Director's Notes (and coming attractions)

The king is dead, long live the king? Well, not quite. I liked a lot about this year's festival, in many ways more than I thought I would. But at the same time, the body of work I sampled was much reduced on previous years, in part due to ambivalence when the programme was released and in part to other commitments. I passed by the director's foray into early music and the near disaster that seems to have been the drama this year. I also didn't make a single one of the Queen's Hall concerts.

However, there was some very interesting programming: the Poulenc and a much more adventurous attitude to new music (Ades and Zimmermann being particular highlights). And while I didn't really engage with them this time, I do like the idea of stronger and more thematic programming. Brendel was magical, so too were the Bavarians.

But, this was no perfect year either, there some really turkeys: Tilson Thomas, the San Franciscans and Voigt being chief among them, but from what Finn says this was a poor year for staged opera and drama. But, awarding the benefit of the doubt, it is true that these are arguably the trickiest and most expensive areas. Mills had severe budget constraints, the festival having been over a million pounds in debt when he took it on, and if the rumours I have heard are accurate, next to nothing had been left on the slate. It is clearly the case both that McMaster behaved badly, in going out with such a glitzy and expensive programme and leaving the finances in such a state and, more crucially, that the Festival Council badly shirked their duty in the process of selecting an appointment. They should have done one of two things: appointed a director elect several years in advance or ensured the outgoing director had engaged much of the programming for a couple of years after his tenure. They chose not to choose and Mr Mills was left to pick up the mess.

Mr Mills has briefly given his own thoughts, and in particular highlighted the Simon Bolivar Orchestra. When the programme came out I deliberately elected to steer clear of this, apparently in the minority as it quickly sold out. I stayed away because I've heard two of his CDs, or at least exerts therefrom, on Radio 3's CD Review. Their disc of Beethoven's 7th symphony proved that I was wrong in thinking that the finale couldn't be taken too fast, though determining whether it was actually the absolute tempo or orchestra's inability to hold up to Dudamel's choice would require more comparative listening. The more recent attempt at Mahler's 5th symphony seemed fairly uninspired. Perhaps much of it is simply experiencing the passion live. The rave reviews would seem to bear this theory out. Then again, Barenboim's West-Eastern Divan Orchestra manage to translate wonderfully to silver disc. If they return next year, I may have to sample them, if only to sate my curiosity on this matter.

There was a puzzling absence of top flight names: where was Mackerras, who achieved such acclaim with his Beethoven last year and has over the past few years built up an excellent relationship with both the festival and the SCO; brilliant though the Bavarians were, they were in a league of their own amongst the orchestras; and, of course, where was the eponymous Runnicles of whose recent performances with the BBC Scottish have shown wonderful chemistry and been a consistent highlight [in fairness to the director, it appears this will be rectified in future].

I'm therefore going to go for a fudge in so far as making any kind of overall assessment is concerned. Some promising signs, others less so, but judgement reserved for the 2008 and 2009 programmes. With time to prepare and without the debt burden bequeathed him, Mills will have a freer hand and the standards against which he shall be judged will be higher. We await next April with interest (and hope that unlike last year, we may get some preliminary information in November).

Until then, and more particularly, until the madness restarts next August (amidst hopes that the Usher Hall restoration plan doesn't fall apart, relying as it does on the hall being closed until August, reopening for the festival and then closing again, what could possibly go wrong!) what will we be doing? In truth, where's Runnicles may not be any quieter. For a start, I already have no fewer than three trips to London planned between now and Christmas, which will fold in the Salonen and the LA Philharmonic in Sibelius, Jansons and the Bavarians again, Haitink conducting Wagner's Parsifal and, a little off the beaten track so far as this blog's standard faire goes, the electronic stylings of Thomas Dolby.

The core of it all, though, is that in a moment of semi-madness I picked up a season ticket for the SCO this year. I found that last year I went to virtually none of their programme and decided the best solution was just to go to everything: chamber music, six o'clock concerts, the lot (including one or two in Glasgow, either because the Queen's Hall is too small or because I've managed to double book one against Donald Runnicles' return, and there was no way the SCO was going to win that one).

And when I can find a moment in amongst all that, I'll be trying to keep up with the odd CD review. My Sibelius project remains ongoing (I recently finished Ashkenazy's Philharmonia cycle, now all I have to is type it up) as does the Runnicles discography. Not to mention the one or two reviews from last season that I still haven't quite got round to. Suffice to say you needn't worry about my keeping busy. And that's just me, I'm sure Finn will have a thing or two to say.

Strauss and Schumann from Cologne and Poulenc from France (well, nearly)

Fresh from the experience of San Francisco, things could only get better. However, my expectations were not high for the Gurzenich Orchestra, after all, they are also the orchestra of Cologne Opera, whom Finn had not overly appreciated in Capriccio. Furthermore, Gabriele Fontana, who was joining the programme with the last minute addition of three Strauss songs, had come in for particular criticism.

But, it's always as well to go in with low expectations, that way it's harder to be disappointed (though not impossible, as anyone who watched Star Wars, Episode Two: Attack of the Clones, can surely attest). I was further aided in that I came fresh from the pub as a colleague had just left, which can't have hurt.

They began with Strauss's Till Eulenspiegel. It was clear for the outset that this was not a first rate orchestra and there were a few too many fluffed notes. The reading too lacked variety, for much of the time too fast and too furious and not enough luxuriating in the richness of Strauss's orchestration. Better was to follow with some newish music: Bernd Alois Zimmermann's Photoptosis. Stenz (the conductor) turned to address the audience and gave us a passionate explanation of the piece that put the programme note to shame. Essentially, and I'm afraid I am not doing his explanation justice, the piece is all about rays of light. In the first section the music captures a vast blue canvas, in the second he shows it up close and in detail, littered with quotes from Beethoven, Bach, Wagner and much more (there are twelve apparently, of which I spotted both from Beethoven's 9th, the Wagner, from Parsifal, and I think possibly the Brandenburg). The third section gives what Stenz described as a moment of calm, based on the idea of light as a wave (sad particle physicists, or those with a smattering of knowledge such as myself, will know that the truth is more complicated and that it is both waves and particles, but the odds are you probably don't want to know that). It builds to a close and mesmerises in a rather Messiaenic way. A wonderfully fresh piece and well played, it clearly helped that the conductor had great enthusiasm for it, though I wonder whether it's the kind of work that doesn't transfer well to the silver disc. Either way it was something of a highlight.

The second half brought us Schumann's 3rd 'Rhenish' symphony. I'm not hugely familiar with Schumann's work, but the third is one of those pieces that is instantly familiar (a little like Mendelssohn's 4th in that regard). The orchestra's playing was somewhat ropey and there was a lack of focus both in comparison to the Bavarians but also to the San Franciscans. But that didn't really matter because they had something much better: passion. The orchestra was brimming over with enthusiasm (perhaps not quite so much so as, say, Barenboim's West-Eastern Divan Orchestra of Arab and Israeli teenagers a couple of years ago but certainly an unusually impressive amount). This more than made up for the flaws in the playing, of which there were plenty, and resulted in a far more satisfying experience than anything delivered by Tilson Thomas.

The concert closed with an appearance by Gabriele Fontana, a late addition to the programme and fresh from her performances in Capriccio. She gave us 3 Strauss songs: Das Rosenband, Morgen! and Cacilie. Finn had warned me of the quality of her voice, which had been one of the many things that he had found lacking in Capriccio and having had my expectations of what a soprano could do suitably lowered by Deborah Voigt, I was forearmed as she took to the stage. On the plus side Stenz provided perfectly good accompaniment. But Fontana's voice was simply not very good. It was, however, fascinating to listen to: every now and again you would think 'oh, this is quite nice' and then suddenly it would go horribly off and sour. She is a singer best avoided.

Still, all in all it was an enjoyable evening in the concert hall. I'm very glad to have heard the Zimmermann, and may well have to seek out a recording, and I was thoroughly swept along in the Schumann. While not the greatest orchestra I've heard, and certainly comparing poorly against Scotland's three main ones, they were far from the worst.


Saturday 1st September brought the closing concert, not counting the fireworks, which I don't, and the realisation that this review isn't even vaguely timely. Deneve led the Royal Scottish National Orchestra in a celebration of Poulenc, about whose music I know next to nothing other than that he's French. I will confess that in the past I've been a little lukewarm about Deneve, his Bruckner 4th last year fell flat, for example, and in truth the evening's main draw was soprano Christine Brewer. However, it seems I may have been unfair to Deneve. Here, in French repertoire, he is clearly at home and very persuasive. He got some wonderful playing from the RSNO throughout, and really underscored how much they've closed the distance with the BBC Scottish in the last couple of years. But the star was Christine Brewer: her effortless power soaring over the orchestra, the sheer beauty of her voice. I would be interested to find out if she's recorded the work.

Following the interval came the organ concerto and an appearance by Gillian Weir (and some welcome use of the hall's organ, which hasn't really got the use it ought since its restoration in 2003). She gave a wonderful reading, and again left me anxious to become better acquainted with the work. Finally we received exerts from his opera Dialogues des Carmelites. Wonderfully played and sung, and directed. The drama was heightened at the end as the nuns arranged themselves in a row at the front of the stage (in such a manner that the BBC didn't place nearly enough microphones to properly catch the event). As the percussion sound for the guillotine came down, from left to right they bowed their heads one at a time. Actually, it was until about the 4th of these before I realised what the sound was (rather than some infuriating noise off), but the effect was powerful. It was one of the finest pieces of concert staging I've seen. Indeed, it called to mind the fact that in the Proms Gotterdammerung (superbly conducted by one Donald Runnicles, review to follow) a director was credited, despite the fact that any work he might have done wasn't much in evidence. Contrast the festival where I've seen many concert operas, and never once have I noticed such a credit (though, in truth, this was the only occasion I can recall where it would have been merited).

All in all it was a wonderful evening of French music and a fine close to the 2007 festival.

From the sublime to the if not quite ridiculous, then certainly much less good (Tilson Thomas and the San Franciscans)

It's not fair really. The Bavarians are one of the very best orchestras in the world, and to have to follow them is not a task to be envied. At the festival it fell to Michael Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. When I first spotted these two concerts in the programme I rushed to book both, in part because of the relative lack of top visiting orchestral names this year, in part because of the comparative absence of Mahler (though we have arguably been overserved with this composer in recent years). But after such drama and quality of playing, even a very fine ensemble would struggle to impress. I suppose, then, that the SFO deserve a measure of latitude in this regard. For reasons that may become apparent as I write, I feel Mr Tilson Thomas deserves none.

As they sat warming up on Wednesday 29th August, I could hear strains of the opening of the finale of Copland's 3rd symphony, which I ignorantly thought a little odd (since it wasn't on the programme). If I knew more about Copland than what is contained in my Bernstein Collectors Edition boxed sets, I would know that it's lifted from the Fanfare for the Comman Man, which was first up. It was also difficult not to notice that, for the third night running, the Usher Hall's own podium was absent. Mr Tilson Thomas, it seems, requires one that is entirely black (possibly to match his attire) and with no rail. The house lights dim. Nothing happens. Finally he emerges, takes his time bowing, before finally launching into the Copland. And what a tune this is. Tilson Thomas took it loudly, as one might argue a fanfare should be. But there was little variety to his reading. It was loud throughout. In truth, it was rather bland, there is no comparison with the range of emotion Bernstein finds on disc. We then moved onto a piece by Ruth Crawford Seeger, her Andante for Strings. Seeger is, according to the programme note, one of those composers whom history has unjustly neglected. Possibly the performance was to blame, but we didn't feel that history had been unkind. Without the slightest pause we lurched into Adams' Short Ride in a Fast Machine, surely this was not what the composer intended. And what a fun piece this is and the SF orchestra played it well. But, once again, there was not quite enough variety to the reading.

What might be termed the overtures over, we got a concerto: Prokofiev's 3rd piano concert with soloist Yefim Bronfman (of whom I have heard good reports in Beethoven's first concerto with Mackerras) who, in an unfortunate error, does not seem to merit a credit at the front of the programme with everyone else. It's not a work I know, but in my experience Prokofiev isn't dull. Or rather, shouldn't be. Here it was, there was no edge to the orchestra. Contrast this with the finest readings on the LSO's cycle of the symphonies with Gergiev. The balance between soloist and orchestra was very poor too. The Usher Hall never normally has this problem, so I place the blame on Tilson Thomas for riding over the piano. This tracks with the fact that there didn't seem to be a huge amount of communication going on between soloist and conductor. The orchestra's quiet playing (something Tilson Thomas hadn't really asked of them before) wasn't a patch on the Bavarians. The variations in the central movement were truly bizarre, in that they didn't feel the least like a set of variations, so little variety was there in Tilson Thomas's reading, especially in tempi. All in all, it was a major disappointment taking us into the interval. A stiff drink was called for, certainly it couldn't hurt.

The second half was also from Russia, but this time Tchaikovsky's 1st symphony, Winter Daydreams, not that you'd have guessed the title from the reading we got, so lacking was it in any sense of temperature. Tension was missing too. There were some odd orchestral balances, especially with the flutes. Again the orchestra's skill in the quieter passages was an issue. However, in fairness, here at least Tilson Thomas did provide a measure of variation in his approach. The adagio began much more promisingly, here at last was some passion, some beauty. But it was fleeting. The reading soon slipped back into dullness. The scherzo was worse. He didn't really play it like a scherzo, and here his conducting was particularly odd - there would be huge sweeping gestures producing not the slightest audible effect (it should be noted that this was typical of his conducting, but simply more pronounced in this movement). In the finale, Mr Tilson Thomas clearly believed that fast and loud equalled exciting. He was mistaken. This is especially true when the band was unable to hold together at the tempi he selected, as too often it was. All in all, a deeply disappointing evening.

And yet we seemed to be in a minority (though the Herald's Michael Tumulty agreed with us, doling out a mere two stars). There was loud applause (though, had one had a decibel meter, it certainly would have been less than Jansons and his Bavarians achieved). Tilson Thomas flounced on and off the stage in the manner of a man who fancies himself to an unbelievable degree. I was reminded of the film Top Gun: "Son, your ego's writing cheques your body can't cash." We got an encore and he decided to announce it. The one time a conductor needn't have bothered, since the Overture to Bernstein's Candide is rather hard to miss. He talked too much introducing it, one rather wished he'd been influenced rather more by the great man in his conducting. He took it too fast and thus provided no contrast with the lyrical second subject. Again, his orchestra was not always quite up to the tempi he chose.

Yet there was more applause, and more flouncing from Mr Tilson Thomas: he closed by miming that he was going off to bed after this - just in case we were concerned. When I got home I did something I almost never do: went to my CD collection and recreated part of the concert: Bernstein conducting the NYPO for the Tchaik and the Copland and the LSO for the Candide. The passion, the contrast he brought underscored just what had been lacking. The comparison was the more telling given Tilson Thomas's references to Bernstein, his work in San Francisco and encounters with Tilson Thomas when he introduced the encore.


It was, therefore, with trepidation and dramatically lowered expectations that I returned to the Usher Hall on Thursday 30th. In fairness, my expectations had already been knocked down twice before. A few months before the festival, while browsing in a CD shop, I picked up one of Tilson Thomas's Mahler recordings (the 5th) with the San Francisco orchestra, reasoning that as I was soon to hear them live, I might as well hear what I was letting myself in for; the results were not confidence inspiring. Then, there had been my brother's dire reports of Deborah Voigt. But even this could not have fully prepared me for the horror that was in store. Her voice is terrible, hideous even. She is quite unable to sustain long notes, be they low or high, quiet or loud, without cracks or wobbles. She was singing the final scene from Salome, but, to be honest, it was difficult to judge the piece as a whole or the accompaniment, so distracting was the voice. Another conductor might have provided more support, but I'm dubious about the extent to which it would have helped. Personally I feel that it shows some nerve to charge people to hear a singer who has wrecked her voice this completely. However, plenty in the audience disagreed and cheered loudly. I am at a loss to explain why. Often, for example when I find a performance dull and someone else is inspired, I can easily accept that it is purely a matter of taste, but I fail to see how anyone can find these sorts of technical flaw appealing. I was not altogether alone - a number of people did not return from the interval.

The second half could only be better. Though I did wonder if I wouldn't have been wiser to join my brother for Capriccio. After the interval we were given Mahler's 7th symphony. I have been fond of this work ever since I first heard it in concert from Marin Alsop and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. They gave a wonderfully coherent performance that completely made sense of this as Mahler's long journey through the night. It was not to be repeated on this occasion. The first movement was rather bland, but more critically it was far too bright and upbeat where a journey into the dark, the unknown, is so much more appropriate. He seemed to have little sense of any big picture (a shame as there are moments in this work were Mahler hints at where he's going). However, it did help to answer one question I had had. How good an orchestra might this be without Tilson Thomas? There are a number of solos in which, unfortunately, the players were in general unflatteringly exposed, the euphonium and first trombone excepted. I should point out something here. When I voiced this view on the Radio 3 messageboard recently I was derided and all but called an idiot since this passage isn't scored for the instrument. I myself was surprised to see it, but I know a euphonium when I see one, and sure enough, after the proms, a former professional trombonist confirmed this. The second movement got off to a poor start too, but the insights into Tilson Thomas's conducting kept flowing: the more complex becomes the score (and in this symphony it gets very complex), the less activity there is from him. Again, in this nachtmusik, any sense of night was as absent as the winter in the previous evening's Tchaikovsky. The off stage percussion didn't work at all, and I was left wishing for Donald Runnicles, who has a wonderful sense for such things. As the scherzo opened he finally seemed to have something to say. But soon things reverted to blandness as he is apparently only interested in the big tunes. There is a wonderful sense of 'things that go bump in the night' when this is well played. Not in this performance. The second nachtmusik was even blander. This movement is bizarre, surreal (with its lute), for me it calls to mind those oddest of dreams that make no sense and come shortly before waking. But Tilson Thomas was going out of his way, or so it seemed, to iron any of that sort of thing out. And so to the finale. One of the toughest pieces that Mahler wrote - the amount going on in the orchestra can make it difficult to hold together coherently (both for conductor and players) and even the great Mahlerian Klaus Tennstedt never fell in love with it. But I adore the daybreak encapsulated in this, with its pastiche of Wagner's Meistersing. Given this team had struggled with speed and complexity, I expected a train wreck here. For the most part it was, though not quite as awful as might have been expected. It doesn't help him that they have in no way earned a daybreak - we haven't been on the long journey through the night, so it is meaningless. The end, where light finally triumphs, was just muddled.

There was loud applause. There were also people leaving. Odd for Mahler in Edinburgh, given it wasn't running long. Tilson Thomas and the San Franciscans have not only recorded this, but have won a Grammy. I cannot for the life of me explain why that may be. Especially given the work Abbado has been doing with Mahler of late. As I headed for the pub, I wondered if Finn had had better luck at Capriccio. He hadn't and seemed as in need of libation as I was.

All in all, a deeply disappointing two evenings. And on top of it all sits the irritating Tilson Thomas. His infuriating self-adoration. His apparent disregard for anything not a big tune. His inability to pick tempi his orchestra can cope with or to communicate effectively with them. True, there are worse. Roger Norrington stands unique amongst artists I have seen in that he provoked feelings of physical violence from me (not acted upon, I hasten to add) as he constantly turned to the audience mid-performance, grinning maniacally. I so disliked the experience, I resolved then that I would not attend another concert from him or buy a CD. So, in the grand scheme of things, Tilson Thomas could have been worse, but I certainly shalln't rush to hear him or his orchestra again.

EIF Capriccio, or The Director's Concept is Paramount

There follows a belated report (originally drafted about two weeks ago) of the second staged opera of this year’s Festival…

It is now official. This is the worst year for staged opera at the International Festival since 1999 (the year of the Bankamura Turandot, and the last time there were a mere two staged operas on the programme). This production is a disaster on every level, and raises questions about Jonathan Mills’ artistic judgement.

When I first saw Capriccio on the programme back in April, I was surprised. The RSNO and an incredibly starry line-up of soloists (including Anne Sofie von Otter, Soile Isokoski and Christopher Maltman) gave us a magnificent concert performance in 2004. However, doubtless Mills was limited in his choices, although one wonders whether he was so limited in his choice of company (the connection, like that with the dreadful Kosky seems to be a Melbourne one).

Unfortunately, problems set in from the very start. The opera begins with a string sextet. The playing was second rate, meanwhile on stage the insanities of the production were charging full speed ahead. For those of you not au fait with the opera, it is set among the Parisian aristocracy in 1775. Taking his cue from the date of composition (1942) the director, Christian von Gotz, moves the action to that period. Or at least he sort of does. Echoes of Nazi Germany persistently intrude, but the main action still takes place in opulent period costume. Reviews implied this was supposed to bring out the fantasy qualities of the whole exercise – the Count and Countess escaping the horror of Nazidom with this other worldly discussion about opera. The trouble, as with so much this Festival, was that near complete narrative incoherence resulted.

It was really impossible to understand what was going on in the tacked on bits. Who were the two people who visited the Count during the sextet? What was he giving them? What were they giving him? Why did two Gestapo officers come in and then go away again? And why, at the end of the sextet and apart from the fact that the real text requires it, did the various cast members then suddenly decide to get into period costume? The rationale, the motivation for any of this was wholly unclear. This held true throughout the piece, culminating in Clairon (the actress) allowing the Count to strip her of her period dress, and reappearing with her hoops fully visible – but totally unremarked by any of the other cast members; and by the Count’s apparent suicide (totally unsupported by anything in the text).

The period staging was just silly. Servants in jack boots kept wandering on and placing red boxes of various sizes on the stage – it was never clear what the damn things were supposed to signify. There was endless clutter of furniture and props. The characters, particularly in the second half, seemed to be the victims of a collective caffeine high in that nobody could stand still for more than two seconds. Most bizarre of all was the occasional reappearances of the two Gestapo officers from the sextet, possibly the least threatening Nazis since ‘Allo ‘Allo. Periodically two ante-rooms (really looking more like cupboards) would slide on at either side of the stage. The two Gestapo officers would be standing in them, but would soon have to leave in order to accommodate either sexual acts or costume changes. There was no reason for them to be there, and their presence was totally ineffective.

That ineffectiveness was an inevitable result of von Gotz’s resolute determination to flout the text. The Nazis are unthreatening because we know perfectly well that all they can do is stand there. Nobody can be massacred, or arrested or carried off without actually changing the score and the text which, one suspects, von Gotz would have liked but did not dare to do.

The nonsense of the production was compounded by the poor quality of the musical performance. One of Strauss’s major achievements was to write such marvellous music for the female voice. The leading soprano in a Strauss opera should have a rich tone, a warmth, a power. Gabriele Fontana, singing the Countess, was lacking in all these areas. The voice was sour, hard and consistently strained. In fact I’m hard put to remember the last time I found a voice so unpleasant to listen to. Worse was Dalia Schaechter, singing the acress Clairon, whose voice was not even third rate, and at times inaudible. Only Hauke Moller as the composer Flamand and Michael Eder as the director La Roche rose above the mediocre. Eder delivered his tirade against philistinism in the theatre with fire, though he began to run short of breath towards the end. Moller achieved the greatest sense of romance in the whole evening with his evocation of watching the Countess reading, his thoughts in tune with hers, gradually falling in love. But the staging battled to wreck even these performances. For the love scene, von Gotz had the two on opposite sides of the stage. In the tirade, the Gestapo wandered on yet again and did nothing – and their feeble presence actually diminished rather than enhanced the suggestiveness of the speech.

In the pit things were not much better. The orchestral sound was thin, Markus Stenz lacked a feel for the warmth, the drive of Strauss’s music. Time and again you could feel the music fighting him, listening one wanted it to burst free, one wanted to take every player by the scruff of the neck and say to them this is passionate music give yourselves to it. But Stenz was obviously not equipped to inspire that kind of playing.

I was left with several reflections. The first was frustration with this kind of approach to opera. Having read the extensive, and very interesting programme note, about Strauss’s troubled experiences in Nazi Germany I could spot a number of suggestive aspects of the text where subtle and powerful parallels could have been drawn. However, like so many modern opera directors (and most live performance directors inflicted on us at this year’s Festival), van Gotz was utterly incapable of subtlety. He tried to ram his imposed message down the audience’s throat rather than allow the audience space to reflect.

The second was that this is actually a wonderful piece of music – opera as slice of life. I was not wholly convinced by it as a work when heard in concert, but last night I was incredibly struck by the resilience of the work against this combined assault – one somehow felt the beauty, and the suggestiveness of Strauss’s paeans to the importance of art all the more for the fact that the performances and production were so poor.

The third was that I do begin to have a slight qualm about Jonathan Mills’ artistic judgement – in the sense of which productions he is choosing to buy in. From where I’ve been sitting we have had one too many concept productions this year where narrative cohesion is completely destroyed by spectacle and silliness. I do hope this isn’t going to be a sign of things to come.

I have written at length on this production because opera is the art form which means the most to me, and because the International Festival has been an oasis of opera especially since the effective demise of Scottish Opera. To have only two staged productions is, in itself, a worrying development. But the musical qualities of both are what really concern me. While one might make an exception for Orfeo himself, and for the band and some of the choral singing in that same production, neither was of world class standard. Possibly one problem is the funding situation, which leads me to a final thought. Most opera companies now present productions funded by syndicates. WNO’s fabulous Don Carlos was built in that way, and the COC’s Ring Cycle included numerous opportunities for small to large scale sponsorship. Perhaps the Festival might think of doing the same, starting from the £50 mark with minimal benefits and moving upwards to the big bucks. I would certainly make a donation on an annual basis to support staged opera.

In the meantime, we can only hope that next year (as 2000 was to 1999) will prove a bumper opera year.

Mariss Jansons and the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra PLAY

Several things jumped out of the programme at me in April, but perhaps none more so than Mariss Jansons and his Bavarian orchestra. I don't exactly have a list, per se, at least not one that I've actually taken the time to write down, but somewhere in the back of my mind the artists I hold a particular ambition to hear in the flesh have a mark against their name. Jansons and the Bavarians were certainly on the list.

I have had an affection for the orchestra for some while, mainly through their long association with Eugen Jochum who was their music director during the 50s and built the foundations that make them so fine today (which is why it was arguable as well that he was passed over for the Berlin Philharmonic directorship in favour Herbert von Karajan). Jansons too missed out on the Berlin job when it went to Simon Rattle, though this may have been partly due to his health at the time. Now he holds both the Bavarian and Concertgebouw jobs and has impressed me greatly with his recordings of Mahler and Sibelius. To cut a long story short, or rather shorter, I'd been very much looking forward to these two visits as, on paper, they were arguably the highlights of the programme. This is a dangerous position, since it can lead to disappointment.

But if they normally play this well, I don't think that can be the case terribly often. The first programme, on Monday 27th August, brought Strauss and Sibelius. And here lies my only real quibble with Jansons' choices: Also sprach Zarathustra. Now, I'll admit to not being the world's greatest fan of Strauss, but I suspect even his devotees would acknowledge this isn't his finest moment (certainly my brother, who is always berating me for my lukewarm views on the composer, would say so). The opening few moments, as immortalised by Stanley Kubrick in 2001 A Space Odyssey, are magnificent and the Bavarians played them to perfection. The trouble is that after that there isn't anything quite so magnificent. There are some nice climaxes and Jansons gets some wonderful undulating textures out of his players. However, it does slightly suffer, in the same way as his recording of Heldenleben on the Concertgebouw's own label, from a slightly disjointed feeling. The other disappointment was in the use of the electric organ - I have keenly felt in the years since its 2003 restoration that the Usher Hall's organ has been under-utilised, and this seemed another example. However, I am told by people who know far more than I, that it would not have balanced correctly for the piece and so I shall take them at their word. Tantalising though the piece's quiet end is, it still leaves you thinking of those opening bars.

The meat came in the second half with Sibelius's second symphony. Instantly the weight of this orchestra set the performance apart from the readings of the third and fourth from earlier in the festival. The playing was exceptionally fine and I thought Jansons phrased passages beautifully. He brought a control and, at times, impressive delicacy and if not having quite the sweep that Colin Davis would bring, found a nice ebb and flow. In this symphony particularly, though it holds for much of Sibelius, I find one of the principle axes along which interpretations can be judged is warmth: at one end would sit Bernstein's frigid Vienna reading, and at the other Barbirolli's sunny Halle performance. Jansons falls somewhere in the middle, generally on the warm side. The second movement was more impressive: rough and edgy, painting a vivid landscape as all the best Sibelians seem to, and yet with moments of exceptional beauty. He gave it a darker hue than the first. This was followed by an extremely exciting vivacissimo marked by exceptional string playing. Jansons built the tensions expertly and made a brilliant transition into the finale. And present here was a Davis-like sweep, a sense of grandeur and a magnificent frenzy towards the close firmly wiping the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra's performance in their cycle last November from the memory. It seemed more thrilling than both his Oslo and Concertgebouw recordings, but then it's always unfair to judge a live reading against a CD.

For the encore we were treated to more Sibelius in the form of Valse Triste (and here I must come clean and admit my Sibelian credentials took a knock as I failed entirely to recognise it, indeed, from the dance like figure in the middle I mistook it for Strauss, my brother got it in one - excuse me while I hang me head in shame) which was sublimely played. This was followed by genuine Strauss, Finn tells me a waltz, gloriously silly and with absurd forces, including something that was essentially the cousin of an old-fashioned football rattle, from Rosenkavalier. While this was nicely played, both slightly reinforced something I've felt for a while - a good encore is hard, if not impossible to bring off. The end of Sibelius's second is spectacular and I don't need anything else afterwards. If you've played it as well as the Bavarians had, it's difficult to follow it in anyway that will improve. Best left alone. This was one of the great lessons of McMaster's programming of the Beethoven and Bruckner symphonies in individual concerts last year, it was amazing how satisfying a gem like the 4th or 8th could be on its own.

Mind you, perhaps, given the rapturous reception, they could be excused it. This was enthusiastic applause, and deservedly so. But it was also slightly the applause in the way that a man who has come across an oasis in the desert drinks. This is a slightly unfair metaphor, as there have been many fine things prior to this in this year's programme (Ades and the COE, Brendel, Jarvi and the RSNO, the BBC Scottish, the SCO), but this was orchestral playing in another league, and one that so far hadn't been present. Indeed, it was enough to draw out previous director, Brian McMaster who, as well as Liberal Democrat leader Menzies Campbell, could be spotted taking his seat in the grand circle.


The Bavarians were back the following evening with a more solid programme: Beethoven's Egmont overture, Debussy's La Mer and Shostakovich's 5th symphony (of whose work Jansons is a renowned interpreter). The orchestra's playing in the Beethoven was wonderfully rich. Jansons gave a very exciting and at times fierce reading which called to mind Harding's disc of overtures with the Bremen Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie. Certainly it was better than his recent, and not entirely successful, disc of Beethoven's second symphony with the Concertgebouw. True, the way he judged his pauses didn't always totally work at the start, they felt a little forced rather than the unbearable tension someone like Mackerras makes of them. None the less, it was a fine curtain raiser.

With La Mer, I must once again confess, I don't overly care for the work; I don't think it conjures the sea half as well as something like Britten's interludes. I have just one lukewarm recording in my collection (from Abbado and his Lucerne orchestra) and have only heard it live once before, when the Cleveland Orchestra paired it with Mahler's seventh during their memorable visit 3 years ago. They played it well enough and Jansons' control at the start (using just his fingers - was impressive), but I must leave it to wiser persons to judge the interpretation.

The real treat came in the second half with the Shostakovich 5th. One his more accessible, coming as it does from a period when he needed to curry favour following the disgrace that Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk had brought. The slow opening movement was beautifully played, the same rich textures that had marked out the Beethoven present here, and the same fierce power when called for. Jansons brought a real wit and panache to the second movement while giving us a darkly haunting largo. The finale was nothing short of electric. Jansons chose a brisk tempo, but the orchestra held up impressively where a lesser band might have stumbled. It was exciting from the opening and only got better. I haven't yet sampled any of his readings on disc, but have spied the EMI cycle (which features a number of orchestras, including the Bavarians) cheaply; part of me wonders whether I really need more to set beside the Haitink, Kondrashin and Rostropovich cycles, and the part of me that was listening to this performance says 'hell yes'.

As I read the paragraph back, I realise what a poor review it is. But then it's always harder to write about something that's blown you away. For a start, you get swept up, whereas in a dire reading you have ample time to sit back and note the million reasons why. From the reception, those present seemed to have agreed. We got another two encores, though the way the symphony finished, I really wish we hadn't. I have no idea what they were (I wish that conductors would sometimes announce them), the note in my programme says "Mozart?" for the first and "something else" for the second. Anyone reading this who knows better is very welcome to share that knowledge.

All in all, two extremely impressive nights I won't soon forget. So much so that at the start of November I shall be catching this team in London from Haydn's 101st symphony and Mahler's 5th.

The playing of the orchestra was exceptional (not least their ability in the quietest passages, which I think is always one thing that separates the good from the great) and ranks alongside the Berliners and the Clevelanders as one of the absolute finest it has been my privilege to hear live. Jansons' conducting was something special to watch too. Every movement gained a response (as opposed to some whose flouncing gestures seem irrelevant). There were one or two fascinating moments when he seemed to stop altogether, almost as if saying 'you know what to do here, you should be paying attention to that, anything I add at this stage will only get in the way'.

I feel luck to have seen and heard this, and if you get the chance you should too.

Still got that magic

Wednesday 15th brought a packed Usher Hall to hear Alfred Brendel in recital. He played a Haydn sonata, Beethoven's op.110 (which was magical), two Schubert impromtus and Mozart's sonata K457 (and received a standing ovation from the young boy in the row in front - who was rather better behaved than his parents). Brendel's playing was magical, and impressive for his age, though this is now starting to show slightly. One cannot help but feel that some of his pauses are less for dramatic effect and more for memory.

But any quibbles are minor, he is still enthralling, and his ability to make the huge Usher Hall fell like an intimate chamber venue is impressive. I think it likely I may pop over to Glasgow to hear him when he visits in February.

Since then, I've been so busy at the Fringe I've done nothing else at the international. In that context I've seen little that is of note musically. However, the other Thursday, after heading to the pub for a drink with several staff from the venue, we once again made our way to the jazz bar. There we heard the magnificent Tony Monaco Organ Trio (the organ in question being a hammond). They were wonderful - the range of tones and colours they produced and their quality as an ensemble (in some ways reminiscent of the unity of voice that Bill Evans' trio achieved in the early 60s).

Of the Fringe shows I've seen (though most will by now have finished), I can thoroughly recommend Plested and Brown's very silly (but most enjoyable) comedy Minor Spectacular and recommend you stay away from Diet of Worms on Melted Ice. The gimmick of a swimming pool is not sufficient to make up for lacklustre sketches and if I tell you there's one involving a farmer, a sack of grain, a fox and a chicken and another spoofing Quantum Leap, with Sam screaming "That's Ziggy's answer to everything!" after being advised to kiss the gangster who's trying to drown him, then you've seen the good bits. Mark Watson was very funny, as was Josi Long (Trying is Good) whose comedy was unusually nice, and deserves extra points for five minutes on Quakers.

I felt a little sorry for Vallimar Jensen who sung Ethel Waters wonderfully. Stuck in a slightly out of the way venue, which sounded like a herd of elephants lived above, and unfortunately listed in the theatre section of the programme as opposed to the musical theatre, she had a much smaller audience than she deserved.

Ades and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe

I can't remember the last time I noticed programming this adventurous at the International festival, that at least was the thought that ran through my mind when I first saw these two concerts nestling on the first Monday and Tuesday of the festival. Actually, that isn't quite true. When the Cleveland Orchestra made their memorable visit in 2004, one of their three programmes consisted of two pieces by Birtwistle (The Shadow of Night and Night's Black Bird) to which, despite being paired with Schubert's great c major symphony, and there being nothing else on for it to compete against, almost nobody came. While Ades has a fair enough following in some quarters, particularly the Aldeburgh festival of which he is the director, and notable champions (such as Simon Rattle), he surely wouldn't be welcomed with open arms by the conservative festival audiences.

I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to see the house somewhere between two thirds and three quarters full, this despite the fact we were hearing what was surely the Scottish premier of Ades' violin concerto (something I had been very much looking forward to since first hearing it on a radio broadcast from last year's Aldeburgh festival). Perhaps this is less surprising given the weight of 'safe' material in the programme. This began with a spirited reading of Beethoven's Namensfeier overture. They raced through it. Ades is an interesting conductor to watch, he didn't use a podium and so seemed to stand right in amongst the orchestra. He danced somewhat (but unlike some who do, his every move seemed to bring an intended response), indeed at times he jabbed his baton as if fencing with the players. It was a thrilling start.

This was followed by Stravinsky's Pulcinella suite. I shall confess now to not being the greatest fan of the composer, but they played it with great aplomb and it was enjoyable. However, the meat came after the interval. Anthony Marwood, for whom the concerto was composed, was the soloist. The work is short (around twenty minutes), yet much as Sibelius's seventh symphony, takes you on a far longer journey. The themes are circular - the three movements being named Rings, Paths and Rounds and this shows. It's a difficult piece to describe. It seems to tug you this way and that and while it isn't necessarily tuneful, if you let it, it washes over you and is utterly enthralling. Ades creates some lovely textures and colours. Soloist, orchestra and conductor played it wonderfully and left only one question: why has this not been recorded commercially. Indeed, Marwood's playing reminded me of the wonderfully captivating performance we had last year of Szymanowski's violin concerto from Frank Peter Zimmermann and the BPO under Rattle. We cheered loudly, but it did not meet with universal approval. Mr Flashlight, sitting next to us (so christened for his strange habit of reading the programme only after a piece had started, and then doing so with his small pocket torch) was not amused. He refused to clap and said loudly at the end that all modern music was rubbish. I wouldn't have minded so much, but he did have to be shushed during the concert - if you're reading this Mr Flashlight, you might not appreciate a work, but please allow those of us who do to enjoy it.

The programme finished with a favourite of mine: Sibelius's third symphony. Ades did not hang about, indeed, if anything, his pace was a little too frantic. However, the orchestra held together. It was a reading of marked contrasts, as when he did choose to slow down, the tempi were as broad as before they had been brisk. This was also not a cold reading (whether or not this is a good thing will be a matter of individual taste, personally, I love the icy chill to which Sibelius's music lends itself, but Ades convinced with his warmer take). The slow middle movement, where so many readings get lost, was played beautifully and Ades brought out the different musical lines well. The finale was thrilling, though he could have found a little more of the sort of sweep that someone like Davis brings. Mr Flashlight approved this time - that was more like it, he said (or something along those lines). Perhaps someone ought to point out to him that at one time, approximately a hundred years ago, this too was modern music and there was probably some stuffy figure reading his programme note with a candle and muttering about what a disgrace it was.

The following night the orchestra returned for a French programme. Again this was well sold (although, as it turned out, the programming was less adventurous). The concert began with Rameau, of whom I have never been a great fan, and his Les Indes galantes: Overture. Certainly it was enthusiastically played, and listening it confirmed in my mind that Michael Tumulty's complaint in the Herald against the previous evening's performance of blurred musical lines was nonsense. However, the work was, like other Rameau I have heard, rather samey and overstayed its welcome, as far as I was concerned. This was followed by Ades, though not really: his Three Studies after Couperin. This is the most accessible of his work I have heard (as it is tuneful), though Ades plays fast and lose with tempi and creates some lovely orchestrations. This is a charming piece, but I might have liked to hear something a little more daring.

The first half closed with Berlioz's Les nuits d'ete. Toby Spence sang beautifully and as is always a good sign, after a verse or so into the second song, I was so transported that I gave up following the words in programme. Ades made fine accompanist, the delicacy and precision that are hallmarks of his conducting serving him well. If anyone has a recommendation for a good recording, I would love to hear it. The second half was somewhat more disappointing, bringing us Ravel's Le tombeau de Couperin and Bizet's symphony in C. Both were very well played, and diverting enough, but I can't help feeling that neither is a particularly great work and their absence from my CD collection is not a hole I am in any hurry to fill.

Some good things then, and a very worthwhile visit. I hope they return in the future, and perhaps with a slightly more adventurous programme.

An Evening of Terrible Cabaret or Come Back Kit and the Widow all is Forgiven

Okay. I can now officially declare that Festival 2007 is on a par with Festival 2004 for providing us with evenings of mind-numbing tedium. Festival 2004 brought us Le Soulier de Satin; The Composer, The Singer, the Cook and the Sinner and Orfeo and Eurydice. So far this year we have had Poppea; Mabou Mines Dollhouse and tonight, The Tiger Lillies.

When the Festival programme came out, I booked for this more in hope than in expectation. I have long thought a cabaret element to the official Festival would liven things up, but it was not to be. As with so many of these things, I left wondering what kind of genius it takes to put so many musicians on stage, use so many potentially exciting instruments (including the organ) and yet provide such dull musical fare.

This is the more surprising given the lengths the Festival went to to warn those buying tickets that “The Tiger Lillies have been known to use bad language, very bad language indeed” (EIF programme) and the man at the box office who warned me terribly earnestly that there was likely to be bad language and adult content at this event. You would therefore think that it must be exciting and shocking. But, like so much else at this year’s festival it was dull.

The first half was, according to the programme, meant to be The Tiger Lillies version of Orfeo. It began in bizarre fashion. The hall lights dimmed and the members of Concerto Caledonia proceeded gingerly on stage through the darkness, while those of us in the audience waited for the first crash and howl of anguish which would have indicated that a priceless 15th century instrument had been damaged beyond repair. They played an innocuous overture. There was another pause. Then a singer in white face rushed on. Ah, I thought, drama. But no, Keith Lewis sat down beside the piano and took us through several funereal verses. I cannot tell you what the song was about since there was no text in the programme, and his diction was dreadful. The music continued samey and dull. Another pause. Finally, The Tiger Lillies arrived wearing slightly odd fitting suits and hats. Pausing only to retrieve his hat from Lewis, and evict him from the piano stool, their lead singer (Martin Jacques) took up his place at the piano and continued with the same funereal like dirge. His diction was no better, and had I not known that the story was supposed to be Orfeo, I would have had little idea what it was supposed to be about – thus destroying at the first hurdle one of the primary points of setting words to music. And, oh dear, the music. It was like a kind of early music version of minimalism, but, unlike say the best works of John Adams, this was a minimalism that went nowhere. The two singers droned on, the drummer hit the same sequence on his drums, smoke billowed from a funny little funnel behind the harpsichord and the atmospheric lighting occasionally shifted. The only man who really looked as if he was having fun was Concerto Caledonia’s super lute player.

Eventually, after something like fifty minutes of this, David McGuinness (Concerto Caledonia's leader) left his harpsichord and ascended through the organ gallery to the Usher Hall organ. In one of the rare moments of audible text it had been indicated that demons were now to appear. At last, I thought, drama. But the organ only joined in with exactly the same chord progression at pretty nearly the same volume that the forces below had been churning out for the last near hour. And that was that. Up they got and off they went. So did we, in desperate search of the bar.

Part Two must, I suppose, have been intended to justify all the pre-performance claims about how shocking The Tiger Lillies are. To the ambient lighting was now added three coloured globes. Concerto Caledonia seemed to think they were in Hawaii and now sported a secession of awful brightly patterned shirts (possibly borrowed from the Festival Director’s informal wardrobe), ill-fitting jackets and the odd funny little hat. Martin Jacques now divided his time between accordion and piano. Words continued to be only intermittently audible, and mostly became audible whenever Jacques felt it was time to swear, which seemed to happen quite a bit. Presumably having a second rate cabaret artist leer out at the Usher Hall and declaim the word “fuck” seven or eight times is meant to be shocking. It was not. Here, as in the first half, was a repetition of the same problems. The music was dull, the texts platitudinous. Kit and the Widow have been doing this kind of smut for years on the Fringe. They sail equally near the bone with swearing, and references to such things as child molestation and the horrors of war. But they do it with specifics – whether singing about their own family experience, or attacking George W. Bush. The lyrics are inventive, biting. They have a point. The Tiger Lillies simply utter generic lines, with repetitive music that goes nowhere. The only variety comes from Jacques occasionally playing the piano with his heel, or bashing it with a black dildo which my friend noticed on the piano in the first half. Oh, and I suppose it may also be considered “entertainment” when the drummer haphazardly demolishes his drum kit and spends the next number trying to reconstruct it.

I paused to boo as loud as I could on leaving the hall, but greatest praise must go to a fellow audience member directly behind me in the stalls who, when Jacques, leering as usual, declared his audience “twats”, responded loudly: “So are you.” Jacques, and his third-rate ensemble probably thought they had shocked him – I think it much more likely he was as bored as I was.

Reflecting on it later, I was particularly struck by the barrenness of the texts. Alan Bennett hits this point precisely in Forty Years On with the line: "Don't swear boy, it shows a lack of vocabulary." The three groups mentioned in this review (Mabou Mines; Vienna Schauspielhaus; The Tiger Lillies) all seem to view the texts they use as something of little importance to the overall show. For me, that makes for an empty experience, and seems a worrying trend in performance. I can't help thinking again of the intelligence of Shaw's Saint Joan - addressing often similar issues of love, war and religion but so much more profoundly.


Since there was some laughter at all of these events perhaps we have to conclude that it is all meant to be an elaborate joke. Supposedly refreshing silliness after years of McMaster seriousness. And humour is, as previously observed, a very subjective thing. Alternatively, perhaps acts like Mabou Mines, Kosky and the Tiger Lillies were all Mills could get at short notice given the botched nature of the handover. This year, I am constrained to give him the benefit of the doubt on both points - though there has been only scattered laughter at any of these performances. But if these same people get return fixtures in the manner of Bieto, somebody should start asking hard questions about Mills’s quality control.

A Mesmerising Evening of Modern Ballet

I am not a balletomane. I usually find myself at the ballet, either because I’m being typically over-obsessive with regards to sampling the International Festival, or because my better half has insisted its time for our annual visit together. I went to the William Forsythe’s Impressing the Czar (performed by the Royal Ballet of Flanders) without especially high expectations. Its quality is best indicated by the fact that for I think the first time in my life I found myself bravoing a piece of modern dance.

The programme note is fascinating but enough to fill one with slight dread since it describes what sounds like an extreme case of postmodernist art, where there is not to be a connecting narrative, but rather “there is resonance.” (This was actually useful to me for research purposes as it clarified a post-modern history text I’d been wrestling with at work which is clearly based on this idea of resonance between texts but which is not written in as plain English as this programme (it is in fact written in the worst sort of lit-critese but that’s another story)). To get back to the show. What we have is four episodes, with the vaguely connected theme of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Scene One, “Potemkin’s Signature” is the most deconstructed of the four. We see fragmented scenes from a Spanish painting (women in full skirts and corsets) mingling with a corps de ballet, two school girls who seem to be overseeing and reporting on the whole project and in various poses all over the stage, St Sebastian. Forsythe makes clear his intentions from the outset. Where, in classical ballet, one tends to have a lot of stop/start dancing, and plenty of people wandering off and wandering back on, here the movement is fluid with exits and entrances as closely observed as the ‘dances’ themselves. The result is that the eye is constantly being drawn all across the stage, as groups move through full-scale numbers in the centre, while to the side the next group is sliding into position, and odd figures are scurrying around, or posing in the rest of the space. These multi-performances are perhaps the key to Forsythe’s brilliance – which only really becomes apparent when the whole ensemble for any scene is in action. Where most ballets have the corps in unison here you have at least five or six groups, closely entangled with each other yet moving completely differently. It is mesmeric.

This technique reaches its extraordinary culmination in Scene Two, “In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated.” The cluttered stage is swept clean and the opulent costumes are stripped off. Usually this kind of ensemble performance palls on me but not this time. Moving from solos to duos to ensembles, this was fluid, graceful yet sharp, high octane yet capable of slowing to a remarkable tenderness. It was exciting, moving and beautiful.

Scene Three, “The House of Mezzo-Prezzo,” changes the mood again. We are at an auctioning off of the various dancers, now all in gold painted suits. At the climax, the auctioneer having been trying to get money off us for the last ten minutes, makes a marvellous joke. You may be wondering, she suggests rhetorically, if this is all some ridiculous joke? Or an anticipation of future trends? I sincerely hope not, is the response. We are permitted to have fun. We don’t have to worry about the meaning. We can take from it what we want, and the main thing I took from it was the extraordinary virtuosity of these performers, the sheer excitement of watching them.

Scene Four, “Bongo Bongo Nageela” draws it all together. The stage is swept bare again and the entire company appear dressed something like St Trinians’ school girls. We have a repetition of the complexities of movement from the opening scene – and the sight of two concentric circles swirling round the stage was unforgettable.

Perhaps it was the tone of this that really made the difference. I could appreciate the moments of great artistry (especially in Scene 2). I could laugh at the man trying to cut a limb off with enormous gold scissors in Scene 1 and, most importantly of all, I didn’t spend the whole evening wondering what it all meant. It was allusive, suggestive, but not irritating. Above all the dancing remained at its heart, and the dancing was spell-binding. This contrasted sharply with the poor acting characteristic of both Poppea and Mabou Mines Dollhouse. Those other practitioners of deconstruction could learn much from this.

An Evening at the Modern Theatre or Sex, Nudity, and Ibsen performed by 'Allo 'Allo rejects

Last year I endured the three and a half hours of mind numbing tedium which was the American Repertory Theatre’s production of Three Sisters. Foolishly I imagined that it would take the International Festival some years to equal it. I could not have been more wrong. That experience has now been trumped by the equally interminable and just downright stupid Mabou Mines Dollhouse.

Imagine, if you will, that the cast of ‘Allo ‘Allo have been hired to produce an Ibsen play. Or more specifically, that the actors in a production of Ibsen’s The Dolls House have received accent coaching from the cast of ‘Allo ‘Allo. This was nearly three hours of performers speaking in ‘Allo ‘Allo style Scandinavian accents. It makes a mockery of the play, but sadly a mockery that is not funny but dull as ditchwater.

The performance takes place on a King’s Theatre stage enclosed by lavish red drapes. After the Chinese pianist (and trust me the fact that she is Chinese is of significance) has bowed and taken up her seat at the faux grand piano embedded in the stage (in fact a pitifully sounding keyboard with a fake piano lid) Nora and Kristine come rushing in and start erecting the show’s set.

This consists of one large room in a doll house. That is to say, you have diminutive flats forming a backdrop of walls in concertina style, over which (or through the various windows and doors) the various members of the company periodically appear. The two women start to deliver their lines in the aforementioned bizarre accents and with silly high-pitched screaming and generally bizarre pacing, while unpacking various bits of similarly diminutive furniture apparently intended as Christmas presents for the children’s dolls house. Without apparent motivation, they park, throw or drape themselves over various bits of furniture, manoeuvring it round the stage, or throwing it across it, or, occasionally, locking themselves in a large packing case at the far left of the stage. Just as the manner of delivering the dialogue makes it completely devoid of any emotional or intellectual impact, so the movement further renders the thing meaningless. However, it again bears stressing that this is not an amusing meaninglessness. It is simply empty. I marvelled at the sheer tedium and stupidity of it. I also marvelled at the fact that Torvald could ever have wanted to marry Nora. It was really impossible to understand why he had not thrown this extraordinarily childish, and silly accented woman out into the street some months before the curtain had even risen. Oh, did I mention that the maidservant is heavily pregnant, drops all the trays she ever brings on stage, and keeps swigging alcohol. Lord knows why. The whole is also accompanied by snatches of Grieg from our friend the Chinese pianist – the trouble here is that it can’t reinforce meaning that has been drained away, or create it from outside the mess on stage.

Eventually, just as it was dawning on me that, contrary to all sense, the performers intended to deliver the entire text in these ridiculous accents, the dwarfs playing the men (the main innovative selling point of this production) begin to appear. It is with their presence that the play most disappoints. About two years ago I saw an extraordinary film called The Station Agent in which the lead character is played by a dwarf. It’s a wonderfully moving exploration of his life. One of the reasons I went to this, is that I expected something similar to be done by the deployment of dwarfs here. Not at all. They are turned into a joke. But it is not a clever joke, not a joke which has something profound to say about gender relations or relative heights, or anything really. It’s slapstick and a bit pathetic. For example, a small minority of the audience seemed to find the dwarf Torvald and the tall (relatively) Nora rolling in ecstasy on the floor extremely funny. But the only reason I could see for finding this funny was if you assume there is something inherently funny in the idea of sexual chemistry between a very short man and a normal sized woman. For me, it was one of the depressingly few moments of genuine human connection in the play – there was nothing funny about it at all.

And so for about ninety minutes it went on with more of the same, culminating in a bizarre dream sequence. It appears to be Christmas. We know this because various people keep talking about presents and there’s a little Christmas tree being moved around the stage or behind which the evil lawyer hides for most of his first scene – again don’t ask me why, it was like most of this production obscure. In this sequence, Nora writhed around on the floor while her old nurse (looking suspiciously like the maidservant in a weird mask and silly wig), on stilts, loomed over the walls of the dolls house and spoke t..e..r..r..i..b…l…y slowly and ominously. Strobe lighting started, all the actors were writhing on the floor, snatches of dialogue were displayed on banners which were displayed then dropped onto the stage, and finally, thank god, the interval arrived.

Act 2 brought the sex and nudity. In spades. We began with Kristine giving the evil lawyer a blow job, pass through Torvald masturbating centre stage, and finish with Nora completely naked in one of the King’s Theatre boxes, singing some crazed modern aria to her abandoned half-naked husband as he hangs off the side of the proscenium arch. By this stage, the set has been changed into a theatre, with the back of the stage ringed with opera boxes filled with formally dressed couples moving in sympathy with the leading protagonists.

Incidentally, it would seem for some reason that while full frontal nudity of a woman is quite acceptable, full frontal nudity of a dwarf is not. Probably this was intended to say something terribly profound about gender relations. No doubt a wiser critic than I could say what that was.

In between there was a lot more ‘funny’ accents, writhing around, and a feeble joke about the Chinese which nearly causes the Chinese pianist to leave the stage. Her departure would not have been much of a loss but of course she cannot go since the dialogue cannot possibly be continued without its accompanying Grieg. Eventually, Nora stripped off in her box, vanished in a cloud of smoke, and Torvald ran through through the auditorium screaming for her – which given how obviously barking his wife was, was more than a little baffling.

The EIF brochure claims this production is “funny” and “profound.” For me it was yet another evening of tedium. It is increasingly my view that these directors who like to think they are so provocative are actually very feeble minded. These great works of art frighten them so severely that the only way they can come to grips with them is to tear them to pieces. This only ends up exposing the barrenness of their own imaginations. It would be nice to think that one day Arts Councils, Theatre Managers, Festival Directors, and critics are going to have the courage to expose this by not giving these people work, but I’m not holding my breath.

I have already noted (see earlier review of Poppea) that sex and nudity is now so common it is tiresome. But another point does bear repetition. It is becoming rare to go to a show where the development of the characters, their genuine creation on stage, is paramount. Instead they’re mocked, the text so disfigured that their emotional journeys become meaningless. Furthermore, at least some of McMaster’s hirings in the field of theatre direction knew how speech should be delivered on stage. With the exception of some of The Wooster Group I have yet to see any really fine spoken acting this festival. Jonathan Mills may perhaps console himself with the mistaken idea that he is shocking people. From where I’m sitting he is committing a much more serious crime, and for the second time this Festival, that of boring them.

The Bacchae...or The Alan Cumming Show

As a mad emperor (in Babylon 5) once remarked, “Humour is such a subjective thing.” For much of last night’s performance of The Bacchae, indeed from the very opening lines, there was a portion of the audience roaring with laughter. I was not among them.

This production, the flagship of Jonathan Mills’s theatre programme this year, is a clear example of the more things change, the more they stay the same. Mills has followed a McMaster habit (and doubtless one also followed by their predecessors) of poaching a big success from the previous year’s Fringe for the following year’s International Festival. In this case, that poaching consists of the National Theatre of Scotland and the creative team responsible for last year’s smash hit, Black Watch. In a shrewd move to assist the sale of tickets (which it has clearly done), Mills has also lured back Alan Cumming, appearing on the Scottish stage for the first time in years as the unrecognised God, Dionysus.

The enigma of this production comes from trying to explain what happened between these various collaborators in rehearsal, or, to put it another way, is what we see on stage really the full intention of director John Tiffany? This question has to be asked because for much of the time the show more resembles a kind of Alan Cumming stand up act, played fairly blatantly to the gallery, in which the tragedy of Pentheus and Thebes is but a minor element. Clearly Cumming was cast because the production intended to emphasise the sexual ambiguities of Dionysus. He duly plays up to this at every turn. The opening image is his bared bottom as he is lowered to the stage (again I don’t think this adds much to the characterisation but nudity, as previously noted with regards to Poppea, is absolutely de rigour in the modern theatre). He is garbed throughout in a gold lame tunic and rather silly wig. The majority of his lines are delivered knowingly to the audience, starting with his very first one – “So Thebes. I’m back.” The trouble is that the character is much more complex and subtle than this – the sexual hedonist is only one side of him. For instance, Pentheus’s defiance of Dionysus which leads to his doom is dependent on his inability to recognise the God for who he is. But Cumming’s performance shies away from any sense of ambiguity. He is the epitome of camp, a particular type of God resplendent in gold lame and too much make up, who will get his biggest kicks from slinking around on stage, and getting other men into dresses beside him. There’s no real sense of danger or mystery in Cumming’s performance. This undermines the credibility of Pentheus, but it also weakens Dionysus since the words he’s actually speaking suggest so much more. For example, in this version, it’s clear that there’s a burning resentment at Thebes for its treatment of his mother Semele. This explodes in Dionysus’ final monologue, but is hardly visible earlier on, making it less than convincing. Dionysus’s words to Pentheus suggest a presence that is slippery to grasp, but we are never in any doubt that this is the God (or at least the Cumming/Tiffany version of him). And there is one maddening piece of translator’s messing about. When Dionysus persuades Pentheus to dress up as a woman to spy on the women the scene becomes a transvestite fantasy. Again, there’s just no subtlety to it. Pentheus simply changes clothes because the text demands it – there’s no real sense of why. Moreover, Dionysus is plotting a terrible revenge, but Cumming is just having a huge joke. The line, “Come out…you know you want to” accompanied by a trademark knowing smile from Cumming garners a laugh, but as with so much of this production, the human dilemma behind it is effectively ignored. It’s another empty effect.

Another disappointing aspect of the production is the treatment of the Chorus. Here they are turned into ten gospel singers in red gowns. I presume that Tiffany’s intention was to capture the religious ecstasy of that musical experience. Properly executed this might have worked, here it is a lamentable failure. Tim Sutton’s score is awful, his performers muster a feeble sound given the number of them on stage, and again it’s all a display – there’s no sense of real emotional power behind it.

But perhaps the worst problem of this production, and one which the National Theatre of Scotland really needs to address if it genuinely wishes to lay claim to a role of cultural leadership in Scotland comparable to that being extremely ably performed by the National Theatre in London, is the basic quality of the acting. Not one of the performers in this company really have a sense of how to deliver the lines – a fact depressingly ignored by most professional critics. The quality of acting was, if anything, down on the Lyceum’s own uneven season. Bluntly, there was nobody to compare with the performances Marianne Eliot recently drew in St Joan, or, if that is to set the bar too high, the National Theatre debut of Ruth Wilson as Tanya in Philistines.

Let me give some examples. Two members of the gospel Chorus have to deliver long monologues describing the horrific scenes of bacchic madness they have witnessed. The best such performances in Greek tragedy make you believe that you’re really there with them, living through those experiences moment by moment. You are compelled to listen however awful it becomes. It should be mesmeric. But their inexperience showed, projection, diction, and pacing were all inadequate. Either they need better training, or better direction – but that level should not be considered acceptable for a National Theatre. Paola Dionisetti has received much praise for her performance as Agave, but here too I found many of the same problems. She paused in bizarre places, she overdid the effects. Just like the chorus, she did not convince. Tony Curran as Pentheus was better, but again there was no subtlety – it seemed that Tiffany had instructed him to shout every line – though this did at least make the text audible. Only Ewan Hooper as Cadmus and Cumming himself really rose towards the heights that such a production ought to obtain. Cadmus was impressive in the final scenes, but undermined by Dionisetti’s over-acting. Cumming however, was the most infuriating of all. Every now and again one caught a glimpse of a completely different Dionysus struggling to get out of the habitual camp, knowing routine. A truly great actor could have silenced those laughs, transformed the audience’s expectations, shocked the audience out of them. Cumming and Tiffany ultimately retreated from the attempt. The result has clearly been good box office, but it is not great theatre worthy of an aspiring National Theatre of Scotland, nor the Edinburgh International Festival. This is a production of effects, symbolised by the explosion of flames, rather than an exploration in depth of the human psyche.

Alarming Sibelius

Well, the 2007 festival and the tenure of Jonathan Mills is off to a flying start (though I personally opted out of Candide). My festival experience began on Saturday with a concert from Neeme Jarvi and the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, and a very poorly sold on at that (the hall was perhaps one third full). Perhaps as on paper this was not a blockbuster: opening with two pieces by Estonian Heino Eller (1887-1970) and closing with a ballet from Falla (all three works unknown to me). What might be termed the headline work was itself not exactly an easy one, Sibelius's magical fourth lack the glory and accessibility of works like the second or the fifth. Still, those who went elsewhere were missing out.

Eller is not a household name, and on the basis of Dawn and Twilight this is not entirely unfair. They were nice enough, but rather had the feel of film music. However, the ensemble played them very well, and there was at times a wonderful weight. There also seemed to be hints of both Sibelius and Wagner, which made this interesting programatically.

The Sibelius that followed was something else. There was a real depth to the superbly played opening chords. The quality of the strings and the principle cello was particularly high. Jarvi's reading had a very dark feel to it, yet not in the edgy sense that often is present. He had good control of the orchestra and great delicacy at times. He also provided a strong sense of structure (something that eludes many interpreters) and held the tension well. What a shame then that as the magnificent third movement reached its climax the Usher Hall's fire alarms sounded (I am told by those who were there on Sunday that the hall currently has problems with running water to boot). Jarvi persisted for several minutes before, by dint of the fade up of the house lights and the recorded announcements, he was forced to admit defeat. Despite the poorly filled hall, it still took around 5 minutes to evacuate the upper circle which once more made me glad it wasn't a real fire as I'm sure were one to occur, anyone on the upper floor would be in trouble (presumably the will be addressing this when the hall is refurbished).

It is doubly annoying as this is the second time this has happened in the last year. Towards the end of the wonderful Mackerras/Scottish Chamber Orchestra reading of Haydn's Creation last October, we were forced out of the building. And I am told the alarm kept going off during last year's opening concert (Electra).

Still, 20 minutes later we were back in our seats and the Jarvi picked up where he had been so rudely interrupted. It is a testament to the professionalism of those involved that they resumed with every bit the passion and the inconvenience was soon but a memory. He capped the reading with a fine finale. Rather than bursting out immediately and dominating, the fourth movement's brightness emerged only slowly and never completely. The closing bars were suitably dark and melancholy.

After the interval, we finished with Falla's Three Cornered Hat. Like the 1812 overture or Walton's Belshazzar's Feast, this felt like something of a party piece: tremendous fun but you probably wouldn't take it to your desert island. Victoria Simmonds proved an engaging soloist, not least the Latin passion with which she stormed onto the stage to over the top fanfares. She was accompanied by interestingly scored clapping from the orchestra. However, by the end it had slightly overstayed its welcome and there were rather too many false finishes.

All in all, a solid start to the year's festivities.

Poppea, or The more things change, the more they stay the same...

After an opening concert which gave some suggestion of new directions for the International Festival tonight it was a return to business as usual with yet another piece of supposedly provocative, ground-breaking theatre. This year, it came from Vienna, under the charge of an Australian director, Barrie Kosky, who judging by the interview with him in the programme is mainly to be distinguished by his towering ego.

Kosky and the Vienna Schauspielhaus have set out to reinvent Monteverdi's The Coronation of Poppea. This is firmly indicated in the publicity, and rather undermined the fury of one member of the audience at the interval who expressed his disgust at Monteverdi having been so ripped to pieces. He cannot say he wasn't warned. Here Monteverdi arranged Kosky is mingled with a number of famous Cole Porter songs including Delovely, Anything Goes and So in Love. Operatic style singing is mocked with pauses and over-accentuated coloratura singing. Wild physical interractions dominate the staging. All this, to begin with, seems intriguing and to promise a performance that will meet Kosky's declaration in the programme - “A director reveals to the audience a universe that is very subjective. You have to say, “This is how I view the piece,” and hope that most people find something that resonates with them.” The trouble is, as gradually becomes clear, that Kosky actually has nothing substantial to say about the piece. By deconstructing it in this way, he removes the heart that was there, and has nothing to put in its place.

The staging was sparse. A box like bare stage, enclosed on three sides by walls with multiple panels function as doors, two period chairs which were periodically thrown about, and a bath tub which occasionally emerged from the depths whenever characters needed to engage in public sex which (this being a “daring” theatre production) occurred with monotonous regularity. (As an aside, the main interest of the bath tub consisted in trying to fathom how the protagonists were managing to fit themselves into it). In this unforgiving environment (the empty stage rather than the bathtub), the performers spent their time throwing themselves around, thrusting themselves upon each other, writhing in various compromising positions. After about the first 15 minutes one had seen all the moves at Kosky’s disposal, and thereafter what you got was repetition upon repetition.

Musically, there was no problem with the juxtaposition of Porter and Monteverdi in itself, the small ensemble in the pit made the most of the Lyceum's warm acoustic, and there were some perfectly good vocalists on stage. But unfortunately, every song was delivered in the same style by the performers, the emotion was simply removed. It did not seem to signify what the text was saying. This disregard of the text has become a depressingly familiar feature both of mainstream opera production and deconstructions like this. It does make me wonder whether directors like Kosky are reading the same words that I'm reading, since the frequent effect is to make me feel that we must understand totally different things by the same text. As so often, I did not believe in the characters on stage, or the relationships between them. When they talked of love, or tyranny they might just as well have been discussing colour of the theatre carpet. I am frankly tired of this kind of experience. The National's Saint Joan where the words are the centre, was a refreshing indication of how strong the opposite approach can be.

And then there was the nudity and sex, the final box that it seems it is de rigour to tick in modern theatrical productions. Is it naïve of me to suggest that it would actually now be daring for performers to leave their clothes on? Obviously that would have been too daring for the great Kosky, so instead we had sexual act after sexual act (Nero bringing Seneca to ejaculation in the bath-tub, Amor going down on Poppea in the same location being the highlights) and nudity upon nudity culminating in Nero removing Drusilla’s underwear, ogling her private parts and exposing her breasts as she prepares to go into exile). None of this was shocking or titillating, but tedious.

One is clearly supposed to be violently provoked by Kosky’s productions – the programme informs the reader that they have previously caused near riots in European houses. For me this show was guilty of a much more serious theatrical sin – it was dull.

Welcome New Driver, or Opening Concert EIF 2007

And so it begins…there is a hole in your mind…Ah no, sorry, different sinister plot altogether. Back to reality…

Friday night saw the long awaited opening of Jonathan Mills’ first Edinburgh International Festival. While I have been uneasy about some of his other innovations (particularly the early music invasion) I was delighted that musical theatre (Bernstein’s Candide) was making its way into the Festival programme. Yet, something of what Mills may have to contend with was illustrated in Conrad Wilson’s preview in The Scotsman which asserted gloomily that the wisdom of opening the Festival with such a piece had yet to be proved. I await Wilson’s review with interest since, for me, the performance was a triumph.

The reasons for that can be steadily ticked off. Mills, or Robert Spano had lined up an excellent team of soloists who not only could sing their parts, but also injected just the right level of silliness into the proceedings. The amount of movement and interaction among the principals successfully created a sense of drama, continuing a welcome development in concert opera at Edinburgh which there were signs of in Elektra and Meistersinger last year. They brought out with sparkle this libretto filled with wit (my particular favourite being Cunegonde’s evocation of her breasts “my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks”). The stand outs among the soloists were Laura Aiken and Matthew Polenzani as the young lovers, and Roland Wood as her snobbish brother, not forgetting Thomas Allen who tripped his way lightly through Pangloss’s patter, and delivered the spoken narration in wonderful deadpan style. Before leaving the singers one must also mention the supporting performers from the RSAMD. Reinforcements have come from them before for events like this, but I cannot remember a previous occasion when all sang so well, infused their parts with such a good sense of character and, last but certainly not least, had excellent diction.

Next, you had superb playing from the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra and the best singing I have heard in a long time from the Edinburgh Festival Chorus. Whether they have been weeded out a bit by the new broom, or whether Spano has found the magic touch that enables an acceptable level of sound and precision to be got from them, I do not know, but either way their performance was impressive.

Finally, there was Spano himself. The main danger with musicals being done by classical forces in my experience is that the whole exercise can become too reverential – tempi slow down, the sound may be sumptuous, but it drags. Spano created the opposite effect, lively, bouncing, exciting all the way through, one could see heads nodding in time, and fingers bouncing away on knees. (There was the odd exception to this, notably the lady on my right who looked thoroughly bored – you can always tell, they develop a sudden fascination with the biographies of the performers in the back of the programme. Why such people stay for second halves must remain a mystery). Yet, he also drew some marvellous sweeping lingering climaxes at the right moments – particularly in the great moving chorale “Make Our Garden Grow” with which the musical concludes. Finally, although he was a dynamic presence on the podium – he was not of the arrogant maestro school. Taking the curtain call he was remarkably unassuming, and having him sing in one line as croupier at the casino was a lovely touch – another indication of the playful quality of the performance.

This whole evening augers well for the new regime, as did Mills’ nice touch of getting the massed chorus and orchestra to open proceedings with a quick chorus of Happy Birthday Edinburgh Festival (though the Festival Director could do with a few pointers on delivery of speeches). Let us hope that Mr Salmond’s dreams of a new Scotland include the granting of sufficient funds to see a similar triumph 60 years from now.

BBC Proms 2007

Well, it's that time of the year: a couple of months or so on from the release of the official Edinburgh Festival programme and it is the turn of the BBC and their annual extravaganza. Of course, the two are slightly different beasts, Edinburgh's offering being far more diverse, the BBC's far longer.

So, what are the highlights this year? Or rather, what does it appear the highlights are going to be? More accurately, what am I, personally, going to be making an effort to listen to. Well, given the title of this blog, there is, of course, but one place to start: Prom 39 on Sunday the 12th of August, beginning at 4pm and lasting until, well, a lot later. Yes, it is the final instalment of the Proms Ring cycle and not only do we get the treat of Christine Brewer as Brunnhilde, but we get Donald Runnicles conducting. Never mind that, frustratingly, they have scheduled it over the opening weekend of the Festival, I had already left the night blank and plan to dash down to hear it (the flight is booked, though there was a brief and terrifying mix-up with them failing to post out my ticket, and apparently all the ones for this Prom, but the box office staff assured me I had one and, sure enough, it arrived a week later). Runnicles and Wagner are not a combination I am in any hurry to pass up.

But what else do we have to look forward to? Well, given last year's abandoned Beethoven 9th, it forms the curtain raiser to this year's festivities in Prom 1. The BBCSO is on duty, conducted by Jiri Belohlavek (a conductor about whom I'm a little lukewarm). More intriguing fare comes a few nights later with Prom 5, where conductor David Robertson (who so impressed with Beethoven's Christ on the Mount of Olives at the 2005 Edinburgh festival and last year's Meistersinger) leads the BBCSO in Bernstein's second symphony and Ives' 4th along with a commission from Sam Hayden. Robertson returns a week or so later for Prom 13 including more Beethoven, this time one of my favourites: the 7th symphony (along another new commission, this time from Brett Dean). Two days later and it's time for Glydebourne's visit (your correspondent will be visiting the festival at the start of July for the Matthew Passion, work prevented me from going for Cosi). This year in Prom 15, Vladimir Jurowski brings the LPO for the fun of Verdi's Macbeth. They will have their work cut out for them to erase fond memories of Charles Mackerras's performance at the 2003 Edinburgh Festival with the SCO and Violeta Urmana.

The treats come thick and fast at this point as the very next day we get Marin Alsop's visit with the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. I have good memories of this combination who, until I moved north of the border, were my local orchestra and who, among other things, helped me fall in love with Mahler's 7th symphony. In Prom 16 they bring us Beethoven's Leonore no.3 overture, Barber's violin concerto and Copeland's 3rd symphony. This is swiftly followed by Prom 17, a late night programme just an hour afterwards from Richard Hickox and Collegium Musicum 90 who bring us Schubert's D950 mass. Prom 21 is an altogether odder offering, part of the Brass Day, a programme with a number of curiosities, but demanding a listen for the performance by Charles Mackerras and the BBC Philharmonic of Janacek's Sinfonietta. The only shame is that he isn't bringing us a bigger programme, particular after the fine efforts of the last few years (which have included a wonderful HMS Pinafore and some fine Mozart last year).

Monday 30th July and Prom 23 brings us two interesting things: a new commission and Esa-Pekka Salonen, about the leave the LA Philharmonic to take over at the Philharmonia, he will be leading the BBC Symphony Orchestra in the European premier of his own piano concerto. Annoyingly, I have just realised that, since I have just bought a ticket to hear the Jacques Loussier Trio at the Edinburgh Jazz festival that night, I shall have to set a tape. Prom 24 brings the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra with their chief conductor, the talented young Ilan Volkov. He is paired with pianist Steven Osborne (the last time I heard the two together was at the 2004 Edinburgh festival where they played a wonderful Bartok concerto, Volkov followed this with a stunning Bluebeard's Castle). Their bringing Sibelius's Tapiola (which will be interesting, though in the BBC Scottish's recent Sibelius cycle Volkov didn't show a huge affinity with the composer), Britten's piano concerto and Debussy's La Mer. Two night's later the same team is back for Prom 26 and Mahler's 9th symphony (sans Osborne, obviously).

Prom 29 brings the National Youth Orchestra. This year Mark Elder is in charge and they will be playing Prokofiev's first piano concerto and Shostakovich's 7th symphony 'Leningrad'. Proms 32 and 33 bring the BBC Philharmonic under Noseda. Their first programme includes Beethoven's lovely 8th symphony (much underrated) and Schumann's second, their second features Britten's Sinfonia da Requiem and Cooke's completion of Mahler's 10th symphony (an endeavour that has never really agreed with me). Prom 38 promises to be something special. Colin Davis brings the EU Youth Orchestra to play Brahms (the tragic overture and the 3rd symphony) and then Sibelius, of whom he is one of the finest conductors there is, and the 5th symphony. This is followed by something I may have mentioned earlier: Donald Runnicles, the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Christine Brewer and Wagner's Gotterdammerung. Yes, it's Prom 39. What a disgrace the BBC aren't televising it.

Prom 42 brings us more Sibelus, this time from Vanska and the Lahti Symphony Orchestra. Given my lukewarm response to many of their recordings, though this contrasts markedly with my reaction to Vanska in the concert hall, I'll be curious to hear how they get on with The Tempest and Symphony no.7. Another worthy Sibelian (though sadly not conducting the composer) comes a few days later for Prom 46. Sakari Oramo and the CBSO bring Elgar's The Apostles. Radio 3 recently broadcast a 3 day mini-festival of this team celebrating the Elgar anniversary with this, Gerontius and The Kingdom (which I haven't yet got round to listening to), it elicited some interesting responses, certainly it doesn't seem like Oramo's is a traditional approach. Well worth tuning in for.

A few paragraphs back I meantioned Bartok's Bluebeard's Castle. By coincidence it appears this year from the Philharmonia under the baton of Christoph von Dohnanyi, their outgoing director, in Prom 49, along with a suite from Thomas Ades's opera Powder Her Face. Another new music highlight comes the next day in Prom 50 as John Adams leads the BBC Symphony Orchestra in a programme that includes Copeland and his own work, most excitingly of all the world premier of a symphony from his most recent opera Dr Atomic (the story of atomic pioneer Robert Oppenheimer). Rumour has it this is coming to ENO for the 2008 season, though I'd rather have heard the premier in San Francisco under one Donald Runnicles; but this is good news, if true. Wednesday's Prom 51 features Claudio Abbado doing one of the things he does best: Mahler, and this time the 3rd symphony. As those who've read my thoughts on the 2005 Edinburgh programme will be aware, this is one of my favourite works. Abbado has never quite pulled it off for me on disc. His most recent attempt with the Berlin Philharmonic had a near perfect reading of the first 5 movements but the finale underwhelmed. Earlier, with the Vienna Philharmonic, the finale was fair enough but the rest didn't really engage me. I'm also not wild about what I've heard from the Lucerne Orchestra (a scratch group of Berlin, Vienna and other players built around the Mahler Chamber Orchestra's core), Abbado's reading of the second symphony with them was not too memorable. But if Abbado is on form, there are few finer Mahlerians.

Great treats lie in store a few days later as Bernard Hatink brings the Concertgebouw for Prom 53 and Bruckner's 8th symphony (though, personally, I'd be more curious to hear him in something like the 3rd, 5th or 7th). Later that evening, Pierre-Laurent Aimard and the Mahler Chamber Orchestra perform Beethoven's second piano concerto in Prom 54. This is promising (in light of his fine survey of the concertos with Harnoncourt and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe), but he also going to be conducting Haydn's 102nd symphony and it will be interesting to see how he makes the jump. Prom 55 brings more from Hatink and the Concertgebouw and this time the real treat: Wagner. Haitink's Wagner is rather special, there is some lovely music in his recording of the Ring which is, at times, revelatory. What a shame that it's spoilt by the Brunnhilde of Eva Marton. Here we get the prelude to act I of Parsifal and the Good Friday music as well as the prelude and liebestod from Tristan, along with some Debussy.

Prom 59 features another orchestra with whom Haitink has been closely associated in recent years: the LSO. They come under the baton of their new music director Valery Gergiev playing a programme of Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev. It will be interesting listening: their recent CD cycle of the Prokofiev symphonies didn't always have the fire that was present in the finest readings. Of course, more interesting will be to hear how he fares next year when his programme seems to rely less on Russian composers. He is apparently doing all the Mahler symphonies - I'd be going if I were based in London. Another big European orchestra comes a few days later for a pair of concerts: the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra under their director Mariss Jansons (fresh from their appearances in Edinburgh). In Prom 60 gives us Strauss's Also sprach Zarathustra and Sibelius's second symphony and Prom 62 is Honegger's 3rd symphony and Beethoven's 9th, making its second appearance this year, and this is surely the one the smart money is on.

Prom 64 brings Belohlavek and the BBC Symphony Orchestra for a commission made for the night's soloist, percussionist Evelyn Glennie, as well as Mahler's 1st symphony. What a shame we aren't having this from Jansons who is a master of it. Belohlavek's Mahle hasn't really grabbed mer (he played a rather disappointing 9th at the 2005 Edinburgh festival). More promising is Proms Saturday Matinee 4, which is an all Britten programme from Edward Gardner, who has recently been doing fine things at ENO, and the Nash Ensemble. That evening comes the first of two programmes from Michael Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. In Prom 64 they play Ives, Strauss and Shostakovich, in Prom 65 they bring the last Mahler of the year, the 7th. I recently acquired their disc of the 5th and found it rather disappointingly dull, so it will be interesting to see they get on with this far trickier work. My final highlights are the two programmes from Barenboim and the Vienna Philharmonic. Prom 66 features Schubert's playful, Mozartian, 5th symphony and Bruckner's 4th (which was probably the highlight of his CD cycle with the Berlin Philharmonic). Prom 68 is more adventurous featuring the music of Bartok, Ligeti, Enescu and Kodaly.

There are doubtless some who wonder why the next three nights (featuring the Leipzig Gewandhaus under Chailly and the Boston Symphony under Levine) aren't getting a proper mention. The truth is that I have never cared much for either conductor, Levine is, I feel, particularly overrated: I don't know anyone who can make Wagner duller. I am not plugging the last night either; I'm not a fan. It will be interesting to see how Belohlavek copes, certainly he can't manage as badly as Slatkin used to (famous last words).

Of course, the list is far from exhaustive. To find that you must trawl through the unfriendly Proms website (or lay down £6 for the printed programme, rather a lot given the proportion taken up by advertising). There are a number of fine and intriguing things that I haven't mentioned, but the above is what I shall be making an effort to hear (or at least tape, as on many of the nights I'll be otherwise engaged with the small festivals we have up here).