Review: Mark-Anthony Turnage — Coraline

Whatever happened to arias? That’s what I was thinking all the way through Mark-Anthony Turnage’s new opera Coraline. It was essentially a play with a soundtrack (and some warbling). Sure, the music is clever and at times delightful. Turnage gives it a quirky swing which makes one more forgiving of its relentless dissonance. But the music never goes much beyond recitative — and in a story brimming with opportunities for song. At times I sensed we might finally get an aria, a moment to let the heart soar, to make us despair, to chill us to the bone, but it never came. The music is agitated with flickers of promise, rather like a candle struggling to stay alight.

Coraline was originally a superb children’s story by Neil Gaiman. Coraline and her parents are moving into a new house, she finds a passageway to another reality where her ‘other mother’ lives, who seems affectionate at first, but her affection is revealed to be rather sinister. Oh, and in this other reality everyone has buttons as eyes.

coraline

Turnage has not compromised his music for the sake of children. A chap behind me went on boringly about how ‘sophisticated’ the music was for a children’s opera. Why do we conflate sophistication with weirdness? Is Berg more sophisticated than Mozart? What this chap meant was that, to enjoy this music, one needs to develop that refined middle class ability whereby, through an arcane process of intellectual alchemy, one transforms crap into gold.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh. The music is not that bad. As a piece of theatre it works, and the many kids in the audience seemed to enjoy it. I doubt anyone remembers any of the music though, and I am certain that very few would have enjoyed a concert performance. But staged it was enjoyably spooky. Turnage is a good composer, and even though I’m not fond of his work there’s no doubting his talent. I just wish composers like him would relent on the jumbles of wrong notes, the faux-chord splodges and the unmelodic melodies. No one coming out of Coraline was thinking about the music. They were thinking about the production — in particular, the astonishing decapitated hand at the end — or the acting or the story. The music was incidental.

The one thing I loved about Coraline (and which almost redeemed it for me) was the fact that every word — nay, every syllable — was perfectly understandable. There were no surtitles, and we didn’t them. I am far too ignorant to even guess how Turnage did it, but he did, and any opera composers should surely study the score for this reason. Never did the orchestra overwhelm or obscure the words. It was a model of clarity.

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Purcell’s King Arthur at the Barbican

Brexity Brexity Brexity Brexit. This might as well have been the revised title of this opera. That, or A Brexit Fantasia with Purcellian Interruptions. Or more prosaically, King Arthur and the Knights of the Exiting the European Union Select Committee.

King Arthur is an English semi-opera — that is, a combination of theatre and opera where the protagonists are actors and do not sing. As a result, little of the music makes explicit reference to the Arthurian legend, enabling director Daisy Evans to discard the story and in its place create a ‘debate piece’, as she called it, on contemporary British politics.

Her reasoning is thus: King Arthur is a symbol of Britishness; the nationalist sentiments in the opera cannot be convincingly sung by a modern singer in light of modern developments; therefore we need a production that probes and questions. Evans does this through an incoherent miscellany of poetry spoken in between the songs and music (which needless to say she has radically reordered). From the programme:

This production isn’t about King Arthur the legend, it’s about the idea of King Arthur and the values that he embodies. The full title of the original piece is King Arthur or The British Worthy, and what we’re exploring here is whether that really is the model of British worthiness we still want to stand up for.

These kinds of questions are invariably posed by people who already have a very firm answer, but wish to be sly about it. They can always pull a face and feign innocence, saying ‘what, I was only asking a question?!’

The opera began with the singers, dressed causally, descending into the hall like a flock of latecomers. Each singer wore a plastic rectangle hanging from their neck, either in red or blue. A sign to the left of the stage read ‘Leave & Remain’ (later signs included ‘men and women’, and the inevitable ‘us and them’). Narrator Ray Fearon took centre stage and began reciting a poem from Ali Smith’s post-Brexit book Autumn:

All across the country, people felt unsafe.
All across the country, people were laughing their heads off.
All across the country, people felt legitimised.

And so on. This was set up as call and response. Fearon would shout ‘All across the country’ and the singers would shout back ‘people felt legitimised’. The scene ended with Fearon reciting The Bloody Sire by Robinson Jeffers while the singers filmed him with their smartphones.

Later ‘highlights’ included the singers ripping up newspapers — fake news! — and a group of drunken (loutish?) men rowdily singing ‘Old England, Old England, And heigh for the honour of old England.’ One suspects this was meant to ridicule, or at least portray suspiciously, working class patriotism.

Then there was a passage from Shakespeare’s Henry V and the triumphant song ‘Come if you dare’, neither of which one can object to in and of themselves, and the latter of which is one of my favourite songs to sing in the shower (‘Triumphant with spoils of our vanquished invaders!’) The interval came and I left. Fifty minutes of politicised and ‘modernised’ Purcell was already too much. So this is a sort of semi-review of a semi-opera, I guess.

The most annoying thing is that there was no reason for it to be so bad. Superb orchestra, superb cast, superb music, and superb story. But a spanner had to be thrown in the works because the director wanted the production to be relevant. Yet the Arthurian legend is one of the few remaining historic cultural bonds. It’s not exactly an out-of-date of irrelevant myth that needs to be overhauled in light of contemporary events. But obviously Ms Evans disagrees. She would rather substitute the rarity and wonder of an opera for the banality of politics.

Paul O’Dette at Wigmore Hall

I only found it about it this morning, and impulsively I hopped onto the next train, just managing to get to London in time for this afternoon recital by the great American lutenist Paul O’Dette. The programme consisted entirely of English lute music, including O’Dette’s own arrangements of William Byrd’s keyboard music. It’s a fair representation of the music of the time, often called the ‘golden age’ of English lute music (approx. 1580-1620). Lots of dance music — almaines, pavans and galliards — and popular tunes, alongside Dowland’s two ‘Farewell’ fantasies. The programme is more or less the happier side of the lute, more dance than counterpoint, more extravagance than reflection. None of this is a dismissal of the music — a John Johnson pavan is generally as artful and interesting as a fantasie, though in different ways.

Paul O’Dette played the challenging show-off pieces with apparent ease. The last piece in the programme was Daniel Bacheler’s variations on ‘Monsieur’s Almaine’, a tour de force of tremolo playing and rapid passages. His playing of the Dowland ‘Farewell’ fantasie (P3), a slow, chromatic and contrapuntal piece of incredible beauty, was less convincing. I felt it was too fast, for one, and just not as expressive as, say, Nigel North, who manages to get that warmth and purposeful expression O’Dette somewhat lacks. It probably didn’t help that the piece was repeatedly interrupted by one man’s prolific and unstifled coughing. (This same man, as well as the woman next to him, presumably his wife, was asleep for the first part of the concert, lightly snoring.)

A very pleasant lady next to me said she found the music soothing, which it indeed is, but I also gently pointed out to her that the pieces aren’t so soothing to play, not only because of difficulty, but also because of the remarkable dissonances in pieces like the Dowland ‘Farewell’ fantasie. Though admittedly the lute might need a venue even smaller than Wigmore Hall to be at its most brilliant. I was about twelve rows back, and even there it was beginning to sound a bit distant, despite O’Dette’s loud (and occasionally harsh) playing.

O’Dette is also an excellent writer, so I was glad to see that he wrote his own programme notes. Particularly interesting was the few paragraphs on playing Byrd’s keyboard music on the lute, how much interpretative freedom lutenists gave themselves and some of the technical challenges.

An aside, at one point I saw O’Dette adjust his frets. Lute frets are not fixed; they are gut strings tied around the neck. You can change the intonation this way (the lute is a pre-equal temperament instrument). I have wondered whether lutenists adjust the frets for different pieces, especially for different keys — perhaps he was doing this?

21st Century Theorbo Music

Matthew Wadsworth is a pretty amazing guy. Although blind, he’s nevertheless become a first-class lutenist and even studied under Nigel North. There’s clearly a stubbornly ambitious streak in him. In addition to his lute playing, he’s trying to break the record for blind motorcycle jumping. An excellent little documentary was made of the whole process.

I saw him perform a couple of weeks ago — lute, that is. He is without a doubt a fine player with a profound understanding of the music he plays. I will say that there were a few wrongs notes and instances of string buzzes — enough to make one slightly uncomfortable. I found myself comparing him to the lutenist Thomas Dunford, who I also saw recently. Dunford can whizz through the fastest passages in a fairly carefree way. Wadsworth doesn’t even try to play that fast; he’s a more contemplative player, whether by choice or not. This actually made him very convincing on something like Robert Johnson’s Pavan in C Minor, which is a less florid and more intense piece. I wish he would do a whole album of Johnson because that and the two Almaynes were just superb — dare I say, they were even better than the versions Nigel North has recorded.

But surely the most interesting thing he played was a newly-written piece for the theorbo. It’s based on The Miller’s Tale from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, and written for Wadsworth by Welsh guitarist and composer Stephen Goss. The piece is structured sort of like a Baroque suite but with a prologue and epilogue. Each movement is supposed to represent a character from the tale. Here’s Wadsworth performing the estampie; the character represented is John:

Wadsworth has since released an album, Late Night Lute, so I’ve had the chance to listen to give The Miller’s Tale another few listens today. I’ve never read Chaucer, and I have to admit that my attempt to do so today ended in impatience with the Middle English language. But the music nonetheless appeals to me. It makes great use of those signature bass strings of the theorbo, and also quite interesting use of harmonics. The theorbo is a weirdly tuned instrument, giving the player an unusual palette to paint with — and paint Goss does. The arpeggiated harmonics in the toccata are a good example of this, creating a truly unique effect, especially with those powerful bass strings. It does sound kind of otherwordly. In fact, much of the piece does, like something old but alien. The estampie above is perhaps a bit different, being more of a lively, rhythmic movement. But the rest are quite meditative, very much playing to Wadsworth’s apparent strengths. I wish we had more composers writing for this rich instrument. As far as I know, the only other example is James MacMillan, whose Since it was the day of preparation… begins with a beautiful theorbo solo.

Anyway. Very much recommend checking out Wadsworth’s new release, available on Spotify, Amazon, and all that. To sign off, here’s Wadsworth performing Robert Johnson’s Care Charming Sleep. It’s a nice performance, but I’m starting to suspect that he might actually be more comfortable on the theorbo.

Messiaen Turangalîla Symphony

What am I missing? I recently saw this live, and was extremely excited to do so. But half way through I realised I didn’t actually like it that much. It’s so lurid, so unusually irreverent for Messiaen. Most reviewers have raved about the performance and the work, except for Neil Fisher at The Times, who described Turangalîla as ‘stupefyingly dull, its 80-minute span leaving me less filled with cosmic energy than stifling some truly cosmic yawns.’ I don’t think it’s dull. I was thoroughly interested and engaged throughout; the work is filled with colour and complexity. It’s just too boisterous, too repetitive — and again, ‘lurid’ is the term that keeps coming to mind.

The concert opened with L’Ascension, which is a mesmerising piece. I knew it by the organ version, which has a different third movement. The third movement in the orchestral version is more Turangalîla-like than the other movements, beginning with a fanfare then it moves along hurriedly, and becomes almost dance-like towards the end when the tambourine gets going. But it’s somehow much less vulgar than Turangalîla, with splashes of majestic chords, no sensual extravagance and no pointless sliding up and down on the bleeding ondes Martenot.

The last movement of L’Ascension, which sounded like a sort of inversion of the first movement, was so beautiful. Constantly moving forward in unity, weaving through aching dissonances and surprising you, almost serendipitously, with such joyous harmonies. Going from that to Turangalîla was like wandering from church into a nightclub. Yet maybe this is what people what? The Bachtrack review began by saying this: ‘Messiaen’s L’Ascension came and went. It was fine, pleasant enough, nothing special. And then came Turangalîla.’ 

I’m not out to bash Turangalîla and proclaim it overrated. I think the first movement is an exciting start, the symphony has some nice lyricism in it and I want to like its wilder moments. But it’s just — ugh, I’m going to have to say it for a third time — so lurid! It doesn’t help, I suppose, that it must be one of the longest symphonies ever written. Though I had no problem enjoying his two-hour piano work, Vingt regards sur l’enfant-Jésus.

Anyway, here it is, performed by the Frankfurt Radio Symphony and conducted by Paavo Järvi, Turangalîla: