S2.E111. Long overdue Rameau; Tornami Vagheddia from Handel's Alcina; What is a conductor for? Bartok Six Romanian Dances; Warlock Capriol Suite.

Welcome back to Perfect Pitch with Nick Healy Hutchinson and his fresh approach to the world of classical music. Whether you're an expert or a beginner, old or young, Perfect Pitch has something for everyone.

It's more than a year since we listened to the music of the French Baroque composer Philippe Rameau, an almost exact contemporary of Bach and Handel.

Although his output was very substantial, it's his writings on harmony which are his greatest legacy. I go so far to say that his impact on this area was possibly even more significant than Bach himself. It's not so much that he invented it, they didn't have it, but his 1728 Treatise of Harmony was the first time a proper explanation was given to how different chords could relate to each other, as well as identifying the importance of the bass note and its role in chord progression. It would be hard to overstate the importance of its revelation. Somebody else would doubt us have come up with it in time. But if we have Rameau to think for articulating it first, and it forms a foundation of so much which followed later in that century. It's Gavot. Followed by six variations which grow in virtuosity, with the underlying melody always. The hands dance around the keyboard, bringing different emphasis to the tune. So the variations are much more than just decorations. They allow different parts of the instrument to flourish. A simple melody is explored to the full. And you'll notice how the left hand of the bass is really going gangbusters before calm returns at its conclusion. His music deserves to be heard much more. It's unfailingly appealing. Ramos Gavot and the six variations are played here by Pavel Koleshnikov. Alcina is a sorceress who lives on an island with her sister Morgana, and has a particular gift for enticing eligible men, seducing them, and then, when she's had enough of them, turns them into stone or animals or other objects. The closing music at the end of the first act has Morgana trying to woo Richard, who is actually a lady in disguise on a mission to rescue somebody else. Where do you think you're going to sunshine? Accompanied by Lizard Fleurisson, conducted by William Christy. Sometimes you have to wonder if Handel had some kind of wicked streak in him to expect sopranos to deliver the goods like this. But it's still just about on brief. I've often heard the question posed, and perhaps you thought it yourself, what actually is the point of a conductor? And how much does he or she affect the outcome of the sound? This is a huge subject about which we could debate for ages. But let me share just a couple of anecdotes and examples with you to dispel the myth that they don't matter. I have the tiniest personal experience of this, having had the great pleasure of conducting two small pieces with a separate amateur orchestra. The experience on both occasions was unforgettable. Oh, they're waiting for me. On both occasions I explained to the orchestra that I was accurately aware how much more I needed them than they needed me. They could have played the pieces with their eyes closed. So it was a little alarming to be told by the leader on my first outing we will play what you do, Nick, which came over as a bit of a mathematics to me. Encouragement on the one hand, but an underlying warning on the other. I made sure that I done the work and committed the score to memory. So I did arts with a humble way. Insofar as I knew that it was entirely possible that somebody was going to come in when I least expected it, and my encouragement of somebody else on a different moment might result in silence. But learning the score gives you one major advantage. It enables you to look at the players in the eyes, and often that's a very better method of communicating what you're trying to express. I'm happy to say that we started and finished together. But one thing I did come away realizing was the extraordinary power and knowledge of the people in front of you. It would be a fascinating experiment, I think, to put anybody in a management position in front of an orchestra. Unless you take the people around you who have collectively and in many cases individually, a substantially greater knowledge than you than I are in the prime position to make you look like a complete idea. You can direct all you like, but if you do not have their trust, you are toast. Without playing a single note, it's the conductor who gets all the acclaim immediately the piece finishes. The best at their craft are the ones who don't get in the way with excessive look at me activity on the podium, which only becomes an irritating distraction to the music. In the most simplistic terms, the conductor is there to beat time with his bat on hand and to give expression with the other. An indication of increase or decrease in volume, for example. Jumping up and down with some excessive hip action thrown in doesn't add a great deal. They don't awfully care what happens in the middle. There's more than a bit of truth to this. Start is not always very easy. The ones which are more straightforward tend to start with a really positive, good first. If you've been listening to this podcast long enough, I hope you'll recognise that that little compilation, even after some judicious editing by yours truly, played out at the first beats of all of Beethoven's nine symphonies with a conspicuous absence of the most famous of the lot. I'm gonna get a tiny bit technical here, but it's only to illustrate how important the conductor's role is. The fifth one, you see, is the only one of his symphonies which does not open on the first beat of the bar. The first three notes before landing on the longer one comprise something called an anacrusis, which is a note or a collection of notes which are played before the first beat of the bar. So this is where that trust between orchestra and conductor comes to the fore. Because the first three notes are actually played as the conductor raises his arms before landing on the downbeat, which is the first beat of the bar. Everything has to be crystal clear in that opening gesture in order to convey the speed and crucially to make sure everyone starts together and arrives on the down beat at exactly the same time. The difficulty is compounded by another little musical device called a fermata, which looks like the frown on a dejected memoji placed over that first long note. It means that the conductor has discretion to pause on the note for a little longer before he resumes. So the clarity becomes even more important. We are all familiar with how it should sound. But this is what can happen if communication goes awry. And this was taken from a live concert. I played not to ridicule the conductor, who unfortunately squandered the opportunity to redeem himself and got it wrong twice because he didn't make it clear how long he was holding on to that fourth note. Only to demonstrate how brutally difficult it is. It's clear the orchestra is behind, and the piano makes a valiant effort to bring things back on track. And for a moment everything seemed to be going swimmingly. Towards the end of Right Man and all the third piano concerto. But the collaboration is short-lived and chaos descends. We can all complain about different interpretations, but the most important thing the conductor has to do is keep everybody together. And that's not always very easy. It's where eye contact is your most useful tool. The charge has been laid at my door that I sometimes don't play enough modern music. And maybe I don't. But the mission of this podcast is to share the music I like with you and explain why I enjoy it. But I'm also restricted by copyright. It's only this year, for example, 50 years after his death, that I'm now able to play the music of Benjamin Britain. Others like Charles Ives have to wait. But I'm surprised to have not yet mentioned Bella Bartok, who lived between 1881 and 1945. He and Franz Liszt were unquestionably the most accomplished musicians that were come out of Hungary. Bartok is a slightly complicated beast. Much of his music is rooted in folk song. But his approach is to shape it into something strikingly modern. So you land up with uneven, propulsive rhythms with sharp accents. And then there's the harmony itself, which goes way beyond the simple categorization of major and minor, with unusual scales and chords. The result is something which on the one hand is deeply rooted and startling and new at the same time. The energetic folk song transferred into something adventurous and modern. All these characteristics, and his occasional tendency to veer on the eerie, are to be found in his six Romanian dances, originally composed for the piano in 1915 and later orchestrated. It's that version, played by the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra, which is coming up now. Shame on me for not playing it before now. Warlock's carry on suite of six dances belies his melancholic temperament. Despite moving in the best musical and literary circles, he was played by self-doubt. But it's impossible not to warn to this quintessentially English music. And if you by any chance recognise the second dance, it forms the music of the Anglican hymn, All Glory and All and Honour to the UD the king. Warlock's Capital Suite is also played by the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra. Before I go, thank you so much again for listening. The competition link at the foot of the episode will expire at the end of the year, so don't forget to put your name in. If you happen to be abroad or know of anybody who may be in London on the 27th of February next year, you can always allocate your win to him or her. And please go to the other links as well. Your referrals are hugely appreciated, as are your reviews and ratings. Truly. And write to me because I love hearing from you. Back in a couple of weeks.