Glass - for Advent

I am writing this while listening to the Meistersinger relay from the Met. on Radio 3. The nearest church to my hotel in Nürnberg - when I was there in April - was St Martha’s, used as the rehearsal room by the real Meistersinger. It was officially closed, but I sneaked in through the sacristy to peak at the stained glass, much of it as early as the late 14th Century. (Here's John the Baptist, 15th Century.)

St Martha’s had escaped lightly in World War II, but just over two months after my visit, fire engulfed the entire church: providentially its windows had been removed pending renovation work.

Glass of another sort was on the bill of the concert I went to on Thursday night at the Pittville Pump Room. As the centrepiece of their programme, the estimable Carduccis played Philip Glass' Quartet no. 3. Others in the fullish house loved it, they told me, but I was left cold. I could have coped with it as the backgound to a film - for which it was originally intended - but coming after the well known Mozart D minor, its major key Andante played magically, it seemed to go nowhere, and to take twice (rather than half) the time of Mozart in doing so.

After the interval, the Carduccis tackled one of the masterpieces of the repertoire, Beethoven Op 132, its 20-minute slow movement wringing the heart. Once over, you are led to think its all going to be plain sailing, only for a wrestling match to develop - as far from music of the 18th Century as you can imagine. A thrilling performance!

70th Cheltenham Music Festival

"Do not bid me remember mine end," urges Falstaff in Henry IV Part 2. Ignoring his example, I reflected this morning that the Adagio sostenuto at the heart of Beethoven's "Hammerklavier" might do quite well for my funeral. Only, at 15 minutes (more or less minimum), it's of course grotesquely too long.

In Steven Osborne's performance, however, this was far from the case. Never have I found myself taking this sonata so seriously. It was the climax to a majestic recital - early Schubert and lateish Beethoven, all written within about a three-year period. The packed Pittville Pump Room responded appropriately, and we emerged into the sunlight to enjoy a picnic on the grass with friends - and afterwards a wander over one of forger Forbes' bridges across the lake towards a source of rather good ice creams.

"Last minute. Come!"

This time yesterday, we were looking forward to a quiet evening at home. It seemed a busy enough week ahead, and already the effects of a month away are wearing off. But who can resist an invitation to step into the shoes of someone who can't make use of their tickets for an Angela Hewitt recital? Her programme at Chipping Campden was hardly the usual one: it contained only one major work, but when a pianist's presence and virtuosity is so unusual, this becomes an irrelevance.

Late Haydn variations were followed by a sonata by one of his greatest fans, written only a couple of years later. For Caroline, the early Beethoven was the evening's highlight: I found the performance a little clunky. It has sent me back to Schnabel, who seems better at catching the sweep and lilt of this relatively inconsequential music.

After the interval, Bach's G minor English Suite was by contrast made to sound effortless, and then came Liszt's Dante Sonata, the most dramatic of antitheses. Somehow, Angela Hewitt had energy left for a rapt account of Strauss' Morgen, in Max Reger's transcription, and to sign autographs.

We drove home the quiet way, the last of the light prevailing against some inky clouds.

Competition

We picnicked at Guiting Power on Friday night, before the opening concert of its annual music festival: not exactly Glyndebourne-come-to-Gloucestershire, but pretty perfect on a sunlit evening. On previous occasions we have used the one and only table, stationed by the swings, but this year it had been spirited away - I spotted it, across by the Hall: though we were there early, I felt that its removal might not go unremarked. Anyway the rug was all that was really needed.

Probyn Miers, Chairman of the Festival committee, thanked the audience for turning out despite the "competition" elsewhere. But was this really necessary, given the quality of what was respectively on offer - at Guiting and in the Olympic stadium?

In the intimate surroundings of Guiting Village Hall, Joanna MacGregor gave us characterful takes on two contrasting Beethoven sonatas - the Pastorale and Waldstein; and then joined with the Heath Quartet for the always thrilling Shostakovich piano quintet. High definition performances. In Stratford East - we caught up with the ceremony on the iPlayer this afternoon - Danny Boyle laid on his spectacularly quirky melange of Britishness to precede the athletes' parade etc. - an incredibly-long drawn out affair, which must have exhausted everyone in the arena, participators and spectators alike. It was certainly amusing in parts, but it tired me out, watching it even with the benefit of the fast forward facility.

At the back of my mind was the ever-resent [I'm leaving this typo: too good to change] thought: this ceremony has set us back £27m. Jonathon Porritt, Chair of the London 2012 Sustainability Ambassadors, happened to be dining here last night: he was at pains to set the minds of those of us present at rest about the Games' overall... sustainability - given that we accept the Olympics are a good thing in principle.

The Romans were appeased by panem et circenses, bread and circuses: for us it's circuses, sponsored by McDonalds. Those without bread will have to await David Cameron's Hunger Summit.

Martinů

We took our Japanese student lodger along to the Cheltenham Music Society's concert last night, at which the Martinů Quartet played - not Martinů, but Smetana, and also (as an encore) a scherzo from a quartet by the little known (here at least) František Škroup. This second part of their programme we generally thought preferable to the first: Mozart K.590 and Beethoven Op.135. Not that there was much wrong with, in particular, the Beethoven: it's just that - having heard the Takács last month - we are currently feeling spoilt where pieces in the mainstream repertoire are concerned.

The quartet's cellist reminded me of someone: when I woke up this morning, I realised who it was, seeing a photograph of Elizabeth Gateley, my great-grandmother as a young, rather severe-looking bride. Not a musical lady, though, at least so far as I know, and certainly not Czech.

Takács Quartet

Once more, the Cheltenham Music Society has triumphed, in securing the Takács Quartet for their tour's only UK out-of-London recital: recognised as one of the world's leading ensembles, last night they played for a packed Pittville Pump Room audience Haydn's "Lark", Britten no. 3 and Dvořák Op. 51. Could the programming possibly have been influenced by all three works being led off by the second violinist, Károly Schranz, 60 this year? Whatevs.

Talking to Alec Hamilton beforehand, I learnt that he "suffers" Haydn. Poor man! How else can you account for Beethoven? There are a couple of bars in the first movement of the "Lark" and more than a couple in the last movement that pre-echo even late Beethoven.

And without Beethoven, no Britten: his intense last quartet formed the meat course last night. The soaring violin of the Ostinato 2nd movement even outmatching in its eloquence the leader's role in the "Lark" opening.

You can still hear the Takács playing the Haydn and Dvořák (at the Wigmore on Monday) via the iPlayer for five days more. They look and sound like a happy bunch. With their talent, they are as generous as Bill Gates says he would have all the American Presidential candidates be - but some hope there!

Also on Monday, the young Russians making up the Atrium Quartet were broadcast live. Catching up with them on the iPlayer, I admired their early Beethoven in particular: a different sound, but gripping. This quartet is one to watch out for.

Jonathan Biss

Yesterday's Heart and Soul group discussed ways in which we could each intensify our local community experience. The implication being that, if we needed to travel anywhere, let's go low-carbon. Better however to stay at home. That was in the middle of the day: in the evening we took the car an hour Southwards, to hear a pianist from Indiana, flown in a few hours before from New York. And in the interval, the talk was with one person just returned from New Zealand, another off to Burma this week, a third having been skiing since New Year in Wyoming, a fourth glad that his cruise had not ended with a rocky encounter off the Tuscan coast.

In this private concert, Jonathan Biss, 31, tried out a programme he's to perform seven times in three different countries over the coming five weeks. "Remember, you're hearing it here first," our hostess warned me last night. Indeed we shall: this "outstanding" performer played Beethoven, Chopin and sublime Janáček to the huge acclaim of a discerning audience, before sending us home with a silvery sliver of Schumann.

My photograph was taken while Biss rehearsed for his Tetbury Festival recital in October 2010.

OAE at NSF

Last October, I photographed Zoe Shevlin, bassoonist, playing at Tetbury with the Academy of Ancient Music. Last night, she popped up in an enlarged Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment for the final concert in this year's Newbury Spring Festival. We were invited by Sarah as a joint birthday present.

On paper, the programme looked unchallenging, symphonies by Mozart and Schubert and Beethoven's 4th Piano Concerto with Artur Pizarro; but in the way Paul Daniel and the OAE tackled it, fresh sounds seemed to spring out all the time. In particular, the slow movement of the concerto came across as more sublime than ever.

It is always a pleasure to be allowed to join in such a friendly festival as Newbury's, church pews notwithstanding. The cavernous St Nicholas' in Newbury was of course packed. Sun streamed in through Hardman glass ("not good" in Pevsner's judgment), and there was still light in the sky as we drove homewards later along the M4.

Danish maestri

Here are the bright stars who make up the Danish String Quartet, playing an encore at the end of a taxing programme at the Pittville Pump Room. My neighbour confided that she doesn't approve of encores after a major work such as what made up the second half yesterday evening - Beethoven Op 127. Nor does she like quartets "without a pair of clean shoes between them." (The four did indeed resemble, not so much a string quartet as a pop group.)

However, I was in no position to strike up an argument with someone so kind: I turned up at the box office just a few minutes before the concert, but before I could buy myself a ticket, she had thrust one into my hands and wouldn't hear of my paying her for it. When my other neighbour likewise thrust a spare programme in my direction, I realised it was my lucky evening.

And very good it was too, to hear such uninhibited playing, particularly in early pieces by Nielsen and Thomas Adès, which made up the first half. When it comes to the Beethoven, I'm spoilt by having the Hungarian and the Lindsays' recordings and also (since Gloucestershire Libraries' giveaway sale the other weekend - incomprehensible!) a boxed set of performances by the brilliant Takács.

Brendel in tandem

Richard Stokes, Alfred Brendel's interlocutor on the stage of Cheltenham's Everyman Theatre last evening, and the celebrated, recently-retired pianist gave us full value for money. The Everyman is used during the Music Festival, of course, but Brendel, a frequent July visitor to Cheltenham during the greater part of his playing career, will probably never have graced its stage before last night's Festival of Literature event.

We were as surprised as the audience at the first performance of Beethoven's G Major piano concerto must have been, by Brendel starting by introducing his interviewer: a very civilised idea, I thought, and one which could well be replicated for other events.

The two were obviously good friends, Professor Stokes being able to bring out twin aspects of his subject, his high seriousness and his impish, almost schoolboy humour. As Brendel said, wit and profundity are not mutually exclusive. In some works, Beethoven Op 31 no 1 was an example he gave, when a pianist hasn't made an audience laugh, he should become an organist.

As an illustration that a musician needs to sing and speak in tandem, we were treated to a story passed down by the late Sándor Végh: as a young violinist, he was playing for Chaliapin. "You can sing well on the violin, but you don't speak enough," the Russian bass advised. Later, Végh said he learnt the "speaking" from Casals.

Last night, the pair were introduced by current Festival Director, Meurig Bowen (seen here at the outset - I wasn't allowed to take photographs later on). I was proud to see my 1976 photograph of Alfred and Adrian Brendel, with Imogen Cooper plus Greenway cat, flashed up on the big screen.

Sense of achievement in Suffolk

As we were driving all the way to North Norfolk for our Friends' wedding last weekend, we thought we would extend our trip by a couple of days, taking up the offer of another good friend to stay in her cottage near Framlingham. So it was that we found ourselves walking to Framlingham on Monday, inspecting the handsome castle, fine church - and also this ductile iron cover in the middle of the road with its philosophical message.

It reminded me of Beethoven's "Muss es sein? Es muss sein!" written at the start of the last movement of the score of his Op 135. Here's an interesting take on that, which you won't find in any Gramophone catalogue.

The Borodin sound

A legend in its field, the Borodin String Quartet has been playing to a packed Pittville Pump Room this evening. The Quartet's formation during the latter years of World War II coincided with our first Cheltenham Music Festival. The present four are inheritors of a great tradition: you could tell it - even from the back of the hall - from their first appearance. But the playing too was distinctive: a sedate, oddly humourless Haydn ("the Bird"), monumental early Beethoven (Op 18(1): what a first movement that has!), and some memorable Shostakovich - if that's your bag: I'm afraid it's not mine, at least when it comes to Quartet no 3. Perhaps it was the glass of wine I had in the interval.

Coming home towards 10 p.m., after all the rain we had a still-bright sky behind us and steely greyness ahead. The white terraced fronts of All Saints Road took on a spooky look: Alfred Hitchcock would have loved it.

Four firsts

I have been out every night this week - a sign that the Summer holiday period is well and truly over.

Monday saw the first meeting of our church finance committee with the new parish priest: a refreshingly different sort of get-together from any we have ever had before. I feel it's going to be a pleasure to work with Fr. Bosco, given the ambitious ideas he has for the two parishes to which he's been appointed.

On Tuesday, the Cheltenham Film Society had its first showing of the new season: Xavier Giannoli's film Quand j'étais chanteur with the beautiful Cécile de France alongside a mountainous Gérard Depardieu: it was a boring story. The Chairman's welcome speech and the wine and cheese afterwards were the best bits of the evening!

The Cheltenham Music Society's opening recital was on Wednesday, an altogether higher definition performance, by the Carducci Quartet. The evening had a World War II feel to it. Britten's first quartet was followed by a very accessible quartet by a pre-war refugee from Vienna, Joseph Horowitz. The Quartet (with the brilliant Nicola Eimer) finished with Shostakovich's wartime Piano Quintet.

This was chamber music playing of the hightest standard - good enough almost to distract me from the draught which was blowing under the rear doors of the Pittville Pump Room. It was a pleasure afterwards to be introduced by Jane Blunden to the "middle" of the Quartet, Michelle Fleming and Eoin Schmidt-Martin, word of which reached Ireland before I could even get round to typing this!

Churches can also be draughty places at this time of year, but not last night: there was a packed audience for the opening Tetbury Festival recital by Radu Lupu. Not having heard him for decades, I had forgotten quite what a distinctive virtuoso he is. His playing isn't to everyone's taste, particularly those put off by unprepossessing platform behaviour; but the Beethoven in the first half was, for me magical, especially the Andante of Op 14, no 2.

The Schumann Fantasie on the other hand seemed erratic; but then I have grown used to listening to the incomparable performance by Marc-André Hamelin on Hyperion. Perhaps my restlessness was to some extent to blame: when sitting in Tetbury church, "no matter where; of comfort no man speak."

Interesting to contrast Lupu with Gérard Depardieu: both gone to seed rather.

Power playing

The Guiting Power Music Festival got going just before I arrived in Gloucestershire: I remember Raymond Cochrane, who in an act of amazing generosity had given much of the village away to a specially-formed charity, making a somewhat halting speech at the first Festival I attended, about 35 years ago.

It was always a pleasure - after the relative formality of the Cheltenham Festival - to go up to Guiting; but in those days it was a bonus if one managed to hit upon a performance which was satisfying musically. With Joanna MacGregor as President, however, in recent years it has gone from strength to strength. And last night's recital was the best I have heard in the charmingly unpretentious Guiting village hall.

To have the chance of hearing and seeing three young, but already world class, string players at such close quarters is a rare privilege. Under Alexander Sitkovetsky's leadership, Natalie Clein and friends gave us a superb early Beethoven (G major) string trio, and - before that - a movement from the lyrical Dohnanyi String Serenade. At the outset, Sasha teamed up with violist Krzysztof Chorzelski, violist in the Belcea Quartet, for a vibrant - the stage flowers seemed in danger of falling off their stand - performance of the Mozart Duo K423, and Natalie gave an impassioned Kodaly solo cello sonata, Op.8: quite a tough nut for the audience, not to mention the performer.

Where else could you have swings to swing on, an entire playing field to picnic in, and end the evening with such an outstanding performance?