Preludes for the First of May

And what preludes, starting with the night-into-day of Hans Sachs's meditations as reflected in the third act introduction of Wagner's Mastersingers and ending in a blaze of Handel. It was deliriously wonderful to be strolling around Oxford early on the morning of May Day, even if I hadn't been there in time for the dawn chorus from Magdalen tower or the sunrise pub openings (that's quite a memory). But there I was, happy to be accosted by a merry drunken girl student with dyed hair as I bumped into Tom Service on the way to the Sheldonian.


Indeed, it was a kind of dream, because we were heading to hear Barenboim and the Berlin Philharmonic (or Philharmoniker, as it now prefers to be known as a 'worldwide brand', ouch). Every year since the fall of the Wall, the orchestra has played a 'Europe Concert' in a beautiful venue on 1 May, so after Prague and Moscow it was Oxford's turn. The concert also showcased a young cellist who, no-one could avoid thinking, might be another Du Pre in the Elgar Concerto, but with a personality very much her own, Alisa Weilerstein. Here she is with Barenboim in the first of two wonderful professional shots reproduced here by courtesy of the 'artist', Chris Christodoulou.


About that Dionysian event I managed to wax lyrical for the Arts Desk, only an hour after the performance, ensconced in the comfort of the Randolph Hotel and struggling with wi-fi connection. There's just one more thing to add, courtesy of TAD colleague Jasper Rees, who was there as a friend of the BPO's second horn; and that's to the effect that the players were as impressed by the audience being part of the performance as we were to observe them smiling at each other and enjoying what they were hearing when not engaged. Of course the Sheldonian is hardly the lap of luxury; most of us were sitting on benches with the person behind's knees around our ears. My witty neighbour, responding to my comment about forgetting pain under such circumstances, commented 'but my muscles don't have ears'.

Yet we were all jolly still, moved to tears by the Wagner and Elgar, exiting with our legs buckling after a concert ending as exciting as any I've heard (in fact only Bernstein's Mahler 5 at the Proms is probably up there for me). I can hardly believe it, but while the BBC hangs fire on transmission - the concert was shown live all over Europe - medici.tv has it up and running for free (no idea how that works; anyway, I'm reliving the finale right now) You can do a 'Where's Willy' in the second of Chris's photos if you want, for there I am at the giddying end of Barenboim's Brahms One, hands raised aloft, before I followed my next-but-one neighbour's example and rose to my feet, quickly joined by Tom.


How it had really affected us was, in fact, one of those delayed reactions - as Fiona Maddocks and I exchanged wonder at how shaken we were, I suddenly thought I was about to burst into tears, of which in the aftermath there hadn't been any hint up to that moment.

Stepping out, I gathered most of the May Day revels were done, and morris dancers gathered outside Blackwells and the pub next door.


Can anyone explain the white-faced, begloved cortege with a branch of cherry-tree blossom, who did a weird circular pattern by the Sheldonian before processing onwards?


Anyway, by the end of the concert, J and Hen, with whom we were spending the weekend at her parents' house in north Oxford, were due to arrive, and as I'd bumped into Andrew van der Beek and his daughter Theodora on their way to the next musical event, we all met up for a splendid lunch in the wonderful Quod.


Andrew and Theodora were off to hear a rehearsal. As the BPO left, the OAE came in to play for the Schola Cantorum's 50th anniversary concert that evening. We'd planned a quiet evening in Norham Road (with the delicious Julie and Julia, as it turned out - ah Meryl, what a comic genius), but how could we resist hearing the programme in preparation? Here was another glorious sound, the cut and thrust of a brilliant young choir conducted by the excellent James Burton, joined by 100 former alumni.


Among the soloists giving their services was Dame Emma Kirkby, who'd once - as she told everyone amusingly and with no little charm - been turned down at an audition by the SC chorusmaster. He had written out some ornamentations to her solo in an attempt to make amends.

Alas, the chunk of rehearsal we heard didn't include the MacMillan premiere, but we were certainly knocked for six by Handel's Dixit Dominus. And the minute the gorgeous Christine Rice opened her mouth, what quality. I managed to have a quick chat with her, as I'd only the day before been listening to her singing an Elgar song.

Well, that was quite a start to a glorious if climate-wise variable weekend. I'll catch up with our visits to three colleges in a future entry.

Cabbages and kings

Or rather, onions and emperors...



all in last Thursday's stately progress from Borough Market via the British Library to Ivan Fischer's exhilarating performance of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony at the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

Food and drink first: that little row of trendy eateries on the edge of the expensive but still unique Borough Market which so appeals to us BoBos (= Bohemian Bourgeois; it could equally well be BohBous). Second only to St John, where we took my blogging New Best Friend Will and his partner Laurent after a Barbican concert for pig's spleen, snails and Eccles cakes, is the Wright Brothers Port and Oyster Bar. It was full up on a Thursday lunchtime, however, so we found a pure Boh organic burger space along the same street where we sat in the semi cold and watched life passing like that seasons-alter scene in Notting Hill. Then to two-thirds of the usual ritual: a cake from Conditorei and Cook, a latte (J's; mine is an espresso but doesn't photograph so picturesquely) at the Monmouth Coffee Company.


Next I became a snapping tourist in the market. Couldn't resist reminders that somewhere in Kent, albeit forcibly, something - rhubarb - is growing


and there are plenty of fish in the sea, as yet


though probably not this one, not in these waters, at any rate.


I've already waxed about the Alice cases at the British Library. But we also stumbled across a cast of Chopin's hand


and, only connect, moved from daguerreotypes, of which this portrait of a none too happy looking Chopin shortly before his death is one of the earliest,


to the photography exhibition. Although I've been to Lacock Abbey, I'd forgotten how artistic a picture-taker was Fox Talbot. I especially love this homage to a Dutch domestic scene, captured at Lacock.


After killing time in bookshops and cafes, we slumped in the RFH and wandered over to the QEH for the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment's latest instalment in their Beethoven cycle, this time with the inspiring, always unpredictable Ivan Fischer (photo by Marco Borggreve).


The Second Symphony had its surprises - the wild coda of the first movement, which given this band's shock of the new, one could understand first-time listeners being discomforted by; and the way Fischer turned the last of the slow movement's clutch of themes into a bouncing little Landler. But of course it was the Eroica which was bound to astonish.


The Funeral March became a private utterance, with overheard upbeats from the splendid double-basses led by the ever-expressive Chi-Chi Nwanoku; and I think I found loveliest of all that moment in the Prometheus variations when the tune very briefly turns bucolic after a patch of turbulence. The horns held fast, and of course produced a sound no modern equivalent can match; besides, the valveless originals give a competely different meaning to Beethoven's line and choice of strong/weak notes.

There are, of course, heaven-storming sounds you don't get with a period-instrument band, but by way of compensation how much colour can be shifted in a single chord. And it was all as invigorating as I'd hoped, my mood having been occluded by personal grief and a harrowing sit through Maw's Sophie's Choice on DVD (which does work for me, ultimately, in the last act, touched by grace). I'd wanted more of the same brio on Saturday from the BBCSO/Minkowski Pergolesi and Stravinsky double bill, found myself exiled to the Bavarian RSO/Jansons concert but discovered it to be equally uplifting, thanks to Mariss's dancing mobility and a rather unusual, buoyant view of Shostakovich Ten, duly noted in detail in my Arts Desk review. And, yes, the BRSO IS one of the world's best orchestras, no doubt about that.