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Stephen Pettitt on how Sir Roger Norrington and others started the debate about ‘authenticity’ In the late 1970s, the conductor Sir Roger Norrington, at the time in charge of the late and lamented Kent Opera, created the London Classical Players. With this act Norrington, who has just turned 75, joined a small group of musicians regarded by the wider profession as, to put none too fine a point on it, rather nutty.
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This year, on 11 December — and I wish more people knew about it than actually do — the American composer Elliott Carter celebrates his 100th birthday. This year, on 11 December — and I wish more people knew about it than actually do — the American composer Elliott Carter celebrates his 100th birthday. At a time when far too many composers — more anxious about audience numbers than they are about the quality of the music they produce — have often compromised themselves in the cause of immediacy and accessibility, Carter has remained true to himself and to the tough, multilayered, multitextured, multicoloured language in which he writes, investing his always highly organised music with an overriding feeling of lyricism.
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Stephen Pettitt celebrates the new wave of masterful British productions Samuel Johnson famously defined opera in his A Dictionary of the English Language as ‘an exotic and irrational entertainment’. It’s possibly the most overquoted quotation concerning the subject, but in 1755, when the dictionary was published, he probably had a point. Opera, which for some time had not exactly been all the rage in London anyway, was still dominated by the Italians and was still centred around the singing. The leading sopranos and castrati were every bit as much the idols of audi- ences as the Callases and Domingos. Yet there were signs of hope, however, for those who liked their opera to be real, engaging, concentrated drama.
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Here’s your starter for ten. What’s the most famous unfinished piece of classical music in the world? Schubert’s ‘Unfinished’ Symphony, his Symphony No. 8, of course, which is usually played as a two-movement torso, bereft of the Scherzo and finale which a symphony of its provenance would normally include. Usually, but not always. The latest man to attempt to fill in the missing parts is the Russian composer Anton Safronov, whose version the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment is due to play for the first time on 6 November at the Royal Festival Hall in London under the baton of Vladimir Jurowski, with performances both in the main evening concert at 7.30 p.m. and in a ‘Night Shift’ event beginning at 10 p.m.
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The word ‘virtuoso’ is often bandied about. Stephen Pettitt explains what it means to him Serious music critics — and I do not except myself from the breed — have many tendencies that mark them out from the rest of society. One of them is the habit of bandying around the word ‘virtuoso’. We know what it means, or at least we think so. A virtuoso is a musician who can play with panache a score of seemingly impossible technical difficulty. A virtuoso performance — for, yes, our word can be used adjectivally — is one in which said virtuoso, or ensemble of virtuosi, has succeeded in demonstrating that panache. A good thing, too.
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Before getting down to some hard iconoclasm, let me first declare that to me all tenors, no matter what music they sing, nor even how well or badly they sing it, are heroes. Not because they tend to get heroes’ parts, but simply because of what they do, physically. Never blessed with much of a singing voice myself — even my speaking tone is rather rasping, which may or may not explain why Radio Three hasn’t been in touch lately — I view tenors with a mix of deep envy and utter amazement.
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Recently I found myself lured for the second time in as many years to what is surely one of the most alluring music festivals in the world, the Handel Festival in Göttingen, Germany, which has survived — nay, flourished — for more than 80 years now, come hell, high water and Hitler. It’s alluring in the first place because of Handel, of course. No music makes one feel more glad to exist than Handel’s, and that, let me assure you from personal experience, comes in handy at difficult times. But it’s also alluring because one really does feel that one is present at a festival, an occasion for celebratory feasting, musically and otherwise.
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I am in Raleigh, North Carolina, unexpectedly invited here by my old friend Grant Llewellyn, who is in his first season as music director of the North Carolina Symphony Orchestra and enjoying both the challenge and the celebrity status it gives him in the university- and technology-rich region known as The Triangle. Llewellyn has been treating his audiences to a mini-festival of contemporary American and British music. I am about to hear what turns out to be a fine concert in the orchestra’s handsome new Meymandi Hall of works by George Benjamin, Robin Holloway, Nicholas Maw and James MacMillan. According to your point of view, the United States of America might be God’s own country, land of opportunity, freedom and righteousness.
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Each year the same thing happens. Each year we’re expected to suspend for a month the exercise of sound musical judgment as we’re engulfed, willingly or otherwise, in a deluge of Christmas Music. All of a sudden, banality in various guises becomes completely acceptable. Every church in the land that hasn’t descended to the satanic realms of happy-clappy mass hysteria and which has a half-decent choir offers its own version of King’s College’s Nine Lessons and Carols in cosy, twinkly, feelgood candlelight, pretending that all is well in the world. All the major concert halls in every large city offer Christmas concerts of various hues, swelling the coffers of entrepreneurs like Raymond Gubbay.