If parting is meant to be sweet sorrow then that directive failed to reach the Barbican in time for the penultimate appearance of Sir Simon Rattle there as Music Director of the London Symphony Orchestra. On a sultry evening the great man and his equally great band were joined by their great friends, Peter Donohoe and Cynthia Millar, for a joyful occasion to mark Rattle’s elevation to Conductor Emeritus.
For the occasion Betsy Jolas, at 96 a grand magister of post-war modernism, provided Ces belles années... (Those Good Years) as a most gracious gift. It is to be her final composition for orchestra. As the present was lovingly unwrapped, out flew a flock of tiny references and allusions, memories of other pieces, other times, other places. Into the auditorium there tumbled a cascade of treats in the shape of extended techniques and extra-musical tokens: bows tapping on wood and metal; hands clapping in appreciation; feet stamping in wonder; shouts of sheer delight. And then, just as I thought it was all over, onto the stage wafted the figure of Faustine de Monès, resplendent in a gown that shimmered between cerise and peach. Her bell-like soprano poured forth a text gathered by the composer and ending with a benediction to friendship: “Let us all sing together, let us sing for joy”. The performance was all that a gift-opening ceremony should be, and the participants enjoyed themselves immensely. Jolas was there to witness the occasion, and to be enfolded by an open-hearted display of gratitude from Sir Simon, his band, and a full house of loyal admirers.
It would no doubt be fanciful to think of Olivier Messiaen as court-composer to Kubla Khan, a liveried servant serving his master much like Haydn at Eszterháza. Nonetheless it seems to me that the Turangalîla-Symphonie is the kind of work that could have been written for the Great Khan’s “stately pleasure-dome”, and would have been played every year at his official birthday, along with a display of exotic birds and a parade featuring the colour of time. The LSO's performance could have been mounted on such a day, and the emperor would have been as enthralled and enraptured as were the ecstatic audience.
Like all the great masterpieces of the Western canon, Messiaen’s sprawling canvas requires constant ingenuity to make it live, sing, dance and engage the senses. It is also of decided advantage if a performance can boast four of the greatest exponents in their respective fields: a world-class orchestra in its pomp; a magisterial conductor of leonine presence; a pianist whose hands are full of wonder; and the Great Khan’s grand vizier on his favourite instrument, the ondes Martenot. The LSO, Rattle, Donohoe and Millar would all have been ennobled by the emperor for their stupendous performance, honoured for the setting of Messiaen's ten movements into a structure that was built on the contrast between the Joy of the Blood of the Stars and the Garden of Love's Sleep. That contrast showcased the blistering virtuosity of the orchestra and its utterly enchanting inner voice: the composer’s depiction of the fire of the cosmos; and the repose of lovers oblivious of time. At the explosive finale the master of ceremonies lit the touch-paper which launched a magnificent display of fireworks, shooting to the stars.
