Tag: Jennifer Johnston

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BBC Philharmonic Orchestra – Bluebeard’s Castle – Live Review

Saturday 24 January 2026

Bridgewater Hall, Manchester

*****

An unforgettable exploration of Bartók’s psychodrama

Jennifer Johnston as Judith, Christopher Purves as Duke Bluebeard and conductor Anja Bihlmaier. Image © Chris Payne

It’s unusual for one concert in an orchestra’s season to follow on from the next, unless they are part of a programmed series, such as a festival devoted to the works of one composer. But Saturday night’s concert by the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra, under conductor Anja Bihlmaier, picked up where last week’s concert left off. That concert ended with John Adams’ City Noir, a depiction of Los Angeles at night. Saturday’s concert began with another description of night, Lili Boulanger’s D’un Soir Triste (On a Sad Evening).

The two works share not just a nocturnal theme but, at times, a cinematic landscape, music that could have come from a film noir. This is made explicit by Adams, but Boulanger died in 1918, before film music, apart from music for silent films, even existed, so the link can only be made in retrospect. The concert ended with another cinematic work with darkness at its heart: Béla Bartók’s one-act opera Bluebeard’s Castle.

Boulanger died at the tender age of 24, and the only surviving manuscript for D’un Soir Triste in the composer’s hand is the original version for violin, cello and piano. The orchestral manuscript is in the hand of Lili’s older sister Nadia, who survived Lili by over 60 years.

The piece began with stark, questioning strings, then a sudden moment of calm with a characterful clarinet solo from John Bradbury, of whom we were to hear much more later. The music was dark and sorrowful, with dense textures, casting us back to John Adams’ shadowy streets and culminating in a dramatic climax that could have come from a film noir. An urgently rhythmic theme on the timpani felt like the hammer-blow of fate from Mahler’s Sixth Symphony. There was a moment of magic with a limpid celesta part and an intense cello solo, with romantic harmonies that melted into an ethereal violin theme, before the fateful theme returned with rasping brass. A hymn-like section led to a lovely harmonic development, and another orchestral climax, the sound bright but somehow underpinned by darkness as the piece reached an uneasy end.

 ‘If I were to name the composer whose works are the most perfect embodiment of the Hungarian spirit, I would answer, Kodály.’

Béla Bartók on his friend and colleague Zoltán Kodály

The second piece, Dances of Galánta by Zoltán Kodály, introduced the concert’s other main theme: Hungarian music. Born only a year apart in the early 1880s, Kodály and his friend Béla Bartók were two of the most important 20th-century Hungarian composers. They both collected folk songs for use in their own music. Kodály spent part of his childhood in Galánta, which was then part of Hungary (now in Slovakia). He grew up listening to dances played by ‘a famous Gypsy band which has since disappeared…their music was the first “orchestral sonority” which came to the ear of a child.’

The Dances celebrate a particular kind of dance, the verbunkos (Werbung, German,  recruiting). Hussars would come on recruiting missions and impress the locals with their dancing, alternating slow and fast dances, to persuade them that being in the army was fun. The music was provided by the Gypsy bands that Kodály referred to in the note that he made in the score. He orchestrated Gypsy dances published in Vienna around 1800, in addition writing a slow introduction, a clarinet cadenza, an andante maestoso and linking material.

Conductor Anja Bihlmaier and members of the BBC Philharmonic © Chris Payne

The piece began with cellos playing in perfect ensemble under Bihlmaier’s precise baton, with swirling upper strings. A solo horn sounded like a military horn, perhaps welcoming us into the Hungarian army. A gorgeous romantic statement of the opening theme led to a clarinet cadenza, played by John Bradbury with his usual flair and panache, with elegant orchestral accompaniment. Waves of joy passed through the orchestra as they played the intricate dances, Bihlmaier now dancing on the podium. The woodwinds excelled themselves, sometimes playing with a subtle lilt, at other times with sparkling jollity. A slower dance was reminiscent of the scenes at the fair in Stravinsky’s ballet Petrushka. There was a sudden pause, a brief moment of stasis, then more superb woodwind solos. The orchestra then scampered to a thrillingly visceral climax, bringing the piece to an end. It was such an exciting performance that we might have been persuaded to join the Hungarian hussars…

The second half featured more music with a Hungarian theme, with a text by Herbert Béla Bauer, who wrote under the pseudonym Béla Balázs. He was born a couple of years after Kodály and Bartók. In 1910, Balázs published a version of Bluebeard’s Castle, pragmatically dedicating it to both composers. Kodály wasn’t interested in adapting the drama, but Bartók happily took the bait and finished his one-act opera in 1911. He entered it in two competitions, but it was rejected each time.

The Bluebeard story dates back centuries. It’s thought that the model for the character may have been the 15th-century French lord, Gilles de Rais. In 1697 the French writer Charles Perrault published a collection of folk tale adaptations, Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé (Stories or Tales of Times Past), including La Barbe Bleu (Bluebeard). The Belgian playwright Maurice Maeterlinck wrote another version, his 1901 play Ariane et Barbe-bleue (Ariana and Bluebeard). The French composer Paul Dukas turned it into an opera in 1907.

Béla Balázs drew on the work of both Perrault and Maeterlinck in creating his 1910 version. He stressed that his version wasn’t a myth, a fantasy or a horror story, but a psychological drama,

‘My ballad is the is the ‘ballad of inner life.’ Bluebeard’s castle is not a real castle of stone. The castle is his soul. It is lonely, dark and secretive; the castle of closed doors.’

He later added a spoken-word Prologue to Bartók’s opera, which hints that the drama is internal,

‘The curtain of our eyelids is raised
Where is the stage: outside or within?’

On Saturday evening, the Philharmonic Orchestra didn’t perform the Prologue, but they brought out the opera’s psychological nature by placing the two protagonists, Christopher Purves as Bluebeard and Jennifer Johnston as his (fourth) wife, Judith, on either side of the conductor, facing the audience, rather than semi-staging the opera. The text, sung in an English translation by Péter Bartók and Peter Hennings (see below), was projected above the stage, so that we could concentrate on the words. And there was evocative use of lighting to represent the different doors – or aspects of Bluebeard’s personality – which Judith was so keen to open and inspect. The use of lights on each orchestral music stand, coupled with BBC Radio 3’s microphones, created the impression of a recording studio, which suggested that the inner life of the music and text was more important than external gestures.

Purves came on wearing a kilt, presumably in honour of Burns Night the following day. Johnston wore a splendid, glittery black top. Purves sang with immaculate diction and a deep, rich, agile voice. Johnston sang with great expression, illustrating the words with her hands and her voice, which was in turn mellow, animated, forceful and Wagnerian, negotiating Bartók’s angular vocal lines with ease. The orchestra played superbly throughout.

Jennifer Johnston © R T Dunphy
Christopher Purves © Chris Gloag


Péter Bartók and Peter Hennings
I was lucky enough to meet Peter Hennings at the concert, who had worked with Béla Bartók’s son Péter (pictured left) on the English translation of the opera, finessing it to fit the metre. Hennings had flown over from Florida specially for the concert. He told me that the original English translation had been based on the German version of the text, whereas Péter Bartók’s version had used the original Hungarian version. Hennings worked with Péter Bartók for 20 years on editions of his father’s music, which went back to the original manuscripts.

In Balázs’ libretto, translated here into poetic and idiomatic English, Judith has left her family ‘weeping’, to marry Bluebeard, despite rumours about what may have happened to his previous wives. Her relationship with Bluebeard is complex. She constantly asks Bluebeard to allow her to see what is behind each of the seven doors of his castle – or to reveal deeper aspects of his personality – despite his warnings that she won’t like what is revealed. Their relationship is close, perhaps unnaturally so, as if they have become co-dependents.

© Chris Payne
© Chris Payne

The first of seven doors revealed Bluebeard’s torture chamber, with superb orchestration, as the stage was bathed in red light. There was deep irony in Judith’s words, ‘Hideous is your chamber, dearest Bluebeard.’ He constantly asked her if she was frightened, and she replied that she wasn’t; perhaps fascination with his psychological state was what she really felt.

The second door revealed Bluebeard’s armoury, the stage bathed in orange to suggest weapons, illustrated by military brass. The third door was illustrated with yellow light, revealing his treasure, but with a disturbing undertone from a violin duet and, later, shrieking woodwind and ominous brass to depict the blood on the treasure. Lilac-coloured lighting illustrated Bluebeard’s garden behind the fourth door, a mellow horn solo and filigree flutes describing the flowers and blossoms, which were tainted with blood. Bluebeard again begged his bride to love him, but not to ask him any questions.

Organist Ben Collyer. Image © Chris Payne

There was an incredible climax, as the orchestra was joined by organ and offstage brass, when door five was opened to reveal Bluebeard’s vast kingdom. A dazzling white light flooded the stage and the hall, so bright that Judith had to cover her eyes. There was a moment of supreme beauty as Johnston twice sang the single quiet phrase, ‘vast and mighty is your kingdom’, contrasting with Purves’ more impassioned singing. The uncertain orchestral themes illustrated the bloody shadows of the clouds.

Judith recovered from her shock and demanded to see behind the sixth door. Johnston’s voice was incredibly powerful, over the full orchestra. A lake was revealed; was Judith as innocent as she appeared when she asked where the water was from? A sweeping, shimmering orchestral theme accompanied the revelation that the lake was made up of tears; were they from Bluebeard’s previous wives?

The Duke’s previous three wives were revealed behind the seventh door, the orchestra in darkness as Judith was bathed in red (blood?) and Bluebeard in white. Johnston was incredibly moving as she bowed her head self-effacingly when comparing herself to Bluebeard’s previous wives, then cried ‘no more’ as she gripped her top in terror.

Bluebeard declared that his fourth wife was the wife of midnight, as he had found her at that time. Henceforth, all would be darkness. In a stunning coup de théâtre, all the orchestral lights went off, one by one, leaving the stage completely dark. It was a relief after the psychological tension we had experienced when the stage was bathed in warm light, as the performers received their huge and well-deserved applause. It was a privilege to be present at such a special event.

The concert was recorded for broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on Thursday 5 March. It will be available for 30 days after broadcast via BBC Sounds.

Performers

Anja Bihlmaier conductor
Jennifer Johnston mezzo-soprano, Judith
Christopher Purves bass-baritone, Duke Bluebeard

Repertoire

Lili Boulanger D’un Soir Triste
Zoltán Kodály Dances of Galánta
Béla Bartók Bluebeard’s Castle

Sources

Mike Ashman, ‘The Castle is his Soul’ (Sleeve note to Chandos recording, 2006)

Read on…

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Manchester Classical 2025 Day One – Live Review

City Noir by John Adams…

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Bartók’s Divertimento….

BBC Philharmonic Orchestra – Serenade for Strings – Live Review
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The Bach Choir and Philharmonia Orchestra – Live Review

The Bach Choir and the Philharmonia at the Royal Festival Hall

Thursday 16 May 2024

Royal Festival Hall, London

*****

A premiere by Roderick Williams explores the humanity of Elgar’s choral masterpiece The Dream of Gerontius

David Hill conducting the Philharmonia. Image credit Andy Paradise

Edward Elgar’s choral masterpiece The Dream of Gerontius, with words by Cardinal John Henry Newman, describes the journey of a soul in the afterlife leading to a devastating encounter with the ‘glance of God,’ the climax of the piece, after which he cries in agony, ‘take me away.’ The opening work in last night’s superb, deeply moving concert was a world premiere (the fourth premiere reviewed here in the last week, after three by Manchester Collective.) Composer and baritone soloist Roderick Williams has written Cusp, commissioned by The Bach Choir, as a companion piece to Gerontius.

Even in the very early 20th century when Gerontius was first performed, and England was largely an Anglican country, Newman’s text was controversial as it featured the Roman Catholic doctrine of the soul passing through Purgatory before reaching Heaven. In contrast, Williams’ new piece views the soul’s journey from the perspective of those still on Earth after the death of a loved one, examining, in his words,

‘…the loss and grief that remains with the living, people of any faith or no faith at all.’ 

Williams was inspired to think about those left behind by the interaction between The Priest and chorus, the first time the baritone soloist sings in Gerontius.The title Cusp, is taken from the expression ‘on the cusp’, referring, in the words of librettist Rommi Smith to, ‘a transition between two different states … a moment of change’ for both the person who has just died and those left grieving.

Smith’s libretto is a poem divided into four seasons, beginning with Autumn as the loved one is dying, just as the protagonist in Gerontius is ‘near to death’ at the opening. But the old man Gerontius (from γέρων Ancient Greek for old man) is here replaced by a much younger person, still fighting death in a hospital bed hooked up to machines, surrounded by loved ones. Smith’s libretto is based on conversations with her own networks, with medical professionals, and with members of the Bach Choir, sometimes quoted verbatim as in references to ‘cups of tea’ and ‘sweet peas’ in vases. The dying ‘yellow leaves’ of Autumn come Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73. Smith adds her own beautiful poetry throughout the poem to create a deeply moving, profoundly human text.

Smith is inspired in the second movement, Winter by the small community in Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood (1954). But she adds her own striking imagery such as the snow which represents ‘the numbness death and grief impose on the living,’ as in the lines, ‘Outside, it is August. Inside/snow is rising up to our waists.’ The movement ends with a contemplation of the soul’s journey like that of Gerontius,

‘Your soul/ now travelling to where/ we can no longer hear it sing.’

The third movement, Spring¸ brings a brief moment of hope, ‘yellow crocuses/appearing through the thaw’, but there’s a crushing realisation that someone followed in a crowd isn’t the lost loved one after all, ‘a stranger turns to look at me’, an overwhelming moment of emotion. The last movement, Summer, finally brings peace, with simple memories of love represented by the cup of tea or sweet peas in a vase. There are also parallels with the end of Gerontius; the dipping of fingers in the earth is a secular version of the Angel dipping the soul of Gerontius into the lake; the birdsong and songs in a church, ‘I hear singing – and it comforts me’, recall the soul in Gerontius, ‘there I will sing my sad perpetual strain.’ 

Williams’ music is a perfect match for the libretto, sharing and deepening its humanity. The piece begins with sounds effects recorded in a hospital recovery room by a member of the Bach Choir. The rhythmic beeping of the hospital machinery is picked up by the orchestral woodwind and becomes a leitmotif during the piece, just as the Elgar has its own leitmotifs. Rasping brass suggests the pain of death then a sweeping string melody suggests death enveloping the loved one. The writing for chorus is largely consonant and strongly melodic, often calm and hymn-like, reflecting the sorrow and resignation of those around the hospital bed, like the ‘friends’ surrounding Gerontius’ bed.

The Choir’s singing was immaculate throughout the new piece, a great achievement considering the amount of music they had to learn for a piece in which they sang almost constantly – by all accounts, a very different from the premiere of Gerontius in 1900 when the choir was baffled by the difficulty of the music.

The Bach Choir and the Philharmonia. Image credit Andy Paradise

The second movement, Winter features some lovely two-part writing for women, and then a climax of sorts as the baritone soloist (Williams himself) provided a mundane list of painkilling drugs which is picked up by the chorus to create an epic moment with crunchy orchestral chords. There’s a lovely phrase describing a fly as a ‘winged audacity’ which is illustrated by a muted trumpet. The movement ends with an explosion of yearning and grief from the chorus, which subsides with the hope of the coming of Spring, and a peaceful ending like that of Gerontius.

The third movement is more straightforwardly tuneful and optimistic, with simple textures, becoming more hopeful when it seems the loved one is still alive, mounting excitement leading to bitter agony when it becomes clear that the agony of loss will continue. There’s some beautiful word-painting here. The final movement begins with clusters of voices, evoking the ‘soft sunlight’ of Summer. Beating percussion recalls the beeping of the machinery, or perhaps the sun’s rays pushing through as it rises. A big romantic melody describes life unravelling like a ‘Ball of String’ and two pre-recorded sections of children from Winton Primary School recall childhood memories. The warmth of happy memories is evoked by jolly music, and ‘travelling’ no longer describes the passage of the soul but a treasured memory of a journey downhill on a bicycle. The beeping of the opening returns, and the recording of the hospital room, but it now seems happier; we have reached some kind of peace, and reconciliation with grief. 

The audience had been asked not to applaud at the end of Cusp, an excellent artist decision as the new work and the old spoke to and illuminated each other. The sweeping string lines and consonant chords of the Williams were similar to the opening Prelude of the Elgar, as if the journey were continuing from one piece to the next. The beeping leitmotif of the Williams piece took us into the Wagnerian world of Elgar’s leitmotifs. This was also an opportunity to hear the orchestra on its own for the first time. The playing of the Philharmonia was superbly refined, with precise ensemble, but warmth and drama where necessary. David’s Hill’s undemonstrative conducting brought out all the detail of Elgar’s rich and expertly orchestrated score.

The orchestra’s refinement was equalled by the Bach Choir. It was easy to forget that this was an amateur choir. The ensemble was as stunning as that of the orchestra, multiple voices joining to create a single, clear vocal line, a difficult feat with such large forces. Even in the most complex moments, clarity of texture was maintained. There were some lovely antiphonal moments, the sound being passed from one side to the other, a beneficial feature of the wide stage at the Festival Hall. The Choir relished the most difficult passages that defeated the singers at the first performance (and many more recent amateur choirs as well), including the challenging Chorus of Demons in Part Two, which they carried off with devilish aplomb, particularly enjoying the demonic laughter. Yet minutes later they became a Choir of Angelicals, and there was a heart stopping moment as the women of the choir soared high above on long held note on the word ‘praise.’ And the later hymns of praise were stunning as the full power and weight of the choir was felt.

The essential humanity of Williams’ piece was also carried forward into the performance of the Elgar. Complex arguments about religious doctrine were set aside. The three soloists brought out the humanity in the sometimes archaic text. The tenor Daniel Norman made his voice sound fragile in the tenderest moments, singing in a gorgeous sotto voce, but at other times more operatic as he rallied himself for his emotional journey, drawing us into the depths of his tortured soul. Roderick Williams was dignified and magisterial as The Priest, but with richness and warmth of tone and an intelligence that reminded us of his essential humanity. In the second half, as The Angel of Agony, he was by turns impassioned and contemplative, pleading on behalf of humankind with the words ‘Jesu! spare these souls.’ And Jennifer Johnston as The Angel brought wisdom and depth, with rich creamy tones and dark-hued low notes, sounding reverential and devotional, and at times noble. The three soloists transformed the piece into an operatic scene, a theatre for the mind. But the last word was left, appropriately, to the Bach Choir with a splendid final ‘Amen’, the packed house giving them a very well-deserved extra burst of enthusiastic applause.

Works

Cusp (world premiere) by Roderick Williams, text by Rommi Smith (Bach Choir commission)

The Dream of Gerontius by Edward Elgar, text by Cardinal John Henry Newman

The Bach Choir. Image credit Andy Paradise

Performers

David Hill: conductor

Jennifer Johnston: mezzo-soprano

Daniel Norman: tenor

Roderick Williams: baritone

The Bach Choir

Philharmonia Orchestra, leader Zsolt-Tihamér Visontay