One
of my best memories from last year's festival was hearing the
extraordinary pianist/composer Kit Armstrong introducing and playing
Ligeti Etudes in Old Malton Priory to what turned out to be a rapt
and enthusiastic audience. I think the key was that before he
started, this quiet man spent a few minutes explaining what Ligeti
was trying to do. That guidance gave people something to hang on to
as Ligeti's strange and brilliant sound-world was conjured around us.
I
was lucky enough to chat with Kit after the concert, and took the
opportunity to ask him what I fondly thought to be interesting and
informed questions about Ligeti and about composing in general. Kit
is a kind man, and essayed a few responses in my direction. But in
truth, there was a gulf – Kit's a bona fide genius (probably the
only one I've ever met) - and eventually he looked at me and said:
'You know, it may be that I hear music a bit differently from you'.
It
may be.
One
of the most exciting aspects of this year's festival promises to be
the contribution of our composer-in-residence Cheryl Frances-Hoad.
She comes garlanded with plaudits and her talent has been fostered by
some of the brightest luminaries in the modern composing world. Our
first introduction to her music will be the debut of her
Ryedale Piano Concerto at the opening concert, inspired by the
geography and (I suspect) history of the place.
But
is she any good? What's her music like? Will Ryedale like it? Just
how modern is it?
Answers
first, explanation afterwards. Oh, she's good, and at her best,
devastatingly so. But yes, she's 'modern' in ways which can be
challenging. Will Ryedale like her? We shall see – but I'm
starting a campaign right here (and have already lobbied Chris Glynn)
to engineer an extra performance of her work during the festival
because I have a feeling it could be one of the truly unmissable
events of this year, or indeed any year. My first piece of advice to
those attending the concert is. . . . buy the program and read it. It
will probably help a lot.
I
have done my homework, downloading her album of chamber music 'The
Glory Tree' and putting in some serious hours of listening. I must
confess that after a few days, I remained slightly baffled: she
claimed her chief influences were Ligeti, Prokofiev and Britten (if I
remember correctly), and to my ear, there's plenty in there from
Bartok, Takemitsu, Ades – but a series of 'influences' doesn't
necessarily add up to compelling music.
Actually,
I couldn't really understand what she getting at. This issue of
understanding is, and has always been, key to the experience of new
music, but it's an aspect we tend to ignore. That's not surprising:
for the most part, we don't think much about what music is doing, we
just enjoy it. But throughout history, audiences haven't come
equipped and ready to understand genuinely new music. It involves
work, and – let's face it – most of us don't come to concerts
ready to roll up our sleeves. Consequently, throughout history the
rejection of new music has been a revolt against the work of
understanding. For example, faced with the wild explorations of the
Hammerklavier, Beethoven's contemporaries reached for the easiest
conclusion – that he had gone mad. Something along the same lines
has greeted most composers we are now comfortable with. Even Puccini
reckoned the Rite of Spring was evidence Stravinsky could be measured
for a straight-jacket.
But
with understanding can come great rewards, and and so it was for me
with The Glory Tree. The Glory Tree is a five-movement work for
soprano and chamber ensemble, and I long, genuinely long, to hear it
in Ryedale – preferably somewhere like Gregory's Minster in Kirkdale. At first the piece struck me as vertiginous, but this was a
case where the program notes really helped. For in The Glory Tree
Frances-Hoad takes Old English poems of the 6th to 8th
century which are traditionally interpreted as religiously inspired,
and re-conceives them as shamanistic utterances. The five movements
then follow the shaman up to heaven, across the sea, down to hell,
with movements transitioning between these places. With this to
guide you, this 'difficult' music becomes quite clear, and fully
capable of raising the hairs on the back of your neck, sinking you
into worlds of great transient beauty, and even leaving your somewhat
breathless. This is it, you realise, the genuine 100% proof hard
stuff of music. Can there be a better place for it than Ryedale?
Just the place for Anglo-Saxon shamans
