Ian Bostridge has established form in Britten’s
songs and I, among other, praised to the skies his
recording of
the orchestral cycles with Simon Rattle and the Berlin
Philharmonic. This, his offering for the Britten centenary, is worthy
to take its place alongside that disc. Bostridge is one of the finest
Britten tenors around today. I loved his contribution to Knussen’s
recent
Rape
of Lucretia. What sets him apart as special is not just his
exceptional musicianship, but his profoundly musical understanding of
the text, which he repeatedly invests with all sorts of nuances and
inflections that sharpen both the music and the words. This helps point
the listener to things that the mere reader might never notice were
there. That is a rare gift, but Bostridge does it so often that he makes
it seem easy. In Pappano he has a partner whose ear for detail is
every bit as fine. In fact, his instinct for musical drama is, if anything
even finer than Bostridge's, honed as it is by his vast experience in
the opera house.
Naturally, this flair for lyrical detail is something that Anglophones
pick up most easily in the English language songs.
Winter Words
is a profound journey, each song a potent miniature which evokes an
entire world.
Midnight on the Great Western, for example,
evokes the story of the lonely boy with a pathos that never approaches
sentimentality. The bounce of the train and the boy's nerves are evoked
by a brilliantly quirky piano line. Every detail is special, and nothing
is allowed to pass as commonplace. Just listen to the blare of
the bull in
Wagtail and Baby, or the poignancy of the creaking
table that speaks of a failed relationship. The gentle wistfulness of
The Choirmaster's Burial is offset by a wonderfully evocative
picture of the insensitive vicar in the middle. I loved the way Bostridge
was perfectly happy to lapse into
parlando style to portray the
convict's hopeless longing for freedom in
At the Railway Station.
Before Life and After makes a fabulously poignant end to the
cycle, the repeated (and unanswered) cries of "How long?" all sounding
distinctly different to one another.
The
Michelangelo Sonnets are characterised by restless energy
and a sense of ardent longing; nowhere more so than in Sonnet XXXI,
which stares questions of existence in the face and is not content with
its answers. Sonnet XXX, on the other hand, is a depiction of love -
or is it obsession? - that is partly touching and partly creepy, a testament
to Britten's great skill in depicting the ambiguous. Sonnet XXXII positively
bubbles with sexual longing, and the vibrancy of Pappano's piano line
blends brilliantly with the stark plangency of Bostridge's vocal colour.
XXIV seems simultaneously to celebrate and bemoan the power of erotic
passion. True, Bostridge sounds more like a tourist in these songs
than he does in any of the others on the disc but he still has an ability
to invest what he sings with honesty and beauty.
The pairing of the voice and piano are perhaps at their very finest
in the
Hölderlin Fragments. The upward-leaping
piano line of the first of them is every bit as evocative as the poet's
words in depicting frustration and energy.
Die Heimat, on the
other hand, is a profoundly beautiful depiction of the conflicted longing
for home, with both its comforts and its disappointments. Likewise,
the bounding energy of
Die Jugend contrasts powerfully with the
heavy languor of
Hälfte des Lebens. The gentle, canonic
piano line of
Linien des Lebens comes close to abstraction in
the way it ambles across keys and harmonies, mirroring the "life lines"
of which the tenor sings.
For all the value of what appears elsewhere, though, I found
Who
Are These Children? the most effective and moving thing on the disc.
For this cycle Britten set the words of William Soutar, a pacifist with
a social conscience. Richard Wigmore's booklet note describes the songs
as "among the most poignant and ... savage anti-war songs ever written.”
It's easy to see why they would appeal to Britten, especially the incredibly
poignant final song,
The Children, which depicts the aftermath
of an air-raid. The piano's deceptively gentle yet discordant amblings
contrast with the tenor's increasingly plangent protests against the
injustice of it all. The title song is a tremendously effective depiction
of a contrast as a hunt rides through the ruins of a bombed-damaged
village. The bounding lines of the piano provide a foil to the tenor's
increasingly anguished - and, again, unanswered - questions about who
and why. I loved the way Pappano's piano part takes a turn towards the
quietly sinister during the final lines. The plangency of Bostridge's
voice is remarkable at the climax of
Nightmare, and the sheer
nihilism of
Slaughter packs a mighty punch.
Things lighten up rather for
Songs From The Chinese, the final
cycle on the disc. For this Bostridge swaps Pappano's piano for the
magical guitar of Xuefei Yang. These songs are broadly more affectionate
and coy as can be heard in the delightful
Herd Boy. The cycle
was composed in part as a loving tribute to Julian Bream's collaboration
with Peter Pears. However, it is still capable of great profundity,
such as in the beautifully melancholy meditation on ageing that is contained
in
The Old Lute, or the almost disconcertingly minimalist
Depression.
Yang proves herself an accompanist every bit as accomplished and sensitive
as Pappano. The delicacy of her playing - and her instrument - adds
an even finer level of transparency and insight to Bostridge's singing.
All of this is every bit as much in praise of Britten's sensational
skill as a setter of poetry. Even if it were not so exceptional, we
would owe Bostridge and Pappano (and Yang) a debt of gratitude for reminding
us of this in the composer's anniversary year. This is the finest new
Britten recording to have come my way for the centenary, and if anything
else comes our way this year that is nearly as good as this then we
can count ourselves very lucky indeed. Full texts and translations are
included in the booklet notes.
Simon Thompson
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