Peter SCULTHORPE
(b. 1929)
Earth Cry (1974) [13:55] *
Memento Mori (1993) [14:29]
Piano Concerto (1983) [21:26] #
From Oceania (1970; 2003) [5:32]
Kakadu (1988) [15:44]
William Barton (didjeridu)*
Tamara Anna Cisłowska (piano)#
New Zealand Symphony Orchestra/James
Judd
rec. Wellington Town Hall, 10-12 Sept
2003. DDD
NAXOS 8.557382 [71:06]
A magnificent collection
of some of Peter Sculthorpe’s best works.
Sculthorpe seems not to have gained
the recognition he deserves in the UK;
especially having a UK-based publisher,
Faber Music Ltd. This has long struck
me as a great shame. Sculthorpe’s music
has a very immediate element to it,
one that seems instantly geographically
linked to the wide spaces of Australasia.
Of course the use of
the didjeridoo takes us immediately
into the world of the aborigine. Earth
Cry refers to the need of Australians
to listen to the sounds of their own,
surrounding, nature in the way that
the Aborigines have always done. [Try
the book Mutant Message Down Under
by Marlo Morgan, a travelogue of a Westerner
who walked, memorably, with the aborigines.]
The didjeridoo possesses this earthy
sound; indeed within its overtone-laden
‘voice’ is something that appeals directly
to the primal in all of us. One of the
strangest and most prized recordings
I own – it was only made, to my knowledge
on cassette, is of didjeridoo duets.
Sculthorpe memorably juxtaposes the
active didjeridoo of the opening with
sudden, glowering Romantic strings.
Many of Sculthorpe’s characteristics
are on offer in this short work including
motoric rhythms. He can generate tremendous
excitement as well as real calm. I remain
intrigued by what sounds like a laughing
hyena around 8’30; is it the soloist
singing through the didjeridoo? But
most memorable aspect is the sense of
a vast open space that appears later
in the piece.
Memento Mori
(literally, ‘remember to die’) is inspired
by Easter Island and its great stone
heads, a memento mori for this planet.
Much is made of an oscillation between
the pitch-classes G and A flat, which
the astronomer Kepler believed to be
the sound at which the earth itself
resonates. The plainchant ‘Dies irae’
also forms part of Sculthorpe’s musical
material. Strangely, and unexpectedly,
Sculthorpe uses harmonies that are almost
English-pastoral (around 3’40ff); a
sort of Down-Under Vaughan Williams.
But what resonates most is the hypnotic,
slow-moving sense of the eternal. This
is surely a reference to those heads
on Easter Island; they look as if they
have been there since Creation.
The Piano Concerto
omits flutes and clarinets from the
scoring, leaving a ‘reed choir’ of two
oboes, two bassoons and a contra-bassoon
to provide the wind element. Written
in 1983 this was a reaction to a time
of Sculthorpe’s life when death seemed
a recurrent theme. Several close friends
died, and Sculthorpe himself was involved
in a near-fatal crash. The work serves
to remind us - and him, probably - of
life-affirmation and its power.
In terms of the piano
writing, the work seems mostly to be
the antithesis of the conventional solo-vehicle.
Hypnotic, almost meditational from the
off, not to mention hyper-gentle, every
note drips with resonance. The piano
is frequently allotted obsessively-repeated
figures. Harmonies can glow, but equally
the climaxes can be granitic; try around
4’40, with its keening trumpets and
chord of marble from the excellent young
pianist, Tamara Anna Cislowska. The
cadenza around twelve minutes is gripping,
and for an example of Sculthorpe’s ear
for sonority just try around 17’24,
where glittering piano figuration adorns
a lonely cello melody. Magnificent.
The short, percussion-dominated
From Oceania is the final part
of Sculthorpe’s Music for Japan,
written for the Australian Youth Orchestra
to play at Expo ’70 in Osaka. As the
composer puts it, ‘Composed in my Sun
Music style, I thought of it as
a present to Japan from Australia’.
There is surely a Varèse influence
here in the dense writing and the wind
pitch-bends. Whatever the case, there
is no doubting the fact that this music
travels a long way in a short space
of time (5’32).
Kakadu is named
after the Kakadu National Park in Northern
Australia, a place of huge wilderness
and home to the gagadju people, a tribe
that dates back around 50,000 years.
Like the landscape, the music speaks
of vast things. Sculthorpe injects local
colour by the use of indigenous chants
in his melodic material. The solo cor
anglais, that crops up, memorably, on
several occasions, is stunningly played
here. Alas the player is uncredited.
Intimations of nature, primal rhythms
and a sense of space conjoin to reaffirm
Sculthorpe’s importance. There seems
to be no-one quite like him. This Naxos
release, given its very freedom of availability,
should go a long way to propelling Sculthorpe
to his rightful place in our contemporary
musical consciousness. Given Sculthorpe’s
dedication to the powers of Nature and
his evident belief that music can speak
in this regard much more eloquently
than words, it would appear he has important
things to say. We should listen, and
carefully.
Colin Clarke
see also
review by Rob Barnett
see also Sculthorpe
collection on ABC
William Barton (didjeridu)* 
