Music and Opera

Like a few who have ploughed through the Steve Jobs biography, I am now heartily tired of early adopters, those strange men who are always at the front of the queue at the Apple shop when some dismal new gewgaw is coming out. I myself am a classic late adopter, discovering the new and exciting only when it’s old and worn out. I had a CD player years after everyone else; a tribesman in Papua New Guinea was the only person to have an iPod after me; and now I am faintly obsessed by Spotify, the music-streaming service out there on the internet, wherever that is. For a mere £9.99

Inexplicably, this series failed to note that Gillian Welch and David Rawlings finally released a new album this year. Better late than never, here they are again this time performing Dark Turn of Mind…

This series is back after a dreadful, loved-up, hiatus. Here’s the official video of Glen Campbell’s last, splendid, album released for his final tour as the awfulness of dementia takes its toll. Thanks for the music Glen. This is Ghost on the Canvas:

The arrival of the composer Eric Whitacre and his family in London as permanent residents brings a ray of Californian sunshine to our cloud-bedraggled lives. American musicians who have chosen to move to Europe to work have always made an interesting group, headed by jazz players of the calibre of Josephine Baker and Sidney Bechet. Of course they had reasons for seeking work elsewhere which do not apply to the very white Whitacre. But, given that at a casual glance the US appears to offer so much opportunity to everyone, why come all this way? In Whitacre’s case I get the impression that he really likes the UK. Since he

It occurs to me sometimes that this column is, essentially, one long and painful confessional. I admit to enjoying all this unfashionable and uncool music so others don’t have to. ‘Ah, the man who likes Supertramp,’ someone once said to me at a party, just before he was stabbed by an unknown assailant. No one would say anything so sneering or discourteous to an actual member of Supertramp, current or former, which suggests that their fans must suffer on their behalf. My own suffering includes the purchase of their double live album, Paris, in or around 1980. In this they play note-perfect renditions of their hits, with added applause. If

The Jam were once described as the ‘last great English singles band’. For a group that released such classic chart-toppers as ‘Going Underground’ and ‘Town Called Malice’ that might seem fair enough, but it grievously underestimates their musical canon. The quality of their output on LPs, B-sides and even on recordings that were never released while the band existed is stunning.   So today I wish to take you beyond the obvious Jam anthems, glorious though they are, and present some neglected gems.   Away From The Numbers The finest song on the debut In the City album sees the 18-year-old Weller ponder one of the major themes of his

There was a time when ‘classical music’ meant something you could put your finger on. It denoted the musical period between roughly 1750 and 1800, when Haydn, Mozart and many others wrote symphonies, concertos and instrumental pieces with a sense of form and grace that were likened to the art and architecture of Classical Greece and Rome. And it sat happily between two other important musical periods, the Baroque and the Romantic. Everybody knew where they stood. Not any more. Nowadays, for some people, ‘classical music’ probably means the same as ‘highbrow music’ — something that’s not for them. Otherwise it has become a catch-all phrase or term that nearly

How is it possible to have come this far without featurig this song? Madness, man, madness. Anyway, here are Ira and Charlie Louvin with I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby. Dang they’re good.

In all the heavier-duty excitement of Liszt’s anniversary I had failed to register that W.S. Gilbert expired 100 years ago; and, perhaps just as significant, the copyright of the D’Oyly Carte opera company expired 50 years ago. I am old enough to remember the fuss which that moment provoked — the highbrows hoping to kill off the whole dreadful phenomenon there and then; the not so high, including Harold Wilson and Spike Milligan, trying to extend it. The company muddled through to 1982, but finally the Arts Council had had enough, and a lot of well-educated people heaved a sigh of relief that the Savoy Operas had finally passed into

What with one thing and another, I had rather lost track of what Sting was up to. Still on the lute? Moved on to nose flutes? Thrash metal rereadings of back catalogue? It turns out that he has taken to the road with an orchestra, in a heroic stand against the bitter frugality of these gloomy times. Drummers don’t cost much, and bassists come cheapest of all, but a whole orchestra has to be fed and watered, housed in very nearly sanitary conditions, transported by lorry from one location to the next and, apparently most tiring of all, listened to, as none of them ever stops talking. Sting obviously has

Well, after the sodding rugby* I think it is time for some George Jones and Things Have Gone to Pieces: *Well done England.

What was it Sir Thomas Beecham said about Stockhausen? ‘I’ve never conducted any of his music, but I once trod in some.’ So far as I know, Beecham never commented on the work of Pierre Boulez, but I’m sure his verdict would have been the same. Both composers adopted a modernist language that is politely described as ‘uncompromising’. Until his death in 2007, Stockhausen stoutly maintained this refusal to compromise (except on the question of accepting subsidies, always a flexible principle for the avant-garde). His projected opera cycle Licht would have taken about a decade to perform and swallowed the entire German GDP, and so it remained unfinished — actually