Any
new Birtwistle piece is an event. Here we
were treated to the London première
of Theseus Game and a stunning performance
of the now well-known Tragoedia of
1965. Sandwiched between these two gems was
a piece by the Transylvanian Peter Eötvös
(better known perhaps as a conductor), of
which more later.
First,
let’s concentrate on some real music. Tragoedia
features two major protagonists (cello and
horn) with harp acting as an ‘intermediary’.
Greek drama lies at the essence of its construction,
the work being symmetrical around the central,
calm ‘Stasimon’. The implied stage element
is of course of great importance to Birtwistle
(Tragoedia is itself preparatory to
Punch and Judy). Certainly there is
a sense of the dramatic in the movement of
pitch from one instrument to another in space.
There was an urgency to this account, so that
when the harp announced the Stasimon, it seemed
to act as a taming of the beasts. Brabbins
had obviously encouraged his players to bring
out the melodious, lyrical element of the
piece (solo horn and cello lines, however
disjunct, however large the intervallic leaps,
emerged like ‘vocal’ lines). The ritual element,
so important to this composer, was projected
perfectly.
Theseus
Game (2002/3) was the major piece of the
concert, however. Scored for, effectively,
chamber orchestra, it is a major and important
work in this composer’s oeuvre. Much of Birtwistle’s
pre-concert chat with Nicholas Kenyon centred
on the need for two conductors and the compositional/notational
‘neatness’ of this technique (which is also
to be found in The Mask of Orpheus).
Layout was carefully thought through, with
strings in a single line across the stage,
a conductor on either side and pitched percussion
along the back. The use of vibraphones and
marimbas might seem a nod in the direction
of Boulez, but this was Birtwistle through
and through.
The
work’s title is a metaphor for the form of
the work - Theseus escaped from the Minotaur’s
labyrinth with the help of Ariadne’s thread.
The ‘thread’ is one of Birtwistle’s endless
melodies that is put forward by a succession
of soloists that take centre-stage. Birtwistle
has referred to Theseus Game as a ‘super-concerto
for orchestra’ (it would be from his pen,
and nothing less would do for the London Sinfonietta).
The procession of solo parts Birtwistle presents
is in essence an encyclopaedia of difficulties,
and all credit should go to the individuals
of the London Sinfonietta for triumphing so
remarkably. By having two ensembles (and two
conductors – Brabbins was joined by the young
Pierre-André Valade) in a state of
constant flux, the music takes on a remarkable
fluidity. So despite much surface complexity,
as so often with Birtwistle the basis is simple,
and it is this that gives the work its sense
of inevitable, seemingly eternal tread. The
composer himself described the work, in the
pre-concert event, as a ‘complex joy-ride’.
Certainly there was much to enjoy.
Ligeti-like
explosions punctuating solo breaks, antiphonal
brass indulging in primal call-and-response
and an over-arching sense of the lyric-dramatic
characterize this exposition of compositional
virtuosity. If the underlying simplicity of
concept married to the sometimes visceral,
yet often beautiful, scoring appeals to the
primal side of all of us, the foreground of
the music itself fascinates on a second-to-second
level. Masses of sound pulsate as if alive,
bursting with an energy that propels the piece
along. Theatrical gestures abound – a player
due for a solo may be ‘introduced’ by a second
player in the main body of the ensemble (as
was the case with the trumpet solo). It is
impossible to single out individual players,
such was the uniform excellence on show.
The
final gestures will remain for long in the
memory. Solo cor anglais and violin interact
in a plaintive valediction; a Boulez-like
upward arpeggiation near the end is a moment
of pure magic. The thought crossed my mind
of a possible Petrushka influence on
this work. There is a passage for clarinet
and tuba that seems to make oblique reference
to the Stravinsky – also the antiphonal use
of trumpets. Perhaps I’m imagining it, or
perhaps it was subliminal on Birtwistle’s
part. The fact remains that whatever external
references one chooses to make, there is never
any mistaking the genius of the composer of
Theseus Game.
The
choice of Peter Eötvös’ Wind
Sequences was s strange one – surely an
all-Birtwistle concert would have still guaranteed
a full house. Coming in at 28 minutes, Wind
Sequences is about 23 minutes too long.
Andras Wilheim’s brief note refers to a ‘constant
sense of repose expressed through harmonic
movement’ and also to the fact that ‘it has
no specific goal’. Too right it doesn’t. If
the ritualism of the second movement (‘Three
mountain wind sequences’) might on the surface
be a link with Birtwistle, any comparison
stops right there. This is minor league stuff.
By mid-way through the third movement (of
eight), ‘Seven whirlwind sequences’, with
its side-glances in the direction of Bartók,
it is clear that we have well and truly arrived
in the world of the facile. The ‘North wind
sequences’ (movement five) are characterized
by upward scales tossed around the ensemble;
the South Wind sequences (movement six) are,
unsurprisingly, depicted by descending scales.
Perhaps in another context Wind Sequences
might have appeared as quite interesting in
a harmless sort of way. But juxtaposed with
the heft of Birtwistle, the only reaction
surely can only be, ‘Why?’
This
concert will be broadcast on BBC Radio 3’s
Hear & Now programme on Sunday
January 3rd, 2004. Make a note
in your diary to stay in for the Birtwistle
pieces.
Colin
Clarke
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