Forte and piano

The high spots of last night's choral concert came in the first half, given a cappella by the Merton College Choir under Ben Nicholas (late of this parish). A taste each of Tallis, Victoria, Palestrina and Robert Parsons, followed by four Marian antiphons by four women composers. Of these, Kerry Andrew's Salve Regina stood out, though - as with Giles Swayne's Missa Tiburtina - I disliked the musical scrabble of "in hac lacrimarum valle".

80-odd voices in Gloucester Cathedral make a big sound, which is not always needed, in my opinion, for as subtle and mysterious a work as Duruflé's Requiem. Nevertheless, both chorus (three choirs combined) and soloists were magnificent. My photograph shows Ben Nicholas applauding organist Carleton Etherington, cellist Guy Johnston, mezzo Esther Brazil and baritone Nicholas Morton.

Not a good evening for Brazil though. I caught up later with the first half - it was enough - of their 7-1 defeat in the World Cup semi-final at the hands of the ruthless Germans: the crowd of 67,000 (mainly) stunned to silence.

Anniversary Baroque

This was the title chosen for a delightful harpsichord and cello recital at Owlpen yesterday afternoon. In use for the first time as a Cheltenham Festival venue, the 19th Century Holy Cross church is perched above the essentially 16th Century manor house - a picturesque ensemble featured in many photographs. As Nicky Mander, our generous host pointed out, music from the Baroque period finds an echo in the terraced garden with its stone steps and yew hedging, falling away below the house. (Pevsner records that it was laid out in 1723.)

The anniversaries were those of C.P.E. Bach (300th birthday, 8th March last) and Rameau (died, 12th September 250 years ago). Besides music by each, the duo performed pieces by a contemporary Italian, Lanzetti: new to me - I liked it best of all.

An enchanting programme, with brief, but infectiously enthusiastic introductions from cellist, Jennifer Morsches: she banished nearly all my feelings of discomfort from sitting in that penitential pew.

Nonetheless the four of us in our party were content to be able to adjourn to Owlpen's Cyder Press Restaurant for tea (and excellent coffee cake); so winding up il pomeriggio culturale as our Italian friend Adriana put it. My photograph shows her in a post-concert discussion over the French harpsichord, the hand of its player, Bruno Procopio, resting upon it.

Nicola LeFanu

The last time I met Nicola LeFanu was at a performance of one of her mother's works in Goldsmiths' Hall - in the late 'Sixties or early 'Seventies. That she is now regarded as a well-established composer in her own right was made abundantly clear from the reception a full house gave to her new music drama Tokaido Road at the Parabola Arts Centre yesterday afternoon.

An operatic equivalent of the road movie, it combines the words of Nancy Gaffield's prize-winning collection of poems with projections of Hiroshige's woodblock prints and Wynn White's contemporary photographs; balletic mime with spoken dialogue and bel canto singing, and a score for six very assorted Eastern and Western instruments that wafts exotically overall.

The pilgrim's dilemma, of when and whether to keep moving on was particularly evocative for me having walked through such distractingly beautiful places in April - divided (like Hiroshige's way) by rivers, the Danube and Rhine in my case.

LeFanu's work, which lasts an hour or so, followed a first half dedicated to classical Japanese pieces for sho and koto, and recent works by Howard Skempton for the same two instruments and oboe. I went along apprehensively, and mainly because I thought Mini would be interested. (She was.) Quite apart from some entrancing instrumental sounds, the staging and singing of LeFanu's work were exceptional: a festival highlight surely.

Godchildren

Caroline and I have between us collected quite a gaggle of Godchildren. It's nice when we have visits from them. Last week, Caroline's Godson and his newish wife came to stay: yesterday, my violinist Goddaughter arrived for the night, our reason for booking tickets for the concert I mentioned. She's been at another this morning, before joining us for lunch in the garden afterwards.

A great pleasure, but I was sad to reflect on how small a part I had had in her musical flowering: yesterday was the first time I had ever taken her along to a concert.

Dropping off at the Pump Room, I saw Festival Director Meurig Bowen, who handed me a copy of his 70th Anniversary Festival book: it's a beautifully put together assembly of all the programme covers over the years - plus a few photographs at the end (two by me).

A blessing for Cheltenham

Nicola Benedetti performs a lot at this year's music festival, swelling the coffers nicely as a result. Her reputation is well founded on the evidence of tonight's concert in a packed  Town Hall: I haven't heard such compelling chamber music-making in a long while. Even the long Brahms Quartet at the outset more or less held my attention. A new work for piano trio by Arlene Sierra followed, helpfully trailed by the composer in an interview with the cellist. After the interval came the Shostakovich Piano Quintet, 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.

Lucas (2)

"The solo singing was wonderful. As Jephtha, James Gilchrist offered... virtuoso bravado..." So today's paper describes (with 5 stars) Tuesday night at the Barbican . And yesterday's Cheltenham lieder recital by that same tenor might, I feel, be described in similar terms.

It could be three years since I attended a Music Society event at the Pittville Pump Room, I'm rather ashamed to say. (Their programmes deserve more loyal support.) And I wasn't really looking forward to last night's mixed bag with any great relish, having been critical of a programme Gilchrist gave at our July 2012 Festival.

As it turned out, I was taken aback not just by the beauty of his voice, but the confidence and variety of tone he brought to his performance - settings of Shakespeare, Byron and Heine by Wolf, Mendelssohn(s), Loewe, Liszt, Grieg and Schubert in part one, and a glorious Dichterliebe after the interval.

The link to my illustration? Tenuous: Gilchrist started adult life as a doctor, and the portrait is supposed to represent another such, St Luke. It's one of the images in a garish-looking East window dating from 1850 in the Norman church I visited on Wednesday, All Saints, Salperton. The glass, "possibly" - Pevsner - by David Evans, is much eclipsed by two splendid late Kempe windows in the South wall.

Worbey and Farrell

Perhaps Ida is a bit young for concert-going, but she seemed enthusiastic, so off we went this morning to the Parabola Arts Centre. Worbey and Farrell play piano four hands, with a camera to display their dexterity on a big screen above: when eventually they came on stage - a ten-minute delay must seem an age for a 5-year-old - they quickly showed how clever they are, and the wide range of styles they can deploy. The trouble was, the novelty soon wore thin, and I sensed a restlessness beside me. So we didn't stick it to the end of the 75 minutes.

Coming out into the bright sunlight that filled the Parabola's Gallery we bumped into Mary Paterson. Despite her years, she had, she told us, much enjoyed The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, performed the previous weekend, with illustrations. I wish we had been at that, rather than the rather too blokey "comedy piano duo".

Co-operation

This warm and sunny morning, Thomas and I walked up through Pittville Park to the Pump Room - once again gloriously uncluttered by marquees: his musician Godmother (Imogen Cooper) had kindly left us tickets for her recital with mezzo Christianne Stotijn.

What a lovely programme! A testing trio of Schubert songs was followed by Benjamin Britten's Winter Words. After the interval, a delicious Schubert Imo-promptu, and then two further cycles: more Britten and Mussorgsky. Finally, the bonne bouche - a song by Tchaikovsky.

I enthused about La Stotijn last time she was with us here, accompanied by Julius Drake (was it really four years ago?): my enthusiasm has increased after today's peaches and cream performance, particularly seeing and hearing the rapport she has with Imogen.

Who's the boss?

We had planned a picnic in Imperial Gardens to go with our four tickets for the Swingle Singers this evening, but the tickets have gone in the bin. Our guests preferred a cosy stretched out supper in our sitting-room while we watched Murray struggle through his tennis semi-final: nail-biting stuff as always, as he bids to win the Wimbledon men's title. Singles, not Swingles therefore.

When the match was eventually done and dusted, some of us got in the car for the other half of the curious cultural double bill for which we had booked - Poulenc's one-act opera, La Voix Humaine. Arriving a little late, we squeezed in at the back of the Parabola: it then took a while to adjust from the brutal serve and return routine we'd been watching on TV, to a stage bedroom where we listened to one end of a 40-minute long telephone conversation, sung in French to a piano accompaniment.

With the telephone now more than ever the bane of our lives, this Poulenc (written 50+ years ago) seems oddly prescient.

On our way out, a little dazed, we passed through the exhibition of Noye's Fludde props (brought from Tewkesbury after last night), and were able to admire James Mayhew's beautiful designs at close quarters.

Noye's Fludde

The Cheltenham Music Festival has come round once again. We took Mini and Leo to Tewkesbury this evening to see Britten's Noye's Fludde performed in a thronged Abbey. I haven't heard it before (and am not sure I shall rush to hear it again). 200 local children were involved: I hope they enjoyed it more than we did, standing against the wall of the North nave aisle. You couldn't see the action much - it took place mostly either behind a pillar or on the top deck of "the Ark" - built with high sides, for safety reasons obviously. The orchestra, together with the Carducci Quartet, were penned in behind a mesh curtain underneath.

But a lot of thought and work had clearly gone in to it: the result was all very colourful, the lighting changes were well managed, and it wasn't too long an evening - or wouldn't have been, but for the insertion at the beginning of five unexpected (by me) songs by contemporary Gloucestershire composers: unnecessary - and you couldn't hear the words.

Festival envoi

As might have been gathered from earlier posts, we have enjoyed this year's Cheltenham Music Festival. Tonight's "London marathon", the Bournemouth S.O. conducted by Martyn Brabbins, was no exception. Cellist Stephen Isserlis's father died three weeks ago, and the last music Stephen played him was part of the Elgar Concerto: no surprise, therefore - his spellbinding performance of this same concerto, the pivot of this final concert. An extraordinary stillness overcame the Town Hall.

Last night's playing of Grieg's Holberg Suite by the Trondheim Soloists stole that show even with Sarah Connolly performing after the interval - today's Janet Baker, my neighbour suggested. I wonder.

On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday we went to three of the five "Time Capsule: 1914-18" concerts, devised by the fragrant Kathy Gowers. I had misgivings about these at the outset, as so many of the works seemed to come into the deservedly little-known category. But they proved ideal festival fare, the variety providing continuous contrasts, some looking back, some forward - mostly played with great pizzazz: I would single out particularly the Norwegian pianist Christian Ihle Hadland in his Rachmaninov, but also in the piano transcription of Bartók's Romanian Folk Dances. Thrilling!

Not even crying offstage babies and texting audience members in front could take away that floaty feeling you get when something special is in the air.

Full houses at Pittville

The Pump Room was full both this morning and yesterday afternoon - all to the good for the Cheltenham Festival finances. And for the first time after a lengthy gap, we once again get free tea or coffee included in the ticket price - though seeing how much they have gone up, it's just as well.

This morning's programme opened with the Escher String Quartet playing mid-period Mendelssohn (32 minutes, but it felt longer). Piano prodigy Benjamin Grosvenor - only one day out of his teens - then gave us Gaspard de la nuit: this must be hard enough to play at the best of times, but made more so when a phone goes off: this happened four times - does anyone else harbour murderous thoughts as I do on these occasions?

After the interval, the five performers combined to give us the Brahms Piano Quintet, which will surely have sent our royal patron off to lunch in a good mood: I was wondering why police were there directing traffic before the concert.

Yesterday's event that I attended was altogether more unusual: the period instrumentalists Florilegium combined with the Arakaendar Bolivia Choir to give us a nicely varied programme of Bolivian baroque pieces. From the first entry by the choir, processing to the stage, it was clear we were in for something different - a sound we don't get from European singers, even those open-throated Bulgarians.

Not everyone was rushing back to watch Federer v. Murray: an impressive percentage of the audience stayed for the post-concert discussion: Piotr Nawrot SJ and Ashley Solomon (Florilegium's director) gave a riveting account of how it has all come together. Hearing these newly-discovered religious settings removed, at last, the nasty taste left by Swayne's Missa Tiburtina the previous morning.

BAPAM

The British Association for Performing Arts Medicine is a new one on me: the charity is promoting a series of four lectures this weekend and next as part of our music festival. And last night we were bidden to a celebration of their work at the nearby home of one of those most closely involved.

It was a joyous occasion. The words "Open mic" are too perfunctory to describe the informal concert that threaded itself through the evening - between eclectic conversation, a garden visit (in the rain) and most delicious Indian food - not to mention the wine that flowed. A particular delight was the involvement of so many of the young (playing Take 5 on sax., accompanying Flanders & Swann classics and singing - creditably - jazz standards, amongst all else). Then there were Vaughan Williams' Songs of Travel, Ivor Gurney, Gershwin, Schubert, Gilbert & Sullivan... A musical feast.

Deerhurst

The rain more or less held off for our visit to St Mary's Priory at Deerhurst this morning. This wonderful church was the setting for a concert by the unaccompanied Wellensian Consort: looking back at this year's Festival, I confidently expect it to be amongst the highlights. I shall remember their Purcell in particular.

A school contemporary of mine, Giles Swayne was present for the performance of extracts of his Missa Tiburtina, dating from 1985. (I hadn't seen him for 50 years, so it's hardly surprising I didn't recognise him.) I don't know Giles' music, and I'm not sure - after today - that I much like it, unfair though it is to judge on such slender evidence. Granted that he has revolted against his Catholic upbringing, what is the merit in picking apart the words of the mass, to make of them some sort of musical scrabble?

My sanity was restored by a gaze upwards at the Deerhurst Angel: in real life, you don't see it like this, but I thought it would be fun to see what could be done using Lightroom's Vertical Transform tool.

Cheltenham Music Festival - day 3

Festival Director, Meurig Bowen, posing for this photograph at the end of the interval in tonight's rather splendid Town Hall concert, said, "I bet it'll be up on your blog within half an hour!" Well, it's been a little longer...

That's because we've only just returned from a second event this evening. A silent film may seem an odd choice for a music festival, but this showing of the 1923 Salomé (with its lavish Beardsley-based costumes) was something special. You could sense it upon entering the Parabola, the screen flanked by two scaffolding towers, giving platforms for four percussionists: they played throughout, the score (including a vocal tape) composed by Charlie Barber.

The story line takes little time to relate, but every twist of the plot was here played out in ultra slow motion, like a Noh play almost. Without music it could have been risible, and perhaps even with a conventional piano accompaniment. But the tension created by the quartet of musicians, and clever lighting changes, made it a gripping 70-odd minutes. There were some astonishing performances in the film itself, not just from Alla Nazimova in the title part. I had vowed never to see Salomé performed again after the last time I went to the Strauss version (at ENO), but am now glad that I'd forgotten this when booking the tickets for this evening!

Earlier, I'd been apprehensive about paying £35 for a bench seat to hear a bunch of young amateurs from Singapore tackling a programme that included Delius and Holst, hardly my favourite composers. But my ear warmed to the sound of the Orchestra of the Music Makers, and Holst's Oriental Suite was a genuine surprise - a pleasure to hear.

Cheltenham Music Festival

Another Festival has come round! The programme has something of an austerity feel about it: not many big names are in evidence. However, the subject matter lacks compromise, as evidenced by this evening's Parabola Arts Centre recital.

But was "recital" the right word for it? Normally, James Gilchrist (tenor) with a pianist for a set of English songs (Britten, Finzi, Tippett) would warrant that description, but here the accent was upon a stage setting of a "long and silent night passed by a nightwatchman", with grainy video as a backdrop: no interval, and no clapping save at the end. More Voix humaine than Winterreise.

The technical side went off splendidly, particularly the beautifully weighted singing of Gilchrist and Anna Tilbrook's accompaniment. But even with Gilchrist the words (all Hardy T. and Hudson W.H.) are never so distinguishable as one would like, and no "libretto" was on offer - nor even much of a programme note. So, I emerged rather baffled: what was the object of the exercise?

"Not in our time"

Composer Richard Blackford's ambitious and impressive work of this title was premiered last night to great applause. It made up the second half of a Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra concert - an add-on to this Summer's Cheltenham Music Festival. In the first half, works by Copeland and Barber, and narrator Simon Callow, set the sombre scene for this 9/11 tenth anniversary: his was just the right timbre of voice for a grave message - in essence that, following our disastrous response to 9/11, we must work harder for peace.

Caroline felt "Not in our time" was rather too uniformly loud and hectic (the choruses were terrific); but I admired its urgency and compassion. The twin towers were echoed by two male soloists, two choirs, two Latin hymns, each also sung in translation and two time scales (the 11th and 21st Centuries). It's a seriously clever piece, and my only concern is that its effectivenes may be found to depend on its timeliness for this particular occasion.

You can just make out, in the centre left of my photograph, a percussionist with the most wonderful billiard ball head.

UK ladies?

Our music festival was at one stage billed by its organisers as "The Cheltenham International Festival of Music". Now, its image is thankfully less grandiose; but we remain a magnet for street musicians from all parts of the globe, it seems. I was thrilled by a brass ensemble playing outside Marks and Spencer one day, and to discover they were members of a touring St Petersburg orchestra, there to eke out their fee. Today, this ukulele trio was making a merry sound, and giving passers by something to smile about.

Carducci concert

At this morning's Cheltenham Festival recital by the Carducci Quartet, I sat next to a Sixth Form pupil from Dean Close: it is the quartet-in-residence there, a great boost to the school's budding string players, much as the Tewkesbury Abbey "residency" is for the school's young singers.

The programme included the European premier of a Festival commission, Arlene Sierra's Insects in Amber. I am not greatly in favour of programme music, such as this was, but I have certainly endured less pleasant quarters of an hour at previous Festval premiers. The performances of Shostakovich's 8th Quartet and Dvořák's American were excellent, and sent me off in a good humour.

Normally, we are in the cheap seats at the back of the hall - excellent acoustics there - but today I was able to sit close enough to take a photograph (at the end of the new work) because we were the guests of the Summerfield Charitable Trust: it had made the Quartet a grant in the past. The Trust was launching an initiative, seeking to add to its endowment by entertaining a cross-section of the town's lawyers and accountants, so we all went on to a jolly lunch in the Royal Box at Cheltenham Racecourse - one of the perks from Edward Gillespie having taken over as the Trust's Chairman.