The Metropolitan Orchestra | Carnivals and Adventures
May 28, 2023, Marrickville Town Hall
Antonín Dvořák, Carnival Overture
Dvořák’s Carnival Overture forms one part of the trilogy of overtures, “Nature, Life and Love” composed in 1891. Take note: listen to that opening gambit with the orchestra on the attack in dramatic style, strident, forthright, yet melodic. Heights are scaled by players who know the piece works at every level. For those near the front who relayed their impressions to me during the interval, they enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. There’s nothing like being part of the action. The thunderous tympanum, clashing cymbals, strings hard at work, and the brass, loud and joyous – enough to wake those who were expecting something more, shall we say, delicate. Indeed, Sarah-Grace Williams and the MET bring joy wherever they go, not just because the players are accomplished musicians, but because the orchestra is well-rehearsed and hungry.
Nicholas Russoniello, “Where the Mountain” (for saxophone and orchestra)
Not all world premieres are created equal. Hand on heart, for me this was the best I’ve heard so far, and judging by the audience reaction at the close of the piece, everyone seemed to feel the same. It’s always a sign when – lots – of people jump to their feet, pound the floor, and cheer and clap their way through three encores. Incredible. But who is Nicholas Russoniello, composer and musician, and why haven’t I heard of him before? The fault is entirely my own. Forgive.
This was a remarkable and memorable piece, performed magnificently by virtuoso saxophonist, Russoniello, who bore us along (the orchestra in hot pursuit) down that mountain pass into Wollongong far below, thence into the shadow of Mt Keira, the wooded stump of some long extinct volcano. And volcanic fire we heard, from both the soloist and the orchestra, stepping through moods and movements that perfectly framed our vivid recollections of, and familiarity with, the rolling landscape that surrounds the mountain. Most of us like noise; witness the kids on cracker night or when the big bangs let rip on New Year’s Eve. Adults are no different. The opening blast, for it was none other, of the saxophone is followed by a hauntingly beautiful (apologies for cliché) hymn, a declaration, anthemic praise to our beautiful world.
And when the orchestra suddenly rose in unison to hum, instruments to hand, I sensed that the audience believed the performance was ended. Not so, because we are led over the hills, over the seascape, and over Mt Kiera by Russoniello’s faultless delivery, intonation and expression. These sounds conjured mystery, the mystical, the indigenous wanderers close to their songlines, and that narrow ribbon of land that lies to the east of the escarpment. The English novelist, D.H. Lawrence, who visited these parts in 1922, staying in nearby Thirroul also came to mind, as did his novel, ‘Kangaroo’. Those trees, silent and brooding, watchful and watching the outsider. Then somewhere along the way, the pace becomes even more frenetic and we’re off on a rollicking ride that has everyone transfixed, including all of the kids who were hanging off the balcony, anxious not to miss a beat as we plunged headlong into a crazy crescendo.
This composition, this soloist and this orchestra must be seen, must be heard, and must be celebrated as whatmakes us so proud of our individual and collective achievement. Three encores? Nick is called back and takes a bow. Lots of them. Never again will I drive down the hill into the Gong, or shoot past Mt Kiera on the highway, without thinking of Russoniello’s latest triumph.
Edvard Grieg, Peer Gynt Suite No 1 and 2
The MET’s promotional billed Sunday afternoon’s concert as an examination of life, adventure and nature. Indeed it was, but to my mind Peer Gynt Suite was so much more, opening up a world of pain that followed in the wake of an appalling act of kidnap and the abduction of a young peasant girl on her wedding day. Like most devotees of classical music, I confess to a rather large gap in my background knowledge, so I’ll try to make amends. Briefly, the Norwegian playwright, Henrik Ibsen, wrote a story (circa 1876) about the downfall and redemption of a Norwegian peasant anti-hero. This work was largely allegorical (with oblique references to his family), and whilst he never intended it for stage performance, he later changed his mind. Ibsen wrote to his friend and compatriot, Edvard Grieg, who agreed to compose the music for a production of the play. As they say, it’s complicated, but once you know the story things more or less fall into place.
When the fellow with what looked to be a weaponised musical instrument walked onto the stage – let’s call him Mr Tuba – to join his fellow musicians (others in the brass line were seated below in the main body), I knew we were in for something – uhhhm, loud. Mums, dads, kids and oldies were not going to be disappointed, and so they weren’t. From the opening movement where a pastoral idyll (did I detect a slight wobble on one of the French horns?) sets the scene, we step into a dark and foreboding second movement with the presentiment that something unpleasant is about to happen. And so it does, because Mr Nasty kidnaps a happy peasant maiden – on her wedding day, to boot. The music is plaintiff, evincing distress (just listen to those strings), the mood darkening, the players bent over, deep in concentration. As much as I would like to share more of my own experience here, we’re pressed for space and reading time. Suffice to say that we progress through two suites, each of four movements. Each of them charts the journey, sometimes dismal, others less so, but all powerful in their own way. As for the fourth movement I smell danger, possibly a growling mountain troll picking over the bones of a recent and most unsatisfactory meal. Whatever the case, the insistent, unrelenting rhythm drives the pace ever more furious into a clashing, awesome controlled free-for-all of cymbals, brass, double bass and strings. It’s a moment of crisis and don’t we know it, made all the more powerful by such consummate musicianship. Everyone on the beat, everyone carrying us forward into the next movement.
Under the baton of Sarah-Grace Williams, the MET certainly knows how to keep us on the edge of our seats. This popular work by Grieg is deeply moving and I know – because I was there – certain movements brought a number of people to tears. As the last chords were struck and Williams dropped her arms, there was an awkward silence. Not many of us, I suspect, realised that the Suite and the afternoon were over, and, too polite to clap lest there was more to come, the applause took a little time to build, but when it did it was to let the MET and Williams know they had maintained the rage.
