On a rainy summers’ night in central London, a competent and faithful reproduction of one of classical music’s most recognised crowd-pleasers hardly pushed the envelope, but that’s besides the point; this was a night destined to be unforgettable due to everything except the music itself.
Iwas only a little annoyed to find the Circle line from Aldgate East station closed after I’d left my hostel on a drizzly evening in July. Three days into my daunting first solo trip to the capital, I was starting to feel naively at ease with the inner mechanisms of the big city. Not to worry, I thought, I’ll just catch a bus, which was just as exciting and novel as the tube with all its double-decker glory. Happy to find a spot at the front of the first floor, I settled in and watched the city flash red, white and green through a frame of raindrop-speccled glass. I was thrilled for my trip’s big finale to take place, kitted out in the most formal outfit I could bother to squeeze into my suitcase a few days earlier: black jeans rather than blue, a lightweight outer shirt unusually buttoned up. Tonight wasn’t just any gig – this was a classical concert in the pretty (yet relatively modest) church at St. Martin in the Fields, which also happened to be the only affordable venue offering concerts for the dates I’d be in town.
For starters, I knew nothing about the night’s performers. The Trafalgar Sinfonia, regular showcasers of Vivaldi at St. Martin, could be replaced with any dozen-strong chamber group from around the country for all I cared. Then there was the repertoire, which centred around a piece so painfully obvious and commercialised over the centuries that only non-committal classical fans like me would feel the urge to see it live when I’m sure there’s much more newer material to explore rather than drilling out the old favourites. For a little while I worried I was the only such fan in town as I ate a pre-concert bag of crisps beside the bronze lions, looking out for any signs of a queue forming at the firmly closed church doors. In the end it turned out there were perhaps 100 or so concertgoers who, like me, haven’t quite listened to enough classical music to dismiss Vivaldi’s great concerto as overplayed or overrated. By 8pm the pews were three-quarters full, although there was hardly a feeling of anticipation in the air. This was, after all, one of several identical ‘Four Seasons By Candlelight’ performances the Sinfonia were churning out over the course of several months.
“Candlelight” was a term used on the tickets and programming with a degree of creative freedom. A few coloured LED lights at the back and some garish fire exit indicators were enough to make the pair of candelabras seem little more than a decorative afterthought. Much more striking was the huge chandelier hung over the centre of the pews like a giant, draping spiders’ web, paired with a similarly netted front window pane which was eyecatching with its warped, spiralling lines, if somewhat bizarre in the context of a 16th century church.
The imitation of birdsong in Spring was remarkable, with each stroke of the bow summoning up a new thrush like a magician produces doves from a hat.
It had gone 8.15pm by the time the troops took their positions in front of us, with first violinist Richard Milone taking a prominent position at the front of the pack. He was to be a confident (perhaps too much so) and capable compère for the evening, kicking off well by pointing out that St. Martin was built in the same year that The Four Seasons were composed, prompting a polite and semi-interested hum of approval from the audience. Milone not only introduced each season with the lines of anonymous poetry that initially inspired Vivaldi, but took the role of frontman during the numerous violin solos, often embracing the opportunity to wonder around the performance area and slightly into the crowd as he played. He invariably played every solo wearing an enormous smug smile and overplayed so much that his dramatic movements became a key component of the performance. His jaunts – bending the knees and leaning forward for the louder and more demanding sections, rocking back onto his heels and throwing his head back during the seemingly blissful quiter passages – bordered interpretive dance and were instantly distracting, although I did come to appreciate and respect his clear adoration for the concerto as the night progressed. What was more clear was just how good a violinist he was. The famous imitation of birdsong in Spring was remarkable, with each stroke of the bow summoning up a new thrush like a magician produces doves from a hat.
Elsewhere, the spectacle of seeing a fairly large group of strings players perform together was a rare treat for me. (A harpsichordist was barely present, begrudgingly plonked at the back of the group and therefore rather quiet and seperate from the action. The night was really all about violins, violas and cellos.) I love the synchronised dance of the bows, how the players dig into the strings for the louder sections or effortlessly allow the strings to sing for the famous melodies that open Spring. The viola passage that imitates a barking dog was helpfully pointed out by Milone ahead of time, and added some much needed humour and narrative for someone like me who can find songs without words difficult to interpret into something meaningful. Of course, that’s not to say that there aren’t long sections of The Four Seasons that are powerful in their immediacy and vivid storytelling. Summer‘s Adagio and Presto are the most striking examples, with the bows furiously quivering and switching direction in the tempest of their own creation. Vivaldi makes the contrast between the sleeping farmer and incoming storm almost patronisingly obvious, but the movement’s big finale was without doubt one of the most captivating moments of the night.
Winter was electrifying… the closest I think baroque has ever got to heavy metal.
With its placement just after the fairly dozy pieces constituting Autumn (one movement’s relevant poem is literally called The Sleeping Drunkard), the furious Winter was nothing short of electrifying and undoubtedly where the great masterpiece reaches its acme. The opening Allegro not only gave Milone a chance to give us his virtuosic best, but had the entire Sinfonia frantically sawing away at their instruments for that famous refrain, which is uniquely catchy and cathartic; it’s the closest I think baroque has ever got to heavy metal. I could sense the accumulating feeling of awe in the room as the events of Winter unfolded, and the dramatic end to the first movement was enough to prompt an immediate and fervent applause from a crowd clearly not well versed in the poor ettiquette of mid-concerto clapping. A few people took a standing ovation at the end, and although I thought Milone and his crew were impressive, I can’t say I joined in with the over-the-top adoration. That said, it was certainly a relief when I finally got off the back-breakingly uncomfortable pews – as the tickets ominously had the need to make me aware ahead of time, “pillow hire is not available”.
Satisfied, if a little creaky, I wondered back out into the music of the big city: sirens mostly, with pauses on occasion to give way to footsteps and raindrops. The front seat of the double-decker was occupied this time, so I sat a few rows back and tried to avoid eye-contact with the passionate anti-vaxxer that had already begun to pester the poor young parents sat in masks beside me. I managed to escape to Tower Hill before the argument escalated and the man spotted that I too had covered my face. With the iconic Winter refrain still ringing in my ears, I bedded down in the relative safety of the hostel feeling proud of myself for having completed the big London challenge that I had set myself. Nothing about the night’s music or its performers had been groundbreaking – even if Milone’s punchable smirk suggested otherwise – but that wasn’t to say the experience itself was a vital and unforgettable one for me personally. Vivaldi’s timeless magnum opus may be fantastic, but as far as I’m concerned the biggest triumph of the night was getting home in one piece.