Our curation of music and opera reviews
Read Matthew d’Ancona’s Live Earth reports: Live from Live Earth, Rocking for the Planet, Gore’s message is confusing, can Geri be clearer?, Let’s save this funny old world, Nan-archy in the UK, The Excellence of Tree Stock, Turning it up to 11 and Nobody does it better.
There are few sights in Western civilisation to compare with Spinal Tap performing ‘Stonehenge’ and it is at least arguable that the risk of impending apocalypse caused by climate change was worth it to get Nigel, the boys and the dancing dwarves back on stage. Two billion people watching around the world are surely happier for having seen this awe-inspiring sight. Surely the end of modern society and the melting of the polar ice-cap is a small price to pay? We must all suffer for art, you know. (The Beastie Boys were pretty splendid, too.)
Teatime has come and gone here at Tree-Stock, and we have yawned our way through tepid sets by Corinne Bailey Rae and the insufferably wimpy Keane. Don’t send a bunch of boys to play a man’s stadium. Thank God for Metallica who are presently restoring some sinew and cojones to proceedings. Front man James Hetfield is sober these days and has a ridiculous beard, but is otherwise as angry and raspingly incomprehensible as ever. As Wayne would say: excellent.
Call it ‘nan-archy’: the anarchy of rock’n’roll grafted onto the spirit of the nanny state. The Red Hot Chili Peppers bounce and rave pleasingly in front of a huge rolling message board which instructs us to recycle our old mobiles, not to wash our towels too often, and to ‘rethink’ how we bring our shopping home. There was a time when some members of this band struggled to live more than a day at a time. Now their horizons stretch beyond rehab and they tell us how to live the rest of our lives. Yes, it’s Nan-archy in the UK.
Almost exactly 24 years ago, in July 1983, the IRA planned to kill Charles and Diana by bombing a Duran Duran concert at the Dominion, Tottenham Court Road. I was at that gig, aged 15, and here I am again, aged 39, watching the same band and trying to work out whether Simon Le Bon has put on more weight than me. It’s a close run thing. The Durans do a good set as only Old Romantics can: ‘Planet Earth’, ‘Ordinary World’, ‘Notorious’ and ‘Girls on Film’. Funnily enough, the brave informer who foiled the 1983 bomb plot, Sean O’Callaghan, is someone I’ve got to know a bit over the
After a jurassic start, the joint is jumping now: Razorlight were as sharp as their name, and Dundee’s finest, Snow Patrol, turned in a stunning set, the highlight of which was Open Your Eyes. Although lead singer Gary Lightbody should think twice about the golf jumper. Kasabian up soon. I feel I am doing my bit for the planet.
So farewell, George Melly. There isn’t much fun left in jazz any more; it takes itself so seriously. George didn’t — always having fun, listening to his favourite Bessie Smith records. He was one of the last generation of jazz musicians to enjoy his work and to convey that feeling to his audience; he was also of all things a collector of Surrealism. I hope he leaves me one of his suits. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don’t get you, the liquor must.
Amid the acres of coverage devoted to the 40th anniversary of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the most celebrated record in pop history, one irony has been overlooked. The album was considered as ephemeral as any other when it came out, but has grown mightier and mightier; the company that made it, on the other hand, was rightly regarded as one of the giants of British industry back in 1967, but has never looked weaker than it does now. Indeed, by the time the Sergeant celebrates his half-century — not to mention the palaver when he hits 64 — EMI may have shuffled into the history books, at least
Where better to spend the last night of the Blair era than in the company of ageing rockers? These days, The Who smash their tambourines rather than their guitars. But, other than that, they are still as sharp as the sharpest Carnaby Street winkle pickers and as taut as the tires on a brand new Vespa. At the Wembley Arena last night the band that hoped that they would die before they got old showed that you’re only as old as the venue you fill. My Generation? Yes, and their children, and, in some cases, God help us, grandchildren. Pop long ago broke its promise to define generation gaps and
If you think Glastonbury is silly, click on the BBC News website and watch the clip of 2,000 heavy metal fans playing Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” in Stuttgart. This, as any fule kno, is one of the most over-rated songs in the history of pop music, plodding and portentous, opening with a mindless riff that has inspired generation after generation of Wayne’s World clones to pick up a guitar when it would have been much better if they had been forced into national service. Sour of me to say so, but sometimes the truth is ugly.
One of the many things which makes me love Edward Elgar is that both the man and his music are so tremendously unfashionable. No wonder tax-funded quangos set up to ‘promote culture’, and run by New Labour bureaucrats, are refusing to mark his 150th birthday. He does not correspond with their criteria of approval at any point. He was white. He was English. He was middle class. He was a patriot, he loved his country and revered its monarchy: his second symphony was dedicated to Edward VII, who was kind to him and chose him as the first musician to receive the Order of Merit. He found the appalling losses
Reading James Delingpole’s fine piece about ‘the best music festival in the universe’ brought it all flooding back. Twenty years ago, buoyed by rave reviews such as James’s, I headed for Glastonbury full of starry-eyed hope and excitement. What followed were three days of unremitting misery, memories of which haunt me to this day. Torrential rain, swamp-like conditions, a pathetically inadequate tent, perpetually damp clothes, greasy burgers of dubious provenance, some ‘colourful’, frankly scary characters and unspeakable loos all conspired to make it an experience I vowed never to repeat. Even watching the Cure against a backdrop of forked lighting-scarred skies failed to numb the pain. Fast-forward to 2006, when I
Sergeant Pepper always cheers me up because – aside from its musical brilliance – it is slightly older than I am. Today’s papers are full of readable celebrations of the album’s anniversary, including a Guardian leader and a “where is she now?” piece in The Times on the Lucy of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. My favourite track, by a whisker, is still “She’s Leaving Home”. What do other Coffee Housers think?
One of the guests at our third Elgar concert at The Spectator’s offices in Old Queen Street last night shrewdly pointed out the oddity that the great composer does not seem to travel as well as, say, Vaughan Williams. Listening to Madeleine Mitchell (violin) and Nigel Clayton (piano) perform the sublime Violin Sonata (Op. 82) one could only agree that, on his 150th birthday, “E.E.” deserves to go global. There’s an excellent piece which makes the same point in today’s Guardian.
I’ve heard the Iraq war blamed for many things but this one takes the biscuit. According to an analyst on the Today Programme, our abject failure in the Eurovision Song Contest is a consequence of the ill-feeling created by the invasion of Iraq. Have a listen here, the clip starts at 7.48am.
There’s an article in The Guardian today on Sir Simon Rattle, conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, that’s well worth reading. The thesis of the piece is: “What Rattle is attempting is a musical form of multiculturalism, in which the orchestra’s brilliance lies not so much in their competence in one repertoire, but how the musicians can adapt to different styles of music.” As with all things multicultural, this is controversial. Rattle , though, seems unbothered by his critics; telling The Guardian, “Anyone who conducts this orchestra is going to be the antichrist to somebody. Maybe I’m just more successful at being the antichrist than some others.”
What is the peculiar magic of string quartets? Ian McEwan posed this question when I interviewed him recently. It came to mind again during an enchanting evening at the Spectator’s Westminster offices last night, as the Bridge Quartet gave a sublime performance of Elgar’s music, including the String Quartet in E minor. The event renewed the historic link between 22 Old Queen Street, once the home of Frank Schuster (1852-1927), and Elgar, the composer whom this great patron of the arts revered more than any other. Listening to the music in the panelled board-room, one was transported back to those evenings that Schuster held in honour of his musical hero,
Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess is a masterpiece, whatever other category one finds for it. It is bursting with vitality, it has a larger number of memorable, indeed unforgettable tunes than any work of comparable length in the 20th century, whether opera or musical. And what counts still more for its stature is that the great songs which comprise so large a part of it are more powerful in context than they are out of it, for all that many of them, for instance ‘Summertime’ and ‘Bess, you is my woman now’, have taken on a life of their own. It was as a novel by DuBose Heyward that Gershwin originally
The sixtysomething Mick Jagger is currently bringing tears of nostalgia to all eyes as he relives his glory days of 40 years ago, singing pop songs. In one respect, at any rate, Cicero would have applauded him, as he explains in his essay On Old Age (44 bc). De senectute is an imaginary conversation staged in Rome in 150 bc. The main speaker is the revered Elder Cato, who would have been 84 at the time. The burden of his case is that, if you have lived a decent, enlightened life, ‘the harvest you reap [in old age] will be astonishing’. But he does acknowledge that old age has its
Pink Floyd — Leicester — 1972. You will always recall the first time you saw your favourite bands. Pink Floyd were not then mainstream — still less known all around the world. Dark Side of the Moon was one continuous piece of music that filled the first half of the show before they went on to perform better-known early favourites such as ‘A Saucerful of Secrets’ and ‘Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun’. Their music was still experimental, slightly dangerous and certainly difficult. On the seats were the lyrics — a ‘Hymnsheet for Assorted Lunatics’. If you liked ‘The Floyd’, you were different, you liked albums not