barczablog

It’s early morning:

• after having seen a workshop of The Harvester last night
• before seeing Joel Ivany’s take on the Mozart Requiem with the Toronto Symphony tonight

I just re-read what I wrote about the workshop last April to which Joel invited me, played by Jenna Douglas (I’m thinking of her too, as she goes away for awhile, but perhaps will still be virtually present).  Last April we saw a workshop + talkback, that has serendipitous echoes in what I saw last night. How lucky am I, that I just happened to see a workshop of a new work last night, to take me back to the first fruits of Joel’s creative adventure coming to fruition with the TSO under the baton of Bernard Labadie this week?

I may have been a bit irritating in the talk back last night, as I sat there like a self-appointed dramaturg. The others said their appreciations and thank you’s, but i wanted to probe the new work and ask “what does it do?” That’s very much what i wanted to report in what i wrote last night afterwards, to bear witness after a fashion, and to be as helpful as i could be to the creative team. The music-drama process can be so deep and profound, one doesn’t always recognize just how powerful the forces and parts are, that are in play. I think it’s because I was already remembering what I saw last April (coincidentally during Holy Week), in the Mozart Requiem workshop. I had wanted to understand what was happening in April 2015 as I wanted to understand the new opera in 2016. And thinking about both with the passage of time (morning after the new opera, or more than half a year after the Mozart experiment), I feel different again, and have to let those feelings go because there’s almost too much to explore. In fact what I distinctly recall about Joel’s creation –that time with a piano, four soloists and four more soloists in effect performing the chorus—was that there was so much going on, it was almost too much to take in, a very rich and challenging mix of movements and the very new experience of hearing the Requiem sung this way: which would already have been brand-new had we been watching, say Chris Enns and Ambur Braid simply stand and deliver with the four chorus soloists with piano , not also bend / contort / emote and also deliver. It was one of the most impressive things I’ve seen by the way, a curious creative cul-de-sac never to be visited again, because it’s just a trial version of something else, like an experimental hybrid in a scientist’s garden.

Those flowers live on in our memories.

I was updating my CV the past few days, looking at who I am while fumbling over memories of what I’ve done and not finished, including original works, adaptations and other roles I’d undertaken. I keep coming back to something about live theatre and music, a fact that is ever slipping through my fingers, about the ephemerality of it all. Life slips away from us, and what was here and immediate becomes older like the paper from programmes piled on a shelf, among other memories of other projects.

Music and theatre both could be characterized as a kind of proposition. I use that word enjoying the connotations of a relationship. Do we want something immediately sensual or something permanent and comfortable? Or both? In some ways the same questions that come up in our mating apply to our experience of art.

Mozart’s own work on his Requiem is a testimony both to eternity –in the resonance we feel in his use of the latin texts of the requiem mass—and temporality, in the fragmentary nature of what he actually finished. It addresses the whole world at times, while at other times is like his own interior monologue, his own suffering. I see this most clearly in the adaptation of the music in the closing portions of the film Amadeus, where “confutatis maledictis” (confound the accursed) is powerfully intoned, and juxtaposed immediately with “voca me” (literally “call me”), as though a desperate sad prayer sung by Mozart (Tom Hulce) in the vulnerable and pathetic voice of a fragile mortal man, dying before our eyes while pleading for salvation (“call me” again reminding me of that popular song, someone wanting a relationship: this time with God).

What survives? A little bit of the creator lives on even as we confront mortality. We remember the ones who sang, the ones who staged & brought a little of themselves before us. Then we walk out of the theatre, perhaps remembering some of what we felt.  

When I said “ephemerality seeks eternity” in the headline, I was phrasing it a bit like a proposition you’d see in a singles ad, like “SWM seeks SWF”, or “aging composer seeks immortality”. I have no idea whether these early morning thoughts will have any echoes in what the TSO will do tonight. I was just thinking that it’s new (premiered Thursday), and already it’s over. Saturday night is the closing night. All that work that the various singers did, memorizing their parts: and tomorrow it becomes a memory. And while I am grateful for recordings- like the paper in a marriage contract to help to seal the deal- what’s on paper is not to be mistaken for life, the honesty and vulnerability of live performance.

Where do you look during a concert?

One can look out the window, as i often do when given the opportunity.  I love the glass at the Richard Bradshaw Amphitheatre, or the glorious view at the Conservatory Theatre (seen below)

I ask, mindful of a famous picture that captures at least two of the options. In this painting of a Schubertiad –an intimate gathering surrounding the composer @ the piano—we encounter the pianist who is at least one of the possible places to stare (including the fingers on the keyboard).  Others stare at the ceiling (option #2). I recall thinking when I first saw this picture that it was so embarrassingly intimate.

Where do you look?

And –speaking of funny questions—I wondered as I pondered this question about where to look, where is the music? Do you find it looking at the musician, his/her virtuosic hands, profound expressions, body language…? Or is the music somewhere in the air, perhaps in the expressions of our fellow travellers?  I think that when we’re watching the virtuoso, who is in some sense the embodiment of technique celebrated to the point of a fetish, we focus on the iconic person, the celebrity player / singer.

We may no longer be really hearing /seeing music any longer. The icon / celebrity hijacks the art.

All that’s in the painting, and of course, was there to be seen today at Brahm Goldhamer’s Schubert recital today at the Royal Conservatory Theatre: a tiny venue with a Steinway, a high ceiling, wonderful acoustics and a magnificent view of Bloor St & the neighbouring Michael Lee-Chin’s Crystal.  The seats wrap around the piano on two sides, giving us some interesting choices of view, as to what we’d be staring at:
1. Pianist
2. The view out the window
3. The view up at the ceiling
4. The other listeners, who are looking at 1, 2 or 3
I put this preamble out there because of what I experienced and what I heard. I’ve heard lots of virtuosi, piano players with great skill whose image and identity is associated with fast fingers. I traveled with the TSO earlier this month, seeing Jan Lisiecki play the Beethoven 4th piano concerto 3 times on three consecutive nights. You notice skill not just when someone plays well, but when we’re all tired from a late bus without rehearsal and the fingers still get the job done. Virtuosity has its place. Last night I heard Alexandre Tharaud playing Mozart with the TSO led by Bernard Labadie.

I believe something happens in the presence of complexity & detail. I am influenced by a radio program I heard on CBC today, discussing the advent of electric light and the virtues of clarity. We live in a positivistic world, obsessed with measurement, numbers, knowing & explaining where we are –with our GPS’s and onboard navigation—and deconstructing everything, every precise weather forecast and prediction of the fractions of a percent shift in interest rates. We are illuminated whether we want it or not, unable to find darkness or chiaroscuro (not so much dark as the twilight regions).

Forgive me if I oversimplify. I love ambiguity and complexity, mystery not as something to be solved but as a shroud to imitate reality.  Let Truth keep her clothes on, to make the flirtation last.

Musical development was/is a somewhat scientific process even in Beethoven’s time, an analytical fracturing of themes into fragments, sometimes contrapuntal explorations, sometimes sonata theme and development, that leads us later to musical modernism. Schubert’s approach is the road less taken, epic story-telling rather than novelistic complexity, episodes and tunes rather than architectonic composition. And yet he does write big long pieces out of those stories, episodes, melodies, ballads.

Inevitably we encounter Schubert –and Schumann and Liszt and others who are at least partially making these epic compositions (“epic” in the dramatic sense of what Brecht wanted, story-telling in episodes, not novels or symphonies)—in the hands of virtuosi, pianists seduced by the massive challenges, and processing this music as though it were Beethoven. How could it be otherwise? You call the fireman when there’s no fire, and they will still look for hazards and maybe spray you with their hose, fire or no fire. Don’t blame someone for being who they are. But also, don’t underestimate someone via one set of criteria. I was listening to Amy Winehouse a few days ago, heart-broken that a brilliant jazz-singer and composer went astray, becoming a pop singer; while she was still the best pop singer I ever heard, it was both a waste of her gift, and the likely route to her death (or so I conclude after watching the documentary Amy).

What I am alluding to in that analogy –the straying jazz-singer Amy Winehouse—is that I believe we can’t hear the real Schubert because of the misguided way pianists play his music.  We wouldn’t hand Shakespeare to the stars of daytime soap operas, yet we populate our concert halls with these manual athletes whose sensibilities are caught up in speed and clarity, positivistic pitfalls that lead us all astray.  I heard a different approach to Schubert today at the hands of Brahm Goldhamer. Maybe it’s been done before, but all I know is that I’ve never heard it. It’s not a matter of tempo, as there are people who play his music faster, some slower. I like the way Kuerti and Brendel play, two who are not completely seduced by the virtuoso impulse.

Yet what I heard Goldhamer do is entirely different.

The scale of the music was intimate. We were in the Conservatory Theatre, a space that seats perhaps 60-70, where the pianist could step forward to briefly address us and have comfortable eye contact with all of us, and with no need to raise his voice. In other words it’s more of a salon than a theatre. The forte in this space was still gentle, musical. The pianissimos were like whispers. If you play this way in a bigger space it won’t work, as one must elevate one’s game the way an actor uses their trained voice to be heard in a bigger space, to express nuance and emotion. As I say, Brahm scaled his playing to the space, something gentle & personal.

There was something Brahm did with his page-turns that signaled what we were seeing. As a life-long accompanist (and excuse me that I use the old politically incorrect term; I know everyone else is –supposedly—a collaborative pianist), I know the terror of the page-turn, the tension build as one approaches the bottom of the page. Sometimes one must omit some music or paraphrase in order to keep it going. This is not what Brahm did. We came to the ends of pages, and he paused like a story – teller when necessary. The music would wait when necessary. This imposed a sense of boundaries, of formal space around his effort and our necessity to accept what he was doing, rather than the imitation of the virtuoso effect of a perfect seamless reading.  It was a bit like what Brecht calls attention to, when speaking of the alienation effect.  These moments pulled us out of our dream, to be reminded of the player serenading us.  We were in that subjective place of the poetry reading.

I was most impressed with how Brahm approached the big B-flat sonata, as though it were a series of song-like episodes, even though at times its technical challenges are big. But this was not a show-off exercise, not a matter of interpretation. He was in a genuine sense invisible, once I decided to stare at the ceiling and let his music-making flood over me, carrying me away. His hands were at ease, his pianissimo touches as delicate as a caress administered to each of us in this warm intimate venue.

Apparently it’s been forty—five years since the last solo recital. But Brahm assured us that after this wonderful experience –a genuine example of communication—he would do it again next year.

I’ll be there.

After the concert… that’s Brahm’s bouquet that i photographed while he went around the room thanking everyone individually for coming: which isn’t usual.

Conductor Bernard Labadie returned to the podium tonight for the first time since sickness stopped him for a year and a half of convalescence, to lead the Toronto Symphony Orchestra at Roy Thomson Hall as part of the Mozart @ 260 Festival.

Here’s what the Violons du Roy press release from October 2014 says:

Quebec City, October 20, 2014 – Bernard Labadie has announced he will resume his duties as founder of Les Violons du Roy and music director of La Chapelle de Québec during the 2015–2016 season. At that time, he will also continue his commitments as guest conductor nationally and internationally.
Mr. Labadie is being treated for a lymphoma diagnosed in May while he was slated to conduct in Freiburg, Germany. Since June he has been receiving care in Quebec City and the treatment is progressing normally. He initially canceled all his 2014 concerts in June, but because of an extended convalescence he will not be able to return to his conducting duties with Les Violons du Roy and the orchestras he was scheduled to direct until the start of the 2015-2016 concert season.
Mr. Labadie would like to take the opportunity to express his heartfelt thanks to the music lovers, musicians, and friends who have demonstrated their support and friendship by the hundreds since the onset of his illness. Their messages and encouragement have been invaluable.

So of course Labadie’s first return to the concert stage tonight was a particularly dramatic occasion. Although the Labadie you see on youtube normally conducts standing – but without a baton—tonight he conducted from a sitting position, likely still in a weakened state.

The TSO and Labadie brought us three facets of Mozart’s genius: the opera, the concerto and the symphony.

The operatic exploration consisted of excerpts from Don Giovanni, specifically the overture and a pair of arias. The chamber-sized orchestra, while employing modern instruments, seemed to be informed by the kind of historically informed performance style we sometimes hear from the COC when someone such as Harry Bicket comes to town to lead them. Labadie’s understanding of the overture is edgy, full of well-accented contrasts & witty turns of phrase. In contrast to Frederic Antoun’s lyrical reading of the romantic aria “Dalla sua pace”, Philippe Sly’s presentation of the catalogue aria was hilarious, his repertoire of voices a fascinating study in the opera buffa (in other words, comedy).

Although our concerto soloist brought another French name into the programme, this time we were watching a Parisian rather than a Quebecois, namely Alexandre Tharaud, although he has a history with Labadie.

This was a performance of great style, clean and crisp in the orchestral entries. Tharaud showed enormous energy particularly in his cadenzas.

After intermission we came to Mozart’s last symphony. I can testify that the TSO are in a groove, their playing inspired yet relaxed in the last part of their tour last week. This smaller ensemble placed at the front of the stage sounded especially good in Roy Thomson Hall, perhaps responding to the drama of the occasion and the commitment Labadie showed from the podium. The word that comes to mind is “perfection”, Labadie’s tempi as brisk as you’d expect from an exponent of the historically-informed style. The slower second movement was luscious with sensuous detail, the finale, muscular and tireless.

Director Joel Ivany

Next week Labadie will leads a semi-staged Mozart Requiem directed by Joel Ivany of Against the Grain Theatre. Jeff Melanson’s avowed mission to make the TSO the most innovative and most inclusive orchestra in Toronto comes to mind in this fascinating choice. Instead of the usual static standing and singing, Ivany brings something genuinely experimental to the stage. I witnessed a workshop last year that has me eager to see what Ivany & the TSO have come up with. I’m sure it will be a worthy experiment, opening new ways of understanding the Requiem.

For further insights here’s Labadie in a CBC interview.