I had not heard of Claude Vivier (1948-1983) before hearing his Piece pour violoncelle et piano that started the wonderfully stimulating recital given by the Smorgaschord Collective: Eliza Millett (cello) and Sebastian Black (piano), at St George’s Church Hanover Square, on Wednesday 24th January. Listening to the piece is disturbing. Phrases are short breathed and the emotional sands shift without settling, but the listener is drawn into the neurotic world the music reflects and is grateful to the uneasy but confiding voice, even if what is imparted is far from consoling.
Vivier died young, and reading his Wikipedia page reveals a life lived as nightmare. Born in Montreal, he was taken to an orphanage on the day he was born by a mother he never saw again; he never knew her identity or that of his birth father. He was adopted by a working-class Quebecoise family where he was subjected to long term sexual abuse by an adoptive uncle. He studied music in Canada and then in Germany with teachers including Stockhausen. He later settled in Paris where he lived a sexually promiscuous gay life at the height of the Aids epidemic. It is thought he had contracted AIDS by the time he died. Flamboyant and effeminate he could not fail to attract attention, and was brutally murdered in a homophobic stabbing which appalled the wider gay community. A poet as well as a musician, Vivier left a small but important body of work and was described by Ligeti as "the most important and original composer of his generation".
The two performers did full justice to this arresting piece and caught the audience in a powerful grip which did not slacken for the next hour of performance.
Schumann’s Fantasiestucke Op. 73 might have been expected to relax the emotional tension, but in its way proved as febrile as the Vivier. Of all the German romantic composers, Schumann seems the least able to give in to happiness, and the beauty of his inspiration is invariably tinged with melancholy. But beauty was given its due here with Millett treating us to cascades of velvet cello sound, abetted by Black’s more interrogative piano.
More questions were posed by Elisabeth Lutyens in her Nine Bagatelles Op.10. These fascinating aural snapshots open doors on scenes we struggle to identify: who or what is this flitting into, and then disappearing, from view? How should we react to what might or might not be definitive statements? Is any of this intelligible? Are we expected to understand? In a post-concert conversation Sebastian Black’s mother described a link to the paintings of Paul Klee, which seemed to me to be the perfect analogy. Her son and his cello partner were the perfect advocates for this subtle, intriguing music.
After such tiny glimpses of the intangible, the Romance for cello and piano by Frederick Delius came as something of a glorious technicolour indulgence. Sumptuously played, with low notes for the cello, in particular, almost indecently gorgeous, I wished this substantial work could have been at least twice as long. It, like a lot of Delius’ music deserves to be far better known.
A more rigorous atmosphere was re-established with Xenakis’ Paille in the Wind (why the bi-lingual title I wonder?) I can only assume that the title is ironic, as the monolithic barbarity of the music seemed to have little to do with straw or wind. Sebastian Black, in his introduction, described Xenakis’ music as being like nothing else, and that is certainly true to my ears, even though I found the aural experience challenging. It is only fair to point out that my companion thought this music marvellous. Certainly, as was the case with the entire programme, the performance was exemplary.
To this listener, at least, the best of a very fine programme was left until last. Janacek’s Pohadka (‘Fairy Tale’ or simply ‘Tale’) inhabits the shadowy regions of Czech legend, snatches of stories are whispered and then disappear to be replaced by other whisperings. The method is similar to Lutyens but whereas with the English composer we are conscious of music under cerebral control, the Janacek speaks of simply articulated emotion which just happens to be also complex and sublime. A snatch of folk song at the end of the final moment was a fitting conclusion to this very superior bedtime story.
The audience at St George’s was not particularly great in number but epic in terms of concentration and appreciation. The work done by Smorgaschord is of immense importance, presenting music of profound seriousness, superbly performed, in the most intimate of chamber settings and the enjoyment of their listeners is all the more intense because such enjoyment is not easily won. It is no accident that the music at this recital was written by composers who were all damaged to some degree – I have outlined Vivier’s travails, Schumann and Delius were syphilitic, Elizabeth Lutyens was an alcoholic, whose chaotic personal life included the forced abortion of her fifth child, Xanakis’ mother died when he was five and he lost an eye and was disfigured during the Greek Civil War, while Janacek wrote Pohadka shortly after the death of his eight year old daughter Olga.
Reflecting on the ‘eternity in an hour’ spent in Handel’s exquisite church in Smorgaschord’s company, I was reminded of Yeats’ lines:
The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
Smorgaschord are essential listening. They perform at Christ Church Oxford 22nd June.
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