Monteverdi and Mannerisms

So, by some divine intervention, - slash my inability to cease youtube surfing - this weekend I stumbled (not literally, just virtually) across Emmanuelle Haim, of crazy harpsichording fame. Looking her up on Wikipedia, the fount of all knowledge, turns out she's pretty damn awesome; anyone with these credentials is...ace:

"She spent 13 years studying at the Conservatoire Supérieur de Musique et de Danse in Paris. William Christie invited her to work with his ensemble Les Arts Florissants, as a continuo player and musical assistant. On Christie's recommendation, she later worked as a coach, assistant and guest artist to Simon Rattle"

As I said - ace.

Right, so my introduction to this artist was through this clip of the Monteverdi madrigal, Ohime ch'io cado...not entirely sure how I found that but hey ho. As a bit of a baroque nut I was bound to like it, but Monteverdi really is awesome. Having studied a few of his pieces, I'm always taken aback by his ability to paint the words - especially in this piece with the tasty little bits of dissonance. The melody is gorgeous too, and the way it just sort of walks about and morphs so organically...like dreaming? Like when you dream, you create and experience at the same time, without even realising? It's a sort of vertical landscape that is created as it moves? It seems to me a bit like that, as abstract as that concept is.

Having looked at a few recordings of this piece on youtube, it shocked me a bit to see how negative the response was to this particular example (with Haim, Ciofi and Co.). It seemed to me that the sound was so much richer, texture-ly (is that a word?!) intricate and well...interesting. Ciofi, as well, brings a lot to this metaphorical Renaissance/Baroque table - spinning the melody nicely as well as brining a bit of character in - which, unfortunately, is so often overlooked in early music.

And then I saw it. In someone's 'all knowing' youtube comment. The word 'mannerisms'. It bothers me slightly that this word has such negative connotations. 'Renée Fleming isn't what she used to be - too many mannerisms now'...'Haim has such annoying mannerisms'...'I can't see past the mannerisms in this piece'. I mean...isn't interpretation itself a form of mannerism? We bring to the piece something that makes it our own - be it experience, a change in technique or vocal expression. Through the use of a mannerism here and there we can physically take the piece off the page, and turn it into something alive - taking it away from being simply static. If that Monteverdi clip is too full of mannerisms - then I LOVE mannerisms. Give me more!

The worst thing about 'mannerisms' is the fickle, fickle response to them. If those classical music big wigs are so against their 'mannerisms', then tell me - why is Cecilia Bartoli so successful and admired? She drops in mannerisms (brilliantly, may I add) all over the place in her interpretation to do exactly what I mentioned in the previous paragraph. No one sounds like Bartoli, and no one can interpret in the same way as her. Through mannerisms - be it machine-gun articulation, aspirated onsets, breathy tone, physical movement - Bartoli not only brings the music alive, but thrills her audiences. Incidentally, I'm off to see her on 5th Dec. at the Symphony Hall, Birmingham - and unsurprisingly I can't wait. LONG LIVE MANNERISMS!

ps. I want a viola da gamba...just thought you might like to know...

"Marche pour la cérémonie des Turcs"

Finally, an update! So to avoid any further delay, I'll get right to the point :) Having just completed a wonderful Baroque course courtesy of county music, I've had a form of awakening: Baroque music is actually 100% amazing. I wrote, albeit a while back, that I was sent various pieces by the organisers, and once I'd chosen my ornaments, it was time for the fun to begin.

It's safe to say that half term is usually spent either sleeping or eating...or, if you're extra special, a combination of both. However, never have I spent my time more wisely; mock me if you will, but I was inspired. I rarely get to sing with an orchestra, and having got used to the sparse sound of a piano accompaniment, I was in paradise with the rich sound that even a small Baroque orchestra can create. I love the constant need to tune; which may appear tedious, but is just a wonderful reminder to me of the perfection of live music-making. And what instrumentalists! I was in awe at the talent shown by such young musicians; virtuoso violinists, an intensely musical harpsichordist, and two young girls who sang Vivaldi's Laudamus Te like angels.

So it was in this inspiring environment that I really discovered Baroque. Having got a hold of my Purcell and Arne arias, (the latter of which I was sure I would destroy, having not found a safety net in the form of a recording) I was left to lap up and appreciate everyone else's music; and the one that struck a chord with me, so to speak, was Lully's parody march, Marche pour la cérémonie des Turcs.

There is something so regal about this piece, with its strong, pulsating rhythm. And though it is so clearly a beautiful piece of French music, there is an obvious influence of the folk music of the east, maybe brought to the foreground with the drum; which just plants the image of beautiful Turkish men doing traditional dance...but perhaps that's just my mind wandering. I suppose my favourite part of this though, is the bit that we're all meant to hate because it just screams parody...but oh well. The Trills (yes they deserve a capital T) in the violin part, are simply to die for. I can't tell you the amount of times I rewound the recording just to hear them. Though, I'm yet to hear a recording that can live up to the wonderful playing of our lead violinist for the piece, Kate Fawcett. This was the last piece in our programme, and I know that we saved the best, 'light-hearted-est', till last.

And finally, a picture of the ceiling of our 'classroom' for the week. I was obsessed with getting a photo of the fabulous room, though nothing quite fully captured what I wanted to. Though, all I had to do for my inspiration was look up.

"Fairest Isle"

I've just been sent a bunch of sheet music by the lovely people at the Worcestershire Baroque Orchestra for a course/workshop I'm doing in a couple of weeks, and I was immediately drawn to this air from Purcell's King Arthur.

Now, as I've probably said before, my sight singing is nothing like what it should be...I think a few decades of solfege is in order! So I can't say that I was drawn in by what I was hearing in 'my mind's ear'; no, it was purely for the fact that (and I quote myself directly here) 'this music's so old that the notes are written the wrong way!'. So with my highly intellectual and inspirational observation to spur me on, I dove into Venus' aria...

King Arthur, based on the legend of the man himself (amongst other works such as Shakespeare's The Tempest) , is a 'semi-opera' really...as the principal characters don't sing - you're only roped into that if you're a supernatural character; in this case, the goddess of love, Venus. Her only aria appears in the final act, as Britannia rises out of the waves, standing on the 'fairest isle'.

The first thing that struck me about this was its overwhelming purity. The accompaniment is thin, mainly worked around the figured bass; so the focus falls entirely on the vocal line. Another interesting feature is the sort of mirrored rhythm that is repeated several times throughout; crotchet, minim, minim crotchet. Considering the piece is in 3/4 it kind of subtly stilts the flowing movement...I'm not entirely sure why though. I think it makes the melismas stand out though - and they're really the most heart-stopping thing about this...and make it obvious that it's Venus herself singing. There's an absolutely perfect example, that comes directly off the word 'excel' - the 'ssss' noise acting as a spring-board to the melismas which really do 'excel'...nice word painting there Mr. P.

Sylvia McNair, who's recording I discovered on youtube, has an extraordinarily pure voice, which matches perfectly with Baroque style of course, but also with the context of the piece and the character. Also, the not overly operatic voice makes diction much clearer, and every single word is perfectly enunciated. The only problem with this is that I always feel English sounds a little strange...and can't compare with the poeticism of Italian, French, or even German. Then again...I wonder if native speakers of those languages feel exactly the same way? Who knows...

"Ohime, se tanto amate"

Now time for a spot of musical innuendo, in the form the madrigal Ohime, se tanto amate by revolutionary Renaissance composer Claudio Monteverdi! Yay!

Some of Monteverdi's good old revolutionary ideas crop up in this madrigal, though he manages to weave them in to what was normal practice at the time. There's lots of false relations (like...notes moving to their next-door neighbour, so to speak, with no preparation) which was quite common at the time...but Monteverdi looks several centuries ahead of his time, including a lot of chromatic intervals...adding to what's already a bit a-tonal; there are 4 different keys within the first 4 bars!

But now onto the slightly weird stuff...you'll see what I mean when you read a translation of the lyrics:

Ah me, my lady, if you so delight

to hear a breathed 'ah me',

Why then so swiftly doom to endless night

A wretch that breaths 'ah me'?

For if I die, brief will your pleasure be

to hear one weak and anguished last 'ah me',

But if you grant me grace, my lady bright,

Then shall you hear my ecstasy

Ten thousand times breathe out a soft 'ah me'...

Right...Just listen to the piece and you'll see that Monteverdi was in fact very skilled in word painting. It's weird to imagine this being sung at a party somewhere...must have been like the Renaissance equivalent to having Eddie Izzard in to do stand-up; really rude, but funny all the same. Minus the cross dressing of course. What an odd twist that would be.