Tempo is fearless as Buchbinder silences venue’s doubters
Music
No 2 was the most sensitive and dynamically varied I’ve heard yet from Buchbinder in this cycle, especially the first movement. The Largo had simple nobility and the Scherzo some real delicacy. The Sonata in G, Opus 31 No 1 is full of graceful wit; Buchbinder made the most of it in the charming Adagio. overlaid by shots of children behind barbed wire barriers, and the cliches associated with Spain – Carmen being one – are debunked with mordant humour.
At times it has a grotesquely manic energy, as if Bunuel and Dali are in the wings, encouraging Galvin towards surreal extremes. By the end, however, the piece has coalesced into a raw anthem for a persecuted people. The dancers – Galvin is joined by Belen Maya and Isabel Bayon – portray flamenco on the rack: danced in battered clogs by a bedraggled woman, slinked up into a1930s Berlin cabaret by a showgirl, vented by Galvin himself as an act of resistance.
Brutal, abrasive, raucous. Lo Real is all these, but remarkable dancers, musicians and singers show us traditions did not all die in the ghetto. tonal exactness. The Frenchman is a master of contemporary music, classicism and impressionism alike — just think back to that definitive Debussy/ Ligeti recital at the 2013 Edinburgh International Festival, or the kaleidoscopic wonders he unleashed in Stockhausen’s Kontakte that same year. Last night his Ravel was undemonstrative but equally revelatory. It wasn’t the breezy thing some pianists make of the piece: the outer movements bore the frenetic angst and bouts of potent nostalgia of the age (late 1920s) and Aimard’s searching bass lines and knack of holding the sustain pedal across harmonies hinted at rare, disquieting depths in the Adagio.
Salonen opened with Ravel’s Mother Goose Suite but gave it and the concerto a cool touch: he had not been planning on this repertoire and it showed. The second half was a different story. Stravinsky’s Petruchka (1947) came in blazing with thick textures, chunky rhythms, deadpan wit and glorious flute solos from Samuel Coles. A fullthrottle account of Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini closed the programme, Dante’s whirlwind furious, the final apotheosis red-blooded. It all hung around a haunting first utterance of the love theme, fine-spun and beautifully still from clarinettist Mark van de Wiel.
Rob Adams IF, like her Hub Sessions co-star Robert Glasper, Anna Calvi hadn’t returned for an encore, she might have left two of her biggest statements unaired.
The coupling of Jezebel and Eliza, the former a throbbing romp with her band that emphasised the London-born singer-guitarist’s big voice in a small frame status, the latter with that voice more quietly luxuriating in a lovely orchestration, encapsulated the two sides of Calvi that this concert showcased.
Like these two songs, Calvi herself is an interesting contrast: she has little, if anything, to say between songs and when she does address the audience she’s almost apologetically diffident. Yet her singing voice holds nothing back.
It can be operatic, possibly reflecting her Italian blood, and there are elements of flamenco in the drama of her delivery, as there are in the songs themselves.
The concert also held contrasts. In parts it was brilliant with superb string arrangements and marvellously effective choral parts making for grandiose music in the best possible sense.
In other parts it was a bit of a mess, with the detail of her band’s contributions, the drummer excepted, and the orchestra lost in a general fog that made Calvi’s lyrics indistinct.
There are times, though, when the racket Calvi makes can be glorious.
Her slide guitar playing is as rough as Desperate Dan’s stubble, more Hound Dog Taylor fury than Ry Cooder finesse, and her treatment of Bruce Springsteen’s Fire distils the E Street Band’s essence into one Telecaster.
If, for now, her material can be a bit slight, there’s surely more of greater substance to come. Sponsored by Russian Standard Vodka
Kate Molleson THERE are occasions when a scratch ensemble sounds like nothing more or less. Then there are occasions — yesterday was one — when being thrown together can work wonders in fresh spirit and ultra-intent listening.
Countertenor Iestyn Davies did a Wigmore Hall recital with a group called Ensemble Guadagni a few years ago: same name, different players. Yesterday’s programme of Purcell and John Blow featured a crack bunch of baroque music instrumentalists, led by violinist Bojan Cicic and powered from the harpsichord by Richard Egarr. A pair of recorders included the mighty Pamela Thorby, ever bold and rich-toned, while Alison McGillivray provided stylish, supple gamba lines and William Carter wove filigree textures and rhythmic thrust from guitar and theorbo. I could have listened all day to their exuberant, supremely sensitive playing in Purcell’s Fantasia: Three Parts on a Ground.
Davies himself is on stratospheric form at the moment, fresh from singing in Barrie Kosky’s opulent production of Handel’s Saul at Glyndebourne and clearly in operatic mood. There were moments yesterday when less could have done more: the Queen’s Hall is no vast auditorium and the instrumentalists were providing cushioning of glittering delicacy.
There were times, too, when the dauntless confidence that Davies brings to the stage glosses over some of the music’s most touching cracks and vulnerability.
Purcell’s O Solitude had a very robust melancholy; Music For A While was all big, clean lines. But the clarity, command and directness of Davies’s singing is phenomenally impressive.
Strike the Viol was a call to arms, sung very much in the imperative, and What Power Art Thou had a dark urgency. Fairest Isle was flawless, full-bodied, arresting.
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