Our curation of music and opera reviews
You don’t have to be an Anglican or even especially religious to think that this Oxford Evensong set to jazz is very cool. Beautiful. (You can listen to it again for the next five days by clicking on “Choral Evensong” at the link.)
Difficult not to make comparisons between any number of world leaders and the image of a trapped but powerful figure lashing out in impotent rage, bellowing incomprehensibly, half man, half beast, viewed with a combination of terror and pity. Whether you agree or not, I’d recommend catching John Tomlinson in the title role of Harrison Birtwistle’s new opera, The Minotaur, at the Royal Opera House. There’s no singer more capable of expressing such raw and painful contradictions.
Words you seldom hear at U2 concerts (or, indeed anywhere else): “If only Bono spent a bit less time in the recording studio and a bit more time on the international stage talking about global injustice, ah, bejaysus wouldn’t the world be a better place?” After last weekend, right-thinking Radiohead fans may find themselves in a similar pickle. Is it possible – as Wagner fans seem to manage well enough – to divorce the man’s politics from his art? Or will all future attempts to enjoy The Bends, OK Computer and In Rainbows be quite ruined by the memory of the toecurling, Climate Change special edition of the Observer magazine,
Melissa Kite lives a Real Life The tuner who delivered the news could barely look me in the eye. After prodding at the keys of my piano for ten minutes he called me back from the kitchen where I had been making him a cup of tea. I knew the diagnosis was bad when he got up from the stool and walked towards me shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do.’ It seems that for some time now my piano has been suffering from a fatal fracture brought about by central heating. Other tuners have warned me. But I just didn’t think it would ever end like
Who else reckons that Mr Darling’s plodding budget could have used a lively soundtrack? Well, here’s my recommendation: Goody Two Shoes by Adam and the Ants. The lyrics pretty much sum up the whole sorry affair! “Put on a little makeup makeup Make sure they get your good side good side If the words unspoken Get stuck in your throat Send a treasure token token Write it on a pound note pound note Goody two goody two goody goody two shoes Goody two goody two goody goody two shoes Don’t drink don’t smoke – what do you do Don’t drink don’t smoke – what do you do Subtle innuendos follow.
Megan finally gets to see The Pogues live and, happily, it’s worth the wait: Did I mention that for the actual last song, at the end of the second encore, Spider Stacy did his signature “bashing a beer tray against my head” percussion act? I mean, it really doesn’t get much better than that.
Opera is a good word. It means work. And if you want to experience a work that is the absolute and utter works, a shattering combination of music and drama and visual imagination, get yourself along to the London Coliseum right now and book seats for Lucia di Lammermoor. It’s a triumphant return to form for English National Opera, with a cast of singing actors performing to the absolute hilt of their pretty spectacular abilities. And that includes Clive Bayley, who was so unwell that he couldn’t carry on singing beyond the first scene, but continued to give an impassioned performance on stage while Paul Whelan sang for him from
What is a genius? We use the word frequently but surely, to guard its meaning, we should bestow it seldom. To me, a genius is a person whose gift contains an element of the inex- plicable, not to be accounted for by heredity, upbringing, background, exertions and talents, however noble. Thus, we can’t account for the extraordinary imagination of Chaucer, the vintner’s son, brought up at a military-minded court. Equally, where Shakespeare got or acquired his magic is a mystery. By contrast, Jane Austen, though one of the greatest of novelists — and my personal favourite — is a straightforward case of a clever girl, brought up in the congenial
As this is the last week of my thirties, I feel entitled to indulge in a spot of pop culture nostalgia (or more than usual, at any rate). In tomorrow’s Spectator, I review Paul Morley’s masterly book on Joy Division, which I recommend to anyone who is interested in the music, ideas and social currents of the late Seventies and early Eighties. Looking back on three decades of writing about the Manchester band, Morley explains why the group, and the Factory records label pioneered by the late Tony Wilson, were so important in the history of rock and the redevelopment of the North. Absolutely terrific. And while I am at
Twenty seven years after it was grounded by sudden death, the Zeppelin flies once more – and none of us can quite believe it. The three surviving members of the ultimate rock group – Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, and John Paul Jones – take to the stage at London’s O2 Centre, joined by Jason Bonham, son of their late drummer John Bonham, and burst without ceremony into “Good Times, Bad Times”. It is an extraordinary occasion in every way, the most eagerly awaited reunion in the history of rock’n’roll. Each member of the audience, gathered from 50 countries, is conscious that more than a million (some say 20 million) people
Coming to a music store near you: Santo Subito!, the first ever papal music DVD. Featuring the late John Paul II, it is to be launched in Britain by Universal — better known for Amy Winehouse and the Sugababes — on 19 November. By Christmas, if the prayers of the PR people are answered, it will be a worldwide number one hit. Santo Subito! (‘sainthood immediately!’) is what crowds outside the Vatican traditionally chant when they want someone canonised without delay. Anyone who watched John Paul II’s funeral will remember the numerous banners in the crowds displaying the slogan. The DVD is a 60-minute compilation of footage of the late
You don’t need to like – or know anything about – rap music or cartoons to still think this is pretty neat*: *Though not entirely safe for work since it would be plastered with warning stickers in the stores. But, sod it, it’s Friday… [Thanks to reader MH for the heads-up]
There is a long tradition of the pop intelligentsia getting involved with academe or publishing — Pete Townshend’s work as an editor for Faber being the obvious example, Jah Wobble’s labours over Blake’s poetry rather less so. Sir Paul McCartney was the driving force behind the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts. The Spectator’s own Alex James is the best bassist of his generation, and lived the pop life to the full, but he also has the cerebral firepower to hold his own in an academic common room or editorial meeting. So there ought to be nothing unsettling about the Smiths’ former guitarist, Johnny Marr, becoming a visiting professor of music at
Anyone tempted to think that opera might be a dying art only had to be at the Grand Theatre in Leeds on Tuesday night or the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden last night to discover that it is triumphantly and thrillingly alive. On Tuesday, for a performance of Madam Butterfly, I sat surrounded by a group of fabulously dressed-up 16-year olds, mostly female and every one of them chattering or texting busily until the moment the lights dimmed and the music started. From that moment they were all on the edge of their seats and silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath or sigh of pleasure. And at
Amidst the coruscating party conference commentary might I just slip in a small musical note akin to that so enjoyed by Matthew Parris in his terrific article in this week’s Spec? He was entranced by a single phrase played on the violin, cutting through the artificial flurry and tension before the transmission of a live television broadcast. On Friday night I was similarly transported by the glory that is two people making music together. In the eastern crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, as a dirty night pressed itself up against the windows and the rain sluiced down, two old friends – friends who had been choristers together in the same cathedral
Have you Herd? If you haven’t already done so, buy a copy of Mark Earl’s Herd: How to Change Mass Behaviour By Harnessing Our True Nature It sounds sinister, but there’s not much harnessing in it and lots of exciting ideas about what it is to be human. Mark’s thesis is that we’re basically group animals, like chimps, and that ideas and fashions spread not as a direct result of some ad campaign, but because of our instinctive desire to mimic each other. This is tremendously cheering. It means all those threatening, cajoling ads — inside mags, blocking the letterbox, thrust at you in the street — will come to
There’s more to folk these days than dodgy beards and cable-knit sweaters and it’s clear why Bellowhead, instigators of an outbreak of frenzied folkish foot-stomping at Shepherd’s Bush Empire on Wednesday, picked up Best Live Act in this year’s BBC Radio Two Folk Awards. Fronted by the charismatic Jon Boden, and underpinned by a riotous brass section, the 11-piece big band’s quirky, contemporary take on ballads, sea shanties, and traditional dance tunes had an ecstatic cross-generational audience singing along and jigging wildly, inhibitions cast asunder. Between them they play more than 20 instruments, including bouzouki, mandolin, banjo, bagpipes, sousaphone and frying pan, producing a unique sound which is described as
Researchers confirm that rock’n’roll stars lead unhealthy lives and die young. Shockerooni!
I have a piece in today’s Independent on the downfall of Amy Winehouse, an extended version of my post earlier this week. Which just goes to show that where Coffee House leads, the press follows.
There is something more than usually grotesque about the slow-motion downfall of Amy Winehouse being played out daily in the media. As the singer and her appalling husband holiday in St Lucia, their respective parents are fighting a shameful proxy battle at home, with her father-in-law, Giles, calling on Amy’s fans to boycott her records until she cleans up. She looks pitifully skeletal in the latest pictures, hollow-eyed and miserable. The worst of it is – beyond the horror of watching a human life collapse like a frame-by-frame car crash – is that she is, quite simply, one of the best soul singers of all time, possessed of a voice
