Fortnight Publications Ltd.

Festival MusicAuthor(s): Mark StoreySource: Fortnight, No. 51 (Nov. 30, 1972), pp. 19-20Published by: Fortnight Publications Ltd.Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25544375 .

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FORTNIGHT 19

Arts Pages_

Festival Music Mark Storey

One of the nicest examples of poster art

I've seen depicts a severed hand, bloodied

with teeth marks, dripping dollars: the

caption reads 'Bite the hand that feeds

you, bite it off!' The attitude encouraged by such exhortations can soon lead to guilt and remorse. The Queen's University Fes

tival has induced a rather similar schizoid

state, I imagine, in many people, over the

past two weeks, as both gratitude and

ungratefulness have demanded a voice.

In the brochure for the last Festival in the Spring, the Director, David Laing, agonized over the purposes of such an

event, without appearing to arrive at any

definite conclusions. It is perhaps signifi cant that no such probings divert us from the glossiness of this autumn's pro

gramme. Instead, there is a brief intro

duction from the Pro-Chancellor, in which

the question is put: 'How can we go

forward with a Festival when our whole

way of life is daily being threatened with

disintegration?' He gives an answer to this

in these words: 'The Festival is no mere

fringe activity. The fostering of the arts is vital to any civilised future and an

important defence against the progressive

dehumanising of our society. And Queen's

is right to regard the University as having a special responsibility to see that interest in the arts is kept alive in these dark days . . .' The assumptions implicit here are

perhaps not entirely unquestionable. The

problem of the relations between the

University and the community is a vexed

one, but it is hard to see in what way the

Festival has not been a fringe activity.

Concerts in the cosy environs of Belfast 7 are not going to have much to say to the

embattled residents of Andersonstown or

the Newtownards Road. At the best of times art's responsibilities towards society need to be constantly questioned; in Belfast the questioning should be that

much more rigorous and alert (and not

just for two weeks of the year, and not just in terms of whether those who usually get the jam are going to get enough of it). I am not convinced that any such

questioning has taken place this year.

That, then, is one aspect of the

problem. But what about the notion of

having a cultural picnic in the first place? Ideally a festival ought to happen because there is so much pent-up energy in the

community that it demands satisfaction in this way, in two weeks of concentrated

activity during which all aspects of its life

get an airing. Few festivals achieve such

an ideal. Alternatively there ought to be an attempt to stimulate, to educate, to

inform, to provide something on which to

build for the rest of the year. Otherwise two weeks of hectic bustle (planned for like mad over the preceding fifty weeks)

become an artificial, unreal exercise,

ultimately self-defeating in the wastefulness that ensues, in the

simultaneous cries for more and for less.

So far as music is concerned, we ought to

be asking whether at the end of two weeks

we're going to be better listeners after

this, and are there going to be more

listeners, and more to listen to. In other

words, is the Festival going to be an

isolated event, a grandoise exercise in

impresario-ship, or is it going to have any more lasting benefits? There is clearly a case for something more specific,

something smaller. And it is surely a curious situation in which we are exhorted

to support this sort of event, as though it

were a gesture of defiance, a situation in

which people have an undetermined sense

of obligation, and in which there is, say, among the students, a general apathy to

the whole enterprise.

Coming to the musical side of things, one wonders what has emerged. Of course

one is grateful for any music here, of

course there are enormous difficulties in

getting people to come and play here, but the Festival should not be able to get away

with presuming on our gratitude. There

could, for instance, have been much more

imagination in the choice of programmes; there could have been concentration on,

say, a particular composer or period, or on

a particulat type of music. As it was, it

would be hard to say what held the various items together. In the background we had Mozart's // Seraglio, running for the better part of a week; but this

provided a rather tenuous form of

continuity. (What, for example, were they all up to the rest of the time? Not mixing with the masses so far as I know.) Or if

youVe decided to throw a smattering of

everything at a potential audience, there

ought to be something one wouldn't

normally have, both in content and

quality. Well, // Seraglio seemed to me an odd

opera to put on in a city without, perforce, a regular opera-going public. Presumably

it was thought it would be light and frothy, easy on the eye and ear, and not

impossible from a musical point of view,

bearing in mind the obvious difficulties of

putting on an opera at all. If that was the

underlying logic, it rather misfired. Meredith Davies conducted, the Ulster Orchestra played, both with extremely sensitive musicianship. The Orchestra is

by now a very adaptable body, used to all the hazards of playing all manner of things all over the place; it responded magnifi cently to Mr. Davies's demands. The

singing was more variable. A Seraglio with

a weak Constanza is something of a non

starter, but there were compensations in

the Blonda of Nan Christie, the voice if not the acting of David Johnston as

Pedrillo. Ian Comboy hadn't the strength or depth of voice that the role of Osmin

requires, and Anthony Rolfe-Johnson as

Belmonte was only occasionally more than

adequate. When they found themselves involved in ensembles, particularly the

quartet at the end of Act 2, they were all that much more impressive. Dramatically

it is a cruelly difficult opera to bring off, because of its basic absurdity, and Roger

Williams didn't seem to have any clear

idea of what he ought to be trying to do.

In a work that cries out for pace and wit

and inventiveness we got woodenness and

a series of static tableaux.

The Elmwood Hall (about which I wrote in the last issue) is ideally suited for

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20 THURSDAY, 30th NOVEMBER, 1972

chamber music, and one of the most enjoy

able concerts was a recital given there by the Allegri String Quartet. This is a body that has undergone a remarkable change

of personnel and character in the last ten

years, and only Patrick Ireland (viola) remains of the original group. Whereas it

was used to be a rather impetuous,

unrefined quartet, it is now restrained and

perhaps if anything oversweetened by

Hugh Maguire's velvet-toned violin.

Haydn's Lark Quartet was a greater

success than Beethoven's Third

Rasumovsky (spoiled by a hasty finale); Mozart's Clarinet Quintet got superb

playing from Angela Malsbury, plaiying that only lacked in places robustness and

edge. But in all, whatever the quibbles, this was a memorable concert, even with

out the self-exposure to which we were

treated by a younger member of the

audience placed at the leader's request on

the platform. Less satisfactory was the programme

given by a reduced Ulster Orchestra under

John Care we. Handel's Concerto Grosso,

Op. 6, No. 5 and Haydn's La Passione

Symphony received rather perfunctory, unthought-out readings, and Walton's

Facade was a disappointment because of

the unpenetrating quality of Alvar Lidell's

speaking voice. But there was some fine,

virtuoso playing from the band. Virtuosity

was involved again in the full-scale

symphony concert in the Whitla Hall under Edgar Cosma, the Ulster

Orchestra's chief conductor. Mr. Cosma

was not able to do much for Borodin's Second Symphony, and only succeeded in

making it more vulgar than it probably is; and it seemed something of a waste that

Hepzibah Menuhin was brought all this

way to play Franck's Symphonic Variations. But the concert was redeemed

by the Firebird Suite, where the heavily augmented orchestra emerged triumphant. This only made one regret the more the

dullness of the rest of the programme. It was certainly imaginative to put on

Berlioz's Childhood of Christ as the final musical event of the Festival, but in front of a sparse audience this only inter

mittently caught fire. The Philharmonic

Society acquitted itself well on the whole, but soloists, orchestra and conductor

(Alun Francis) didn't really persuade one

that they believed in what they were

doing.

There were other concerts, mainly at

lunchtime, some of them good, some bad,

some indifferent; a fair reflection of the musical events as a whole, one could say,

if one felt uncharitable. And having said

that, and having registered my gratitude as

well, in an apparently ungrateful manner,

I can now be left to my remorse.

Fringe Festival Vithal Rajan

During the last two weeks Belfast has

thrilled to the musical and dramatic

offerings of the Festival?at least the

middle-aged, middle-brow, middle-class

section of it. Certainly, they have had a

rough time in the past two years, and

deserve a fortnight of expensive "high" culture. Even if they cannot participate

creatively in these events by the use of

their critical perception they can at least

lend the events their ceremonial

attendance. But while the chosen were at

their dignified revels, other fare was

available for the fringe majority, if you like. For one thing, the students put on an

invigorating mixture of folk music, comic

revues and improvised theatre that was,

no doubt, to their complete satisfaction. I

have nothing to add to the views the

gentle reader might have formed about

the ?23,000 "official" Festival

programme?or to subtract from those

about the ?450 "provisional" student one.

But I should like very much to draw her

attention to the "other" Festival, which

seems to have occured by chance, giving

those who stumbled upon it a wry mixture of artistic comment about three worlds.

The most stylish critique of the West

was produced by a Women's Lib. revue

held close to the witching hour in the

draughty Great Hall at Queen's. One

laughed at the irrepressible humour of the

fast-paced script, closely searched one's

conscience during the challengingly

suggestive bits, applauded the songs, showed solidarity with the struggle, and

admired the bouquet of liberated beauty on the stage. Particularly memorable were

the Miss Heifer Contest with Roger Burfield as a demented compere, the

revolutionary marriage solemnized to the

clerical quaverings of Jonathan Bardon, the 20-questions show with "a woman" as

the vegetable object with animal

connections, and the women's programme

on how to lay a table with demure Sue Carter kneeling down as one. From among

a spirited and talented cast, one can

especially single out for praise beautiful Anee McCartney, who almost made me

forget I was a reformed sexist, and who

gave us an unforgettable vignette of a

gossipy Irish woman pregnant with her fifth child. All credit to the authoress-part icipants, Roisin McAuley, Barbara

Delgarno and Joan Newmann who will

hopefully continue to raise the con

sciousness of male chauvinists, which

judging from the boorish heckling on the

opening night continues to manifest itself

unashamedly in Belfast like other social anachronisms.

The most "respectable" of the events

reviewed here were, I suppose, the short

plays put on by Interplay at Elmwood

Hall. This is a group formed by the Arts

Theatre Company which now acts as an

educational unit travelling the schools and

putting on shows of interest to children.

They presented in the happy manner of a

music hall two historical plays by Stewart

Love, The Titanic and The Potato Blight, of clear educational significance in

Ireland. Full credit to the company's Artistic Director, Denis Smyth, for never

descending to the solemn and didactic,

helping the audience, with music hall

trivia, to enjoy the entertainment, and yet

doing full justice to these two very good

plays, with no props except a simple

backdrop and the mere vestiges of

changes in costume.

Gently and with humour, the cast shows

us the faultless construction of the most

luxurious liner in the world by the wretched of the Belfast earth, the dash of

the Titanic through iceberg-infested waters almost pre-ordained by the intense

competition between the White Star and

the Cunard lines, the locking of the doors to the third-class deck till first-class pass

engers were safely in life-boats. The

moment of truth arrives, the children in

the audience are asked what we have

learnt 60 years later from the death of

these 1,500 people. With panache they are told it is the invention of the radar! Is

this unworthy failure of nerve induced by the belief that anything more radical

would be too strong meat for the children?

And it is misleading too, for what about

the Andrea Doria disaster? The Potato

Blight is equally telling throughout its

length, and fails, also, only at the end.

After weaving a crippling tapestry around

hapless Irish peasants of rent increases,

landlord tyranny, famine, eviction, heart

less enforced emigration to America, and

their exploitation there, the victims are

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