The Flourishing Arts with Les Arts Florissants in "Les Arts Florissants"

Les Arts Florissants performed Charpentier's Les Arts Florissants at Caramoor Friday evening. Photo: Gabe Palacio
KATONAH, N.Y. -- William Christie, who turned 81 last December, founded Les Arts Florissants in 1979 in France, where he had relocated due to his opposition to the Vietnam War. The preeminent French early music ensemble took its name from a short chamber opera, composed by Marc-Antoine Charpentier in 1685 for Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Guise, and likely performed at her residence in Paris. Long after recording the piece in 1982, the group has returned to its namesake work as part of the ongoing celebrations for Christie's 80th birthday. Christie himself is leading a North American tour with the organization, pairing Les Arts Florissants with the same composer's La Descente d’Orphée aux Enfers, which came to Caramoor Friday evening. Although the ongoing wildfire smoke influx threatened to scuttle the performance in that venue's outdoor Venetian Theater, by that afternoon the winds had shifted and the air was relatively cool and clear.

The story of Les Arts Florissants is allegorical. Music, Poetry, Painting, and Architecture greet warriors returning from conflict, hoping that the arts may hold greater sway over Louis XIV, now that war is at an end. War and Discord enter, leading the Chorus of the Furies in frightful displays until Peace appears, dispersing the forces of chaos. The ultimate meaning of the work, and how it may have been referencing the political situation in France in 1685, remains obscure, but its message remains ever timely. The coincidence of this performance, although likely planned long ago, with the renewed hostilities by the United States against Iran underscored Charpentier's message: the arts flourish only when war is kept at bay.

For this tour, Christie assembled a cast drawn from the flower of Le Jardin des Voix, the French Baroque training program for young singers he established in 2002. French soprano Camille Chopin presided as La Musique, with a limpid top range and impeccable phrasing, matched by American soprano Sarah Fleiss's spirited La Poésie. Tenor Bastien Rimondi and Canadian-American contralto Sydney Frodsham made a more comical pair as La Peinture and L'Architecture, respectively, but with musical delicacy. Bass-baritone Olivier Bergeron gave an over-the-top rendition of La Discorde, echoed by the ensemble as shrieking Furies, with plenty of nasal cackling to make the point. Cast and audience alike sank into serene contemplation when Croatian soprano Josipa Balić appeared as La Paix, bringing an end to discord: even a moth, seemingly charmed, alit on the end of her finger at one point.

A quartet of dancers graced the production with their movements, joined in some dances by the vocal cast, and in the final unaccompanied choral section, they sang along with their singer counterparts. The choreography by Martin Chaix was more Mark Morris than Baroque France in style, but the dancers' movements matched the elegant music with visual shapes in ways that diverted the eyes. The costumes, as such, were formalwear and simple gowns in soft pastel colors, again giving the impression of a scene that was more of our age than the past. (Two F-holes on the back of La Musique's white jacket were a nice touch.) The sense of benevolence created by the performance hung in the air, echoing the poignant lines of the final strophe: "Ô paix si longtemps désirée, / Que tes fruits à goûter sont doux, / Tu ramènes les temps de Saturne et de Rhée, / Demeure toujours avec nous." If only peace could bring back the Golden Age and dwell with us forever.

Christie presided in a self-effacing way, adding continuo touches on both harpsichord and chamber organ. Two Baroque violins took the twin parts for treble viols, part of the specific musical establishment kept by the Duchesse de Guise. (Christie recorded the work with treble viols, but they were not missed here.) Two flutists also doubled on flageolets to add a folksy character to some of the dances. Christie's delicate approach and the beautiful French declamation of the singers are what was missing from the ensemble's most recent visit to the Library of Congress in November.

Charpentier's La Descente d’Orphée aux Enfers is a showcase for the high tenor who sings Orpheus. American tenor Richard Pittsinger distinguished himself with a shining high range, capable of extraordinary softness, and refined phrasing. In Act II, he gave a different vocal sheen to each of the three pleas Orpheus made to the powers of the Underworld, concluding almost in a whisper. While the opening wedding scene of Act I featured spirited singing and dancing (including the affecting return of Camille Chopin as Euridice), the piece became exquisite with the entrance into Hell in Act II. Two bass viols, played by Myriam Rignol and Mathilde Vialle, set the somber tone of the infernal scene, bathed in red light. The striking trio sung by Ixion, Tantalus, and Tityus (all infamous denizens of the Underworld) featured the perfectly matched voices of tenors Bastien Rimondi and Attila Varga-Tóth with baritone Olivier Bergeron. Their complex, interwoven lines meshed beautifully with the bass viols and other low instruments. The dark episode continued with bass Kevin Arboleda-Oquendo's sunglasses-sporting Pluton and Sarah Fleiss's alluring Proserpine.

The return of the two flutes and higher registers sounded like a ray of light as Orpheus led Euridice out of Hell. Charpentier's opera ends with that moment, probably because a third act has been lost. The choice to end the performance there added to the sense of hope. Beauty can return to the world, and it does all the time, as long as peace prevails.

The Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra performs Handel's Tolomeo, starring Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen, Lauren Snouffer, and Nicole Heaston 4 p.m. July 26 at Caramoor. caramoor.org

Teatro Nuovo marks bicentenary of Italian opera in America

Sedona Libero (Donna Elvira), Kevin Spooner (Leporello, right), and Ricardo José Rivera (Don Giovanni), Teatro Nuovo. Photo: Steven Pisano
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Will Crutchfield, a leading American specialist in bel canto opera, has led the summer festival Teatro Nuovo since 2018, at various venues around New York. This year's programming, more than worth a trip to Manhattan this week, went back to the start of bel canto history, with the 1826 version of Mozart's Don Giovanni, heard Wednesday evening at the Rose Theater on Columbus Circle, home of Jazz at Lincoln Center.

A bit of history is required for that last sentence to make sense. Our country’s first operatic performances go back to the 18th century, with ballad operas in New York and French operas in New Orleans, even before the latter city technically became American. Crutchfield instead is celebrating the 200th anniversary of Italian opera in America, when Lorenzo da Ponte organized a string of performances in New York in 1826. Mozart's one-time librettist had settled in the U.S. in 1805, driven here by his scandals and bankruptcy in Europe. The troupe that presented the first Don Giovanni in America, among other works, was led by Manuel García and featured the Spanish baritone's wife, his son, and his daughter -- she who would become known as the celebrated soprano Maria Malibran. (García's other daughter, later known as Pauline Viardot, was still a child.) Crutchfield has consulted the 1826 version of the libretto, created by da Ponte, and many other sources to reconstruct the opera. His singers studied 19th-century sources to understand how the Italian singers may have added ornamentation and cadenzas to Mozart's score.

The edition is a mixture of the original Prague version with Mozart's Vienna revision, as are most modern performances. Tenor Martin Luther Clark's Ottavio sang "Il mio tesoro" and not "Dalla sua pace," and Sedona Libero's Elvira sang "Mi tradi," but not in the expected place. Noah B. Rogers, who made a pleasingly assertive Masetto, did not get to sing his aria, which was a shame, but keeping the run time just under three hours seemed worth the trade-offs. The most striking change was the shortened Act II Finale, ending almost immediately after Don Giovanni was taken off to hell. The production cut the entire concluding ensemble, as apparently most productions of the opera did until the 20th century. More significant was the adaptation of the recitatives. Conductor Geoffrey Loff led them from what looked like a clavichord, which produced a very faint, tinkling sound. Double-bassist Dane Roberts provided the foundational bass line, while cellist Hilary Metzger created an intriguing harmonic fabric of viol-like double-stop chords and melodic ideas. Along with the rhythmic freedom taken by the singers, it made the recitatives utterly different and of much greater musical interest.

Baritone Ricardo José Rivera, who is familiar to Washington audiences from his turns with Washington Concert Opera in recent years, made a caustic and insistent Don Giovanni. His scornful anger and his tender love-making, the latter heard most effectively in "Deh! viene a la finestra" (senza mandolino but with a velvety violin solo from concertmaster Laura Lutzke, accompanied by pizzicato strings), were both credible. Both leading women suited their roles admirably, with mezzo-soprano Sedona Libero's Donna Elvira erupting in spitfire ornamentation and cadenzas, and soprano Elizabeth Novella reaching an intensity of Donna Anna's grief and anger with interesting rubato choices in her big scenes. As Leporello, Kevin Spooner displayed nimble comic timing, especially in the Catalog Aria, and sure-footed rhythmic skills.

The voice shifting choices also included casting the potent mezzo-soprano of Simona Genga as Zerlina, for sheer volume the most present singer on the stage. The vocal weight affected her characterization as well, giving her a more aggressive touch in the duets with both Don Giovanni and Masetto. The Commendatore of bass-baritone Daniel Mobbs, a veteran singer, impressed more with elegance of tone than raw power. Tenor Martin Luther Clark used the pointed edge of his sound to give Don Ottavio a dignified presence, occasioning none of the usual audience laughs at the character ending up in the friend zone.

Teatro Nuovo is essentially presenting concert opera, with formal wear for costumes and a set consisting of a large projection-bearing screen (images designed by Adam J. Thompson). The orchestra of gut strings and early instruments made mostly pleasing sounds (with the natural horns and trumpets sounding most rustic), although just because the instruments are less powerful than their modern counterparts does not mean they cannot overpower singers, which Loff should have taken greater care to avoid. A skilled ensemble of ten extra musicians provided the on-stage musical performances during the Act I finale, to appropriately confusing effect.

* * *
Crutchfield paired the Mozart with Rossini's Il Turco in Italia, premiered in Milan in 1814 before the Garcías brought it to New York, also in 1826. Singer illness gutted that first American production. Happily no such issues plagued Teatro Nuovo's performance, heard at the Rose Theater on Thursday night, even with the unbreathable air in New York City this week, caused by smoke blowing in from the devastating Canadian wildfires. This is not one of Rossini's most sparkling achievements, and at well over three hours, it could have used serious truncation along the lines of what Crutchfield did with Don Giovanni. One could certainly start by excising the superfluous aria given to Albazar toward the end, as well as one or maybe both of Don Narciso's arias.

Felice Romani's libretto is predictably absurd. Selim, a Turkish prince, visits Naples and falls in love with Donna Fiorilla, who is already managing her intimacies with a husband, the aged Don Geronio, and a lover, the vain and ridiculous Don Narciso. In Naples, somewhat miraculously, is Selim's former slave and lover, Zaida, now disguised as a Roma fortune-teller. (The use of the word gipsy and some Muslim stereotypes might also make the libretto unpalatable to modern listeners.) The most ingenious part of the story is the character of Prosdocimo, a poet who, in a metafictional twist, is creating the entire story as the basis of his latest opera libretto. Many funny jokes at the art form's expense happen along the way. (Crutchfield's program note pointed to a performance of Mozart's Così fan tutte in Milan just before Romani wrote this libretto, which may have influenced the Donna Fiorilla's polyamorous excesses.)

Kresley Figueroa, familiar from her recent and excellent work with Washington National Opera's Cafritz Young Artists program, showed exceptional technique as Donna Fiorilla, lighting up her many arias and ensembles with firecracker virtuosity. While her intonation strayed at times toward the top, Figueroa's physical presence made the character's outrageous vanity and ability to manipulate men more than credible. Of her three love interests, Mattia Venni's Don Geronio, the long-suffering husband, made the best impression, with impeccable comic timing and buffo antics. As the eponymous Turk, Vincent Graña displayed the most potent instrument, easily filling the room with sound, although in terms of comfort on the stage he seemed reserved. Tenor Max Alexander Cook struggled at times in the top range, but he sang the role of Don Narciso with technical ease in melismatic passages. Soprano Sabatina Mauro, as Zaida, and David Freides, as Albazar, both made worthy appearances from the ranks of this year's Resident Artists. Hans Tashjian brought more stage antics than vocal refinement to the poet Prosdocimo, with some charming breaking of the theatrical fourth wall.

Violinist Elisa Citterio, who stood facing the orchestra, led the performance while partially playing as well, with Derrick Goff seated at the clavichord next to her. The results were not as clean in terms of ensemble cohesion, as the establishment of fast tempos did not always happen with clarity. The same division of labor occurred for the recitatives, far fewer in number, as heard in Don Giovanni. The instrumental playing, here and in Don Giovanni, was generally impeccable. The extended horn solo from Nathaniel Udell proved a highlight of the Rossini overture, with the charming alternation of stopped and open notes necessary because of the natural horn's lack of valves.

Second image credit: Mattia Venni (Don Geronio) and Kresley Figueroa (Donna Fiorilla) in Teatro Nuovo's Il Turco in Italia. Photo: Steven Pisano

Critic’s Notebook: Pavel Haas Quartet Makes the Ears Dance in an All-Czech Program

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Tiefenbeglückender Ohrentanz, gänzlich tschechisch: Bekanntes Ungehörtes, unerhört Beliebtes: Das Pavel Haas Quartet im Musikverein, mit einem Abend zum Schwärmen

Bohuslav Martinů String Quartets 2, 3, 5, 7 Pavel Haas Quartet (Supraphon, 2025) US | UK | DE

Bedrich Smetana The String Quartets Pavel Haas Quartet (Supraphon, 2015) US | UK | DE

Raving in Czech

The Known-unheard and outrageously popular: the Pavel Haas Quartet and an evening of chamber music to make your ears swoon

What a program — on paper alone. Who? One of the most celebrated string quartets of our time, Prague's Pavel Haas Quartet. Where? The Muskverein's Brahms-Saal. What? An entirely Czech program, running from the sole string quartet of the short-lived Vítězslava Kaprálová (1935) through Bohuslav Martinů's Fifth Quartet (1938) to that most reliable of pleasures, Antonín Dvořák's Fourteenth and last quartet, in A-flat major, op. 105 (1895). Kaprálová's music, barely two dozen works in total, has been rediscovered in spasmodically over the decades, tenaciously if intermittently — but one does not actually get to hear it very often. (Or else it's hidden in well-meaning but generally dismal "look: Women composers!" programs that are such an ironic, unintended bane to composers that happen to have been women.) This is a substantial three-movement quartet of some twenty minutes, written by a twenty-year-old nearing the end of her studies in Brno: rhythmic, mobile, tonal, but facing boldly forward — unsurprisingly in the musical orbit of Schulhoff, Pavel Haas, and Martinů. Certain works carry a luminous seriousness and quality that shimmers through them; Kaprálová's op.8 is one of those.

The Fifth Quartet of Martinů was not chosen as a companion piece, merely because it's a sensationally effective work at the intersection of Bartók, Shostakovich, and Janáček, and (like all of Martinů's quartets, which the Pavel Haas Quartet is currently recording for Supraphon) deserves to be far better known. Kaprálová is also the direct inspiration for the piece: she was Martinů's student in Paris for three years — and thereafter, in all likelihood, his lover. Think of it as Martinů's equivalent of Janáček's "Intimate Letters" — quartet. The work rocks from the opening bar with an irresistibility that seems to want to carry the momentum of Kaprálová's dynamic finale straight into itself. The relentless climaxes of the partially spooky Adagio, each time the Pavel Haas Quartet allowed them to relax, offered a delicious shiver of complex lyricism. As fragile as the movement dissolves, so wild does the Allegro vivo return — with maximum, ferocious forward thrust. Feet and heads bobbed in the audience, pretty much universally. The viola-throaty tone of the first violin in the finale's Lento feigned relaxation before the irresistible surge of the Allegro that followed.

Throughout all, one didn't actually pay all that much attention to the quartet's playing as such — because it seems to function by itself, entirely naturally: what one hears is not interpretation but music. Here, as in the Dvořák — whose fugal opening gradually yields to the composer's characteristic melodic abundance — it was the tonal richness of the ensemble that was so arresting. This isn't some pretty-playing style they indulge in, but a style that adapts, like an octopus, to its musical environment as needed: pallid, wild, sweet, spiky — irresistible. One could look elsewhere for finer individualists: the second violin in the Quatuor Ébène, the viola in the Belcea Quartet, the Cuarteto Casals' cello. But anyone who can make your ears dance the way this quartet did in the Dvořák is offering something singular — and seems to make this argument: one good string quartet evening is worth ten orchestral concerts, so sustainably and deeply satisfying are these hours.

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STC's 'Othello' on the Jersey Shore

Ben Turner (Iago) and Wendell Pierce (Othello) in Othello, Shakespeare Theatre Company. Photo: Teresa Castracane

In Simon Godwin's new production of Othello, mounted by Shakespeare Theatre Company at the Harman Center and seen last week, the action has been updated to "a modern capital" and "the time is now." The Moor and his soldiers are not Venetian guards and sailors, but a general and his men in an American military unit. Clearly members of a lower class, they serve at the pleasure of their wealthy betters. Wendell Pierce, familiar from his television roles in The Wire and Treme, sports a blue beret and military uniforms. He woos and marries Desdemona (Olivia Cygan), the daughter of a wealthy family, and serves a Duke of Venice (Todd Scofield) wearing a suit like an American president. The war scenes, with explosions and warships firing, seemed to evoke the Iran conflict, although it is timed with that war only coincidentally.

Ben Turner, who had an affecting turn as Macduff in Godwin's Macbeth two years ago, makes a cagey, street-wise Iago. The backwards baseball cap and gangster attitude implied the Jersey Shore more than his clipped American accent, not particularly specific to any part of the country. Melanie Field reinforces the idea as his smart-talking wife, Emilia, costumed in somewhat trashy outfits (costumes by Susan Hilferty and Sarita P. Fellows). By the end of the play, she becomes the fierce defender of truth in a world of lies. Daniel Velez's Roderigo and an ensemble of misfit grunt soldiers break into hip-hop dances (choreography by Jonathan Goddard) and have a rowdy kegger in the drinking scene that disgraces Lucas Iverson's forthright, even goofy Cassio, who was a very funny drunk.

Melanie Field as Emilia in Othello, Shakespeare Theatre Company. Photo: Teresa Castracane
Turner had the strongest handle on the rhythm of Shakespeare's language, shifting effortlessly from prose to poetry and back again, in what is the play's longest role. He made savvy use of a soldier's barking tone at times, especially to show deference, real or ironic, to a superior. Pierce tended to roll too quickly through his lines, choosing words to punch and eliding others, but his transformation from loving husband to jealous murderer moved in a believable arc. Cygan's Desdemona, beautiful and heart-breaking though she was, felt overshadowed by Field's more raucous Emilia and Giovanna Drummond's bubblegum-smacking Bianca. Although Shakespeare's songs are cut from the drinking scene, the modernized rendition of Desdemona's Willow Song, with a sort of background vocal by Emilia (music by Shiloh Coke), worked remarkably well.

Othello runs through June 28. shakespearetheatre.org

#ClassicalDiscoveries: The Podcast. Episode 022 - Engelbert Humperdinck: Miraculous and Ecclesiastic Adventures

Welcome to #ClassicalDiscoveries. Here is a little introduction to who we are and what we would like to achive at the first (or, in a nod to Bruckner, "double-zeroëth" episode). Your comments, criticism, and suggestions remain most welcome, of whatever nature they may be. Comments on YouTube directly are even more appreciated, as they will help the visibility and reach of the podcast - and because they make us feel like what we are doing is not completely in vain.

Now here’s Episode 022, on "Mr. Hansel & Gretel", Engelbert Humperdinck, but in works you might not ever have heard of. (Arnold George Dorsey-jokes included!)

When you hear 'Engelbert Humperdinck', you'll invariably either think of the King of Romance's hit ballad "Release Me" (in which case you've got the wrong Humperdinck, as far as we are concerned) or of the King of Romantic Children's Opera's greatest hit "Hansel & Gretel". Well, in their latest podcast, Jens and Joe will try to re-wire your brain so that you will associate the name with mystical blue birds and nuns on the run. Romance, however, remains the name of the (musical) game all the same.

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Critic’s Notebook: New Production of the Rosenkavalier in Graz

Also reviewed for Die Presse: „Rosenkavalier“ in Graz: Wo die Frauen hauen und stechen

Richard Strauss Der Rosenkavalier C.Kleiber, Bavarian State Opera Watson, Fassbaender Popp, Ridderbusch (Orfeo, 2008) US | UK | DE

Richard Strauss Der Rosenkavalier C.Thielemann, Munich Phil Fleming, Koch, Damrau, Hawlata (DVD, Decca, 2011) US | UK | DE

Marschallin across Generations: New Rosenkavalier in Graz

Philipp M. Krenn’s new Rosenkavalier in Graz is a production brimming with ideas, gently nudged toward the present. In the way it succeeds at explaining itself, it comes startlingly close to a directorial ideal.

Strauss and Hofmannsthal are always about human relationships. In the new Graz Rosenkavalier that’s literally true, so liberally do director Philipp M. Krenn and set designer Momme Hinrichs deploy the revolving stage. We move seamlessly from foyer to antechamber, to servants’ quarters, to billiard room, bedroom, and kitchen. This way, Krenn manages to stage the Marschallin and Octavian’s early-morning dalliance during the overture already, while revealing – in an Upstairs/Downstairs type scenario – how the staff sorts laundry, stocks shelves, listens at doors, whispers and gossips. There are fewer secrets in this household than you’d think. Small wonder that the Marschallin (Polina Pastirchak) and Octavian (Anna Brull) are so surprisingly indiscreet.

Hinrichs’ sets and Eva Maria Dessecker’s costumes span a parallel palette from early 20th century (the aristocratic society, dueling type student fraternities) through the 1970s (replete with Bubble Chair and large-floral wallpaper) to a subtle present-day — expressed, among other things, in the kitchen where the Marschallin makes her morning coffee and where Ochs and the ever-present Leopold (Arthur Haas) brazenly help themselves to anything in sight. Whether the “carnal offspring”, as Leopold is referred to in the libretto, is Ochs’ illegitimate son or on-and-off lover... with this sexually insatiable opportunist Ochs, anything is possible.

Apropos. Wilfried Zelinka’s Ochs was magnificent: He nails the greasy vulgarian who thinks far too highly – and all the more imperturbably – of himself with fearsome ease. Someone for whom women are mainly status symbol; sunglasses casually cocked in his hair that’s a good deal longer than advisable and thinner than desired, dress shirt stretched across the paunch, lordly manner, and shoes without socks. Whether petty nobility or Mittelstand nouveau-riche – if you’ve been to Austria long enough, you know the type. That his lowest notes weren’t quite there was irrelevant amid such a vivid display of character.

In Act II Zelinka also becomes a hybrid of Ochs and the Feldmarschall, who still rightly rankles the sensitives of Sophie, even as he’s a bit more dashing, kept keep in check by his manners where his morals wouldn’t, and displaying the debonair cool of a man not used to being flustered. This whole act is the coup de théâtre Krenn has been preparing since Act I, when a Super-8-movie flashback takes us to the Marschallin’s own wedding. At the very end of the act, she finds herself face to face with her younger self in the bridal gown: This is simultaneously the young Maria Theres’ and Sophie (Tetiana Miyus). It’s a passing-of-the-torch moment. And this is also how the second act, throughout which the Marschallin is silently present – begins. She is there to support Sophie and, by extension, herself – in her struggle for marital self-determination. Sophie’s marriage is actually the memory of her own. The Marschallin’s fate (none-too-bad, if sprinkled with regrets) was not hers to decide; Sophie’s, at least, should be. It is Sophie, too, who settles the matter of the Ochs-Octavian duel when she takes a carving knife to Ochs’ calf, to make sure worse does not befall young, out-fenced Octavian.

You can like this sort of thing or not (at the premiere it was unabated applause for the directorial team), but for Krenn to pull off this act of doubling – past and present; amending the past to cure the future – in a way that explains itself with such self-evidence, brings the production startlingly close to a directorial ideal.

The orchestra under Vassilis Christopoulos supported the proceedings well, often superb; the winds especially; the violins at times rather less so. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt throughout most of the performance, if the orchestra could have played a touch more quietly throughout. The acting meanwhile was superb: the deeply moving, full-voiced Marschallin, the nuanced Ochs, the adorable, feisty Sophie. Even the torn-and-striving Octavian hardly lagged behind, and the cast as a whole delivered very decent (and better) vocal performances without, admittedly, threatening to redefine the standards for excellence. Noteworthy, however, among smaller roles were Leitmetzerin Corina Koller and Neira Muhič’s Annina. The social-media-addicted Italian singer (Iurie Ciobanu), meanwhile, had a small message for young Mr. Chalamet ready: He took selfies with a “#WECARE, Timothée” sign.

At the close, the Feldmarschall wanders past Sophie and Octavian’s embrace and finds Faninal’s “Sind halt aso, die jungen Leut’!” put in his mouth. When he watches with rather too much interest, his wife gives him a tender-but-firm tap – “Come along now, darling” – and leads him away, back to their reality.

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Critic’s Notebook: Olivier Latry and Shin-Young Lee

Olivier Latry & Shin-Young Lee, Stravinsky, Heller, Alain Trois danses (BNL, 2013) US | UK | DE

Olivier Latry, Transcriptions Midnight at Notre-Dame (DG SACD, 2004) US | UK | DE

Olivier Latry and Shin-Young Lee Dance the Night Away

Organ Dances at the Konzerthaus's Rieger instrument

While early music is otherwise running riot at the Konzerthaus – it is, after all, “Resonanzen” time – one might intuitively expect an organ recital to be part of the baroque proceedings. For a good two minutes, that was indeed the case on Tuesday evening in the Great Hall, when Olivier Latry, titular organist of Notre-Dame, and Shin-Young Lee brought the Rieger organ to life with an arrangement of Rameau’s Les Sauvages. But the Rieger organ is anything but a baroque instrument, and so the remainder of the evening was devoted to (ballet) music that, while not written for the organ, was at least composed at roughly the same time as the instrument itself came into life.

The programme ranged from Béla Bartók via Maurice Ravel, Manuel de Falla and Alexander Borodin to the main course and undisputed high point: an arrangement of Igor Stravinsky’s Le sacre du printemps. Not such a far-fetched idea, given that The Rite of Spring also exists in a wildly percussive four-hand piano version by the composer himself. But everything before the Stravinsky amounted to little more than preliminaries – with the Rameau (surprisingly) perhaps the least satisfying of the lot: The organ sounded thick and dense in the Les Sauvages (recycled in Les Indes galantes and inspired by Reameau observering six Mitchigamea chiefs dance before King Louis XV. in the Théâtre-Italien in 1725) and in this arrangement – or rather in Latry’s and Lee’s registration – it clattered like a fairground carousel.

The Bartók miniatures, small musical playthings from the Romanian Dances, were never intended by the composer to court broad appeal and were unlikely to have acquired it in Latry’s arrangement either. Interesting, at least, was how the “Bagpipe Players” sonatina recalled 16-bit computer music. Cleanly and securely played, but at times somewhat laborious and monochrome in sound – whether for four hands or two – Lever du jour, Danza ritual and the Polovtsian Dances were hardly more invigorating.

But then! Almost from the very first note, Lee and her husband made it clear in the Stravinsky where all that effort in selecting organ stops had gone. The work gleamed, lively and colourful. The impudent little figures Stravinsky scatters throughout were wonderfully realised by four hands – as was, with two, three or even four feet, the underlying, driving rhythm. Altogether, this sounded far more natural, more organic, than, say, a Bruckner symphony on the organ and it kind-of salvaged the evening.

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Critic’s Vault: Shipwrecked in Ireland

eX presents:, Music from "Shipwrecked", De Cabez, De Morales, De Victor, Byrd et al (Heresy Records, 2012) US | UK | DE

The Dublin Drag Orchestra, Music from "Motion of the Heart" & "Viva Frida!" Dowland, Lawes, Coperario, Ward et al. (Heresy Records, 2012) US | UK | DE

A musical journey with Francisco de Cuéllar

In 2009, a fascinating, even prescient production marrying theater to early music was mounted at Dublin's Royal Hopsital

Queen Elizabeth and Philip II are goofing around behind chairs to the left and right of the U-shaped stage before both break out in a dash through the marvelous Great Hall of the Royal Hospital Kilmainham in Dublin. What are Elizabeth and Philip doing in Dublin, and why is the former wearing ankle-high silver sneakers and a blue dress, and the latter waving a feather and making silly faces?

Abbey and Robert are actually eight years old, and they play their royal parts in “Shipwrecked”, a production of the early music ensemble eX which took place in the (truly) Great Hall of what is now the Irish Museum of Modern Art. The two are impossibly cute child actors who patiently sit through the long rehearsals—almost until midnight the day before the premiere – and they have quickly become the mascots of the production.

Later during the final rehearsal, Queen Elizabeth, who barely reaches up to Caitríona O’Leary’s belt, pipes the tune of Greensleeves in duet with O’Leary, which sounds absolutely adorable – and moderately musical. Then the little Queen gets her wig affixed while rummaging through her Hello Kitty bag and Philip II chats with Kate, the make-up artist, and crinkles his nose as her brush applies white powder to his face.

Shipwrecked is an early music jamboree, a soundtrack of the (literally) incredible journey of a Spanish captain of the Armada who strands in hostile 16th-century-Ireland, and is then chased, maltreated, and occasionally helped by murderous Englishmen and local savages until he – barely – makes it back to safety in the Spanish Netherlands. If only half of his account, a twenty-page letter, is true, Francisco de Cuellar is a mixture between Voltaire’s Candide and George McDonald Fraser’s Harry Flashman. Music directors Caitríona O’Leary (an expert researcher on – and performer of – early Irish music) and Lee Santana (lutist extraordinaire and Los Otros-founder) cobbled together the musical tapestry from lute books, 16th century Spanish composers, traditional songs, and improvisations.

Members of Los Otros, Sequentia, and the Harp Consort, fortified with Irish music experts, provided the music, breaking out into an early music jam session for the finale that had the pint-sized Queen and the King waving their hands in rhythmic excitement. Director Eric Fraad, meanwhile, had the performers – all in full costume – work out the semi-staged element of the performance which included actor Keith Dunphy, as one of three incarnations of Captain Francisco reading out (and sometimes shouting) excerpts of the actual letter, thus providing the story line upon which the pieces of music are hung.

The battle of the percussionists Mel Mercier and Francesco Turrisi and Steve Player*’s Renaissance tap-dance (a combination of brute force and Fred Astaire) rang in the conclusion of an early music spectacle that emerged, seemingly out of buzzing chaos just a few hours earlier, into something akin to perfection, delighting the 150 attendees who had found their way up to the Royal Hospital on a mild Dublin Sunday night. While the music was passionately played and the singers delighted – especially O’Leary’s early music soprano and genre-defying vocalist/guitarist Clara Sanabras – the costumes

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