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From Major to Minor

Posted in Music with tags , , , , , , on July 17, 2011 by telescoper

I was looking around for something to post next week in honour of our graduation ceremony (which is coming up on Tuesday) and came across this, which brought back a flood of memories. It’s the wonderful Annie Lennox singing the classic Cole Porter song Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye as performed as part of the AIDS fund-raiser Red Hot and Blue way back in 1990. Was it really that long ago?

Cole Porter has to be  one of the cleverest songwriters of all time.  His ability to produce tune after lovely tune was matched by his supreme skill in crafting the lyrics, often managing to produce rhymes in the middle of lines as well as at the end. He often used this superb craftsmanship to comic effect, but produced his share of beautiful ballads too, though none more beautiful than this. I’ve always loved the Ella Fitzgerald version of this song so much that I didn’t believe anyone could outdo it, but this track (and the video) moved me to tears when I first saw it, and it’s never lost its impact on me, especially when heard with the poignant video. The  little  boy shown in the home movies is a young  Derek Jarman, who died of an AIDS-related illness in 1994.

This song exemplifies Cole Porter’s art as both  composer and wordsmith. The trademark clever rhymes are there, but in this case there’s a wonderful juxtaposition of  the words “how strange the change from major to minor” and an interesting chord progression, which is a minor scale variation of the plagal cadence (sometimes called the “Amen cadence”, because it’s how the word A-men is often sung in hymns). The plagal cadence involves a IV-I step back to the tonic chord (I), via a major 4th (IV) but in Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye, the progression goes via   IV-iv-I with the interpolation of a minor 4th chord (iv), which in the original key of E♭is an A♭m chord. It’s a lovely touch, no less lovely for being so clever.

This progression – or a variation of it involving a dominant 7th chord (i.e. IV-iv-♭VII-I) –  can be found in many jazz standards, as  a kind of “bluesy” alternative to the more usual V-I “authentic” cadence, and many pop songs use it too, including several by The Beatles.  However, I doubt if even Cole Porter could have come up with a rhyme for “dominant seventh”!

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The Presenters Play…

Posted in Music with tags , , , on July 8, 2011 by telescoper

Regular readers of this blog – both of them – will know that I’m an avid listener of  BBC Radio 3, and will be listening even more over the summer when the annual season of Promenade Concerts (“The Proms”) begins in a week’s time. That’s why I thought I’d post this video I came across recently, which shows a number of the presenters playing duets on the piano. It’s quite a surprise to see what people look like when you only know them by their voice, so here’s your chance to see if they look like you think they sounded!

The piece they’re playing – with varying degrees of success – is the Berceuse from the Dolly Suite by Gabriel Fauré which those of us of a certain age will remember as the music from Listen with Mother.

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Lucia’s Mad Scene

Posted in Opera with tags , , on July 2, 2011 by telescoper

I came across this little clip of the great Maria Callas on youtube, and couldn’t resist sharing it for the benefit of those (apparently many) people out there who think she was an overrated singer. I’m a devout Callas fan, but I also freely admit that many of the performances she recorded later in her career (especially in the 60s) weren’t all that good and it’s unfortunate that most of her famous performances were in an era when audio technology wasn’t really up to the task of recording live opera.

However, you can get an idea of how very special Maria Callas was in this little clip recorded live at La Scala in Milan in 1954. It’s a poor quality recording but her voice has a stunning radiance to it despite the distortions. This is the very end of the lengthy Act III “Mad Scene” from Donizetti‘s Opera Lucia di Lammermoor. It’s a tremendously demanding piece, which Callas sings with flawless technical accuracy and extraordinary expressive power leading up to a ringing top E♭ at the end. Her approach to the vocal gymnastics required by the bel canto repertoire was uniquely full-on and, without a safety net, the sense of danger surrounding these performances made them truly electrifying.

Only some of the music  made it onto the recording, but there’s enough there to convince the doubters that this was a very special artist. And, listening to the applause at the end, the notoriously demanding audience at La Scala were clearly convinced too!

Incidentally, some argue that Callas’ voice was in decline after her substantial weight loss (she lost 80lbs between 1953 and 1954), but this was the slim Callas and her voice sounds pretty good to me!

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Tosca

Posted in Opera with tags , , , , , on June 29, 2011 by telescoper

After yesterday’s examiners meeting at Queen Mary  I downed a quick beer and took the tube to the West End in order to meet up with  a couple of friends (Joao and Kim) to see last night’s production of Tosca at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden.

Just over a year ago I posted about Welsh National Opera’s Tosca here in Cardiff, so I’ll refer you there for details about the plot synposis and background. Let me just say even though the WNO production was very good, it’s very difficult to match the special atmosphere of Covent Garden. It’s such a famous venue but at the same time is so intimate. I’d forgotten just how close you get to the stage.  The prices were special prices too! Our tickets were £220 each and drinks in the two intervals were eye-wateringly expensive. But then you don’t go to Covent Garden for a cheap night out.

This was the only night that I could make it to this run, and as a result we actually saw the “second” cast: no Bryn Terfel, no Angela Gherghiou, and as it happens to Marcello Giordani either (owing to illness). In the performance we saw, Floria Tosca was Martina Serafin, Baron Scarpia was Juha Uusitalo, and making his Covent Garden debut as understudy thanks to Giordiani’s indisposition was  was the young tenor Giancarlo Monsalve as Cavaradossi. I wasn’t too disappointed not to see Angela Gheorghiou, as I think she’s quite overrated, but I would have loved to have seen Bryn Terfel’s Scarpia. Perhaps some other time.

Anyway, it was a thoroughly enjoyable production if perhaps lacking that extra sparkle that the headline cast might have supplied. Serafin took a while to get going but from Act II onwards was very good, although she never quite managed to get across the fiery unpredictable side of her character’s persona. Uusitalo was a brutish Scarpia with a strong stage presence; the dashing Monsalve took his opportunity well and was warmly received by the full house.

I’ve often wondered how this Opera, which on the face of it is a straightforward melodrama, manages to work so well. I think part of its magic is that the characters, as is often the case with Puccini, are not quite what they seem. Tosca is the heroine but she’s far from Snow White. She’s jealous and temperamental and in many ways quite unattractive. In this production, after initially stabbing Scarpia in self-defence, she carries on stabbing him in a kind of bloodlust which is quite scary. Cavaradossi is the hero, but he’s not a particularly heroic hero because he crumbles under the strain of his imminent execution in Act III. And then there’s Scarpia, the baddy. I find him the most fascinating of all because, although he’s evil,  there are flashes of loneliness and contrition. I think he’s monstrous because something in his past has made him monstrous. A prequel to Tosca based on Scarpia’s earlier biography would make a very interesting opera indeed..

I know it’s deeply unfair to make comparisons, but I thought nevertheless I’d include this clip of a live broadcast of  Tosca from the same venue, way back in 1964, featuring perhaps the greatest Scarpia, Tito Gobbi, and perhaps the greatest Tosca, Maria Callas.  I heard the composer Michael Berkeley talking about what a revelation it was to see Callas at Covent Garden in this role; he simply hadn’t imagined that acting in the opera could be so good. Even in black-and-white you can get idea of the mesmerising stage presence that was Maria Callas and what a fine actress she was. Here she is, with hatred burning in her eyes, plunging the knife into Scarpia, standing over him willing him to die, then realising what she has done, turning back into a frightened, vulnerable and remorseful woman then doing the best she can to pay respect to his dead body. Magnificent.

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For Sidney Bechet

Posted in Jazz, Poetry with tags , , , , on June 26, 2011 by telescoper

Just stumbled across this excellent documentary about the great Sidney Bechet and couldn’t resist posting it alongside the poem by Philip Larkin that follows it, which is called For Sidney Bechet. Watching great jazz musicians play, including the rare clips of Bechet shown in the video, the thought always comes into my mind that if you took the instrument away from them, it would just carry on playing by itself…

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes
Like New Orleans reflected on the water,
And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,

Building for some a legendary Quarter
Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,
Everyone making love and going shares

Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles
Others may license, grouping around their chairs
Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced

Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,
While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed
Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.

On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City
Is where your speech alone is understood,

And greeted as the natural noise of good,
Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.

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Flying Home

Posted in Jazz with tags , , on June 24, 2011 by telescoper

Not much time to post today: I’ve got a full morning’s work finishing the drafts of two papers before flying home this afternoon….so here’s an appropriate piece of music from the late great Lionel Hampton.

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One Day I’ll Fly Away

Posted in Music with tags , on June 20, 2011 by telescoper

En route to the airport again, this suddenly popped into my mind. The tune was a hit for Randy Crawford in 1980 when I was still at school, but this version, which I like a much more than the original single, was made just about five years ago. It’s a lovely song by a much underrated singer, featured here with the Joe Sample Trio.

 

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Louco

Posted in Biographical, Music with tags , on June 12, 2011 by telescoper

I’ve been saving this remarkable old record for a rainy day, and since it’s been tipping down all morning I think it’s time to share it.

Just a few months after I moved to my house in bit of Cardiff called Pontcanna I went with a friend to a little Portuguese restaurant just around the corner. The food was pretty cheap, fairly simple, but very tasty. The staff were friendly but extremely disorganized, taking ages to produce the food even though the place wasn’t at all busy. They also had some Portuguese fado music playing while we waited. I normally don’t like music in restaurants because even if the music’s worth listening to – which it usually isn’t – you can’t hear it properly anyway over the chatter and sound of knives on plates. In this case, however, towards the end of the meal,  I heard, for the very first time, a record featuring an agonized voice – as much haunted as haunting – which immediately sent cold shivers down my spine. I asked the waitress who was singing on the record we were listening to, and she told me it was the great Alfredo Marceneiro.

I’m not going to pretend to be any kind of an expert on fado, although I have at least heard of Amália Rodrigues (the greatest female fado performer of the classic era), and am a big fan of her wonderful modern counterpart Mariza. I hadn’t known until that night in the restaurant that there were any male fado singers at all. However, Alfredo Marceneiro’s career spanned a half a century, from the mid 1920s, and he has been an immense influence on younger generations of musicians since then. His compositions have also become part of the standard  repertoire. I suppose you could say that Alfredo Marceneiro is to fado what Robert Johnson is to the blues.

Fado is very much a Portuguese genre and I suppose it’s difficult to “get” if you’re not brought up with the tradition or even the language. I barely know a word of Portuguese myself, and have no idea what the words of the following song actually mean. I think it’s a testament to the power of the music that the actual words don’t seem to matter all that much when you can sing out of your very soul like this man could.

I’m afraid the Youtube version of this track is a bit truncated, but I’m putting it up anyway because it’s exactly the recording I heard that night three years ago. I think it’s a riveting performance, by an extraordinary artist who is celebrated in his own country, but who in my opinion deserves much wider recognition.

P.S. I know that the title “Louco” means “Crazy” in Portuguese, but   I’d be very grateful if someone could supply a translation of the rest of the song…..

P.P.S. I went back to the restaurant about six months after the time I mention in the post, but it had changed name and ownership. It’s now cleaner, but has much less character and no music. I haven’t returned.

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Whippin’ that Jelly

Posted in Jazz with tags , , on June 3, 2011 by telescoper

Summer has most definitely arrived. It’s a gorgeous day and most of the students have finished most of their examinations, so I’m sure will be taking a well-deserved break and enjoying the sunshine. It’s also Friday, and time, I think, for a little frivolity.

I’m indebted to young Miss Liggins for drawing my attention to this old record via Facebook. It’s by a relatively obscure swing band called the State Street Swingers, which was based in Chicago during the mid-1930s. From a technical point of view the musicians weren’t anything like as proficient as the leading bands of the Swing Era, especially in the horn section, so they usually tried to make up for their relatively limited abilities by playing for laughs behind various vocalists. It doesn’t say who it is on Youtube, but the singer sounds to me like Washboard Sam. He made a lot of records with other bands for the Vocalion label, which is what this one came out on, so that’s at least consistent with my hypothesis.

The State Street Swingers only ever recorded 14 tracks, most of them involving euphemistically raunchy titles, like this one, Whippin’ that Jelly. It may not be the most sophisticated music, but I hope it at least brings a smile to your face, as it does to mine every time I listen to it!

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Turandot

Posted in Opera with tags , , on May 31, 2011 by telescoper

On the way to the Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff Bay this evening it struck me that it was quite fitting to be going to see Welsh National Opera‘s production of Turandot so soon after Friday’s concert. After all this was Giacomo Puccini‘s last Opera and it was incomplete at the time of the composer’s death in 1924. It’s a work most famous for the rousing tenor aria Nessun Dorma from Act III , which was made even more famous when, sung by the great Pavarotti, it became the theme tune for the Italia 90 World Cup. But there’s also the gorgeous Signore Ascolta in Act I and, even better, the dramatic fulcrum of the Opera, and one of the greatest Puccini’s arias of all, the climactic In Questia Reggia. Puccini undoubtedly had a great gift for writing memorable songs but there’s much more to him than that, as this opera proves. Turandot is a particularly dark and troubling story, with music to match the drama at every stage, and it contains some extremely interesting “modern” ideas alongside the classic showpiece numbers.

The story is set in China (“in legendary times”). Princess Turandot (definitely pronounced “-dot” rather than “-doh”) is a tyrannical ruler who challenges potential suitors to solve three riddles. The penalty for failure is death; no resits allowed. The Opera begins with the Prince of Persia being led to his doom. You know the sort of thing – girl meets boy, boy falls in love with girl, girl beheads boy, etc. Calaf, Prince of the Tartars, arrives with his elderly father Timur and faithful servant Liu. Crazy fool that he is, he decides to have a go at the riddles. Three sinister ministers, Ping Pang and Pong, prepare the trial, letting on as they do so just how many others have died in the attempt to woo Turandot. Calaf, of course, succeeds, but Turandot doesn’t want to go along with her side of the bargain. Calaf sets his own riddle – Turandot simply has to guess his name by dawn and he’ll give up his suit and let Turandot execute him too. She tries everything she can think of to identify the mystery contestant, including keeping the entire population of Peking up all night and torturing Liu to the point where she kills herself rather than risk giving away her master’s name. Liu loves Calaf herself, you see, so naturally she dies for her beloved’s sake. That’s what women do, in Opera. Moved by Liu’s sacrifice, Turandot feels the power of love and agrees to marry Calaf. And they all live happily ever after. Apart from Liu, of course, who’s dead.

That’s one of the thing’s that’s so problematic about this Opera for me. If Calaf is meant to be so noble and courageous, so why does he fall for Turandot who, at least at the beginning, is cruel beyond belief? And if he’s such a good egg why does he let the innocent Liu die just so he can get his leg over? This isn’t the only Puccini opera in which the romance has a dark undertone and in which the hero isn’t all that heroic when you look hard enough at him. Calaf isn’t quite as bad as the ghastly Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly, but I still think he’s basically a prat.

This production is a revival of one first performed in 1994. The setting spans a number of epochs, ancient Chinese costumes mingling with 20th century dress, and the minimal set periodically hung with mugshots of slain suitors evoking the “disappeared” in a South American dictatorship. Turandot’s dress and hairstyle in Act II made her look a lot like a cross between Ymelda Marcos and Eva Peron. In the crowd scenes, the chorus writhe with stylised anguish of an almost masochistic nature, as if their oppression by the brutal regime has become a sort of fetish for them.

Star of the show was dramatic soprano Anna Shafajinskaia as Turandot. With a name like an Icelandic volcano and a voice of exceptional power to match, she sent shivers down my spine on several occasions, especially in Act II. Gwyn Hughes Jones was a fine Calaf. Rebecca Evans being unfortunately indisposed, Liu was played by Michelle Walton. She started very hesitantly, and I wasn’t at all impressed with her rendition of Signore Ascolta; what she sang was quite nice, but it was only a vague approximation to what Puccini wrote. She did settle down as the performance went on, however, and was much more impressive in Act III. The rest of the cast were good and, as always, the Chorus of Welsh National Opera were superb throughout.

It’s difficult to explain to people who don’t “get” Opera how it can possibly work. People don’t actually sing to each other in real life, after all. All I can say is that, when it’s good, you somehow just fall into it and it takes on its own dramatic logic. That doesn’t always happen, of course, but for me it certainly happens sufficiently frequently to make it worthwhile. This one took a while to get going, and I didn’t really start to get involved until Act II, but thereafter I was gripped.

I should also say that it was very nearly a full house. Not bad for a Tuesday night!

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