germany after the premiere of his opera Wozzeck in Berlin in 1925. But with the rise of the Nazis in the 1930s, it became clear that his next opera, Lulu, was unlikely to be performed in Austria or Germany. The Nazis banned his works in 1935, declaring them to be ‘Entartete Musik’ (Degenerate Music). Berg wrote his Lulu Suite to promote the opera away from the Nazi regime.
At around the same time, Prokofiev returned to the Soviet Union after a period of exile. He was in discussions with the State Academic Theatre (later The Kirov) to develop Romeo and Juliet as a ballet, but the project soon fell foul of the authorities. The Theatre cancelled the project, and the Bolshoi agreed to take it on. The Bolshoi’s director was then arrested and executed, and the production was delayed indefinitely. In 1936, Prokofiev extracted two suites from the ballet to generate interest in the complete work.
The concert on Saturday began with the Rondo, the first movement of Berg’s Lulu Suite. Berg extracted a love scene from Act II of the opera, between Lulu and Alwa, the son of Dr Ludwig Schön, one of Lulu’s various husbands. The opening of the movement was delicate and fragile, with solo flute and strings. Conductor Ludovic Morlot calmly brought out the long-limbed, endless melody and the fragility of the melodic lines. But there was an underlying sense of decadence, the solo alto saxophone (Carl Raven) an instrument of louche debauchery rather than frenetic jazz. There was a moment of stasis, then a rich romantic flow, with denser orchestral textures and added piano. The texture thinned out, with excellent solos from Raven, Clive Williamson (piano), Peter Dixon (cello) and Steven Burnard (viola). The music was constantly reaching for something (love?). In this performance, it felt angular yet romantic, dissonant yet tonal, decadent but beautiful, unsettling yet calm.
Cassandra Miller’s viola concerto, I cannot love without trembling is already an enormous success. Since its premiere three years ago, it has been performed a further 14 times, with two more performances scheduled for May 2026. The concerto takes its title from a quotation from the French philosopher, Simone Weil (1909-1943), in a letter she wrote to another French philosopher, Gustave Thibon,
“Human existence is so fragile a thing and exposed to such dangers that I cannot love without trembling”
Quotation from Weil’s Gravity and Grace, published posthumously by Gustave Thibon
The concerto has four movements or verses with a closing cadenza, each part taking its name from a Weil quotation, and it runs without a break. Weil’s Gravity and Grace describes what separates us and what brings us together, based on the Platonic concept of μεταξύ (‘metaxu’ or ‘metaxy’ meaning ‘between’). Miller heard recordings of the violinist Alexis Zoumbas who left the northern mountains of Greece in the early nineteenth century to go to New York. According to the Mississippi records website,
“Zoumbas had the rare gift of expressing emotion clearly and urgently through his instrument, and his violin feels like an extension of his heart, soul, and the deep musical history of his faraway home in Epirus”
Alexis Zoumbas • Epirotiko Moiroloi from American Museum of Paramusicology
Zoumbas’ improvisations evoke a feeling of Ξενατία (Xenatia), Greek for a ‘catastrophic longing for home’, based on Mοιρολόϊ (moiroloi), Greek mourning songs. Miller internalised Zoumbas’ moiroloi recording by singing along over and over again, creating a sacred ritual based on deep meditation. Miller describes this as ‘automatic singing’, which seems akin to automatic writing.
The result is a spellbinding piece of music in which the audience shares the composer’s dreams and rituals and joins her in the intense sense of mourning and lamentation it conveys. Even the soloist is invited to share this meditative state – at one point the score instructs the violist to play ‘with eyes closed.’ The orchestra is invited to join the collective dreaming, often playing sotto voce, surrounding the soloist with shimmering, muted soundscapes. As Miller says,
“Within Zoumbas’ plaintive song, I sought a metaphysical space in which to dream – a space of separation-connection-absence-presence – in the hope to lament and to dream together in this hall tonight.“
On Saturday, the piece began with murmuring percussion and very high harmonics from Lawrence Power’s viola. He played a rising melody which fractured before establishing itself. We immediately entered a remarkable and unique sound world, as Power played music that trembled, inward-looking, contemplative and keening. The sound was lonely, nostalgic, a voice crying out in the wilderness, lamenting in the depths of sorrow. The cellos joined him from the depths, echoing his sorrow.
A single flute note rang out like a call in the darkest night. The viola joined an octave above, with shimmering accompaniment. The viola sounded like a voice wailing and lamenting, and the orchestra shared the viola’s grief. In the third movement, the viola part was more strenuous, with glowing brass and fluttering woodwind. Trumpets suddenly appeared, playing a robust, anguished theme. The viola was riven with emotion, then dropped out completely. There was a stunning section where the viola obsessively plucked a single note and played a melancholy melody, the bass drum rumbling ominously below. The strings crept in with an evocative sweep, and the harp picked up the viola’s repeated note, which then passed to tubular bells, like a beating heart.
As Power moved towards his final cadenza, a florid piccolo (Jennifer Hutchinson) made a lively announcement. Bowed percussion and bells, with gently-strummed strings, took us to a world beyond the stars. The viola finally took flight with superb virtuosity, playing very fast, and lower down the fingerboard. Power raised his bow above his head as the orchestra gradually died away. A stunning ending to a stunning piece.
For the second time this week, the composer came on to take her applause at the Bridgewater Hall (the first time being when Unsuk Chin came on to acknowledge applause for Le Chant des Enfants des Étoiles performed by the Hallé orchestra and choirs).
Viola Player Lawrence Power, Conductor Ludovic Morlot and Members of the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra. Credit: Chris Payne
The second half of the concert was devoted to Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, performed on Saturday, not in any of the composer’s orchestral suites, but in a sequence of extracts that broadly told the whole story of the ballet, in four sections.
The music began with a romantic sweep, played with gorgeous ensemble, the lilting strings unaware of the tragedy to come. The orchestra, particularly the bassoons, played the lively, characterful dance of the servants with great joy.
The Young Juliet perfectly captured Juliet’s changing moods, with whimsical, scurrying violins, perfectly controlled, and more expansive playing to represent her contemplative moods. The Dance of the Knights (now known as the theme tune for The Apprentice and also used to introduce Sunderland AFC at the Stadium of Light) raised a smile and a scattering of applause at the end. The players revelled in the descriptive orchestration. The romantic, yearning theme of Juliet on the balcony was magical, with a moment of piety from the organ solo. Ardent strings announced Romeo’s entrance, and the whole orchestra reached for the stars as the lovers danced together.
Fizzing, frenzied themes introduced the fight scenes in the marketplace, distorting the Knights’ theme. A brass chorale sounded a note of threat. The orchestra played with incredible precision as they reached a huge, disturbing climax. Surging, muted horns announced Mercutio’s death, who retained his sense of irony to the end, like a character from Shostakovich’s music. There was an incredibly descriptive moment in the cellos as he fought for his breath, combining precision and emotion. The fierce pitched battle between Romeo and Mercutio was played at heart-racing speed, with savagely loud timpani marking Mercutio’s death.
Stunning pizzicato strings and vengeful brass announced the Capulets intent to avenge Mercutio’s death, with a breathtakingly discordant final chord. An anguished string lament, right at the top of the violins’ range, like some of the viola solos in the Miller piece, as Juliet’s funeral took place. This was genuinely moving, even though we knew she was still alive. Romeo entered, and we shared his regret as the poison took hold and the music sank into darkness. Juliet awoke with a brass chorale as she saw her young lover lying dead. She briefly recalled her joy in sorrow. In a gentle, moving climax, with stunning woodwind harmonies, she stabbed herself. As with any superb performance of a Shakespearean tragedy, we were left emotionally wrung out, with a purging feeling of catharsis.
Conductor Ludovic Morlot and Members of the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra. Credit Chris Payne
Repertoire
Alban Berg Lulu Suite – Rondo Cassandra Miller I cannot love without trembling (Viola Concerto) Sergey Prokofiev Romeo and Juliet – The market place – introduction and morning dance (Nos. 1 & 4); At the Capulets’ house – Juliet’s bedroom , the ballroom and the balcony (Nos. 10, 13, 19-21); The market place – Tybalt kills Mercutio and Romeo kills Tybalt (Nos. 32-36); Juliet’s bedroom, the tomb – her funeral and death (Nos. 37, 51 -52)
Performers
Lawrence Power viola BBC Philharmonic Orchestra Ludovic Morlot conductor
The concert was recorded for broadcast on BBC Radio 3’s Classical Live on Wednesday 25 March. It will be available for 30 days after broadcast via BBC Sounds.
Read on…
The BBC Philharmonic playing Cassandra Miller’s I cannot love without trembling at the BBC Proms in 2024
