COLLECTED STORIES 2018–19
COLLECTED STORIES 2018–19
First published in 2018 by Aurora Orchestra The Music Base Kings Place 90 York Way London N1 9AG United Kingdom Written by Kate Wakeling Edited by Rachel Piercey and Yung-Yee Chen Designed by Nick Eagleton Printed by Clays, St Ives Stories copyright Š Kate Wakeling, 2018 All rights reserved auroraorchestra.com @ auroraorchestra
PREFACE
After nearly ten years with Aurora, I still take a childlike pleasure in seeing the contours of a new season emerge, refine and sharpen. Putting the finishing touches to a new programme of concerts has always been one of the greatest pleasures of the job. There’s a special thrill in seeing the dozens of long-running conversations – around repertoire, people, commissions, places and themes – begin to coalesce into a living, breathing whole. As Aurora’s creative team reflected on how to introduce the orchestra’s latest London season, we found ourselves struck by the idea that this programming process in many ways resembles the genesis of a short story collection – each concert an adventure with its own aesthetic flavour, characters and sense of journey. From that realisation flowed another idea: that this year’s season brochure could itself take the form of such a collection. To bring this idea to life we have been hugely fortunate to be able to call upon one of our longest-standing collaborators, Kate Wakeling. As our Writer-in-Residence, 3
Kate creates brilliant text for our print programmes and brochures, devises and scripts our Far, Far Away storytelling concerts for young children and families, and generally inspires us as a vital creative partner and catalyst. A musician as well as an award-winning poet, Kate writes with the deepest of musical sensibilities, and we loved the idea of asking her to create a series of texts inspired by our new season. Her richly varied stories do not attempt to represent the programmes to which they relate, still less explain them. Rather they evoke the atmosphere and colour of each concert, taking flight from them as creative literary adventures in their own right – by turns mischievous, soaring, playful, visceral and mysterious. A further word of gratitude goes to another regular collaborator, Designer-in-Residence Nick Eagleton, whose work has defined Aurora’s visual identity since its inception in 2005, and who has so elegantly designed the book you now hold in your hands. We are also immensely grateful to all our supporters, both individual and organisational, without whom this season simply wouldn’t be possible – please do take a moment to look at the Acknowledgements page at the back (where you’ll also find Kate’s thoroughly indispensable Index). For further details of any of the programmes featured in this book, and for full up-to-date listings for all Aurora projects including touring dates outside London, please visit auroraorchestra.com. John Harte Chief Executive, Aurora Orchestra 4
CONTENTS
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
7
THE KALEIDOSCOPE
11
BEETHOVEN AND THE DINOSAURS
15
BACH AND THE NOISY NIGHT-TIME
19
OLD BONES
25
A VIENNESE NEW YEAR
29
NORTHERN LIGHTS
33
SONGS FROM THE ROAD
37
LIFE CYCLE
41
SURROUND
45
PEPPER THE MONKEY
49
DARK WITH EXCESSIVE BRIGHT
55
STICKS AND KEYS
59
MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
63
MOZART IN THE GARDEN
69
Index
72
Acknowledgements
75 5
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
HK Gruber Frankenstein!! Beethoven Symphony No. 5 in C minor (from memory) With Marcus Farnsworth (chansonnier) and Nicholas Collon (conductor) Sunday 16 September 2018, 4pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre: The Claus Moser Series at Southbank Centre 6
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Mary woke to four sharp knocks on the door. She lay absolutely still, her heart fierce and quick in her chest. The knocks came again, louder still. Mary heard the key turn in the lock. She reached to light the candle by her bed but no sooner had the flame sprung to life than the door swung open, releasing a great gust of cold air that blew the light to nothing. And with it, two towering figures swept into the room. 1816 was the year without a summer. The world was locked in shadow, the rain unending, the cold as fierce as a wolf. Poems spoke of the darkness. Music sang of loss and fear and pale-faced corpses returned to life. As the mist hung like a ghost over Lake Geneva, five travellers found themselves shut up in a house. Lord Byron, John Polidori, Claire Clairmont, Percy Shelley and Mary Shelley. In this house was a book. The book held stories of wicked phantoms and rattling chains and creatures of the 7
night whose long, cold fingers would grip the throats of sleeping men. The travellers cackled over these tales. They read them to one another in the flicker of candlelight, laughing and smoking as the book’s strange stories wound about them like trails of smoke. And after ten nights of reading, Lord Byron proposed they play a game: each must write a tale of their own. The men finished their stories quickly. They hatched tales of sleeping counts, sealed coffins and blood supped warm from pale necks. The men read their stories to one another in ringing voices until the floor shook. But Mary could not find her story and she burned with the want of one. Nights passed and her nerves grew tight. As the party breakfasted each morning, she would sit white-lipped, fingers tapping on the table, eyes ablaze. The men laughed at her fervour and her quiet. They said ‘Mary, dear Mary, let it come to you in a dream.’ And Mary thought: I shall not wait for a dream. That night, after the others had gone to their rooms, Mary laid out her tools. She placed a bottle of ink, a small oval looking glass and a piece of smoking charcoal on a silver tray. She pricked the tip of her ring finger with a needle and let four drops of blood fall lightly onto the looking glass. Mary murmured under her breath, letting the smoke from the charcoal curl across the looking glass to conjure skies and creatures and promises and passions. She spoke 8
the curses. And as the clock on the mantelshelf chimed midnight, she felt the sour weight of the household, its force and roar, dissolve about her. She felt the current of her wits, her fancy, her skill, her fury begin to spark. Her hands crackled with a white heat. Mary slept deeply until the knocks came. She felt the thrill rise in her chest as the knocks sounded again and the door opened. As her candle faltered, she threw the match down, letting her eyes settle into the darkness as the two figures took their places at the foot of her bed. The first was of many forms. Its limbs were lumpen and bruised, every joint held together with crude stitching. The creature mumbled and twitched, holding its arms out towards Mary. She spoke to it softly and the creature’s hands clumsily withdrew, its head bowed. The second figure was a tall man, holding aloft a handwritten score. His hair was wild and black and he wore a furious expression. Mary surveyed him slowly then clapped her hands four times, at which he startled and placed the score at her feet. She picked up the manuscript and slowly turned its pages, occasionally looking up to meet the man’s stern gaze. Then with the smallest of gestures, Mary directed the two figures to the corner of the room where they stood side by side, their eyes cast down to the floor. And she rose from the bed, walked slowly to her writing desk and picked up her pen.
9
THE KALEIDOSCOPE
Mendelssohn The Hebrides Overture Mendelssohn (arr. Jörg Widmann) Andante from Clarinet Sonata in Eb major Mozart Piano Concerto No.15 in Bb major, K450 Jörg Widmann Fantasie for solo clarinet Mendelssohn Symphony No.1 in C minor With Jean-Efflam Bavouzet (piano), Timothy Orpen (clarinet) and Nicholas Collon (conductor) Saturday 13 October 2018, 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano 10
THE KALEIDOSCOPE
You might have heard him in the wind off a wild sea. Or nestled in the hum of a good conversation. Because he mostly travels by sound, of course. But sometimes you can see him. Or his hands and feet at least. Fingers always blurred, whether or not there’s a piano about. I assume that’s why they call him the kaleidoscope. Always moving, colours turning, sounding those effortless chimes again and again as the pattern shifts. (It’s also been said he wears a cape on occasion, and _________ himself has done little to dispel this rumour, but the jury’s out on that one.) I only met him once. It was on a freezing rooftop and my ears were ringing with all the miserable songs. I’d been there a long time at that point and nothing upon nothing was changing. The street rattled on below. Truth be told, my brain was swaying with some dark thoughts. And then, landing in this furious rush of sound, he was beside me. I don’t know how he did it. Where he came 11
from, where he whirled that music from. He brought every colour. At first the noise of it all nearly knocked me off my feet. I said WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON and I started waving my arms about in the air. So he took his distance, but the music went on, only now it was stiller and softer. And then he was gone. I’ve no idea how long it all lasted. A few seconds? But something had lifted, just a touch. He’d left me a new song. Different colours. Whatever it was, it meant I could climb down from that horrible rooftop and go to bed. Since then I’ve tried to hear this same music, to conjure it up. But I can’t. I used to hope he’d call again. With or without the rumoured cape. But I suppose he’s busy visiting elsewhere, bringing that mad whirl of sound to some other soul on a roof. All the same, I keep my ears open.
12
13
BEETHOVEN AND THE DINOSAURS
Beethoven Extracts from Symphonies Nos. 4, 6 & 7 and other works With Jessie Maryon Davies (storyteller), Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra and story by Kate Wakeling Saturday 13 October 2018, 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In Far, Far Away (for grown-ups) 14
BEETHOVEN AND THE DINOSAURS
You find yourself in a jungly glade. Your map says: This is the spot. Your map says: This is the place to play. You say: What? You say: Who? Your map says: The place to play. And not the children. You. Your map says: This is a way to zoom through time. This is somewhere to jump and dance and climb, to spy a toothy beast or two – or three – or four, to hear them ROAR. Your map says: You might meet a stegosaurus with an itchy back.
15
One who likes her spikes to be scratched (and that’s a fact). Your map says: Or stretch up your neck and reach for your specs to glimpse a Tyrannosaurus Rex, that king of beasts that eater of feasts that muncher of bones and claws and teeth. And so on. Your map says: This is the spot. Your map says: This is the place to play. You say: What? You say: Who? Your map says: The place to play. And not the children. You.
16
17
BACH AND THE NOISY NIGHT-TIME
Bach Extracts from the Goldberg Variations With Jessie Maryon Davies (storyteller), Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra and story by Kate Wakeling Sat 20–Sun 21, Sat 27–Sun 28 October 2018 Hall Two, Kings Place Far, Far Away (for children aged 0–5 and families) 18
BACH AND THE NOISY NIGHT-TIME
Once upon a time (but not so very long ago) there lived a band of musicians. They played instruments made of wood and gut and silver and gold. And they spent their days practising and listening to one another play, and concentrating on how they might best play the many notes in their music books. They worked extremely hard. In fact, they worked so hard that when night fell, the musicians were usually fast asleep before they had finished saying good night to one another. Until the evening came when the musicians found they couldn’t sleep. Not a wink. After a long discussion, the musicians decided it must be the sound of the raindrops. (The raindrops were making a lot of noise that night, agreed the musicians.) But the next night, the musicians again couldn’t sleep, and there was not a raindrop to be heard. It’s the stars, suggested one of the musicians, there’s too much twinkling. And the other musicians nodded helplessly. And no one slept. 19
The following night was just the same, and then the next. One of the musicians suggested they count sheep. And so they did. In fact, they counted these sheep with a particular grace, for counting is something musicians tend to be very good at. But it made not a jot of difference and when morning came, all the musicians were still miserably wide awake. The musicians brewed special teas at bedtime. They took warm baths and played one another endless lullabies. But this did nothing at all, and in not so long, the musicians were at the ends of their tethers. Then one morning, soon after breakfast, there came a knock at the door of the house of the musicians. At the door stood a storyteller with eyes as green as dragonflies. The musicians welcomed her into their house (of course they did: a storyteller and a musician are one and the same). They made her pancakes and a glass of blackcurrant squash and then, wearily pulling up chairs and cushions, they asked if she would tell them a story. Which she did. It was a story that may or may not have been true, and it went like this: There was once a sleepless Count. This Count paced the corridors of his palace night after night. But while his feet trod mile upon mile each evening, the Count’s thoughts had begun to travel smaller and smaller distances, so that he could eventually think only of his sleeplessness. Now, also staying at the palace at this very same time was a musician.
20
(The musicians sitting listening to the story on their chairs and cushions perked up a great deal at this moment.) This musician was famous throughout the land, and deservedly so, for he was wise and kind and quick, and his music was all of those things and more besides. And the musician was sad to see the Count so glum. He brewed the Count special teas and ran him warm baths and played him endless lullabies, but nothing made the slightest difference. Until the musician had an idea. He would write the Count a piece of music. A piece of music that was at once a repository of rest and mischief and warmth and sadness. It would be a piece that held everything that could be imagined in that particular place at that particular time. The musician set to work, and because he was a master of his craft, he finished the piece in no time at all. Then, taking his favourite quill, the musician carefully copied out the manuscript and presented it to the Count. And the Count gestured to the musician to play the piece. But the musician gently shook his head and returned the gesture, indicating that the piece was for the Count himself to play. That night, after the Count had drunk his special tea and taken his warm bath, he sat down at his harpsichord and began to play. The musician listened from the next room as the Count worked his way through the piece. He listened as the Count played passages filled with laughing and struggling and thinking and marvelling. And the musician listened as the Count’s thoughts travelled through all these different places, the Count’s thoughts at first ranging hungrily across these many worlds before gradually growing more weary. And when at last the piece had come to an end, the musician heard the Count 21
close the lid of the harpsichord. And when, not so many minutes later, the musician peered into the Count’s room, he saw that the Count was lost in a deep sleep with a smile on his face. The storyteller there finished her story and took a last sip of her drink. Plucking up their courage, the musicians decided to ask the storyteller what they should do. It seemed no longer to mean anything that they worked so hard by day: although they were exhausted, none of them could sleep. The storyteller paused, then told the musicians she would be back at nightfall and that she hoped their troubles would soon be over. As dusk gathered, the musicians waited anxiously by the front door, wondering what the storyteller would suggest. The knock came and they welcomed her in. Her eyes were green as grasshoppers and she held in her arms balloons and papers crowns and ice creams and curly straws. The musicians stared blankly at her but the storyteller nodded cheerfully. She placed the balloons around the house and set a paper crown on each of the musicians’ heads and a curly straw in their drinks. And the musicians sighed and said but we are weary. And the storyteller said that this she knew. But that sometimes another part of a person was not as used up as it needed to be for sleep, even when every other part of them was. And the storyteller said she had a hunch that the musicians would not sleep until they had a party, a real party. (The musicians looked doubtfully at the curly straws at this point, and the storyteller gestured as if to say I know I know but you have to start somewhere.) And the 22
musicians narrowed their eyes. But the storyteller said surely, SURELY nobody has a better party than musicians? And so the musicians reluctantly took up their instruments and began to play. And bit by bit, their music began to twirl and stomp and bounce and fizz as it had never done before. And they played then rested and rested then played. And it was the most wonderful music they had ever made. The paper crowns dropped down over one or other of each of the musicians’ ears, and with a certain joyful fury, they even began to enjoy their curly straws (for instance, making a variety of slurping sounds), which then made them laugh until their sides hurt. And as they carried on playing, they realised all of a sudden that the storyteller had vanished. And no sooner had they realised this than a great sleepiness settled on the house of musicians. And in no time at all – but of course – every one of the musicians was lost in a deep sleep, with a smile on each of their faces.
23
OLD BONES
Satie Gymnopédie No. 3 Thomas Adès The Lover in Winter Debussy Danse sacrée et danse profane Nico Muhly Clear Music Dowland (arr. Nico Muhly) Time Stands Still (world premiere) Nico Muhly Motion Nico Muhly Old Bones (world premiere of ensemble version) Thomas Adès The Four Quarters Brahms Gestillte Sehnsucht With Iestyn Davies (countertenor), Sally Pryce (harp), John Reid (piano) and Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra Friday 23 November 2018, 7.30pm Hall One, Kings Place Time Unwrapped 24
OLD BONES
And these are the revelations of the musicks, brought to me in nine Shewings. The musicks came in a dreaming that was many-coloured and that shone like the Lord’s glass. They came as a silver flute to this person unbidden. They came as a harp struck to gold. The musicks came when I was little waxen above a child and these bright tokens befell me as a blaze I could little fathom. But I cast my ears to the wind and the wind assented. And so I swore to set down these Shewings and seek the ink that spelt their doings. Of which the First was a slowing of the hour. The fire eased in its flame and the shadows turned to a tawny dust. 25
The slowing was a melancholy and I sat in its tender quiet and my heart became full. The Second was a visiting of winter. There came a crystal air across the earth and my hand shook as the cold fled among my blood. The Third was a musick that took my limbs from their senses. At first these movings were of a steady grace. And then they came to whirl and brought with them a heat that burned with a splendid rising. The Fourth was a song unto itself and the song was at first but a thread. And this thread loosed its knot and began to stretch and curl to make a web and I became entangled in its pale and blessÊd delight. The Fifth was a stilling of the hour. The Sixth was a murmuring that spoke the Word. It was an alleluia and a wound that was fresh, pricked by thorns and the print of nails. It laid the serpent’s head bruised at my feet and it told of a glorious motion. The Seventh was a musick that travelled its long path into the earth to creep among the crowned bones. The musick awoke their spirit and I was overcome. The Eighth saw the clock strike an hour beyond its face.
26
And the Ninth saw this hour fill with a light that blazed as gold. And I saw that it was night but still the light shone and the musick played and I rejoiced and I rejoiced and I rejoiced in a bright exaltation that was without end.
27
A VIENNESE NEW YEAR
Mozart Overture to The Marriage of Figaro Mozart Piano Concerto No. 17 in G major, K453 Mozart Symphony No. 39 in Eb major, K543 Waltzes by Johann Strauss I & II With Imogen Cooper (piano) and Nicholas Collon (conductor) Monday 31 December 2018, 6pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Time Unwrapped 28
A VIENNESE NEW YEAR
Of course, I shouldn’t have picked that particular night. Any other ball would have served as well. But there was a certain elegance, a certain possibilité about New Year’s Eve that the theatrical in me simply couldn’t resist. The plans had been laid just so. The maids and footmen were greased. Steinhof was waiting outside the Palace with a Fiaker and the quickest horses this side of the Danube. As the party crowded into the ballroom for the midnight chimes, I would clean out the ladies’ cloakroom (having tied up the three willing cloakroom maids for their stories’ sake), and then be on my way with enough Kronen and furs to keep me in the black till my dying day. It had all been running smoothly enough. Winks between all interested parties had been exchanged and one of the cloakroom maids had passed me a white rose for my buttonhole. For luck, she’d whispered. It was now half past eleven and the hour was nearly upon us. My nerves were ticking but I felt good. And so I decided to walk the length of the main ballroom. I should 29
simply have laid low, but there was something to the charge, the revelry of New Year’s Eve that drew me in. So I took my leave of the refreshment room, descended the staircase and entered the great hall, the air at once alive with chatter and music, the thud of dancing feet and the swish of gown after gown whirling by. And then I saw her. She was in the middle of relating some sort of darkly comic tale. Every eye nearby was fixed on her. I listened, rapt. She had a quickness and a fierceness to her speech that hit me in all the tender spots. I straightened my tie and made my approach, marvelling that before she could even have grasped that I planned to address her, she took her leave of the group and wordlessly took my hand, as though it was the most natural thing in the world that we should dance together. The ball was in full swing and we were quickly swept into the dance’s current, gliding across the room like iceskaters, like birds, like the very wind itself. My sensibilities, as you will have now deduced, were all at sea. We did not for a moment lift our eyes from one another. I had no grasp whatsoever of how time was passing, and so when she leant close into my ear and asked if I would be so kind as to fetch a small piece of marzipan, I heeded nothing but her request and hastened from the room. Of course, no sooner had I left the hall and begun to climb the main staircase, the orchestra struck up a fanfare. Midnight approached. I hesitated. The desire to acquaint myself with this woman was all but overwhelming. But my plan had been laid for weeks and at no small expense. Perhaps I might even quickly stash the spoils and return 30
to the ball to find her again? It was a foolhardy notion but the sheer gall of it matched the sudden romance of this evening, I mused. Yet no sooner was I fixed in my resolve then I realised it was a near hopeless task. The crush of bodies returning to the great hall from the rest of the building to gather for midnight had already begun. My route to the cloakroom was thwarted. Such was my state of mind however, that the idea of possible failure brought a certain relief: perhaps I could indeed simply procure the marzipan then dance and converse with this woman till dawn. In due course the crowds began to thin and I sighted the cloakroom. Wondering if the coast might still be clear after all, I peered inside to find the room deserted of both people and possessions. The servants’ door at the rear was ajar. I hurried through it. And there, sat in Steinhof ’s carriage amid a crush of countless fur wraps and small velvet bags, the very hoard I should be sitting among right now, smiled the woman and the three cloakroom maids. I ran to the carriage. But before I could so much as open my mouth, the woman had leant through the window. She blew me a kiss. The three maids winked (again) at me. And away the carriage sped. ‘I’ll be deuced,’ I said. ‘I’ll be deuced. I’ll be damned. She’ll be damned.’ My heart tumbled in my chest. From deep within the palace, the orchestra struck up a new tune. The dance whirled on. There seemed nothing for it but to light a cigarette. Which I did, watching as the blue smoke waltzed from my lips out into the brilliant dark. 31
NORTHERN LIGHTS: NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY WITH AURORA ORCHESTRA
Teitur/Nico Muhly Confessions Terry Riley In C Bach Goldberg Variations (version for string trio) Club classics set by Lips Choir DJ set by Nwando Ebizie (Lady Vendredi) With Teitur (singer), Nico Muhly (conductor), Lips Choir, Jessie Maryon Davies (choir director), Nwando Ebizie (DJ) and Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra Monday 31 December 2018, 9pm–1.30am Kings Place The Lock-In Time Unwrapped 32
NORTHERN LIGHTS
We’d been searching for hours. Our feet were worn. The air had grown thin and was suffused with a fine damp mist. It was fiercely cold, but on we climbed. The stargazer had said only that we should go North. She refused us a map or even a compass. Let the Pole Star guide your course, she said. But there was no sight of any star. Our spirits were failing. Midnight must soon be approaching and there seemed little prospect of reaching the Lights in time. On we walked, clutching one another’s hands as we stumbled across the moss and rock of the hillside. Then in the distance, all at once, a small glow became visible. For a moment we might have believed it was the Lights. But soon enough it became clear that the glow issued from a dwelling, its lamps brightly lit within. We hurried towards it, realising the depth of our relief that we weren’t lost beyond hope. We knocked, the stiff wooden door opened and we were beckoned inside by a man with a head of unruly red hair. 33
A fire roared in the grate. And set before the fire stood a table where a lively band of women and men sat amid the remnants of a large meal. The room was furnished plainly. Its walls were bare but for a large clock. And on the mantel stood a host of candles and a glass jar filled with water and, somehow suspended within this water, a small leaden star. The women and men of the cabin hurried to find us blankets and they poured us beakers of a warm amber liquid that was strange and delicious, tasting first sweet with honey then dark with herbs. Our heads swam and we thanked the people of the dwelling and joined them in their meal. We told them that we had come in search of the aurora borealis and that we’d been promised that on the chime of midnight, a display like no other was due to appear. We told them we’d been promised all of this by the stargazer of ______ but had lost our way. The women and men at the table only smiled and said that sometimes this was the way of things. So we tried to forget our dismay at losing the Lights and instead allow ourselves to be merry. And soon enough, the man with the unruly red hair told us that midnight approached and he charged our cups with the amber liquid. The people of the cabin then lowered the lamps and blew out the candles and, as if somehow obeying this same force, the fire in turn began to dim its light, the flames clinging tightly to the coals. The clock began to chime. The women and men of the cabin took up their instruments and we joined them 34
in singing. And as this music rose up, a cluster of the very strangest lights we had ever seen began to play among the flames in the grate. They were lights of shimmering greens and yellows and purples and blues and they pulsed and flickered and shone. And as the music played on, so these lights began to swim up from the fire to mingle among us, and we realised that these were the Lights, all about us here in this strange cabin on the hillside. We turned to one another with beaming faces to join hands as the Lights streamed more and more brightly about us until we could no longer see anything of the room. When the clock’s chimes came to their stop, the Lights began to dim and as our eyes adjusted, we found ourselves standing once more on the rocky hillside. The cabin with its fire and people had vanished, as if melted into the night. The air was now marvellously clear, with a bright moon lighting a sharply-marked path at our feet that led back down to the town glittering in the bay far below us. And once more, we took one another’s hands and set off on our journey home, with bodies full of amber wine and light and music.
35
SONGS FROM THE ROAD
Trad. Two Sisters Mahler (arr. Iain Farrington) Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen Nico Muhly The Only Tune Du Yun Where We Lost Our Shadows (world premiere) With Jennifer Johnston (mezzo-soprano), Ali Sethi (voice), Sam Amidon (voice/guitar), Shayna Dunkelman (percussion), Nicholas Collon (conductor) and film by Khaled Jarrar Sunday 20 January 2019, 4pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre: The Claus Moser Series at Southbank Centre 36
SONGS FROM THE ROAD
After ‘Ging Heut’ Morgen über’s Feld’ – Gustav Mahler I went this morning across the fields, dew clinging still to every blade of grass. The merry finch sang to me: You there, good morning! You, you! What a fine world this is! And the bluebell at the edge of the field rang, with merry spirits and tiny bells, a morning welcome. And in the sunshine, the world began to glitter. Everything gained sound and colour. Flower and bird sang: Good day! Is it not a fair world? You, you! Is it not a fair world? 37
Now will my happiness begin? No, no – the happiness I mean can never bloom for me. § I went this morning across a sea. I went this morning across the fields, dew clinging still to every blade of grass. A bird I did not know sang to me and I could not heed it. But the blue flower at the edge of the field rang its welcome and I brightened my step. And in the sunshine the world began to glitter and flower and bird sang: Good day! Is it not a fair world? And I gambled my every beginning on the promise. §
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I went this morning across a sea I went this morning across a sea I went this morning across a sea and a road and a road and a road and a road and a road I went this morning across the fields dew clinging still to every blade of grass the bag pulling at my shoulder a bird I did not know sang and I could not heed it but knew it would not say my name it told me what a fine world this is and the blue flower at the edge of the field rang out and if it was not a bell of alarm still I did not hear its welcome and the light changed and the world shook and something asked is it not a fair world again and again and again and I do not know what to speak of happiness
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LIFE CYCLE
Mozart (arr. Hummel) Piano Concerto No. 18 in Bb major, K456 (version for chamber ensemble) Anna Meredith Origami Songs Emily Hall Life Cycle (world premiere of version for large ensemble) With John Reid (piano), Mara Carlyle (voice) and Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra Saturday 2 February 2019, 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Venus Unwrapped 40
LIFE CYCLE
I am folding. I smooth three fingers along the paper. I work with a precision that infuses my entire person. It is like being bathed in cool and fragrant water. I hold each new fold up to the light, half-closing an eye to check if the edge is sufficiently crisp. I celebrate what I judge to be a tremendous ability to execute this task. I wait for a voice from nowhere to continue this sentence with in the circumstances. There is no voice. I breathe out. The instructions wait on the table. They are wordless. They feature a series of black and white drawings annotated with agile dotted lines and minuscule arrows. Each sequence begins with a square that shrinks then extends into Crane, Swan, Frog. I am not ready to make them yet. I work on what I have now learned are called ‘base folds’. These are the folds from which other forms can then be made. For instance: The ‘blintz’ base sees all four corners of the sheet folded into the centre. 41
The ‘shawl’ base sees the paper folded in half along the diagonal to make a triangle. The ‘kite’ base sees the paper placed white side up, then folded along one of the diagonals and unfolded. From here, the left and right lower sides are folded onto the vertical line now inscribed in the paper. I am learning that origami is yet another thing that is difficult to articulate. I think again about the basket of washing that waits in the next room. I contemplate its items. I imagine myself touching them, one by one. I do not move from my seat. I feel a familiar fluttering and jerking in my belly. Fish, Butterfly, Monkey. I place a hand lightly on my belly’s top and stroke the ferociously taut skin. I marvel yet again at the absolute firmness of a pregnant belly. I realise I had been about to use the word sturdy, but that the word sturdy is not how such things can be described. Or rather, it is a word other people can use but a word that I now cannot. I reflect that there must be many other people quietly going about their day right now who would also shrink from saying sturdy about a second pregnancy such as this. I reflect on the leaflets I was once presented with. The telephone numbers. I reflect on the kind faces that seemed constantly to be leaning towards me during that time. That lean towards me again. Still. I reflect on another face. I turn back to the bird base folds, creasing the paper in half from its bottom to its top. I decide to carry the basket of washing upstairs. I decide not to carry the basket of washing upstairs. 42
I finish folding the bird base and place it alongside the other bases on the table. I have the sense that I have completed a significant quantity of ground work. I trace a finger along the rest of the instructions for Crane. I am struck that a surprisingly small number of folds now remain. I move slowly and carefully. I take the bird base with me, tucked lightly under my arm, and I carry the basket of washing upstairs. I pause at the doorway. The small room is filled with sunlight. I enter. I place the basket by the chest of drawers and lift out a tiny white cotton vest. It is barely bigger than my hand. I sniff it. It is now free of the scent of a shop-floor. It is part of this household. I have readied it. I fold it once, gently, from its bottom to its top.
43
SURROUND
Anna Meredith Moon Anna Meredith Axeman Anna Meredith Brisk Widow Anna Meredith Gigue With Anna Meredith (electronics), Sam Wilson (percussion), Amy Harman (bassoon), Eleanor Meredith (visuals), ChloÊ van Soeterstède (conductor) and Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra Saturday 2 February 2019, 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In Venus Unwrapped 44
SURROUND
and if your first wish was to be stung by sound and if you were seeking a certain radiance and if you were one day as faint as vapour and the next as staunch as vice and if you were attending to a growing need for flight and if what you sense would really hit the spot is to be set aloft on a slanted pulse and if you still find yourself traipsing for a fever for something to prod your sweats and punch its way through the blood and if what you crave right now at this very exact and specific time have I made it clear enough or in fact just muddied the waters and if what you require is the urgent rescue tendered by the right sort of noise and if you stand still you feel yourself hurled sideways and if you stare at your feet you can only see another’s feet taking up the dance and then you clock they are completely great at dancing so you shut your mouth but then open it again and dancing comes pouring off your tongue like a delicious insult and if you were to fix yourself to a machine you would in a minimal quantity of time be more powerful than the x of any 45
equation you care to mention and if you were seeking a heat that is all your own and if you are newly aware that the sweetest nectar waits only in the dank crook of it and if you slapped your face with joy and if you could play your own brain like a slackened drum and if you hunger for the unwavering play of light on a liquid and if that is still what you need at this specific moment and if
46
47
PEPPER THE MONKEY
Schumann Extracts from Kinderszenen and Carnaval With Patxi del Amo (storyteller), Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra and story by Kate Wakeling Sun 10, Sat 16–Sun 17, Sun 24 February 2019 Hall Two, Kings Place Mon 18–Tue 19 February 2019 Southbank Centre Far, Far Away (for children aged 0–5 and families) 48
PEPPER THE MONKEY
INTERVIEWER:
Thanks so much for agreeing to this interview.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
[inaudible]
INTERVIEWER:
Pepper? [To someone nearby] What the… Is this going to work? [recording briefly stops] Pepper, so I understand you’re happy to talk for a few minutes?
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
Sure. I just wanted to finish my banana.
INTERVIEWER:
Of course. All done?
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
Yep. Fire away.
49
INTERVIEWER:
Great. So tell me a little bit about the Rainbow Circus – how you got involved, what your experiences were along the way…
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
Well, I’d had this yen to be part of a circus for a long, long time. I was originally based in the EastWest jungle and there’s not really much of a circus scene there, so it was quite tricky. And I didn’t have a whole lot of support from my family–
INTERVIEWER:
Your family are all monkeys as well?
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
They are.
INTERVIEWER:
Of course they are.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
So I had this urge, particularly to try the trapeze, but I just didn’t have the opportunities to get started. Until this wonderful bit of serendipity really.
INTERVIEWER:
Tell me.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
I’m trying.
50
INTERVIEWER:
Of course. Another banana?
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
No. [pause] Actually, yes. [long pause, sounds of focused eating] So the Rainbow Circus passed the edge of the jungle and I heard the music and the cheers and so forth. And I’d been a huge, huge fan of their work for a long time. It’s run by this amazing collective of hens, kangaroos and guinea pigs, with a zebra as producer. And they do THE most incredible shows and my heart said, this is the time to try. But the moment I decided to follow them, they were gone.
INTERVIEWER:
That must have been so frustrating.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
It was, it was. But I knew what I wanted and, you know, I’m very determined.
INTERVIEWER:
You do seem so. The way you demolished that second banana was really something.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
Could we not talk about bananas?
INTERVIEWER:
Of course, my apologies. 51
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
So I started following the circus and it became this sort of ‘Labours of Hercules’ scenario. I had to tightrope walk along a creeper, tame a rogue lion cub and then charm a snake. And after all that – and this is the crazy part – when I finally caught up with the Rainbow Circus, there’d been some major disagreements between the venue and the artistic team, and moments before the show began they were missing a tightrope walker, lion tamer and snake charmer. So I just rolled up and said ‘I’m the monkey for the job’ and I guess the rest is history.
INTERVIEWER:
It’s a great story.
PEPPER THE MONKEY:
It is! Bonkers but brilliant.
INTERVIEWER:
You could even say bananas. [Sound of general scrabbling, a banana being eaten, the scuffle of a microphone being removed and monkey paws stomping off into the distance.] [Interview ends]
52
53
DARK WITH EXCESSIVE BRIGHT
Elgar Serenade for Strings in E minor Mozart Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K467 Missy Mazzoli Dark with Excessive Bright (UK premiere, concerto for double bass) Beethoven Symphony No. 8 in F major With Yeol Eum Son (piano), Ben Griffiths (double bass) and Nicholas Collon (conductor) Friday 5 April 2019, 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Venus Unwrapped 54
DARK WITH EXCESSIVE BRIGHT
They say he plays me. But I play him. Remember, I’ve been at this some four hundred years. Although it was very different when things began, of course. I was all instrument in those days. The docile giantess at the foot of their music. A vessel for the thud of the dance, the thrum of all that endless ceremony. And I did as I was told, of course I did. But I knew I had something of the beast in me, even then. I knew I had a muscle that needed to be flexed. So I practised. I practised finding the powers, sounding out my needs softly, delicately. I knew no one could yet hear, but I needed to be ready to voice myself. And I held my patience when an owner set me down. I learnt to overcome that awful ache on being left. I saw others felled by this, losing their song to the pain of it. But this only fed the very force of me. I knew that one day I’d steer this ship and if I could only bide my time, wait until the power was total, unspeakable, ready, then one day I’d be captain of my fate. 55
I didn’t know if it’d work with him, at first. I worried he wouldn’t hear or wouldn’t take the bait. But the first time I whispered to him across the rumbling of the bow, I saw his eyes widen, felt his grip soften. And so I sang to him. I opened up every inch of myself to his touch. Oh the concerts we played. Audiences, the other musicians, none of them had ever heard anything like it. I made myself suffer the lights of the stage. I let him shine. I would watch him gaze down at me as he played. He couldn’t believe his luck. And then so slowly, so carefully, I began my work. I grumbled if he laid me down on the floor or put me in the case. I began to whisper my demands. And when he disobeyed and we flew to ________ with me locked in the hold for hours on end, I shut myself to his playing. The concert was a disaster. I saw him take on the ramifications. He would have to drive me, wherever it was, and he would have to take on less work. And then I began to whisper that the concerts needed to stop. That if he was to have my song in his hands, if he wanted this sweetness, this rapture of sound I’d bestowed on him, then he must submit. I worried I’d overstepped, that he would cast me off. But he was in too deep and I saw him flicker just for a moment then fall. And from that moment on, it was almost too easy. He taught for a little while, pupils coming to the house, but soon enough he simply couldn’t bear not to be playing. The teaching dried up. For as long as I remember, all I ever craved was to sound in the darkness. 56
I started to insist that he play into the night. Progress was slow at first. For weeks, he could only continue until two or three in the morning. But as I went on with my whispers, my scorn, my coaxing, he would play on and on until we held the entire night together in sound, seeing in the dawn day after day. I watched his fingers bleed. I see now that he grows thinner, that his eyes are red and his hands carry a tremor. I see that if I am to keep him for my needs, I must ease my grip, just a little, or I will lose him too soon and must begin again. And yet. It is too good. Too sweet. I play him and my heart, at last, is full.
57
STICKS AND KEYS
Bartรณk Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion With Henry Baldwin (percussion), John Reid (piano) and Nicholas Rimmer (piano) Friday 5 April 2019, 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In 58
STICKS AND KEYS
There came a great thunder. This thunder saw the things and their names tumbled topsy-turvy. This thunder saw tree become ‘cloud’ and cloud become ‘engine’ and engine become ‘dream’ and so on. And when the thunder had passed, the people set about reordering these things and names, so that a tree was again simply a ‘tree’ and a cloud was a ‘cloud’ and so on. But there was a forgetting. (There is always a forgetting.) And so the sticks, which had with the thunder become ‘keys’, were to stay that way. Once the people realised this, they agreed that nothing too grave would happen with this one forgetting. In fact, the people agreed that this small wrinkle in the usual order of things was perhaps a good way of remembering the great rumble of that topsy-turvy thunder. And what, someone joked, would the sticks wish to unlock? For a good while it seemed of little significance that sticks were known as ‘keys’. Yes, people would occasionally find themselves absent-mindedly adding little twigs of silver birch 59
to their keyrings and then attempting to unlock their front doors with these pieces of wood. They would find themselves trying to play childhood piano pieces on bare autumn hedgerows. But otherwise the consequences were slight. Until there was a shift. Because names, over time, creep deep into the cells of everything around, and there is simply no stopping this passage of sense. These curious keys made of silver birch, of beech or oak that people had without a thought placed on their keyrings, began to turn in the locks. The hedgerows began to sound. Certain self-professed progressive musicians even began to talk no longer of C major and F# minor but of ash and fir. And then it emerged that a single lock could be opened by any of these new ‘keys’. To open any lock, a person need only pluck a ‘key’ from the ground beneath a tree, meaning that a house or a car or a safe could no longer be held secure. At first the people attempted other means of shuttering up their goods, using ropes and bolts and barbed wire. But gradually, as these mechanisms proved less than efficient, the people simply took to leaving their homes and possessions unlocked. Things were taken, of course they were. But fewer in number than expected, and those who lost items found they didn’t mind nearly as much as they expected. Besides, there was no longer any possibility of locking a person up. As the doors to houses and offices and cars and banks increasingly swung on their hinges, the people began to gather outside day after day. They settled in parks and woods and glades. Some spent their days playing long winding tunes on the crisscross of twigs found on a forest 60
floor. Others chose simply to lie down from dawn to dusk beneath a tree, any tree, to gaze at the infinite possibilities held in a single canopy of branches, wondering what might yet be unlocked by all that murmured in the breeze.
61
MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
Beethoven Molto adagio from String Quartet No. 8 in E minor, Op. 59, No. 2 Thomas Adès Violin Concerto ‘Concentric Paths’ Max Richter New work (world premiere) Mozart Symphony No. 41 in C major, K551, ‘Jupiter’ (from memory) With Pekka Kuusisto (violin) and Nicholas Collon (conductor) Wednesday 5 June 2019, 7.30pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre: The Claus Moser Series at Southbank Centre 62
MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
‘I think we should stop for lunch,’ said the first violinist. The quartet had worked together for a long time. They could finish one another’s sentences. They knew how each was best dealt with first thing in the morning, what each of their immediate responses would be to a narrowly missed train. They quarrelled and they reconciled. Often they all four played their very best in the same concert. But sometimes they did not. And sometimes rehearsals grew tense. ‘I think we should go back to the E minor and run the Adagio again. For good luck,’ said the violist. Inexplicably, this movement had fallen apart earlier in the rehearsal. They played it again. It fell apart. ‘This is weird,’ said the second violinist. ‘I think we should stop for lunch,’ said the cellist. Lunch was already laid out on the dining room table and the quartet ate in near silence, as they now almost always did. 63
‘I’ll start clearing up,’ said the first violinist, walking into the kitchen, before returning swiftly, scratching their head. ‘Is someone messing about?’ Nobody said anything. ‘Come and have a look.’ They filed into the kitchen. A single light bulb rested in the centre of the kitchen table, and around it lay spoons of every shape and size, evidently drawn from around the room and placed here in a disorderly circle. ‘Now this is weird,’ said the second violinist. They each peered at the table. ‘I don’t understand. How did that bulb… I was the last person in here,’ said the first violinist. ‘Did you know you were haunted?’ said the second violinist. The first violinist didn’t smile. The quartet stood around the table for some minutes, examining the spoons and bulb from different angles. Eventually the cellist said ‘This is completely strange, I know. But I think we should keep going. We’re at the _______ the day after tomorrow, in case anyone’s forgotten.’ The first violinist cleared the table and they returned to their instruments. The Adagio went better. ‘It feels nearly there to me,’ said the first violinist. ‘But I think the opening is still too slow. It drags in the bass.’ ‘Right,’ said the cellist. ‘If you say so.’ They played the opening again. 64
‘Much better,’ said the first violinist. ‘I think it pushes at bar __,’ said the violist. ‘Swings and roundabouts,’ said the second violinist. ‘I’m getting some water. Anyone want anything?’ The second violinist left the room, before loudly calling the others to follow. In the hallway, the piles of sheet music that usually sat at the foot of the first violinist’s stairs lay scattered across the hall. But in the centre of the disorder, a number of sheets of music had been laid out in an intricate pattern of tightly overlapping circles. The pattern was not perfect, several pieces of the music were askew, but the formation was clear enough. ‘You’re messing about,’ said the first violinist. ‘I’m not!’ said the second violinist. ‘It was here when I came out. And when would I have had time to do this anyway?’ The first violinist nodded weakly. ‘I think we should have a drink,’ said the cellist. They sat around a bottle of wine for the first time in a long while. They talked about the kitchen light bulb and the spoons and the sheets of music. They talked about the quartet and what the next year held for the group. And then the conversation began to roll more freely, roaming across music and families and sadnesses and fresh hopes. Frustrations were aired, they drank more and even began to sing. When they headed home, each found they had a new lightness. And on waking the next morning to begin their journey to ________, they discovered themselves to be unexpectedly clear-headed. 65
All four musicians played their very best in the concert. They played with levity and melancholy, with precision and fire. And the Adagio of the E-minor Quartet flowed like the clearest of water, like a spell had been cast over both musicians and the audience, who in turn listened in complete stillness. And when the concert was finished, a great contented silence rested on the hall for a long moment, before the applause began. As the quartet left the stage, the violist said, ‘I wonder what’s waiting for us in the dressing room.’ And they each smiled. But nothing there was any different. Their bags, clothes and cases were exactly as they’d left them. ‘I was expecting something to happen,’ said the cellist, ‘after we played like that. Is that ridiculous?’ ‘I thought the same,’ said the second violinist. ‘It almost seems sad, doesn’t it?’ said the violist. They made their way out of the dressing room to the drinks reception that awaited them at the top of the building. ‘Normally such a lovely view of the sky over the mountains,’ said one of the concert organisers, ‘but it’s all cloud tonight.’ The quartet moved around the room. They talked to the people they were supposed to talk to. But as the evening drew to a close, the quartet found themselves gathered together, just the four of them, at the edge of the room by one of the floor-length windows. They looked out and saw that the sky had cleared and was all at once ablaze with stars. These stars were 66
unlike any the quartet had ever seen before. They were laid out in a great series of circles, some concentric, some intersecting, with each circle cast in perfectly-ordered pinpricks of starlight. And, as the musicians watched, each of these circles of stars began to turn, some moving slowly, some spinning more swiftly. The first violinist turned to beckon to the rest of the room with a gasp. But the group of people the first violinist gestured to only raised their glasses and smiled, before facing back into their conversation. ‘I don’t think anyone else can see it,’ said the violist. And they each of them nodded.
67
MOZART IN THE GARDEN
Mozart Extracts from Eine kleine Nachtmusik, Clarinet Quintet and other works With Principal Players of Aurora Orchestra and story by Kate Wakeling Sat 29–Sun 30 June, Sat 6–Sun 7 July 2019 Hall Two, Kings Place Far, Far Away (for children aged 0–5 and families) 68
MOZART IN THE GARDEN
It’s funny that the whole place is still such a mystery. If I’ve heard Wolfie say it once, I’ve heard him say it a thousand times: Everyone is welcome. Everyone! And he tends to get a bit worked up at this point. He’ll say: Especially the small ones. What would be the bloody point of all this if the small ones weren’t welcome? So, first of all, know that you are welcome. The tricky thing, of course, is finding it in the first place. Now that I’m here it seems easy as a whistle to spot, but I appreciate first time round it’s no walk in the park. HA HA. On which note, I’m happy to give you some clues for finding it. So yes, a walk in the park is obviously a good place to start. That’s the sort of spot where you’re as likely to come across the gate as any other. But you’ll need to feel light of foot, if that makes sense. You’ll need a certain softness in your temper that day. The weather ought to be immaterial I know, but I’ve noticed of late that a bit of light cloud cover seems to work wonders. Make of that what you will. 69
All that said, of course you don’t have to be outdoors for the gate to appear. In fact one of my favourite ever appearances of it was in the Iceland off Norwood Junction. I’d been minding my own business next to the frozen pizzas, having some thoughts about I-don’t-know-what. Trees. Presumably something whimsical and benign. And bang, there pops up my very own portal into a parallel world. Reader, I put down that frozen pizza. Before I get into what happens inside, I offer a quick note on time. Time passes in funny ways once you’re in the garden. Sometimes it zips by very quickly and you’ll emerge after what felt like twenty minutes, but once back on dry land (as I tend to call it these days) you’ll realise you’ve been gone for days. That can be awkward. And then sometimes you might stay in the garden for what seems like weeks, but when you reemerge you find you were gone barely half an hour. So that’s just a word of warning. But whatever the havoc, know it’s always worth it. You’re always welcome. And it’s always worth it. And now we reach the big question: what’s it like inside? I hate this sort of answer, I really do, but first up, it’s as much a feeling as anything else. You just feel OK when you’re there. Relaxed. Looked after. It’s funny as I often don’t even see Wolfie when I’m there, but you have this sense that he’s keeping everything just so. That absolutely everyone who finds their way through that gate will leave the garden feeling better than when they entered. But enough of that, you want to know what it’s actually like. Fine. So, for starters imagine The Most Delightful Garden You’ve Ever Been Inside. It’s always a warm 70
summer’s day. There’s this swoony scent of lavender everywhere. Bees all over the place and they’ll come and perch on your shoulder and say hello (although they don’t actually speak. Obviously! Don’t get me wrong: it’s a wonderful place but no Disney musical). Where was I, yes, so there’s a massive rolling lawn that goes on and on. There are all these huge old oak trees that you can sit beneath and feel the hum of their roots in the earth below. There’s a pond with enormous lily pads all across it and a little fountain that splashes away like tiny church bells. There are banks and banks of wild flowers. There’s a glade full of bluebells that blows my mind every goddamn time I go in there. And then there are loads of other bits. If you keep walking you can find yourself in completely other sorts of climes. There’s a dry desert area full of amazing cacti. Or you might come across a gorgeous tropical garden full of dangling vines and hibiscus flowers and these wild birds with shimmering green tails. It goes on and on. So yes, it really doesn’t have too much of a country house thing about it. It’s for everyone. When you’re there you sort of feel like you’re everywhere all at once. And I’ve never got to the end of it. In fact, when I asked Wolfie how much further I had to go to reach some sort of boundary, he just leant on his spade and shook his head with a twinkle and I knew it was pointless trying to get any sense out of him. So there’s the thing. Keep an eye out for that gate. And know that you’re always welcome.
71
INDEX
bells 37, 39, 71
clocks 9, 26, 34, 45 (see also time)
benevolent beings 11–12,
colours 11–12, 25, 35, 37
20–23, 33–35, 69–71
curly straws 22–23
(see also menacing forms)
curses 9
birds 37–39, 41–43, 71
cushions 20
blood 8, 26, 45
dancing 15, 30, 31, 45, 55
bluebells 37, 71
dawn 31, 57, 61
body parts:
dragonflies 20
ears 12, 23, 25
dreams 8, 25, 59
eyes 8, 20, 30, 41, 56
fire 25, 34–35, 66 (see also smoke)
feet 11, 20, 26, 30, 33, 45
food and drink:
hands 9, 11, 30, 33, 42, 56
bananas 49–52 (see also
hearts 7, 26, 31, 51, 57
monkeys)
limbs (miscellaneous) 9, 26
blackcurrant squash 20
tongues 45
frozen pizzas 70 (see also vices)
bombastic males 8, 9, 29–31
ice cream 22
bones:
marzipan 30
being munched 16
pancakes 20
old 25
tea 20, 21 (see also sleep, lack of)
books 7, 19 capes 11–12 72
wine 34–35, 65 from memory 6, 62
gambling 29–31, 38
power 9, 45, 55
grass 37, 71
precious metals:
grasshoppers 22
gold 19, 25, 27
home 35, 37–39, 43, 60, 65
silver 8, 19, 25, 59
journeys 15–16, 33–35, 37–39,
premieres:
51, 56, 70 (see also time
UK premieres 54
travelling)
world premieres 24, 36,
instructions 22–23, 41
40, 62
insults 31, 45
relief 31, 33
keys 7, 59–61
roads 35, 39
knocks at the door 7, 9, 20
rooftop encounters 11–12
light:
scents 41, 43
candles 7, 9, 34
shadows 7, 25
peculiar types 27, 35
sheep 20
sudden absence of 7, 56–57
singing 7, 26, 34, 37–39, 55, 65
luck 29, 56, 63 manuscripts 9, 21
sleep 9, 65 lack of 8, 19–23, 57
maps 15–16, 33
smoke 8, 31 (see also mirrors)
menacing forms 9, 16, 39, 55–57
spells 8–9, 66
mirrors 8
stairs 30, 42, 65
monkeys 42, 49–52
stars 19, 33
new commissions 36, 54, 62 (see also world premieres) new life 37, 43 (see also wonder) noises 12, 19, 45 Norwood Junction 70
in unexpected motion 67 stories 7–8, 20–22, 30 superhuman skills 11–12, 52 (see also capes) time:
parallel worlds 35, 37–39, 70
midnight 9, 29, 33
parties 22–23, 29–31, 34
travelling (literal and
(see also curly straws) play 15–16, 22–23, 46, 69
metaphorical) 15, 25–27, 30, 70 73
trees 15, 59–61, 71 unruly hair 9, 33, 34 vanishings 12, 23, 53 vehicles: aeroplanes 56 cars 60 Fiakers 29 trains 63 vices: envy 55–57 gluttony 51 greed 29–31, 60 lust 30–31 pride 8 water 34, 41, 45, 65, 66 weather: clouds 7, 59, 66, 69 rain 7, 19 sunshine 37, 38, 43 thunder 59 winds 11, 25, 30, 61 whispers 29, 56, 61 women composers 36, 40, 44, 53 wonder 25, 35, 67, 71 (see also play)
74
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
All of us at Aurora are deeply grateful to everyone who supports the orchestra. Support comes in many forms, from grants and philanthropic gifts to providing a home from home for our players during concert periods, or hosting a reception for our supporters. Thank you. We particularly want to acknowledge the support of the following, without whom our 2018/19 season would not be possible: Arts Council England, EsmÊe Fairbairn Foundation, the Sir John Fisher Foundation, the Parabola Foundation, Paul Hamlyn Foundation, Cockayne – Grants for the Arts, The London Community Foundation, and the Hargreaves and Ball Trust. We are also hugely grateful to each and every one of the Aurora Patrons and Friends, many of whom have supported the orchestra for many years, and to everyone who has made a donation. You are very much part of our story. It is impossible to thank everyone by name but we particularly want to acknowledge: Monica Bertoni, Ian Ingram, the Marchus Trust, Richard and Helen Sheldon, Nicholas and Margo Snowman and a supporter who prefers to remain anonymous. 75
2018 SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Sun 16 September 4pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre HK Gruber Frankenstein!! Beethoven Symphony No. 5 (from memory) THE KALEIDOSCOPE
Sat 13 October 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Music by Mozart, Mendelssohn, Jörg Widmann BEETHOVEN AND THE DINOSAURS
Sat 13 October 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In Far, Far Away
2019 OLD BONES
Fri 23 November 7.30pm Hall One, Kings Place Time Unwrapped Music by Nico Muhly, Thomas Adès, Debussy, Satie, Brahms, Dowland A VIENNESE NEW YEAR
Mon 31 December 6pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Time Unwrapped Mozart Overture to The Marriage of Figaro Mozart Piano Concerto No. 17 Mozart Symphony No. 39 Waltzes by Johann Strauss I & II
Beethoven Extracts from Symphonies Nos. 4, 6 & 7 and other works
NORTHERN LIGHTS: NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY WITH AURORA ORCHESTRA
BACH AND THE NOISY NIGHT-TIME
Mon 31 December 9pm–1.30am Kings Place The Lock-In Time Unwrapped
Sat 20–Sun 21, Sat 27– Sun 28 October Hall Two, Kings Place Far, Far Away Bach Extracts from the Goldberg Variations 76
Music by Teitur, Nico Muhly, Lips Choir, Nwando Ebizie (Lady Vendredi)
SONGS FROM THE ROAD
Sun 20 January 4pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre Trad. Two Sisters Mahler (arr. Iain Farrington) Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen Nico Muhly The Only Tune Du Yun Where We Lost Our Shadows (world premiere) LIFE CYCLE
Sat 2 February 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Venus Unwrapped Mozart (arr. Hummel) Piano Concerto No. 18 Anna Meredith Origami Songs Emily Hall Life Cycle SURROUND
Sat 2 February 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In Venus Unwrapped Anna Meredith Moon; Axeman; Brisk Widow; Gigue
SERIES PEPPER THE MONKEY
MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
Sun 10, Sat 16–Sun 17, Sun 24 February Hall Two, Kings Place
Wed 5 June 7.30pm Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre The Orchestral Theatre
Mon 18–Tue 19 February Southbank Centre Far, Far Away Schumann Extracts from Kinderszenen and Carnaval DARK WITH EXCESSIVE BRIGHT
Fri 5 April 7pm Hall One, Kings Place Mozart’s Piano Venus Unwrapped Elgar Serenade for Strings Mozart Piano Concerto No. 21 Missy Mazzoli Dark with Excessive Bright (UK premiere) Beethoven Symphony No. 8 STICKS AND KEYS
Fri 5 April 9.15pm Hall Two, Kings Place The Lock-In Bartók Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion
Beethoven Molto adagio from String Quartet No. 8 Thomas Adès Violin Concerto ‘Concentric Paths’ Max Richter New work (world premiere) Mozart Symphony No. 41 ‘Jupiter’ (from memory) MOZART IN THE GARDEN
Sat 29–Sun 30 June, Sat 6–Sun 7 July 2019 Hall Two, Kings Place Far, Far Away Mozart Extracts from Eine kleine Nachtmusik and other works RESIDENCIES & TOURS
Many of these concerts will be presented at venues across the UK and internationally. Learn more at auroraorchestra.com.
THE ORCHESTRAL THEATRE: THE CLAUS MOSER SERIES AT SOUTHBANK CENTRE
Vibrant orchestral adventures spanning diverse genres and art forms MOZART’S PIANO
A five-year journey (2015–2020) through the complete cycle of Mozart’s piano concertos THE LOCK-IN
Eclectic late-night concerts curated and performed by Aurora Principal Players FAR, FAR AWAY
Immersive storytelling concerts for children aged 0–5 and families TIME UNWRAPPED
Kings Place 2018 series exploring the concept of time VENUS UNWRAPPED
Kings Place 2019 series shining a new light on music by women
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KATE WAKELING
Kate is a writer and musicologist. A pamphlet of her poetry, The Rainbow Faults, is published by The Rialto and her poems have been widely published and anthologized. Kate’s debut collection of poetry for children, Moon Juice (The Emma Press), won the 2017 CLiPPA prize and was nominated for the 2018 Carnegie Medal. It is described by The Sunday Times as ‘clever, funny, inspiring… full of rich ideas and roll-around-the-tongue sounds that demand to be read aloud.’ Kate has been Writer-in-Residence with Aurora Orchestra since 2013, where she works on Far Far Away storytelling concerts, Orchestral Theatre scripts and (often mischievous) programme notes.
NICK EAGLETON
Nick Eagleton is a Creative Partner at Superunion, a multi-award winning branding and design agency. For 20 years he has created internationally recognised work for some of the biggest, and smallest, clients in the world. From his days studying sculpture in Bristol he has maintained a life-long passion for the arts and has worked on many and varied cultural projects. Nick has been on the journey with Aurora Orchestra since the very beginning as Designer-in-Residence and has been a constant collaborator ever since, designing nearly all the orchestra’s materials over the years, including the book you’re now holding.
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AURORA ORCHESTRA
With its signature creative ethos, Aurora Orchestra combines worldclass performance with adventurous programming and presentation. Founded in 2005 under Principal Conductor Nicholas Collon, it has quickly established a reputation as one of Europe’s leading chamber orchestras, garnering several major awards including two Royal Philharmonic Society Music Awards, a German ECHO Klassik Award, and a Classical:NEXT Innovation Award. Collaborating widely across art forms and musical genres, Aurora has worked with an exceptional breadth of artists, ranging from Patricia Kopatchinskaja, Sarah Connolly, and Pierre-Laurent Aimard to Wayne McGregor, Edmund de Waal, and Björk. A champion of new music, it has premiered works by composers including Julian Anderson, Benedict Mason, Anna Meredith, Nico Muhly, and Judith Weir. In recent years, it has pioneered memorised performance (without the use of printed sheet music), and is thought to be the first orchestra worldwide to perform whole symphonies in this way. Based in London, Aurora is Resident Orchestra at Kings Place, and Associate Orchestra at Southbank Centre. Its busy UK calendar includes ongoing regional residencies at St George’s Bristol, The Apex (Bury St Edmunds), and Colyer-Fergusson Hall (Canterbury). Recent and forthcoming international highlights include appearances at The Royal Concertgebouw Amsterdam, Kölner Philharmonie, Victoria Concert Hall Singapore, Melbourne Festival, and Shanghai Concert Hall. By challenging expectations of what an orchestra can and should do on the concert platform, Aurora seeks to inspire audiences of all ages and backgrounds to develop a passion for orchestral music. Through an award-winning learning and participation programme, Aurora regularly offers creative workshops and storytelling performances for families, schools and young people (including children with special educational needs and disabilities).
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AURORA ORCHESTRA
Harp Sally Pryce
Projects Director Megan Russell
Principal Conductor Nicholas Collon
Piano John Reid
Creative Marketing Manager Yung-Yee Chen
IN RESIDENCE
Concerts Manager Alana Grady
First Violin & Leader Alexandra Wood Second Violin Jamie Campbell Cello Torun Stavseng SĂŠbastien van Kuijk Double Bass Ben Griffiths Flute Jane Mitchell Oboe Tom Barber Clarinet Timothy Orpen Bassoon Amy Harman Horn Nicolas Fleury Trumpet Simon Cox Trombone Matthew Gee Percussion Henry Baldwin
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Arranger Iain Farrington Workshop Leader Jessie Maryon Davies Designer Nick Eagleton Writer Kate Wakeling Lighting Will Reynolds
Orchestral Personnel Manager Hal Hutchison Finance Consultant Chris Wright TRUSTEES
Andrew Blankfield Nicholas Hardie
Digital Stanton Media
Katherine Hudson
Photographer Nick Rutter
Alistair Lomax
TEAM
Chief Executive John Harte Creative Director Jane Mitchell Director of Development & Strategic Planning Caroline Harris
Emily Ingram Rachel Mortimer Richard Sheldon Nicholas Snowman Suzanne Szczetnikowicz Nick Torday Louis Watt (Chair)
A superhuman who travels by sound, a double bass that gradually possesses its owner, a mysterious garden that appears in the most unlikely of places... These are just some of the richly varied and colourful worlds in Aurora Orchestra’s collection of short stories. Inspired by the orchestra’s 2018–19 London season and written by Kate Wakeling (Aurora Writer-in-Residence), these stories are literary adventures spun from the musical programme of each concert, spanning diverse genres and forms. Playful, poetic, intimate and illuminating, the collection is a kaleidoscope of characters, journeys and moods, giving voice to a musical season in which each concert has a unique story to tell.
