Autumn Poetry

Winter always had a special appeal to me, and still does; especially the latter part, after the new year sets in, with strange new beginnings to be had in the cold stillness of the season. No wonder, then, that winter is my favourite time of year - which reminds me that there's a new one here, and that you should all enjoy it. Happy new year!

 Going back to cold stillness, it is also no wonder I have a very personal (and also very special) affinity for the northern countries, Finland, the land of lakes, perhaps most of them all.

 And so this first post of the year, although it could have easily been dedicated to Sibelius, will be about a band.

Introductions aside, you might have noticed a small change in format. I might maintain it, if I feel it works. Also, this is indicative of one type of post you'll see here: a recommendation. Not a review, nor an analysis, presentation, or general commentary. Merely a "have a look at this".

What is "this"? It's a Finnish band called Poets of the Fall, whose albums have only been released in at most 7 countries (for the last one). A musical amalgam of moody, ballad-y rock with twitchy, jazzy rhythms, as well as more straightforward recitative, channeled through an intensely texture-conscious rhythmic and instrumental aural palette.

Confused you yet?

Drawing from the talents of a rock vocalist and extraordinary songwriter, a jazz guitarist and an "industrial machine trance man" (quoting Wikipedia's article) on the keyboard, Poets' music is like rhythmically volatile classic rock, making distinctive use of their impact on the listener, their "mood" as a structural tool like harmony. Their songs are carpets of texture, unrolled agonizingly slowly, or crumpled and set on fire; yet always with the utmost care.

 It is this care, and the sensitivity it reflects, coupled with phenomenal lyrics, that make Poets of the Fall perhaps my single favourite "band" among all viable members of that category.

So in a nutshell, if you enjoy sensitive, quirky, dead-serious yet playful rock, from the strongly inward-looking Signs of Life, to the more expansive, hardened and physically hard-hitting (later) Carnival of Rust and Revolution Roulette, the Poets of the Fall deserve your ear.

[Cover of the band's latest album, taken from their official site.]

Two further, non-essential but interesting notes:

• I learned of Poets of the Fall by playing Finnish Remedy Entertainment's magnum opus and gaming landmark, Max Payne 2: the developers had contacted the then-new band to write a song for them to use as a theme for (and throughout) the game, and the result was the  (in my opinion amazing) ballad "Late Goodbye", still my favourite song of any type.

• Poets of the Fall apparently record (or recorded the first album) in a studio they'd set up themselves in one of the members' houses. I'm noting this because the sound is particularly impressive, balanced and crystal-clear throughout; more than would be expected even from a big studio with a dedicated sound team, especially for this genre!
  

More Like It

Hot on the heels of my scathing dismissal of Gramophone's current quality standards came new to me that the magazine is making their entire archive (1923-2008) available online!

In fact, it's already available as I'm typing this, right here.

For every single word I've said about the Gramophone in its current state/mess, I have a hundred words of praise for its content in the old era, even from the fragment of which I've been exposed to indirectly, and through the reviews their other site previously had available.

From landmark interviews, to columns and reviews by pretty much the entire British musical elite (and not just them - see for example: Rachmaninov on Rachmaninov) throughout the 20th century, I can't stress it enough: if you're remotely interested in classical recordings and their history, this demands your urgent attention!

Expectations

Expectations are dangerous things.

"Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment", to quote a famous piece of  Warhammer 40K Space Marine propaganda. A reader of The Prodigal Sorcerer, for instance (if any), would likely have expected an update; or otherwise expect, by now, that I have given up.

The expectation for an update has been met. But if one had stopped expecting an update, and begun expecting my giving up, I wonder if I should now apologise for disappointing them...

Another case of expectation for this first re-introductory post, now that the issue of my home internet connection has been sorted: the 100th Karajan anniversary year, 2008. Marking the maestro's 100th birthday, 2008 was to be a year of Herbert von Karajan releases like no other: box sets, remasterings, new releases galore.

And the question that has haunted me, maybe because I worry too much about these things, is: could the expectations of the Karajanophiles possible be met, by "Karajan year 2008"?

I think mine have now been fully met. After set upon set of highly interesting Karajan re-releases (including his complete EMI catalogue), and a surely-fascinating set of his first 'own' Salzburg Festival (which could have been issued any time), finally, a true anniversary release:

This is Karajan's final London concert, with his beloved Berlin Philharmonic just prior to their subsequent divorce and his death, as issued by Testament for the first time, on any format.

As soon as I saw the announcement for its release on the record label's website, I was shocked: here was one of Karajan's most famous concerts, that I had once seen described as one of the best concerts of an older concertgoer's entire lifetime, finally made available!

And here, to come back to the theme for this post, expectation kicked in: Brahms is one of my most cherished composers, the 1st Symphony a Karajan "calling card"; and the earlier studio recording of Schönberg's Verklärte Nacht one of his trademark "great records".

So given the general, critical and public, consensus on the profundity of Karajan's late live Brahms, and the specific reputation of that concert, I was expecting a miracle concert indeed!

Well, I got my wish.

I admit even my expectations left me unprepared for the Mahler-9th-primed string sound of the BPO on either piece, ferociously sensitive and bitingly sincere; the ravishing reading of the Schönberg; the titanic reading of the Brahms, easily bettering all six of his studio versions.

And for anyone who might pin my view on fanboyism, even within the Karajan discography, there is hardly anything like either of these performances. Only in his best work can one see this intensity, this drama, or this lyricism; and almost never* combined as they are here.

Even in general, I don't think I've ever heard a more sincerely-argued and stunning Brahms 1st - not even from Brahmsian-par-excellence Fürtwangler, usually my first choice for Brahms.

So on this evidence, one only hopes the late-80s Berlin concerts of the full cycle will one day see the light of day, perhaps as unexpectedly as this and an earlier London concert; preferably before 2108. And until such news arrive, I can at least update the Sorcerer more often.

(The earlier concert was a 1985 performance of Strauss' Ein Heldenleben and Beethoven's 4th Symphony. But since this is the Prodigal Sorcerer, not The Gramophone, I will refrain from turning this comment-oriented blog into the Karajan Review Weekly.)

*The string-heavy live 1982 Mahler 9th might be the only other sample of this sort of "late" sound from the Berlin Philharmonic under Karajan; albeit at an earlier stage than the 1988 concert discussed here. My comment on the "Mahler-9th-primed string sound" thus refers to the latter phase of Mahler 9th concerts Karajan conducted, ca. 1987. Presumably, that is where the BPO crystallised the expressive means so evident in 1988, to complement their trademark instrumental prowess.

More Posts To Come When I Have Time (TM):

- The Wrath of the Lich King!

- The Wrath of the Credit Crunch; or How Renfield Broke His Promise.

- Introducing: The Prodigal Sorcerer's Comparative Review.

And Now For Something Completely Different: Behold, A Useful Post

Since this blog's establishment, I have done my best to turn my "acquaintance period" with the medium into something more than a stream of nonsense: a stream of entertaining nonsense.

Because in all honesty, occasionally entertaining (though labyrinthine, "syntactic boa constrictors", to adapt a Brahms quote) as The Prodigal Sorcerer's posts up to this point might have been, they are still nowhere near the stated goal of providing something.

So let me start steering this blog into the waters it was actually due to sail (if you'll excuse the overtly literary metaphor), through providing you with two links, and a small introduction.

I am a member of the GMG Classical Music Forum, as might be evident by my linking it. (See: "Relevant To My Interests, just to the right.)

And in this wonderful forum, which I will no doubt discuss again in future posts, there is a thread about what each member is listening to, where many an odd thing sees the light of the world at large: privately-sourced recordings, old LPs, new releases, downloads and radio or internet broadcasts all eventually appear.

So, in the realm of the latter, now that I am done with forming that rather idyllic picture of our "listening" thread, through a link he provided, esteemed member Bruce Hodges (one of our moderators, as well) alerted me to the existence of two immensely interesting sites:

The first is SymphonyCast, and it provides free broadcasts, available on demand, for one orchestral concert of symphonic music per week from the world's most prominent concert halls and orchestras.

"A great nation deserves great art" appears to be the rubric (sponsored by UBS), and although this site is mainly intended for an American audience as a result, it is still a fantastic source of high-quality (for broadcasts; 128kbps) material from such ensembles as the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, or the Berlin Philharmonic in fascinating programmes, often by conductors among the finest (ca. 2008).

For example, I dipped into a concert by the RCO, Iván Fischer conducting, culminating in Schoenberg's transcription of Brahms' Piano Quarter No. 1 for orchestra; and then on to the Berlin Philharmonic playing Schubert's 9th (C minor) Symphony under Bernard Haitink!

I won't add anything beyond that anyone orchestrally-inclined should investigate posthaste. And thus the second site, which those of you following classical broadcasts on the net are almost certainly aware of, but which I am still mentioning, is medici.tv.

"A compilation of on-demand video broadcasts from the great Verbier Festival, as well as more concerts from Aspen and Aix-en-Provence, coupled with live streams of them from all three (after which they enter the free, on-demand phase), and a huge historical catalogue of classical concerts and documentaries to boot (albeit for a fee, these).

The broadcasts are available in low and high quality to account for one's connection speed, and are magnificently presented throughout."

What's more to add on medici.tv? Beyond the fact that they're also sponsored by UBS, conspicuously, I can't think of anything.

But if the notion of having a front-row seat at every concert in the Verbier Festival (let alone the other two), listening to some of the best chamber and orchestral musicians perform incredible music live or whenever you want to does not appeal to you, then I do imagine you're in the part of the readership that's not here for the music!

Let me even throw in the fact that both the MET(ropolitan Opera), and now the Bayreuth Festival (yes, I did write what you just read; albeit for a hefty fee) are streaming a number of their productions online, to couple the orchestral and chamber music from above.

So it seems that times do change. And in the face of this revolution in the dissemination of good music across the globe, I would enjoy having someone tell me we are, in fact, in cultural decline.

A Chopin(g) Liszt Triumph!

Oh yes, going from one bad pun to the next (see title).

However, the subject matter, a Chopin and Liszt piano music compilation from the hands of Sviatoslav Richter, is altogether beyond my repeated poor attempts at humour.

When I was compiling said shopping list yesterday, you see (in my head), the 2-disc set in question was a big "maybe":

According to Decca, the recordings dated from 1988, and that was not generally Richter's best period (old as he was, by then). But he did have moments of brilliance in that era, and I couldn't rule out the possibility. And what of the Liszt B minor sonata, always tricky?

Yet in any affair, I finally caved in and put it in the shopping list, spent a whole lot more money than I planned between it and Horowitz's last public recital (superb), and was amply rewarded!

For that is no mere recital, in that Richter disc (was that trite enough?): it is genius caught on record, the legendary pianist at his elusive best throughout. In fact, his best period too, if information I was given placing the recordings in 1966 is correct (very likely).

Masterful and deeply profound, this is a disc that I would recommend to all Chopin or Liszt lovers, or anyone wanting to find out what either composer can sound like in such great hands.

Edit: Added a snide self-critical remark, which you can ignore; I couldn't.

Period Rabbit & Omelet

So I call my parents, today, and catch them eating lunch. "I'm listening to the Trout", I mention - the Schubert quintet: "we're eating rabbit, here, and some omelet", responds my father.

I'll keep that in mind if I compose a quintet one day. I'm sure the "Rabbit & Omelet" will be just as popular as the Trout; if not more!

On other news, I've had a wonderful morning listening to parts of the recent Anima Eterna Beethoven sympony cycle, Jos van Immerseel conducting, truly a (period) delight.

And I say this as someone who is not particularly fond of "historically informed" (period performance) Beethoven interpretation.

 Yet this cycle "delivers the goods", as they say...

Finally, I at last acquired a very persistently elusive 1964 recording of the "Heroic" Polonaise (in A flat) by, of course, Frédéric Chopin, courtesy of the late and great Artur Rubinstein.

 Which I admit was available via an easy-to-get RCA release all along. But I wish record labels would be wiser in promoting their wares, repeating the same wish every time I see another bland recording of "crowd pleaser A" get the spotlight instead of the real treasures in the respective label's catalogue. End of rant.

[Lots of editing, as is the custom.

Make what you will of the content, before it changes again!]

[Ouch. What a typo! Thankfully it's gone now. Then you ask why I keep editing those posts; or you don't ask, but I answer regardless...]

Ravel Unleashed

I once read about the Vienna Symphony Orchestra that, though inferior to the Vienna Philharmonic, on a good night, you'd be hard pressed to tell the two apart.

 And it does seem part of the live orchestral concert experience, the thrill of the unexpected: the good night and the bad night; the promise of that magical improvised éncore...

It was with some trepidation that I went to an all-Ravel concert in the Odeon of Herodes Atticus (Athens, Greece), as part of the yearly Athens Festival, precisely for that reason. 

 The last concert I had attended in that (otherwise incredible) open-air venue was of Olivier Messiaen's Des Canyons aux Étoiles, a superb Ensemble InterContemporain playing literally against the wind. Would the weather be a problem? Would the orchestra, the Orchestre de Paris under Christoph Eschenbach's baton, be in good form? 

As it turned out, the weather was not a problem: a fine day, not too warm, as is often the case for Greece, and just enough wind to make the evening pleasant. And the first piece on the programme, the fairy-tale suite Ma Mère l'Oie went off without a hitch; beautifully.

 Indeed, there was quite unusually beautiful orchestral playing in evidence, fully in line with my expectations of a French orchestra playing Ravel: Eschenbach in full rapport with his orchestra, including an enchanting first violin, the piece was almost made inspiring.

 All in all a very good (or even great) warm-up, followed by warm applause, then time for a break to cool off.

Back from the break, the orchestra took their seats, Eschenbach returned (more applause), and the real concert, one could say, began. La Valse was first, and what a valse!

 What was previously the rapport of conductor and orchestra seemed to become an organic link between them. The orchestral sound, delivered impeccably through the "Herodion's" acoustics became as refined as the colours of a Renoir, or a Matisse. And the piece itself, the rhythm, the flow and the ebb, intensifying, dazzling, spellbinding.

 Had the concert ended there, it would have still been an example of what an orchestra sounds like at the peak of their form on a truly "good night", that astonishing valse.

Still, there was more ahead: Daphnis et Chloé, the second suite, musical impressionism almost at its most lauded. And finally Bolero.

But here was the point where circumstances conspired to create something truly extraordinary: mid-way into Daphnis et Chloé, the mounting percussive climaxes awakened something more than the usual excitement of the audience.

 It was a cicada, sitting on the ancient edifice above the orchestra. And an opinionated insect, to boot.

 Cicadas, you see, produce a trademark buzzing sound to attract a mate. That sound is rhythmic, repetitive, and loud.

 So this particular cicada saw it fit to initiate its mating ritual, given all the ruckus, yet never opting to consult Maestro Eschenbach about the tempo. In fact, it chose a tempo that was quite contrary to that of the orchestra at that moment - albeit very steady.

Enter a highly amused audience, and even more amused orchestra - smiles all around, grins, chuckles - yet not for a moment a note missed, a cue botched, a rhythm faltering...

 If not for the rapidly-mounting mirth of the musicians and the fact that the music was getting louder and louder, even beyond the score's requirement, one might not have noticed a difference (assuming they could somehow erase the cicada's buzzing from the sound-picture).

This was an impressive feat of orchestral discipline and gusto. And Daphnis et Chloé was a particularly passionate affair to begin with, well-suited to the rising excitement all around, be it in the audience or the orchestra. But what of Bolero?

Bolero: grinding repetition, weaving of texture seemingly ad infinitum, then collapse.

 In the hands of conductors like Herbert von Karajan, Bolero is hypnotic - a meditative trance gone awry.  Maybe in the hands of Eschenbach it would have been that too.

 He conducted it without hand-movements, cueing the orchestra purely with his eyes, leaving it in their hands.

 (And here is where I wondered if "antics" like this are what has driven him out of Philadelphia, but that is an altogether different subject.)

So the orchestra were free to conjure up the sound, the rhythm, the repetition, the build-up.  And all amidst the cicada accompaniment, which even stopped and changed tempo intermittently. Such a difficult situation for any orchestra, I was thinking.

 But they took that excitement, that unexpected surprise, the mirth it generated, and they put it into the music.

I am still amazed by the results.

 What is ordinarily (to me) a meditation became the musical equivalent of a caged animal struggling against its bonds.

 More and more the sheer tension accumulated like static electricity, Eschenbach using his hands again, raising the tension ever higher, until at the end the music exploded; burst into pieces, shattered rather than collapsed. Even that cicada finally gave up.

 The ovation(s) that followed almost shook the ancient auditorium. Eschenbach gave the flowers he was presented with to the drummer who held the rhythm for Bolero, an especially difficult task that night, and I left the Herodion grinning and breathless, smiles all around.

Thus was brought to a close a concert that begun as a "good night" for the Orchestre de Paris, and ended a musical revelation for yours truly. Never had I seen in Ravel's music the potential for such an elemental outburst. I still wonder if it was the music, or the moment.

 Regardless, I will be back in Athens next summer - if only to remember that one night with the cicada, and Ravel unleashed.