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Claire COWAN (b. 1983)
Hansel and Gretel, Complete Ballet Score (2019) [101:53]
Bonus Track: Bedtime Story “Hansel and Gretel” (poem by Amy Mansfield) [13:41]
Vesa-Matti Leppänen (violin)
Jonny Brugh (bedtime story reader)
New Zealand Symphony Orchestra/Hamish McKeich
Rec. August-November 2020, Stella Maris Chapel, Wellington, New Zealand
Private Release [2 CDs: 115:34]

“The management” thought that it’d be a good idea for this two-disc set (or download) of new music by a New Zealander to be reviewed by someone who lives in New Zealand, because that would provide a “local angle”. Well, yes, I do live in New Zealand, but only as an expatriate Yorkshireman and then only by the whim of Fate. And yes, Claire Cowan is a New Zealand composer, but by no stretch of the imagination could the music on this disc be considered characteristically “Kiwi”. As it happens, after thirteen years as a “Kiwi Tyke” I have still to come across any Kiwi classical music that does for NZ what (to choose but the most obvious example) Sibelius does for Finland – I’ve heard a fair bit that is intended to, but thus far, sadly, nothing has ticked the box with the requisite flamboyant flourish of fluorescent felt-tip!

I suppose that the first thing to be aware of about Claire Cowan is that she’s by no means a classical composer. By this I mean that her net is cast rather wider, encompassing many and varied film and TV scores (both as original composer and as orchestrator), lots of theatrical music and orchestral collaborations with (for want of a better generic term) pop musicians. By comparison, her classical output (including a violin concerto and chamber pieces) is small. Incidentally, I see that Cowan’s scores include “theatre soundtracks” – a term that puzzled me. I’ve always understood a “soundtrack” to be the entire audio component of a film (or “movie”), which is obviously a recording; whereas “theatre” is by definition live – isn’t it? So, unless this is just business-speak shorthand for “incidental music”, I must be missing something.

Against this background, isn’t it tempting to think that a commission from the Royal NZ Ballet, not just for a ballet score but a score for a full-length ballet looks, if ever so slightly, like a bit of a shot in the dark? Well, temptation (for the most part) is there to be resisted; focus on the fact that her catalogue of works simply bulges with music that demands a keen sense of mood and especially timing, that she has a reputation as a tunesmith and orchestrator – and that she is well-known in the business. Yet, even though she has the credentials, a full-length ballet nonetheless seems to be terra incognita, and hence a significant challenge.

The publicity blurb for this recording starts with “[Cowan is] the first woman in NZ to compose a full-length ballet, and one of only a handful of women worldwide to do so.” My, how the times have changed! I can remember the day when, if a man had uttered words like those, he’d have been berated for being (at the very least) a patronising, porcine male-chauvinist. These days, though, when we are supposed to know better, I have to wonder: what is the purpose of such a statement? OK, it is perfectly true and worthy of mention somewhere along the line, but in this day and age should it be the leading statement of a press release about a new CD? I reckon not; certainly, what really matters to you and me is whether the music can stand on its own two feet and, purely as music, keep us skewered to our seats for the best part of two hours.

Before plunging on, it’d be as well to underline that “purely as music”: here we are looking at a recording of the score of a completely new ballet that recently has been a Big Hit with its audiences, both in theatres all over NZ and (during the April 2020 Covid-19 lockdown) video-streamed over the internet. Obvious as it may seem, let’s remember that the immense success of the ballet doesn’t necessarily mean that the music can stand alone.

First, let’s get the package and documentation out of the way (it’ll soon be obvious why). Unfortunately, this will be mostly grumble, partly because I’ve had 37 years’ experience of CD packaging, and my patience is starting to wear a bit thin! Instead of the normal jewel-case, we have what is described as an “innovative ‘pop-out’ double CD”. It’s basically a book-like arrangement in which, when you open it, the two CDs mounted inside on cunningly folded card open out like the petals of a flower – CD1 to the top and CD2 to the bottom, with the booklet insides arrayed either side so that you can see clearly the printed track listings, for CD1 on the left and for CD2 on the right. Especially taken with the aptly colourful and highly effective art-work (very Big Tick for that!), it looks very cute and “Ooooh-inspiring”. However, innovative as it may be, it definitely is not practical!

Those who, while listening, want to refer to the track-lists (which don’t appear anywhere else) will find it awkward to hold – or for that matter to put down and pick up. I tried pressing it flat, so that I could refer to it without picking it up. However, if it isn’t pressed down really firmly, it tends to fold itself up again; and if it is pressed down really firmly, it still tends to fold itself up again – but on being closed it now tends to open itself out again (on one occasion I must have pressed it too hard, because when I tried to close it, it refused to budge until I’d found the fold that had got pushed to the wrong side of straight).

Of rather more import, the CDs themselves are ill-protected. The CD playing surfaces must be living in fear of the folding cardboard, which itself won’t long withstand being repeatedly opened and shut. Then again, to get some sort of dust-seal (and to slot it onto a CD storage shelf) the whole package needs to be folded tightly flat, increasing the risk of denting the discs – and even thus, it still falls well short of an adequate dust-seal. The now-venerable jewel-case, with all its many faults, does a far better job than this.

Of course, once you’re over the “Ooooh” phase then, if you’re a whiz at Nero Cover Designer (or similar) and you’re prepared to make the effort, you could boil down the graphics of the “innovative pop-out” into the boring old standard jewel case form for ease of use and long-term safe keeping of the CDs. Of course, you could avoid all of this entirely, simply by buying the download instead. In addition to a choice of formats (both lossy and lossless) the download includes a PDF of the artwork and documentation but, unaccountably, omits the stylish back cover image.

The documentation itself is minimal. The front is actually a sleeve containing the booklet, the bulk of which provides the text of the bonus track’s “bed-time” poem, the balance being an all-too-brief half-page bio-sketch of the composer (oddly enough, her website offers precious little more) and a page of acknowledgements (credits). Conspicuous by their absence are anything at all about the music itself, a synopsis of the action (cued or otherwise) and track timings – there aren’t even any copyright notices and warnings. Yet, the first three are all things that people not unreasonably expect.

In this instance, I get the feeling that someone’s assumed that the buyers of these CDs (or downloads) will all be people who have actually seen the ballet. Anyone else will have to figure out for themselves the relationships between music and action. Of course, if you compare the track titles with the poem, which is in very small print on a variably-coloured background (20-20 vision and good lighting recommended), you could pencil in some track cues against the text of the poem; this would, just about, pass muster as a synopsis – but that’s not really the point, is it?

I’m sure that many of us know the rather bloodthirsty and horrific story of Hansel and Gretel from the edition published by the Brothers Grimm, which “crystallised” in print a tale that had been evolving for centuries in an oral tradition. The ballet’s libretto retains the gist of the story-line, introducing, in the time-honoured manner, variations and diversions to render the narrative more amenable to balletic interpretation – and, I suspect, acceptable as family entertainment. In passing, though not irrelevantly, isn’t it odd that “family entertainment” almost always means “suitable for children”, and that the criteria are almost always determined by adults? OK, then, hands up all those who, when they were kids, liked nothing better than entertainment that scared them witless. My hand is up, and I’d be surprised if I were in a minority.

Of course, this all hinges on your idea of a fairy-tale: is it a magical fantasy to charm children, or a gruesome grown-up horror-story? The RNZB production has opted for the former, which I guess means toning things down with a bit of a comical gloss (broadly in the manner of a “Tom and Jerry” cartoon, perhaps?). But, surely, this applies only to the more explicit visuals; shouldn’t the music for those parts – if only for dramatic contrast – be really “nasty”, rather than tending to be lightly dusted with the “icing sugar” that largely pervades the remainder? To my mind, this is the score’s only shortcoming, and a fairly minor one, at that.

From the original tale we lose the entire “white pebbles” episode; we lose the constant, hunger-driven bickering of the penniless parents; we lose the horrific image of a mother who would be far happier (and much less hungry) if dear old Dad were to unhook those pesky kids from round her neck and dump them irretrievably in the trackless depths of the forest; we lose the grim image of dear old Dad acceding to Mum’s wicked demands; and, perhaps nodding to some sort of feminist ideal, we find Hansel divested completely of his share of imaginative wit and the said quality invested solely in his sister.

On the other hand, for instance, we do gain a perspective on the methodology of the witch, who we see, pied-piper fashion, luring local children to their doom with her seductive “icecream bicycle” (sic); and the traditionally fearful forest becomes a culinary backdrop for divertimenti featuring the ghosts of children, a whole kingdom of dew-fairies and, of course, a sandman to see the siblings safely off to “be-bo-land”.

By and large, one of the dafter ideas to have taken root and grown, almost to the point of obsession, in the minds of theatrical producers over the last (say) 40 years is that of updating a work – or, worse, “re-envisioning”, “re-imagining” or “re-conceptualising” it – with the specific aim of making it more “contemporary”, more “relevant to modern audiences” (I’m sure that you know the sort of thing). Broadly speaking, the daftness of the idea is proportional to the extent of the temporal shift; and matters are made worse if sets and costumes are modernised, but no account is taken of corresponding changes in morals, manners, modes of speech (this last of course doesn’t apply to ballet) and indeed every aspect of the shift in epoch and milieu. If it is done with enormous care and thoroughness, occasionally it may come off; but, far more often than not, I find that my enjoyment is ruined by the incessant clanging of a mental alarm bell, triggered by a continually overstretched credibility nerve. Yet – and this is just as well! – the one mismatch that without fail we all implicitly tolerate is the orchestra and, provided the expressive substance reasonably relates to the visual drama, the music it plays.

At first glance, you might imagine Hansel and Gretel to be of this ilk. Not so! True, it is transposed from some indeterminately distant past, but only as far as the 1920s. Although this is relatively recent, a century ago is nowhere near contemporary so, really, “updating” shouldn’t enter into it: Hansel and Gretel has simply been placed in this particular past, leaving all concerned free to take advantage of that roaring decade’s scrumptious styles of music, dress and décor, but without losing touch entirely with the relatively primitive rurality of the fairy tale’s scenario (to what extent the ballet production actually did this, I’m not sure, but in any event it doesn’t affect the music). With some justification, in this respect you could say that it is but one small step removed from classics such as La Belle au Bois Dormant, Les Sylphides or Coppélia.

According to the booklet, “[Claire Cowan’s] music is unique in that it seamlessly merges art music and popular idioms.” Well, having listened to Hansel and Gretel, I’ve no doubt that she does this – but, is she unique in doing it? Off the top of my head, I can think of plenty of other composers, including arguably J. S. Bach and indisputably G. Gershwin, who also do it. I’ll resist saying, “Ev’rybody’s doing it”, because there are still plenty who don’t! Not that it matters one jot, really, provided that die-hard classical buffs (like me) are prepared to indulge a few pop-music foibles.

Here I’m thinking of such as pop music’s apparent “distrust” of slow tempi: presumably out of a deep-seated concern that listeners may get bored, the accompaniment of a melody that’s deemed to be slow is given an underlying up-tempo beat. A related foible, evident in parts of Claire’s score, is the frequent use of ostinato accompaniments (to some extent derived from the function of a “rhythm guitar”, perhaps?), which on a few occasions (and simply FYI) tends to lend this music a vaguely post-minimalist flavour.

The plus-side to all this is, of course, that the era of the “pop music” in question is a Golden Age, decades before the divide between “classical” and “pop” opened into a yawning chasm and, moreover, an era when what there was of a divide was still spanned by several two-way bridges! The icing on this particular cake is that Cowan evidently has the hot jazz idiom coursing through her very veins; she can, so to speak, “boogie with the best of ’em”. In fact, of all the ballet scores drawing on the musical styles of the Roaring Twenties (and here I include ballets of the 1920s), this is easily one of the finest and most thoroughly idiomatic that I’ve ever heard.

I’m aware that some folk are wondering whether Hansel and Gretel can be filed under “classical”; should it instead be under “jazz”, or “musical theatre”, or even one of those new-fangled categories like “fusion” or “crossover”? Let’s be pragmatic. Firstly, Hansel and Gretel is indisputably a ballet. Secondly, Cowan’s score contains the music for that ballet. Thirdly, it’s written for a symphony orchestra. Fourthly, the musical style is that of the popular music of the Roaring Twenties. Collectively, the first three argue for “classical”. Thus the question boils down to: does the “classical” category have any stylistic exclusions? Hum – we all know perfectly well that it doesn’t, don’t we?

This conclusion is supported by the fact that there’s far more to her score than out-and-out hot jazz numbers. As you may expect in a ballet, there are also atmospheric episodes, sumptuous romantic climaxes, comical orchestral onomatopœia, waltzing (every good ballet should have at least one!), musing solos, processionals etc. There are also what I take as sly nods in the directions of Dave Brubeck and “James Bond” music (wrong era, but who cares?), but there are also allusions (deliberate or otherwise) to composers such as Prokofiev, Delius, Copland, Shostakovich, Arnold and Bernstein (let’s be thankful that the list wasn’t “Schoenberg, Boulez, Stockhausen, Cage, . . .”).

Also, each of the principal characters is given its own motive, though this doesn’t go – nor does it need to go – as deep as the technique of leitmotiv. And I’ll admit that some of the slower stuff does exude a somewhat anachronistic odour of Hollywood-style film-music; but I’ll admit it only grudgingly – I much prefer to believe that it shares the spirit underlying the jazzy numbers! However, let me make it clear that none of this means that Cowan’s music is derivative – far from it; it has a compelling character all its very own.

Whilst waiting for the CDs to arrive, I spent some time browsing the publicity pictures; my eye was caught by a shot of the horn-players. They were wearing headphones. I looked more closely at the photos: headphones were endemic whilst, it seemed, the large percussion section and the rest of the orchestra were arrayed in two separate rooms. Then again, with microphones sprouting like weeds in a neglected garden, this looked suspiciously like a “pop-style” studio set-up, writ large. You may well wonder, why? I certainly did.

This setup is reminiscent of the Decca Phase 4 and CBS recording methodologies of the 1960s, whose ideal seemed to be “to get as close to one mic. per instrument as possible”. I won’t venture into details here; if you’re interested, you can find a discussion of the pros. and cons. of multiple-miking in this article. At least as far as symphonic music is concerned, there are three possible reasons for having to adopt this mode of recording: [1] your recording venue cannot accommodate comfortably all the players in one room, [2] you want to use some electronic jiggery-pokery, [3] you don’t trust the conductor’s judgement in matters of balance.

The first is a possibility – if you really cannot manage a big enough venue, then headphones (and CCTV) would make a two-room arrangement practicable; but it doesn’t explain the multitudes of microphones. The third is extremely unlikely, since Hamish McKeich, RNZB’s principal conductor-in residence and no mean wagger of the ruling stick, conducted the theatrical performances – but nevertheless we should allow for someone having an overriding urge to tweak lots of balance details at the editing stage. The second is definitely the case, since there are obvious instances of it in the recording; for example, CD1[02] The Street, CD1[08] Entering the Forest, CD1[17] Entering the Gingerbread House and CD2[09] Gretel’s Tarantella all involve use of reverb, distancing and/or colouration effects on selected instrumental groups to “enhance” a feeling of eeriness.

Is the imposition of such effects on the music now part and parcel of modern theatre? A century after it was written, Bartók’s Miraculous Mandarin can still make our flesh crawl through pure, unadulterated orchestral sound; so does a skilful orchestral technician – which, even on no more than this present evidence, Cowan undoubtedly is – need to resort to such cheap artifice? (You may gather that I’m not keen on it.) In fact, it’s a question that Claire has already answered! For, in CD2[04] The Transformation of the Witch, she positively laces the music with highly effective orchestral creepiness – and all without any discernible trace of electronic “enhancement”. So, clearly, she doesn’t.

As ever, the main down-sides of such apparently excessive multi-miking are inconsistent ambiences and instrumental balances. To be ruthlessly fair, there are variations of ambience, but typically these bothered me only when I was listening out for them; and only occasionally is my attention drawn to an errant instrument – the main (but not the only) miscreant being (CD1[11]) a flute that, during a solo, seems to have taken a fairly indiscreet step forward (it sounds far closer to us than it should) and then takes only a half-step back (such a fader-fiddler’s blooper is if course by no means new). For the most part, though, these aspects of the sound will be quite acceptable to all but the sternest purist – of its kind, this recording is superbly well-engineered. Moreover, the sound of the musical substance is spotlessly clean over the entire dynamic range, and both gratifyingly warm and finely-detailed – a real pleasure to the ears in itself.

The New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, or rather about 50 of its players, give every impression of having had an absolute whale of a time at the sessions. And well they might: far from being a solemn shrine for those who seek philosophical profundity, this is music purely for entertainment – perhaps best described as “light music”, after the manner of legends like Eric Coates and Arthur Benjamin, but on a truly grand scale. And there’s no need to get snobbish about this: as Charles Ives said, “The primary purpose of music is neither instruction nor culture but pleasure; and this is an all-sufficient purpose”.

The only credited soloist is Vesa-Matti Leppänen, leader of the NZSO; and deservedly so, as his skills are invoked to impressive effect in numerous and varied situations. His tone, as projected here, is slender but strong, technically faultless, eloquent and eminently adaptable of character – from ćtherial soaring right down to the occasional bit of “coarse fiddling”. In his train comes a whole array of solos from all corners of the orchestra; they are equally credit-worthy – it’s just that none of them gets anywhere near as much of the limelight.

Hamish McKeich, with the theatrical experience still fresh in his mind, conducts with balletic directness, steadfastly resisting any temptation to abuse artistic licence. Instead, he concentrates on ensuring that the music speaks for itself; his every tempo hits the nail on the head, giving to the slower music the ideal degree of expansiveness, in the quick bits imparting nerve-tingling verve and vivacity, yet never driving faster than danceable (this, considering the improbably quick tempi we hear in some recordings of ballet music, is a far from idle observation!).

I was astonished to find that not even one of the score’s 28 numbers aggravated my “tedium bone”. Since the music of nearly every complete full-length ballet that I know (including, let it be said, one of Tchaikovsky’s!) at some stage seems to have that effect on me, this is a real feather in the cap for both the music of Hansel and Gretel and its performers. The light oriental flavouring of the subdued opening (the siblings’ motive, CD1[01] Overture) is cunningly crafted to prick up the ears, whilst the first bit of jazz (CD1[02] The Street) sort of slides in without (as it were) making a song-and-dance about it – an understatement both chiming well with the street scene and signalling the composer’s attention to matters strategic. This episode ends with the onomatopœic approach of the Witch’s “bicycle” (a production photograph shows it in actuality to be a tricycle with an additional small trailer-wheel), leading to CD1[03] in which the prominent giddy trumpets and lurching harmony nod towards the Dance with Mandolins from Act II Scene 1 of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet – and indeed, why not? The music’s seductive gooiness superbly epitomises the scene, which evolves into a 6/8 “waltz” that’s both comical and increasingly bizarre – another neat nudge into the meat of the plot.

I’ve no intention of delving into each and every one of the 28 numbers (29 if you include the “Curtain Call”); I’ll simply cherry-pick to convey the flavour – and thereby whet your appetite. The “divertimento” in the forest (roughly, CD1[09-16]) is chock-full of tasty morsels – the ballet’s first really “hot” number comes when some Gingerbread Boogie Men (a pun on “bogey-men”, maybe?) enter to a jazzy percussion rhythm (CD1[10]). Initiated by fragmented phrases on hefty saxes and bass brass, and prioritising “boogie” over “bogey”, this sizzling Latin-American-style number is punched out by a brazen band interlaced by succulent, swooping string portamenti.

There’s a fair bit more “hot jazz”, of diverse varieties, and in all of it the NZSO loosens its collective collar and lets its collective hair down with gay abandon, swaggering like bona fide jazz-men: it’s all there: snappy solos (including an adorably idiomatic piano), slides (trombones obviously, but also a note-bending trumpet and a couple of enthusiastic Swanee whistles), rasping flutter-tonguing, crisp syncopations, colourful percussion (everything, it would seem, including the kitchen sink) – you name it, this has got it! It is fabulous, utterly irresistible stuff – some of which underpins dramatic action. For example CD2[01] The Banquet, bristling with bright jazz effects in a vaguely Spanish-sounding “dance orchestra” style, accompanies the starving siblings apparently trying to eat the entire gingerbread house. Other out-and-out show-stoppers include The Can-Can (CD2[02]) and The Witch’s Baking Charleston (CD2[07]).

But I must not forget that besides these show-stoppers there is much else, not so spectacular but equally beguiling and just as keenly characterised by McKeich and the NZSO. To exemplify I will content myself with these: CD1[05] Dinner features rhythmically irregular, fragmentary themes somewhat reminiscent of Copland; CD1[08] Entering the Forest may be a less than fearful experience, but the sardonically jazzy and amusing music does graphically portray the swooping “masked birds” who steal the trail of crumbs and of them make a meal; CD1[12] Entry of the Dew Fairies is a charming waltz whose melody emerges slowly, even shyly, its fairy glitter gradually enriched by sonorously glowing orchestration and tangy harmonic touches; CD2[08] The Chicken-Bone Trick involves woodwind prickling on the witch’s rhythmic motive, gritty harmonies in a grinding mf. climax, and (of course) a clattering something that conveniently rhymes with chicken-bone!

What’s the balletic equivalent of “recitative”? Whatever the term, I’m meaning those “pantomimic” episodes of dramatic action where the music tends to become, more or less, “without form and void”. Thankfully, there’s none of it in Hansel and Gretel – every bar of the score contains proper music that consistently enthrals the ear every bit as much as the stage action may enchant the eye. And integral to the music is a narrative thread that, like symphonic development, guides the listener from its beginning to its end. Thus, with one caveat, the music indeed does stand on its own two feet – and enthrals from first to last.

The caveat? Unless you’re happy just to listen and let your imagination conjure up its own visuals, you do need to know (or be able to refer to) the story-line – but if you rely on your knowledge of the Grimm fairy-tale, then be warned: you will probably end up as lost as those two youngsters! If you’ve been wondering, other than as occasional entertainment for the kiddies, what use the bonus item (CD2[13] The Bedtime Story) would be, well – you could listen to this first. Picking up on my earlier comments: in the absence of the preferred cued synopsis, at least the poem accurately reflects the balletic scenario, and is usefully underpinned by relevant segments of the music; so it’ll both set you straight on the tale and give you a tuneful trailer.

Amy Mansfield’s artful poem is written in a tone of dry detachment and not a little wit. As a Yorkshireman, I heartily approve the use of the word “nowt” for “nothing”, but I did wonder whether “git” is the sort of word we should be sliding into the somnolescent ears of little kiddies. Then again, these decadent days the little dears seem to be trotting out much worse than that, almost as soon as they start talking. The reader of this mini-audiobook is Jonny Brugh, a Kiwi comedian, actor, musician, director and producer working mostly in television and film. His CV includes “voice acting” (which I take to mean “on the radio”), so he’s well-equipped for the job. And what a wonderful job he does make of it: clear, fluent, confidential, expressive without exaggeration and oh-so-knowing – sometimes, I do declare, you can almost hear him winking.

Finally, the “finale” (CD2[11] Celebrations) is not the last of the music. CD2[12] Curtain Call is a device imported from musical theatre (I wouldn’t be surprised if this is its first use in a ballet). It’s a re-working of “numbers from the show” to accompany the performers taking their bows. (This provoked in me a rather bizarre query: what if Stravinsky had written one for Le Sacre du Printemps?) Listening on CD, without a foreground of wild applause (unless you “BYO”), you and I can simply enjoy it as a very welcome extension of those final celebrations.

As a recording of the ballet score, this one is of course Hobson’s choice, though it’s a choice with which Hobson will be mighty happy. My feeling is that you can spend your precious pennies secure in the knowledge that, if and when a competing recording turns up, it’ll be hard-pressed to make you regret your impetuosity. If you’re at all like me, and have a singularly soft spot for the stylish, vital music of the great Jazz Age, or even just enjoy the pleasures of good old “light music”, you’ll simply revel in Claire Cowan’s classy composition – and the fizz and zest of the NZSO’s high-spirited performance.

Paul Serotsky

 

 



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