Rattle on fire, even if you can't hum Bruckner

British concertgoers had the chance, earlier this week, to bid farewell to the partnership between the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra and it’s conductor since 1999, Sir Simon Rattle.

Two concerts at the Southbank Centre over two nights offered the hallmarks of Rattle’s tenure in the German capital – programmes combining classic works and new ones. The Other Half and I were fortunate enough to have been able to book decently-priced tickets just a few days earlier, having struggled to find anything that seemed affordable some months earlier.

The first concert saw the UK premiere of Hans Abrahamsen’s Three Pieces for Orchestra, followed by Bruckner’s ninth symphony.

The former was really short, but fascinating. The composer was influenced by Steve Reich in particular, and it certainly reflects such minimalism, while also involving incredibly complex rhythms – particularly in the third piece.

Understated in so many ways, it was a fascinating piece – and one that will make me look up the composer.

Bruckner’s ninth is … well, it was unfinished and it is big (arguably overlong) and is loud. Those were my impressions last year when we saw/heard Bernard Haitink conduct the LSO at the Barbican in the same work. Context: oddly (or perhaps not) that was just after my mother’s funeral. This concert came as I am arranging my father’s funeral. Which will doubtless ensure that it sticks in my mind in terms of this music.

Last year was a performance that seemed merely loud. This had far, far more nuance – though it’s still overlong as piece. I am not knowledgable about relative acoustics, so I cannot know whether those of the Royal Festival Hall or the Barbican are better.

But one thing was clear, though – the orchestra’s sound.

On both the contemporary and the Romantic, the Berlin’s sound was simply superb. British orchestras have historically been let down by the string playing, but have improved greatly in recent years. Yet when you hear a band like this, you experience something that is a step into something special. And shimmering strings are an enormously important way to judge an orchestra.

Rattle’s German years come with mixed results – his recording with the Berlin of Orff’s Carmina Burana is pretty dreadful – but he is happy to experiment with new music and with the interpretation of less-new music.

Classical music should not be an ant encased in amber – it needs the likes of Rattle to make it live in the here and now, so personally, I’m ready to deal with the negative results of that.

This Bruckner gave me a sense of the piece being worth the effort. It was also a good moment to remember that Rattle had, as a precondition of his appointment, ensured that all the musicians got a wage rise after years of declining pay; that he took the band into schools and that he gurned it into a foundation, to remove it from all political control.

Rattle might not be a Karajan (who could be?), but his legacy in Berlin will be a very long and important one. The English in particular might have a suspicion of anything intellectual/high cultural, but Rattle is someone we should celebrate and hopefully, his tenure at the LSO will help further boost classical music on this side of the Channel.

Music – and musicianship – to take the breath away

Veronika Eberle

Every so often, a great work of art comes up for sale and people gasp when it goes for a huge sum – the sort of sum that is pretty unimaginable for most of us.

It’s fair to say that Stradivarius instruments are works of art – and they go for millions too, but while I’ve seen plenty of works of art that have been bought for a great deal of money or are insured for incredible amounts, I have not heard a Strad being played – well, not in the flesh, that is.

Or not until Thursday night, that is.

Back at the Barbican for our first concert since 1 June, when we left the Barbican after being delighted by the London Symphony Orchestra, Bernard Haitink and Mitsuko Uchida, playing Beethoven and Bruckner, this was for Haitink conducting the LSO once more.

In this case, we started with Three Studies from Couperin by Thomas Adès (2006). The Other Half had not heard any of the British composer’s music before, while I’d not heard only a limited amount: both of us were fascinated.

Baroque composer Couperin was particularly fond of repetition and Adès’s adaptations are striking in their successful fusing of the old with the new and how they retain a sense of the Baroque while also bringing to mind something as modern and minimalistic as John Adams’s Shaker Loops.

Beautifully played and conducted, as a result, The Other Half uploaded my only recording of an Adès work to his digital collection – and I ordered copies of an anthology of his works, plus the opera, The Tempest.

Next up was Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor and out came German violinist Veronica Eberle – with that violin, the ‘Dragonetti’, made in 1700 at the start of the ‘Golden Age’ of Stradivarius. She plays it courtesy of the Nippon Music Foundation, which owns a number of great instruments and ‘loans’ them out to musicians.

But make no bones about it – the greatest violin in the world cannot make a mediocre player sound great: Eberle is exceptional and makes it sing.

Oh, my goodness. Almost from the beginning, I was leaning forward – drawn to the utterly sublime playing. At times, she almost dances while playing; like other truly great musicians, she makes the music come alive and rescues it from any sense of polite drawing rooms.

My view of Mendelssohn has been marred by ‘Here Comes the Bride’ – this rescued it.

At the end, it was like an orgasm: I burst into tears while bursting into applause. A sublime sound – like a soaring bird, on occasions: the clarity of the notes was simply other-worldly. This is why puritans of any stripe distrust (at best) music – because the experience of it can be like sex and, of course, like religious ecstasy.

After the interval, we returned for Brahms’s Symphony No2 in D major, a light piece that beautifully illustrates the composer’s link to Beethoven.

It’s not difficult to see why programmes work in such a manner, but it’s a shame that the Mendelssohn and Eberle were not the climax to the evening.

If June reminded me of just how good live music can be – this took it new heights. Utter bliss – and serious food for the spirit.

Pink Martini leave the Royal Albert Hall jumping

It’s a rare week indeed when The Other Half and I see two live performances of any variety. But the last few days have gone beyond ‘rare’ and into the downright surreal.

After witnessing a chorus line of tap dancing noses at the Royal Opera House on Thursday, Saturday offered up the sight of his excellency the US ambassador to the court of St James on stage at the Royal Albert Hall, playing the triangle.

But sure enough, friend of the band Matthew Barzun – presumably intending to enjoy a quiet eve-of birthday celebration by watching Pink Martini – had been lured on stage for a number.

And, of course, it gave him the opportunity to call on any compatriots in the 5,000-strong audience to vote next month in the US presidential elections. He didn’t say who they should vote for, but Pink Martini is a big band that describes itself on Twitter thus: “If the United Nations had a house band in 1962, hopefully we'd be it.”

In other words, you might be able to take a guess at the type of people likely to be in attendance.

Along with the moment when the son of Palestinian refugees introduced a song he’d written for the band in Egyptian Arabic – and then hugged the vocalist, Ari Shapiro, who is Jewish – that was it with politics for the night.

These concerts really should be formally described as ‘Pink Martini and friends’, because not only did we get the US ambassador taking part, we were introduced to a young pianist band leader Thomas Lauderdale had just happened to meet, plus Ikram Goldman.

Credited with getting Michelle Obama interested in fashion, Goldman is the hugely influential owner of a high-end boutique in Chicago, but having introduced Lauderdale and co to the Arabic song Al Bint Al Shalabiya, she joined them on stage to sing it.

A brand new album

The band has recently penned three songs for the forthcoming French film, Souvenir – sung on screen by the wonderful Isabelle Huppert and on stage by the equally wonderful China Forbes, one of Pink Martini’s two regular lead vocalists.

And then there was a three-song guest spot by Australian singer-performer-cabaret artist (she defies easy label) Meow Meow, whose initial song, with two unwitting male ‘volunteers’ from the floor of the house, reminded both The Other Half and I of a routine by the late, great Eartha Kitt.

We get a spot of Schubert on the piano as a segueway into a pair of songs about a couple having a row: one from her perspective, one from his (radio journalist and regular guest Shapiro gets the latter of these, after Forbes has given us the first).

A lot of the current material in the concert features on the new album – Je Dis Oui! – which was given it’s global release on the UK leg of this tour.

The Pinks are all superb musicians, from Lauderdale, with his flamboyant style of playing the piano, through the likes of Forbes and percussionist – and occasional vocalist and dancer – Timothy Nishimoto.

This is sophisticated easy listening with a global sensibility.

A fabulous show that had the entire joint jumping by the end, with their marvellous version of Brazil (you can catch a flavour of the final few minutes here), Portland, Oregon’s finest leave you with a wide grin on your face, a spring in your step and optimism in your heart.

For details about more dates (in the UK and elsewhere) visit pinkmartini.com/shows/. The new album is available in the UK now, but details of its wider release are also on the band’s website.

Camp heaven with Pink Martini and The Von Trapps

Pink Martini

There are times in life when something happens that, however quirky and however surreal, it is perfectly suited to the situation.

Last week, finding myself singing along with four members of the von Trapp family to the Lonely Goatherd, was just such an occasion.

It was Thursday, toward the end of what could only be described – at its most polite – as a bit of a bitch of a week, and The Other Half and I found ourselves traipsing out west for the evening.

It had been six months ago that I’d booked tickets to see Pink Martini at the Eventim (Hammersmith) Apollo.

A 10-12 piece combo that founder and classically-trained pianist Thomas Lauderdale has called a “little orchestra”, it has also been variously described as being “somewhere between a 1930s Cuban dance orchestra, a classical chamber music ensemble, a Brazilian marching street band and Japanese film noir”, performing something that’s “part language lesson, part Hollywood musical”.

Or put another way, this is an act that defies easy and lazy labels.

The Other Half was introduced to Pink Martini some years ago, by colleagues playing the 1997 album Sympathique in a bar. He bought a copy – and then introduced me to two tracks in particular: Brazil and Que Sera Sera.

They are glorious versions – the latter, a haunting track, redolent of a ghostly fairground – and for someone who still loves all that old-fashioned Hollywood glamour, it was a perfect sound, although it should be pointed out that the Pinks organised and performed in a concert for the Occupy movement a couple of years ago, so for all that rather privileged backgrounds of some members, they’re hardly ‘Establishment’.

We have, in the years since, got most of their albums, but had never quite managed to catch them on stage – and indeed, had heard from someone who had seen them live, that they were a little ‘too perfect’ and a little flat live.

But six months ago, when tickets for a tour became available, I snapped up a pair – and then promptly forgot about it.

By Wednesday, when The Other Half reminded me, I was almost relieved not to be able to find the tickets anywhere: the last thing I felt like was trekking out to Hammersmith.

The following morning, however, Eventim proved calmly efficient at replacing the tickets and left them at the box office to collect, so there was no backing out.

Thursday turned out to be a nine-hour working day and my eyes were bugging as we caught the Tube west.

The Von Trapps

A hot dog from a van, followed by a (vastly overpriced) glass of Zinfandel rosé in the Art Deco bar served as preparation.

The crowd was still sparse when the house lights dipped and the quartet of The Von Trapps came out on stage.

Sofia, Melanie, Amanda and August are four of six siblings, grandchildren of Werner von Trapp, the fourth son of Captain von Trapp and step-son of Maria.

As one of the girls told us, in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s version of their story, Werner is renamed and becomes the boy who introduces himself to Maria as “I’m Kurt and I’m incorrigible” (oh, I remember the scene exactly).

This all won bursts of applause from some in the audience.

Anyway, in opening the concert, the half-hour set by this young group was charming and thoroughly enjoyable. It included a lovely cover of Dream A Little Dream and a new song that they had penned themselves, Storm – but nothing from ‘that’ show.

It was, though, very easy to see how they fit into the eclectic oeuvre of Pink Martini.

I was a little concerned, however, at the minimal level of atmosphere in the auditorium – which is a very large one. Would that report of a flat gig prove to be the same again?

After a half-hour interlude, on came Pink Martini themselves.

I had no need to fret. The hall was now far fuller, and it lifted as the band, with Lauderdale at the piano and China Forbes on lead vocals – looking like Callas in a flowing, black number – took the evening by the scruff of the neck, zipped up the rhythm and had the place rocking within minutes.

Witty spoken interludes included Forbes relating how, after making the mistake of assuming that some words they used for one of their earliest songs were out of copyright, they were sued in France – after which the French “asked us for our autographs”.

They’re playing the Follies Bergères in the next few weeks.

Lauderdale explained how he composed two different songs from the same classical root – a Schubert piece. The results were And Then You’re Gone and But Now I’m Back, the first of which features a woman angrily dismissing her lover after he’s left unexpectedly, while the latter sees him asking to be let back, and coming up with excuses as to his disappearance.

After Forbes sang the first, the second was performed by special guest Ari Shapiro – an American international reporter for National Public Radio who is now based in London, having previously been the station’s White House correspondent, and who sings (and sings very well) with the Pinks as a sideline.

The first of these songs segues easily from the Schubert to Latin beats, while the second moves into a swing style. Both are excellent.

The band seriously upset house management by inviting members of the audience to come up on stage and dance around them: it’s a big stage and there were, after all, steps on either side leading to and from the stalls.

Good-humoured chaos ensued, as a cross-generational crowd piled up the steps and others danced in the aisles, with senior house staff (“sorry to see it’s a police state”, noted Lauderdale sniffily, afterwards) desperately trying to stop the fun.

In a technological first (for this blog, anyway) I’ve managed to upload some video footage to give you an idea.

And when I say “cross-generational”, I mean it: Lauderdale had the house lights raised so as to find a 94-year-old woman who attends every London gig they play, while there were clearly children dancing on stage.

Other songs included a version of Abba’s Fernando – sung in Swedish, with Latin rhythms, and including the von Trapps as backing – which was just wonderful.

Their complex use of percussion reminds me of a drum band we encountered at a street festival in Barcelona some years ago – and which I loved then.

And a special little mention here for Timothy Nishimoto, who is not only one of three percussionists, but also adds vocals on some songs, and has some amazing dance moves.

It’s impossible to sit still to this sort of music: the woman next to me was managing – although I don’t know how, because I simply couldn’t.

And late on, the encores – almost an extra mini set – included the Lonely Goatherd with the von Trapps.

Now, if you think my previous comment of it as surreal is over done, think about it.

These were four young members of a family that has a genuinely remarkable backstory anyway, which was turned into a stage show and film that became such a smash global hit – it’s called ‘Rebel Nun’ in Argentina, by the way – that it’s been a substantial boost for the Austrian tourist industry.

Here they were, singing a song that was written for the fictionalised versions of their own grandfather and step great-grandmother.

And if you don’t think that that could ever be out-camped, it can and was – with Forbes and Shapiro teaming up to ‘do’ Barbra and Judy doing Happy Days Are Here Again/Get Happy.

Not forgetting, of course, that to finish things off came the Pinks’ biggest hit, Brazil, which had people congaing in the aisles.

Perfection!

It might have been a torrid week, but I cannot imagine a better antidote. Days later, the buzz remains.

Indeed, I’d go so far as to say it’s one of the very best concerts/gigs that I have ever been to.

And if you haven’t heard Pink Martini before – then do yourself a favour.

They have an excellent website and YouTube channel, which includes footage of the likes of their version of Fernando, while there are seven studio albums and they tour frequently.

pinkmartini.com

Pink Martini on YouTube

Variable Dutch cooking and excellent German music

'Van Dobben' croquettes, with odd accompaniments.

Amsterdam, day two: it dawned rather brightly, but with winds of around 25mph mitigating against any desire to wander very much.

Besides, we’d done a lot of walking the day before and very much felt the need for an easy day – not least since a concert awaited in the evening.

More than once I’ve made the mistake of thinking one has to run around – and forgetting that the day’s main event is in the evening and needs treating with due respect.

So after a stroll and a coffee in blustery Vondel Park, where the wind roared in the still-bare trees, we headed back to the Centrum and had lunch at the Café Americain, an Art Deco glory, where Mata Hari legendarily had her wedding breakfast.

I opted for the ‘Van Dobben’ – beef croquettes on sourdough bread, with mustard. Croquettes are popular in many forms in the Netherlands – another national dish is bitterballen, which is like a small, spherical croquette.

These were okay – although the vast doorsteps of bread seemed rather off-putting.

The place was not doing particularly well. Since we were staying at the adjoining hotel, we’d had breakfast there the day before, and decided that it was both overpriced and limited.

Latté – with caramel!

Indeed, the buffet breakfasts that I’d enjoyed in Lübeck had been far, far superior in so many ways. So that morning we’d settled for a coffee (latté with a caramel swirl! Who knew that burnt sugar could be so wonderful?) and a choc chip muffin at one of the cafés on the Liedseplein.

After lunch, the next few hours were spent in rest – much needed – before we headed back out and down to the Concertgeboew.

It had largely been a question of deciding, once we knew when we were going to be in the city, of looking to see if anything was on.

Since it turned out that Riccardo Chailly was conducting the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra in a performance of Mendelssohn’s second symphony, with a modern piece by Hans Werner Henze to complete the programme, I had booked tickets.

We’ve been to the hall before twice. First, to a ‘family’ matinee to hear Saint-Saëns’s Carnival of the Animals and Ravel’s Bolero, and then on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve 2009 we were there to see a traditional Netherlands concert that left us simply confused, turning out to be nothing that we could understand – not least because we had no clue who the TV personalities that were involved were.

This, however, was a horse of an entirely different musical colour.

But to start with, it’s worth noting that the hall, which was designed by Adolf Leonard van Gendt and opened in April 1888, has a reputation for some of the best acoustics around.

We had decided that, since there is a café, we’d eat there in the evening.

It didn’t look promising when we discovered that there was just the one option for a hot meal – chicken breast with a crust, served with a whole, roasted apple with a coconut meringue on top, and gratinéed endive.

Chicken, gratinéed endive and a baked apple.

As it happened, it also came with huge bowls of salad and more doorsteps of dark bread. And it turned out to be really very pleasant.

It was perfectly complimented by a glass of Grüner Veltiner 2010, an Austrian white wine, on the side.

And so to the music.

The Henze piece (a Dutch premiere) was Elogium Musicum, a choral piece, written in 2008, just four years before the composer’s own death at the age of 86, and as a form of obituary for his partner of 40-odd years, Fausto Moroni.

It is a setting of a specially-commissioned libretto by Latin scholar Franco Serpa – but the Latin here is not liturgical.

We had a sheet that gave a translation into Dutch, but I was able to find one into English via my phone: just as Amsterdam is not merely Sodom and Gomorrah, the internet is not just about porn and kittens.

At present, there is no recording of the work – although it has been performed in a number of countries and been critically acclaimed. It’s not difficult to understand why.

The music is fascinating – very modern, but with moments that hark back, in places, to the lyricism of the 19th century.

A rather fine concert hall.

There is a great sense of the natural world here, rather than any religious one – although the final poem does suggest a more deist idea of life.

But this is not a pastoral idea of nature – rather, it seems to link to that German forest again: here is darkness; foreboding; threatening sounds hidden amongst the trees; something at once primal and ancient.

It reminded me of the echoing crows in that small wood on the way back to the station at Travamünde.

Indeed, the second piece, for instance, talks of “vultures, dark crows, black menacing monsters raucously cawing”: this is Henze’s pain and loss reflected through a nature that is dark and threatening.

In the third piece, the female voices become chattering crickets, with the male voices complaining, and it ends with a dramatic ‘Basta!’ (‘Enough’).

I do hope that someone records this soon, because I very much want to listen to this again.

In sharp contrast, Mendelssohn’s second is the choral symphony known as ‘Lobgesang’, or ‘Hymn of Praise’, and has three orchestral movements, followed by 11 vocal ones.

The perfect end to an evening.

It was written in 1840 to celebrate the 400th anniversary of printing – which rather reminded me of the little corner of the Marienkirche in Lübeck, where a replica Gutenberg press stands, ready to turn a coin into a medal to mark your visit.

The role of printing in the Reformation is a point of reference too – not least in that original Catholic and later Lutheran church.

The music soared in true 19th century Romantic fashion, with fine singing from both the choir and the three soloists. In particular, Genia Kühmeier has a beautiful, crystal-clear soprano.

It was a fascinating counterpoint to the Henze.

But by gum – what an energetic conductor is Chailly: it intrigues me just what utterly different styles different conductors have.

Back at the hotel, we hit the cocktail bar to finish the night.

There we were, sitting sipping a Black Widow in my case, and something blue in The Other Half’s, when a woman nearby suddenly asked what they were.

No, ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon’ – just: “What are those?”

Older people these days, eh?

This means nothing to me

On Wednesday night, I bundled three white tops and a couple of pairs of knickers into the washing machine, which had already been part filled by The Other Half. Then I set it on a delayed start, to finish at 7am yesterday morning. We’re having beautiful weather at present, so the clothing could be put on the line to dry all day.

At around 7am, all prepped for the day, I pulled out the clean washing and went to hang it out. Argh!!! All the white tops were looking distinctly off colour – while the lacy one of the three (worn only once previously and destined for tonight’s big night) had developed a sort of murky brown highlighting on the entire lace design.

And sure enough, there amidst the laundry was the culprit – a rather sorry-looking black leather glove.

"It was an accident," pleaded its owner plaintively.

Well of course it was. If I thought for one moment that it was deliberate ...

The trouble is, as is the way with these things, this is not the first such episode. Pens are regular visitors to our washing machine. His pill box has been there at least once too, clattering mournfully at the door as the cycle continued, early escape impossible. And items of paper, from pay slips to scribbled notes to hankies to money, inevitably end their days as wet confetti, clinging to everything.

I have t-shirts (always white ones, of course) that have ink stains on them – but this was the worst such incident. And it’s worth pointing out that his clothes never seem to be affected.

I am now left to wonder whether I can find some white restorer tomorrow when shopping and whether that will actually work – or whether, as a last resort, I’ll have to deploy the bleach. An effort will be made, though. Because it’s a nice top.

Not, I suspect, that The Other Half is unique in this capacity. Or in such other dark male arts as Making a Mess in the Bathroom – which has, in his case, even involved the extraordinary feat of getting toothpaste on a mirror that is at least 40cm away from the basin and at a height several centimeters beyond that of him himself.

Missing the Toilet is beyond cliché, Never Managing to Wash Pans Out properly is the norm and Making a Mess in General is a given.

Anyway, I was piqued. To say the least. And thus I spent the first part of this morning engaged in a semi-frantic quest to put together an outfit that would be okay for work, but might just look a bit rock and roll for this evening.

I decided against jeans – they never look quite right on me – and opted for soft pants, black with a fine pinstripe, smart and very comfortable to wear; a white vest t-shirt, with a large white, granddad-collared linen shirt over it, studded leather cuff, black and silver earrings, a couple of good statement rings and a very large, chunky chain pendant, plus white leather flip-flops with silver buckle detail and my slightly battered black Tula handbag.

I was also sporting a short string of black beads, but they broke in the ladies at work. I will not believe that I am jinxed.

Slap will be applied later. But all in all, not bad, though I say so myself, and even if it doesn't count as a vision in blue.

It’s almost 4pm now. I am almost reaching a frenzy of excite-ment. Another hour or so and I shall be off to the west of London, with my biggest hope being that I am not disappointed.

For tonight is the Hammersmith leg of the Ultravox reunion tour and, having missed them in their heyday, I finally get to see them live, 30 years after starting to listen to their music.

Frankly, I can’t recall quite such a level of excitement for any other comparable event.

Please, Billy, Midge, Chris and Warren – don’t fail me now.