We’ve come across TV documentary on Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg, made in 1987 when she was in her mid-20s.

Forthright as ever, she talks about the exploiters and sexual predators in the classical music business. ‘I’ve experienced it a few times,’ she says.

Gripping portrait.

Nadja will turn 60 next month. Why don’t we hear more of her?

 

The popular Donald Hoskins, a regular with the BBC Concert Orchestra, has left the stage.

In addition to conducting, he was head of music at the University of East London in Newham and founder of the Aminta Chamber Orchestra.

 

 

 

Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s greatest hit.

Schmidt in a class of his own.

Steven has allowed us to share these memories of the extraordinary Ivry Gitlis, who died today at the age of 98.

Goodbye to Ivry.

So Ivry Gitlis is gone, at the age of 98. To say that he was a ‘character’, who will be greatly missed, would be a ridiculous under-statement…
Born in Haifa – originally named Itzaak – to Russian-Jewish parents in 1922, he must have been an amazing child prodigy. At the age of eight, he was taken to see the great Bronislaw Hubermann; Ivry always remembered that Hubermann was sitting by a lake, dangling his feet in the water. This meeting, wet feet notwithstanding, led to Ivry making his way to Paris, accompanied by his (I’m sure – one could always feel it in Ivry’s personality) adoring mother, where he met and played for Thibaud and Enesco, and was accepted into the class of Jules Boucherit at the Paris Conservatoire at age 11. It feels strange, though, to use the words ‘Ivry’ and ‘Conservatoire’ in the same sentence. There was no way that Ivry would ever have fitted into any institution. His talent, his character, his charm, even his career – they were all wildly unique, impossible to tame, to pigeonhole….

His studies over, he embarked upon his career, playing with major orchestras all over the world, and making some jaw-droppingly brilliant and vivid recordings. But a conventional career was never going to be for him – no more than a conventional approach to music. He wanted to play concerts whenever and wherever he could, true, and enjoyed enormous success, particularly in France and Japan, and to a certain extent in the US, where he formed friendships with Heifetz and Stern; but he also wanted to branch out with or even without his violin away from the concert platform. He acted (as a magician!) in a film by his friend Francois Truffaut; toured though many parts of Africa; worked with Marcel Marceau and Stephane Grappelli; took part with John Lennon and Yoko Ono in the Rolling Stones’ Rock’n’Roll Circus; and so on. His playing and his personality were on the controversial side of non-controversial, I have to say; either you loved him and his playing – or not. He aroused extreme reactions in people; they either got it, or they didn’t. He wasn’t particularly happy about that – he wanted to be universally loved; but he had to accept it. He would never have dreamed of compromising for anyone.

Although I of course knew the name, I really had very little idea about him before we met in Tel Aviv in, I believe, 1996. I was playing a concert there with the violist Tabea Zimmermann and pianist Itamar Golan, the programme including Bloch’s suite for cello and piano ‘From Jewish Life’. Afterwards, a man radiating charisma, with a beautiful voice, hands and eyes, smoking heavily, and accompanied by his much-younger partner (the pianist Ana-Maria Vera), came backstage. ‘Sometimes people’s playing speaks to me,’ he said (or words to that effect) ‘and that’s what happened tonight’. (Touchingly, he remembered that concert for the rest of his life.) So of course – I adored him from that moment on! But it was only a few months later, when he gave a recital with Ana-Maria at the Wigmore Hall, that I truly fell under the spell of his genius. They played the Kreutzer sonata in a way utterly unlike any reading of that work that I’d ever heard. Ivry’s playing had more character per square note than many other musicians put into a whole performance; the audience was swept away. Even that concert wasn’t without its share of controversy, however – it wasn’t in Ivry’s nature! At one point he heard – or fancied he heard – a noise going on backstage. He stopped mid-phrase. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded to know, looking at us, the audience, accusingly. A shocked silence from the auditorium. He folded his violin under his arm. ‘Good – so I don‘t have to play,’ he said. Voices now rose from the audience, people begging him to continue. Eventually he relented, and went on – with no loss of concentration. It was all part of the Ivry experience, somehow. After the concert, he took Nigel Kennedy – at that point a huge fan too – and me back to his hotel for dinner and party-time. I remember that at one point he hugged both Nigel and me to his sides – and practically broke our necks! He was strong, to put it mildly.

After that, I invited both Ivry and Ana-Maria to Open Chamber Music at Prussia Cove, where Ivry inevitably changed the atmosphere of the whole seminar. Again, some people failed to ‘get’ him, while others adored him. Nobody could ever be indifferent! I loved spending time with him, of course, hearing his magical stream of Jewish jokes, commentaries on life, epithets, etc. We also played together for the first time, Beethoven’s Archduke trio with Ana-Maria – though I have to admit that it was not any of our finest hour. In fact, Ivry and I only performed together three times: after that, we played Mendelssohn’s D minor trio with his fiercely loyal friend and partner Martha Argerich, and then the Tchaikovsky trio with Nelson Goerner. Of course, it was wonderful to play with him and Martha. The Tchaikovsky was more – surprise, surprise – controversial. It was at the Wigmore Hall, as part of a series of Russian chamber music. Ivry had learned the piece specially. I thought he played it marvellously, although – needless to say – unconventionally. Others didn’t agree; for perhaps the only time in all my hundreds if not thousands of times onstage or in the audience at the Wigmore Hall, there was a loud ‘boo’ at the end. I was shocked – though perhaps not quite as shocked as the poor presenter for the live BBC broadcast, who had to keep on with her post-performance announcements, ignoring the hooligan outburst. Was the boo justified? No, it was not. Ivry played the trio exactly as he saw it, as he felt it – and one could take it or leave it. It was absolutely genuine, and riveting; the actor Simon Callow described it as being like a shaman telling stories from the deep past. (The mixed reactions mirrored those to another hero of mine, Daniil Shafran – whom Ivry never met, but to whom he somehow felt close.)

Anyway, I don’t want to linger too much on negative reactions to Ivry. He had a huge army of people who loved and adored him – including, among pianists, Martha, of course, and many others, including Khatia Buniatishvili, Stephen Hough, Olli Mustonen and Itamar Golan, and countless string-players such as Maxim Vengerov, Janine Jansen, Renaud Capucon, Richard Tognetti, Heinrich Schiff and Mischa Maisky. (And even conductors, although you needed a strong nerve to accompany him in a concerto! Some people, such as Paavo Jarvi, managed it, though.) These people didn’t just like Ivry – they truly loved him. Once you got the Ivry bug, no medicine could cure you of it – and you didn’t want to be cured.

Of course, Ivry got older – and older; but his spirit didn’t! Once I was sitting with him at the Eurostar terminal, meeting for a coffee before he was to take the train back to Paris. We talked and talked (as usual) – and then he suddenly looked at his watch. ‘Eh merde! I’m late to meet the man with the wheelchair!’ And off he dashed, with me in hot pursuit, trying to warn him that it might not be the best idea to arrive that way to pick up his wheelchair! (He’d only wanted it as a convenient way of carrying his luggage). His 90th birthday was celebrated in style, with big concerts in Paris (which I missed) and Brussels, in which I was honoured to take part, along with a wonderful group of musicians paying homage to him – and playing with him, as well as for him. The concert started late and went on for hours, followed by a dinner. I think that we left around 2.30 am – leaving Ivry still in full throttle.

Around the same time, I got to interview him at the Wigmore Hall, for an hour and half or so during which he shone, peppering the whole occasion with his characteristic blend of wisdom, wit, repartee, anecdote and frippery. (Luckily the talk was filmed; the video has vanished from Youtube, unfortunately, but I hope it’s going to be put up again soon.) At the end of the interview, Ivry took up his violin and played three of his favourite little pieces, with Stephen Hough accompanying him, entirely without rehearsal. Most of the audience was in tears. (The pictures below were all taken by Joanna Bergin on that day.)

 

Eventually, though, even Ivry became old – in body, anyway. Last time I saw him was just over a year ago, at his extraordinarily messy and wonderful apartment in Paris. He was ailing, and on two of my three visits was in bed. (On the third occasion, he was sitting up at a table having some dinner. ‘Oh good – you’re up!’ I exclaimed. He looked at me rather witheringly. ‘It’s a bit hard to eat in bed,’ he responded.)…

But then he just couldn’t stay on in the apartment (which was only reachable by means of some steep, dark stairs); and he was taken to a clinic. He was pretty miserable there, I have to admit – above all from loneliness: ‘Here I am, at the end of my life, all alone.’ Ivry couldn’t stand to be by himself. Nevertheless, there were still brighter moments, particularly when his loyal friends visited, or at least called; and he was still very much Ivry, right up to the end. Once he sounded brighter. ‘You sound good!’ I said. ‘Well, I’m noted for my good sound,’ he replied. We talked every few days; he never lost his typical Ivry tone of indignation. ‘Call me sometime!’ he’d demand indignantly. ‘I’m calling you now,’ I’d point out. ‘Yes, I know you are’ he’d admit, somewhat mollified. It wasn’t that long ago – maybe three months? – that he was suggesting that he, Martha and I put on a series of short trio concerts; and not long before that he’d berated Ana-Maria for not inviting him to Bolivia!

So he didn’t give hope – at least, not till very near the end. Even then, there were moments: a few weeks ago I called (or rather Facetimed, which was how we mostly spoke), and a young violinist-student of Itamar’s was playing to him, which was evidently pleasing him; then, just 2 ½ weeks ago, I called, and he was positively bright. ‘You seem so much better!’ I exclaimed. In reply, he just pointed the phone-camera to the other side of the room: Martha was visiting him.

But now he’s gone. Or at least, gone from this planet. It’s impossible to believe that he’s really vanished – a spirit like his is surely unquenchable? At the very least, he leaves us with precious memories of him (as well as, thank goodness, wondrous recordings) – of his irresistible personality, his gloriously fiery playing, of the love that he inspired and radiated. Thank you, Ivry.

Isserlis, Gitlis, Stephen Hough, photo: Joanna Bergin

The effervescent Rika Zarai has passed away.

She overcame a long coma after a car accident when she was 30 to make a complete recovery and achieve renown in France.

He was one of the last soloists to be known to everyone by his first name, and he was everybody’s friend. A sense of bereavement stretches across the world of music – and this for a man of 98 who had not been seen outdoors all year.

He had a visit on December 5th from Martha Argerich and received many calls through the month from old friends. He asked the nurse this morning for a glass of water and was gone as it arrived.

 

The great violinist Ivry Gitlis died this morning in Paris. He was 98.

Recent visitors told us he was miserable in a care home after nurses took away his violin for hygienic reasons, or safekeeping. I never saw him without that violin in his hand.

He was a joy to know and a delight to hear.

Born in Haifa in 1922 to new immigrants from Russia who soon divorced, he went to Paris in 1933 to study with Enescu and to London in 1939 to work with Carl Flesch.

He took the name Ivry that year, meaning ‘Hebrew’, so that Hitler should have no doubts about his identity, or so he told me.

A magnificent player in his prime, he scorned the formalities of the American concert stage and made his life in Paris, where he had his own TV chat show and was popular far beyond the musical confines. I once saw him park his old car illegally at night outside a bistro on a main boulevard. When the cops showed up, a waiter rushed out crying ‘mais c’est le voiture de Monsieur Gitly!’ and they turned a blind eye.

He was irreverent, fun in five languages, unconventional in his relationships and always respectful of music. We shared an adoration for the great chanteuse Barbara.

Among other distinctions, he was a formidable interpreter of the Berg and Sibelius concertos.

From the Lebrecht Album of the Week:

At the midpoint of the Second World War, our parents looked to two composers for symphonies of hope and vision. Such was the excitement attending the 7th symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich that Arturo Toscanini and Leopold Stokowski almost went to war themselves for the right to conduct the American premiere (Toscanini won).

There was less fuss abroad over Vaughan Williams’s 5th, but in London it was hailed as oracular – a statement by a great artist on the spirit of his nation and its depth of confidence. The world premiere, conducted by the composer on June 24, 1943, was roared to the rafters of the Royal Albert Hall. The critic Neville Cardus called the music ‘benedictory and consoling’, a phrase that echoed in my mind as I listened to the 5th symphony’s latest recording in a state of Covid siege….

Read on here.

And here.

In Spanish.

And in French.

 

In a record year, where we logged almost quarter of a million readers in a single day (March 23 Google Analytics: 236,680 readers) – and again the next day – visitors to Slipped Disc were preoccupied by the Coronavirus pandemic and its effects on musical life.

These were the top stories:

1 Orchestra play Beethoven 9th from their homes – 725,920 readers

2 Virologist’s advice on Coronavirus – 145, 347 readers

3 Andrea Bocelli and daughter break 3 million – 91,972 readers

4 Famed pianist sees her piano smashed to pieces – 85,025

5 Concertgebouw chorus is devastated after Bach Passion – 50,859

 

The Swedish composer Ludwig Göransson has been explaining how he achieved the score for the hit movie Tenet.

…. Where the protagonist observes fighting being done by both inverted and non-inverted soldiers on a large boat, he devised a complex score that would match the footage. “For that scene, I had the main protagonist’s main theme play inverted,” he said. “I made it sound like the orchestra was playing the theme backwards while the rhythm and percussion is still moving forward.”

“In order to achieve this,” Göransson continued,”I reversed the musicians individual lines of music on the page. I got a lot of questions from the musicians wondering if their part was full of typos. Then I recorded them playing and reversed the audio of the recording — if that makes sense.”

Audiences have complained they can’t hear the dialogue in the film. ‘It’s because the music and the sounds that Chris and I created is so highly experimental and new,’ the composer said.

 

The Felix Mendelssohn carol, sung today at Holy Trinity Brompton, London.

You see it here first.

Happy Christmas, in a time of Covid.

 


 

There is much speculation in German media today as to whether Christian Thielemann will remain music director of the Bayreuth Festival after his contract expires at the end of this month.

Bayreuth say they want him to stay. Thielemann says nothing.

‘The Bayreuth Festival intends to sign a new contract with Christian Thielemann,’a festival spokesman said yesterday. ‘His duties and title are still being clarified.’