Three première recordings of substantial orchestral works by
Harrison Birtwistle, and the NMC label have yet another highly
significant and world-class production to add to their already
admirably adventurous and impressive catalogue. The booklet
notes contain an essay by Bayan Nothcott called ‘Anatomies of
Melancholy’ and, whatever else it is, one look at the titles
should tell you this is not a programme which you would choose
to get things going at your local street party.
Birtwistle describes The Shadow of Night as “a slow and
reflective nocturne, exploring the world of melancholy as understood
and celebrated by Elizabethan poets and composers.” There are
little quotes from a song by John Dowland, In Darkness Let
me Dwell, and the composer refers to an engraving by Albrecht
Dürer, Melancholia I as a source of inspiration, but
as ever with Birtwistle a lack of foreknowledge with these details
makes little difference. The power of the music is in the weight
of its orchestration, a potent sense of dark, even malevolent
atmosphere, and the feeling you are in some way directly connected
to the inner workings of the composer’s emotions and imagination.
The work’s three sections move from a kind of extended build-up,
with slowly surging clusters and fragmentary, sometimes stabbing
melodic gestures. This tips into a strange inner world in the
central section, with its halo of tuned percussion, secretive
sustained notes and winding, elongated melodic lines. These
often restrained but restlessly turbulent sections provide space
for another extended build-up or sequence of progressing episodes,
never quite reaching a clearly defined climax but passing through
some cataclysmic events before withdrawing into darkness once
again, a nocturnal space inhabited by disinterested birds. This
is a hideously simplified description, but such an intense and
immense landscape of sound is always going to be hard to summarise
in a few words.
Paired in reverse chronology on the CD by request of the composer,
The Shadow of Night is comparable in content and atmosphere
with Night’s Black Bird. The two scores are given
the same programme note, the latter however sourcing a different
Dowland song, Flow My Tears. Similarly scored for large
orchestra, Night’s Black Bird is a more compact and directly
expressive work, the melodic lines moving over the moody bass
textures intact from the start, the birdsong more explicit,
at times occupying the foreground over sustained textures in
a manner inevitably reminiscent of Messiaen, but occupying an
entirely different field. Messiaen’s birds are shimmering converts
to Catholicism, where Birtwistle’s are earthy and petulant.
In some ways, this shorter work extracts the essence of The
Shadow of Night, including all of its significant elements
but seen through a different lens – a less microscopic examination
of the materials, but still a monumental musical statement and
expression of dark symbols.
The Cry of Anubis for tuba and orchestra is inevitably
going to be compared to other concertante works, but doesn’t
fall into the ‘concerto’ category in any traditional sense.
Here, Birtwistle employs the tuba as a representation of Anubis,
the ancient Egyptian god of the city of the dead. The orchestra
forms a medium sized if richly scored team, with double winds
but no trombones, something which may serve the practical purpose
of heightening the clarity between the orchestral sonorities
and the tuba. The recording balances the soloist nicely against
the orchestra; well-defined but not placed too close, so that
a realistic concert-hall impression of the work in its entirety
comes through your speakers. While this work inhabits some of
the same dark associations of the other two works, it is clearly
different in character. The piece was written for an educational
concert given in 1995 at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, and in some
ways it can almost be heard as a ‘concerto for orchestra’, with
significant passages and even solos from each section. These
all integrate into succinct and well-defined musical arguments,
and I’m not suggesting a Brittenesque ‘Young Person’s Guide’
kind of presentation, but perhaps even unconsciously one can
sense the ear roaming over the orchestra in the way a spotlight
might pick out the action on a stage. One thing there is no
shortage of is action, with swiftly moving material and sharp
shifts and changes of gear grabbing you each time you start
to feel the least bit comfortable with the idiom.
Owen Slade’s tuba playing is superbly expressive and deeply
sonorous in The Cry of Anubis, and The Hallé and Ryan
Wigglesworth do a cracking job with each of these magnificent
but demanding scores. The sound engineering is also a remarkable
achievement, creating a big sonic canvas while managing to capture
plenty of detail at the same time. The distinctive cover art
is by Adam Birtwistle, and plaudits go to the NMC label for
their fulsome booklet content.
Dominy Clements
The Hallé/Ryan Wigglesworth 
