Julietta at ENO

English National Opera are well known for their willingness to try something new, but inevitably that approach is a risky one and sometimes does not come off. In the case of Richard Jones' new production of Martinů's Julietta, however, the investment has paid off handsomely, rewarded with a production that is as vivid in musical colour as it is in striking imagery on stage.

Julietta is in three acts, and the decision to have an interval between each seems odd at first but is shown to be correct as the storyline develops. The story is not centred around the female character who gives the opera its name – rather it is the Parisian Michel, played and sung here by Peter Hoare. Michel experiences a number of dream sequences that lead to him pursuing the girl of his, er, dreams, Julietta, played by Julia Sporsén, who I interviewed for Classical Source here.

Michel is centre stage for almost all of the action, though there are a number of characters who pop up time and again in his dreams in surreal ways – much like they might for you and me. There is a tuxedoed horn player, a beggar, a young sailor and an accordion player, who directly influences the imaginative choice of set. After a while the action feels like it is going around in circles. Martinů's own libretto is initially slow of pace, with a large amount of scene setting in the village of the first act before things start to get going.

The plot was helped immeasurably in this respect by Ricardo Pardo's breathtaking sets and Matthew Richardson’s perceptive lighting. The forest scenes of the second act are beautifully done, silvery lights complementing the detailed characterisation of Martinů's music; while the stage is dwarfed by the bellows of the giant accordion for act one, then the keyboard for act three. This is the most concentrated of the three, set mostly in the 'Bureau Of Dreams' – not a progressive rock album title but rather a fictitious place where dreams are bought and sold, the contents of each to an extent pre-determined by such available props as Buffalo Bill and . As I said, it is a touch surreal!

Another key element to raise this production to the heights is Martinů's music, and more particularly the way in which Ed Gardner and his excellent orchestra bring every fibre of it to life. This is not necessarily music where you would sing the tune on the way home, but there are so many pieces of subtle invention, either in texture, melody or in harmonies on which the composer alights, that the ear and eye are drawn this way and that, able to admire fragments or extended passages here and there.

The singing is vibrant too, with Hoare outstanding as Michel, who by the end is considerably put-upon in his attempts to see and talk with Julietta. The final scene takes place in front of the curtain, on which the images of seven sleeping people spell out J-U-L-I-E-T-T, with Michel eventually taking the 'A' – until once again he wakes and is transported towards the land of dreams.

Was it all one big dream? Will he eventually wake up? We are not fully clear. But Martinů cleverly plants the question to make his audience question the possibility of life being but a dream, as the song says. His music, often dreamlike itself in the symphonies and orchestral works, is used to its full potential here, and every shimmering chord and whirring set of sound effects serves its purpose.

Put simply, Julietta is that rare thing, an opera that gains in dramatic and expressive weight as it progresses, and whose spell is cast for long after it finishes. Do catch it if you can.

September Symphonies takes on Beethoven

Having enjoyed the wit and imagination of Haydn and the sophistication of Mozart, September Symphonies has recently alighted at the best known canon of work of them all, that of Ludwig van Beethoven.

The symphony came alive with Beethoven at the helm, shedding some of its functional design to become a living, breathing organism that reflected an increased musical daring on the part of early 19th century composers. Few were more daring than Beethoven of course, and once he had signed off with the 'Choral' in 1824 he did so having performed a complete overhaul on what the symphony meant to composers and public alike.

Prior to the 'Choral' the longest symphony was probably Haydn's 'Drum Roll' or Mozart's 'Prague' – but this took everything to a new level, thinking nothing of introducing the choir and vocal soloists in to the last movement.

To start with, though, Beethoven was picking up where Mozart and Haydn left off, though even in the first symphony there were strong hints that departures from the norm would be frequent and adventurous. The piece, set in C major, does not imply that key for a while, its introduction deliberately toying with the listener and moving the harmony away towards F, then A minor. The effect, coming after the 'safety first' approach, can be unsettling.

Such formal and harmonic innovations occur frequently throughout the cycle, but what of the impression of the music itself? I chose the recordings carefully to try and give an equal representation of 'period' and 'modern' performance, whatever we take those to mean, for there are so many ways in which people interpret Beethoven symphonies and communicate them to their listeners. Yet what came through time and time again was the driving energy behind this music. The scherzos are incredibly vital, their rhythms driving them forward, while the slow movements explore emotional depths new to the symphony. For the former the First and Seventh are good examples, the Seventh especially flying along in the version I chose from Carlos Kleiber and the Vienna Philharmonic. By contrast the slow movement is sombre and inward looking, whereas in the Fifth it was at times pure passion in Leonard Bernstein's interpretation, the fuller harmonies tugging at the heartstrings.

Just for a while in the cycle it feels like Beethoven might be moving full circle, for the Eighth is more similar to the First and the Second in spirit and classical design, but the Ninth blows all of these thoughts clear out of the water. Here I was listening to Herbert von Karajan conduct a Scherzo of frightening power, but when he gets to the famous choral finale the music is so incredibly affirmative and defiant as to be almost overwhelming.

While the 'Eroica', a landmark in symphonic architecture and design, the Fifth and the Seventh are three of the obvious Beethoven innovators, a major surprise to me was the Fourth. Much of this doubtless related to the energy secured by Christopher Hogwood and the Academy of Ancient Music, but there was a freshness and wit in the music that was immediately appealing, despite the clouds of the introduction and the uncertainties of the first movement. It was proof that Beethoven needs good performances to make a maximum impact, but also that no matter how many times you listen to this amazing music, something new is likely to jump out and hit you without prior warning.

The influence of Beethoven would make itself felt in future September Symphonies that I listened to, but by this point I could have stopped and gone home easily!

Symphonies and recordings listened to:

Beethoven - Symphony no.1 in C major Op.21 (1800) NBC Symphony Orchestra / Arturo Toscanini (BMG)

Beethoven - Symphony no.2 in D major Op.36 (1802) Chamber Orchestra of Europe / Nikolaus Harnoncourt (Teldec)

Beethoven - Symphony no.3 in E flat major Op.55 'Eroica' (1804) London Classical Players / Sir Roger Norrington (EMI)

Beethoven - Symphony no.4 in B flat major Op.60 (1806) Academy of Ancient Music / Christopher Hogwood (L'Oiseau-Lyre)

Beethoven - Symphony no.5 in C minor Op.67 (1808) New York Philharmonic Orchestra / Leonard Bernstein (Sony)

Beethoven - Symphony no.6 in F major Op.68, 'Pastoral' (1808) Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra / Riccardo Chailly (Decca)

Beethoven - Symphony no.7 in A major Op.92 (1812) Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra / Carlos Kleiber (DG)

Beethoven - Symphony no.8 in F major Op.93 (1812) Chamber Orchestra of Europe / Nikolaus Harnoncourt (Teldec)

Beethoven - Symphony no.9 in D minor Op.125 (1824) Anna Tomowa-Sintow (soprano), Agnes Baltsa (mezzo-soprano), Peter Schreier (tenor), Jose van Dam (bass), Wiener Singverein, Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra / Herbert von Karajan (DG)

Contrasts and A Soldier's Tale at Kings Place Festival

Kings Place has now been open for four years, so this was the fifth festival in which 100+ concerts take place over a long weekend. It is an imaginative, ambitious idea, but one that rewards creative programming, for each concert offers 45 minutes of repertoire – but often the artists extend these to take in two or three recitals.

On the Friday afternoon The London Sinfonietta used these possibilities to the maximum with an intelligent link between two concerts of short and lively works for solo instrument, ending each with a masterpiece for clarinet, violin and piano – not the primary combination of 20th century chamber music but one which proved highly effective.

It helps to have artists of the calibre of clarinettist Mark van de Wiel, violinist Jonathan Morton – newly announced as the Sinfonietta's principal violin – and pianist John Constable, an ever-present on the ensemble’s roll call since they were formed in 1968. Each performer had a hand in the introduction of the pieces they were about to play, which helped immensely with works not often heard. We learned that the first of Simon Holt's Brief Candles, for solo clarinet, was written for his bank manager – but not played. Van de Wiel's command of the clarinet here was total, and the third piece – art project – took the instrument to the borders of inaudibility, the sound literally coming in from nothing but maintaining an incredibly quiet dynamic throughout.

Constable joined the action for a spiky performance of Lutoslawski's Dance Preludes, which served both to highlight the composer’s melodic craft but also to whet the appetite for his forthcoming centenary year. Morton was then added for Bartók's Contrasts, where the three performers kept an impressively high level of tension through the slow movement, seemingly suspended in space, but also in the more raucous ensemble passages. This was music of grit and determination, but also with a jazzy swing, the wishes of clarinettist Benny Goodman taken in to account and freely expressed here by van de Wiel.

The second concert began with the clarinet once more, though this was one of the first compositions for the instrument alone, Stravinsky's 3 Pieces. Students of the instrument know that these are something of a Mount Everest, but van de Wiel's technique was beyond reproach, his tonal quality exquisite in the quieter parts of the first piece, but with an impressive penetration in the third.

Morton then gave us the strangely moving Secret Psalm of Oliver Knussen, the piece dedicated to the memory of the London Sinfonietta's former artistic director, Michael Vyner. The secret is held in the piece's frequent references to and quotations from one of Vyner’s favourite violin concertos, but Knussen somehow disguises these lingering glances, with none of them obvious. My guess was that the concerto was by Sibelius, but the privacy of the dedication and the musical workings was reflected in the intimate nature of the piece, the legato notes in particular beautifully played by Morton.

There was little room for lyricism in the closing piece, the suite from Stravinsky's musical theatre piece The Soldier's Tale. The acoustics of Hall 2 at Kings Place came in to their own here, the dry sound ideal for the scratchy sound of the double stopped violin used almost entirely for rhythmic purposes. That, combined with the punchy clarinet and often caustic piano chords, made for a performance of grit and determination, though the dance of the devil at the end, celebrating his duping of a soldier in to selling his soul, still managed to have a smile on its face.

Top class performances all – and an auspicious start to a festival that is starting to establish itself firmly in the concert calendar. It deserves its place, for there is nothing else like it in the musical year – and to be able to say it was well worth taking a half day from work for it tells you all you need to know!

September Symphonies Week One - The Bach sons to Haydn and Mozart

So the first week of September Symphonies is complete, and I have so far listened to 16 relatively early examples in the form, travelling from the work of Boyce and C.P.E.Bach to Haydn's final output in 1794. What has really come through so far is the largely positive nature of emotions shown in the writing, though in Haydn's case in particular these have been allowed to darken considerably.

What has really been impressed on me so far is the upbeat nature of the fast movements, of J.C.Bach, Stamitz and Dittersdorf in particular, which have been very energetic. Brief though they are, the pieces are concentrated and full of melodic invention. At this stage they follow convention relatively closely, though are not afraid in the case of Arne and Boyce's minor key works to throw in some scrunchy harmonies now and then.

Where Haydn is concerned, I could easily have selected any one of about 30 symphonies to listen to for September Symphonies – and even then that is bearing in mind that I still don’t know around half of his symphonic output. With such a large canon it helps to have nicknames, though it is worth pointing out that some of the very best have no nicknames at all. One of my favourites, Symphony no.87 in A, is packed full of the customary Haydn wit, as were two of my selections for the project, the 'Oxford' and 'Clock' symphonies.

There are much darker moments in Haydn though, and it seems many of the symphonies have subtle inventions that had not been tried before – drums in the slow movement, virtuosic writing for horns, sudden deviations or harmony or key. The 'Sturm und Drang' period is rightly celebrated for its fiery emotions and occasional leave-taking of tradition, so with that in mind I listened to the 44th symphony, 'Trauer', for the first time in years. A 'big band' performance conducted by Ferenc Fricsay, it was emotive and yet kept a kind of serenity, an observation that could be levelled at other high points in the output such as no.49, 'La Passione'.

Mozart I find harder to warm to as instinctively as Haydn, yet there is no doubting the near perfection of the architecture of his last three symphonies. No.39 is my personal favourite, though it was interesting to discover H.C. Robbins Landon's suggestion, made in Robert Layton's A Guide To The Symphony - one of my companion books for this series – that it was set as a 'masonic' work. Whatever, it is a wonderfully affirmative piece – as is the 41st, whose 'Jupiter' nickname is curiously earned and relates to nothing in particular. The finale of the 'Jupiter' is one of the high points of 18th century symphonic writing, a perfect fusion of form, melody, harmony and counterpoint – with Mozart introducing the same melodic subject over and over again in a wide variety of ways and means. In the performance I listened to, with Claudio Abbado conducting the Mozart Orchestra, perfection was indeed attained.

Another big personal plus of the first week of symphonies has been that they are all easy to work to, rewarding both background and foreground listening. As I journey further in to the 19th century I know this will not always be the case, so expect some wringing of hands by the time I reach week three! For now, though, an air of relative serenity persists – and next it's Beethoven!

Symphonies and recordings listened to so far:

1. Boyce - Symphony no.8 (1737) English Concert / Trevor Pinnock (DG Archiv)

2. Monn - Symphony in B flat major (c1740) Camerata Bern / Thomas Furi (DG Archiv)

3. C.P.E.Bach - Symphony in G major Wq 173 (1741) Les Amis de Philippe / Ludger Remy (CPO)

4. Haydn - Symphony no.6 in D major (Le Matin) (1761) English Concert / Trevor Pinnock (DG Archiv)

5. J.C.Bach - Symphony in D major Op.3/1 (1765) Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields / Sir Neville Marriner (Philips)

6. Arne - Symphony no.4 in C minor (1767) The Hanover Band / Graham Lea-Cox (Gaudeamus)

7. Haydn - Symphony no.44 in E minor (Trauer) (1772) RIAS Symphony Orchestra Berlin / Ferenc Fricsay (DG)

8. Mozart - Symphony no.29 in A major K201 (1774) Orchestra of the 18th Century / Frans Bruggen (Philips)

9. Dittersdorf - Sinfonia in A minor (c1775) Camerata Bern / Thomas Furi (DG Archiv)

10. Stamitz - Symphony in F major Op.24/3 (1784) London Mozart Players / Matthias Bamert (Chandos)

11. Haydn - Symphony no.85 in B flat major (La Reine) (1785) Concentus Musicus Wien / Nikolaus Harnoncourt (Deutsche Harmonia Mundi)

12. Mozart - Symphony no.39 in E flat major K543 (1788) Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra / Karl Bohm (DG)

13. Mozart - Symphony no.40 in G minor K550 (1788) Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields / Sir Neville Marriner (Philips)

14. Mozart - Symphony no.41 in C major K551 (Jupiter) (1788) Mozart Orchestra / Claudio Abbado (DG)

15. Haydn - Symphony no.92 in G major (Oxford) (1789) Orchestra of the 18th Century / Frans Bruggen (Philips)

16. Haydn - Symphony no.101 in D major (Clock) (1794) Chamber Orchestra of Europe / Claudio Abbado (DG)

An introduction to September Symphonies

So, why September Symphonies?

Well if you follow me on Twitter or read this blog you might remember an equivalent month-long project called April Albums, whose aim was to cover one hundred new albums in a month. This new idea is directly inspired by that but is also an attempt to trace the evolution and development of the symphony in the course of one hundred works, from its beginnings in Central Europe in the 18th century through its all-encompassing emotional sweep in the 20th century, to an examination of where it stands now as a musical form. For how long will it remain the principal mode of expression in orchestral music?

But has it stopped being that already? Did some composers write symphonies because they felt they had to? It is after all interesting to note that some of the greatest composers in classical music made only minor contributions to the symphony's canon at best. Wagner wrote just one, Verdi none at all, Debussy a student effort, and we had nothing at all from Ravel, Bartók, Schoenberg or Gershwin.

My listening odyssey will take me chronologically from the sons of Bach and their contemporaries through a complete cycle of the greatest symphonist of them all, Beethoven, to those for whom the form meant everything and gave their whole means of musical expression – Bruckner and Mahler among them. Then onwards, to the present day.

Some works will be new to me, others ultra familiar, but one thing is for sure – this will be an intriguing and enlightening journey through one of classical music's flagship forms. I hope you find it an interesting one!

In from the cold: Howells and the Hymnus Paradisi

It is remarkable to think that a work of the stature of Herbert Howells' Hymnus Paradisi, described in the Proms programme notes as having 'raised the perception of him as a major voice in British music', should only receive its Proms premiere in the 2012 season. The oversight does not reflect particularly well on previous directors, but its restoration, in a similar vein to last year's Gothic Symphony of Havergal Brian, adds a feather in the cap of current Proms director Roger Wright. Not only that, it uncannily reflects the work's performance history.

So personal was the work to the composer that it did not see the light of day from the year of completion, 1938, until 1950, when Vaughan Williams insisted it should be performed at the Three Choirs Festival in Gloucester Cathedral. The reason for this delay, apart from Howells' reluctance to see his work performed in any sphere for fear of negative criticism, was its standing as a memorial to his son Michael, who tragically died of polio aged nine. The composer's words, recorded in Christopher Palmer's short biography, put the work in perspective. "The sudden loss in 1935 of an only son, a loss essentially profound, and, in its very nature, beyond argument, might naturally impel a composer, after a time, to seek release and consolation in language and terms most personal to him. Music may well have power beyond any other medium to offer that release and comfort. It did so in my case, and became a personal, private document."

With this in mind the performance, coming as it did after a number of tragic infant deaths in the UK recently, felt incredibly close to home. It helped, too, that the combined forces of the BBC Symphony Chorus and the London Philharmonic Choir – about 230 singers in all – were incredibly well drilled in their performance, marshalled by British music specialist Martyn Brabbins, who also conducted the Gothic last year.

The text is a hybrid of the composer's choosing, using parts of the Requiem at start and finish but including psalms and poems that take light as their central theme. The impact was clearly heard and felt, for the composer's response is extremely personal and emotionally direct. Howells uses modal harmonies in a way that reminds the listener of Vaughan Williams and Ravel, but which remains individual and subtly inventive.

Complementing this is his orchestration. Howells uses the organ but at no point does it dominate, instead supporting the overall sound, often underpinning with wonderfully sonorous bass note foundations. The last of these notes, with which the piece ends, is a low 'E flat', which in this performance had the effect of blowing a calming breeze across the auditorium. Before this the music seemed to be floating above the ground, thanks to the composer's skilful manipulation of his vocal lines, and while we could not fully hear the soloists, Miah Persson and Andrew Kennedy having to battle against the huge choral forces in an unhelpful acoustic, the effect of this writing was still pertinent.

The biggest compliment that can be paid to Howells is that the audience fell silent for a full 30 seconds when the music had finished – proof that the music and its keenly felt emotion had made an incredibly powerful impact. With that in mind it is surely time to reappraise the composer's output and program his music – orchestral, chamber, vocal or otherwise – more frequently.

After the interval Brabbins conducted an enthusiastic performance of Elgar's Symphony no.1, an interpretation that kept a firm hand on the tiller and left little room for sentiment. This gave a fresh dimension to the stately theme, which was light on its feet, though meant some of the more stormy arguments in the faster music were a little rushed at times. That said the symphony – first performed at the Proms 104 years before Hymnus Paradisi - proved an ideal complement to the Howells, while reminding us what a wonderful piece it is in its own right. Howells – who met Elgar a number of times before finally making an impact on the older composer – would surely have approved of the dual programming, with his emotional outpouring finally thrown into a spotlight it should have been occupying for many a year.

New Czech delights from Harmonia Mundi

Every so often a new recording comes along that hits a gap in your music knowledge of a composer or country so completely that it forces a reappraisal. Harmonia Mundi are particularly good at exploiting these opportunities, and in two very persuasive new discs of Czech vocal repertoire, they reveal the inner workings of two of the country’s flagship composers, Dvořák and Janáček. Both releases are handsomely designed, as you will see from the accompanying pictures, with beautiful artwork that accurately reflects the music on offer. Full text and background information only adds to the enjoyment. So what of the music itself?

The Dvořák first, given by the clear, ringing soprano of Genia Kühmeier and the slightly huskier mezzo of Bernarda Fink. There is an attractive edge to Kühmeier's sound in the Gypsy Melodies, settings of the poet Alfred Heyduk which are folksy round the edges, as might be expected, wearing their emotion close to the surface. The piano parts are scrunchy, with a nice tone in staccato from Christoph Berner. 'Kdyz mne stará matka' ('Songs My Mother Taught Me') has the most obviously appealing melody, which has given it a more exalted status in Dvořák's output, but in truth there are memorable tunes throughout.

The Moravian Duets are beautifully done here. Like the Gypsy Melodies they are earthy, and quite jaunty in places, but because of the slight difference in tone between the two singers they get just the right projection. The outdoorsy feel is helped by Harmonia Mundi's natural recording, and the three performers get a natural rise and fall to the music.

The Biblical Songs are later in Dvořák's output, and are more serious and thoughtful, as might reflect a later work. 'Skrýse má a paveza má Ty jsi' ('Thou art my defence and shield') is profound, 'Slys, ó Boze! Slys modlitbu mou' ('Hear my prayer, O God') more stern and questioning, while the more familiar 'Boze! Boze! Písen novou zpívati budu' ('Lord! Lord! I will sing a new song') and 'Zpívejte Hospodinu písen novou' ('O sing unto the Lord a new song') are really well done. These are fresh, insightful readings from Fink and Berner, and moving, too – and there is a slight husk to the tone that often brings a tear to the eye.

Listening to the Janáček straight after the Dvořák is a tactic that works really well, because this disc – now with choral forces – picks up with arrangements for voices of six of the same Moravian Duets. These are faithful reproductions, performed with the same natural enthusiasm and impressive empathy for the text from the Cappella Amsterdam, well schooled by Daniel Reuss.

Janáček often gives his music evocative titles that make you want to listen immediately, and that is the case here with the hunting songs The Wild Duck and The Wolf's Tail. His vocal writing, as with much of his music overall, is more stretched out, with greater emphasis on treble and bass but with less going on in between. This pulls at the tension and gives a greater air of foreboding, but there is a harsh and very expressive beauty too.

Especially striking is the composer's use of the harmonium for 'Our Evenings', bringing some voluminous colour to an already vividly shaded disc. Our Father, meanwhile, shows that the composer's grasp of religious music had an essentially secular side to it, as it did in the Glagolitic Mass. Here some of the more sacred writing is self conscious, but continues to be deeply emotional.

The Nursery Rhymes are especially descriptive and vivid, being essentially more modern counterparts of Dvořák's Gipsy Songs. 'The beetroot got married' is brightly coloured and crisply delivered, while there is a nice, clear tenor solo in 'There’s nothing better than springtime', both in Janáček's favourite tonal centre of A flat. Both these discs are collections that will surprise and delight those who think they already know the composers well. Beautifully sung and played, they are a credit to their performers, and one can only hope Harmonia Mundi extends their explorations to composers such as Smetana, Suk and Martinů. As it is they already have here two thoroughly invigorating exposés of Czech vocal music, and its many hidden gems.