Whose Butt? 

 

The main reason one gay couple came to my opera at Musiktheatertage Festival in Vienna last summer was because of its title: The Butt . At composer/director's Q and A's they revealed that they had really come for the bottoms! As it happens there were quite a few bottoms on show but perhaps they did not exactly fulfil their criteria. Will Self’s novel is a dastardly satire on Western civilisation's failings, its insurgencies raging in the middle east and the outmoded assumptions of a average man with a disgruntled wife and two point three kids. But of course Martha, his wife, is enraged, why shouldn’t she be? Tom Brodzinski pleases himself. He is an outdated character but perhaps that's just fine for an opera!  

"The music of The Butt was stylistic with great variety: it was skillfully worked and crafted, offering a variety of moods and motivic links.” Stefan Ender, Weekend Der Standard, September 3-4, 2016. 

My composerly standards for the opera were up to scratch according to the Viennese press, phew! They liked the weird story of Tom giving up smoking in a strange land. That through the flip of his last butt falling from his holiday apartment balcony on to an old man's head it burns a hole leading to Tom’s entire life unraveling to the point of lobotomy. Well, this is a Will Self novel and yes, we are related (first cousins) and yes, some of his writing references the peculiar obsessions of our shared family landscape. Therefore it was exciting and relatively easy to compose. I could with ease put my proverbial butt behind it. The fact that Will and I ended up at a Poo-Bah type Q and A at the British Ambassadors residence just as Boris Johnson was about to arrive only added to the bizarre nature of the whole gig. And believe me there were stranger things: women playing men, contemporary sounding music that also managed to weave in melody, polyphonic harmony and sumptuous vocal lines. 

Héloïse Mas as The Entreati Sorceress seduced Tomas Desi the director and myself at the audition like a fragile doe-eyed shaman, her voice is stunning, and there are others too: Catherine Joule, Miriam Sharrad, Hazel Neighbour, Dawn Burns and the brave Nick Buxton as the naked Tom, noble, humiliated and reduced like a gravy to pulp. We never got the mud bath because of a white carpet on the set but hey it was all deliciously bizarre. 

    

"Musically The Butt is in the best British tradition.The organic liquid vocal lines remind me of Britten. Composer Susannah Self forms musically the internal structure of the plot. Self’s ironically undermined musical pragmatics is for the public actually very digestible. The ensemble includes musicians of high standard. The composer conducted the performance with meticulousness.”  

Dominik Troger. https://lnkd.in/e9F7HX 

To give you a taste of the experience I have made a 15 minute video of extracts on YouTube:  https://youtu.be/ZAGo-Jmiv9w 

But returning to the overall bottom theme of The Butt  was perhaps the amazing road trip that I made with Percussionist Chris Brannick and Cellist Joe Davies. Here I can assure you no holds were barred, each of our entire sexual history hung out on the metaphorical washing line over a period of 4 days trucking from London to Vienna and back. An engorged experience that the three of us will hold dear for eternity. And finally yes my own butt displayed freely and without shame in the Blue Danube en route while Chris and Joe looked on over a cooling beer. 

Night Walk from Watling Estate to Arrandene Space.

Night Walk from Watling Estate to Arrandene Space. 

Exploring the edges of the London scene alone is a nightly occurrence, reason being a border terrier in need of action. I walk out of my door onto a quaint floodlit green attended by irregular terraced houses. Further along similar abodes sport black weather boarding or more bizarrely, steel sheets sourced from destroyers of the first World War. The Watling estate was built as an Earthly Paradise, suitable for refugees of the East End bombing. Spacious parks, greens and mountainous vistas of Mill Hill arrive at the eye every moment. But such utopian peace was to prove too much for them and they fled. Now the Thatcher-released estate is populated by the working peoples of the World. All flow daily to the Mecca of the Burnt Oak tube line where we sit with an air of reassurance as the easy suburbs whizz by. Wandering the estate at night feels safe and exciting. Endless opportunities abound for clandestine chats or unexpected encounters such as a coterie of women stopping mid-traffic to enquire where Tristan’s demonic flashing collar comes from. Litter crackles underfoot providing him with a multi country “takeaway”. Cities of red-lit cranes at Colindale shrink to a human scale the summer parks of soccer, basketball and funfairs, while beyond to the West can be heard the rumble of the Edgware road laced with souks, Primarks and Lexus showrooms. Having had our cultural fill we turn in the other direction towards the posher climes of Mill Hill. Here parkland gentrifies into mud paths and unkempt meadows. No one is around at night save the impressive oaks and moonlit grasses. Tristan finally runs free, feral and terrifying. At the top of Arrandene Space we sit on a bench to survey the Hampstead/Highgate ridge backlit by the chlorotic yellow of the real city. The Shard pierces its horizon. It’s at moments like this that I delight in the paradox of being a city dweller and yet not being of the city. All possibilities lie before me but retreat is instantly available. Music burbles into my empty composerly brain only to be suddenly traumatised by a couple of bulldogs on the loose. “Don’t worry” says the equally intimidating owner.  I am not convinced as I lurch with my mini-wolf into the dense undergrowth to escape.

Opera and Adventure 

So you want value for money, you want a cultural experience, you want really good food, you want an adventure, you want to get away for 24 hours to somewhere very different. The opera houses of mainland Europe deliver a perfect “quickie”. This autumn I flew Easyjet to Amsterdam and Zurich. After an afternoon arrival at Amsterdam I took the bus from Schiphol Airport,10 kms to the Hotel Titus in the City Centre with free Wifi. My room overlooked an attractive canal, there may have been a few prostitutes over the way but it was still charming. Picking up some delicious open sandwiches nearby for the interval I made my way to the opera house at Waterlooplein past the old  Stadtshouwberg Theatre where I myself have sung. Wending my way along glorious canals and bridges with bright lights flickering in the water I peered into fabulous loft apartments with high ceilings and tasteful lighting. The moon was full, it was magical. The Netherlands Opera delivers value and muscle. Its lean toned production of Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites directed by Robert Carsen featured some amazing singers. In particular the transcendent stylish singing of Adrianne Pieczonka as Madame Lidoine, Sabine Devieilhe as a pert-voiced Soeur Constance and Doris Soffel as the deeply disturbed Madame de Croissy. I want to sing that role and “act out” scratching away my face too! The following morning I was off to the Van Gogh Museum, 700 metres from Hotel Titus. You won’t find a more attractive lunch than at the museum cafe. For souvenirs why not take a bunch of fresh flowers home at a fraction of London prices. Tulip bulbs can be obtained at the airport as can Leonidas orange slices dipped in dark chocolate. At 3 euros for 100 grams you are rich in every sense of the word. 

  

www.hoteltitus.com/location.htm

www.operaballet.nl/en/opera/opera

http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/plan-your-visit/museum-cafe-le-tambourin

For my second excursion, Zurich provided the perfect contrast to Amsterdam. Surrounded by snow capped mountains it is small, village-like and dominated by the serene lake. The slick train from the airport takes you almost door to door of the compact attractive opera house. Get off at Stadelhofer station. To return direct to the airport trains go at 11 minutes past the hour. On this occasion I took in Puccini’s’ Turandot featuring the Swedish soprano Nina Stemme in stunning voice as an icy Turandot who finally melts into the generous arms of Riccardo Massi as Calaf. Before the show I met the exceptionally friendly conductor Alexander Joel clutching a gold letter-embossed leather score and sporting an appropriate Mandarin jacket. I also met Riccardo Massi’s singing teacher which provided a fascinating discussion of technical interface. Great food can be had at the back of the opera. Ristoranto Conti  was perfect for a posh after-opera snack of champagne and exquisite linguine whereas Titbits a bit further up the street has perfect healthy but nice food. Presented in buffet form they weigh your plate. Particularly fine were the dried green bean salad and spicy humus. With easy chairs one could truly relax. Next morning I indulged myself in a sacred Roman Irish bath ritual at theThermal baths. Situated in an old brewery the value for money entry fee of approx £40 includes robes and towel. Everything here is done to a very high spec. You can eat upstairs and swim out in an extended heated pool on the roof top with fabulous views of city and mountain.They hire out swimming costumes too. The only negative aspect to this is that the Therme are not easy to get to and you might want to indulge yourself in a taxi home. Another morning option could have been to take the train out to Kusnacht and visit the house where Carl Jung lived. This for me was akin to visiting Bethlehem. If you fall in love with Jung’s house and want to stay longer you can take seminars on Jung-related subjects at certain times of the year in English. Kusnact is 16 minutes away on a local train, a good place to stay is Gastof Ochsen .

www.opernhaus.ch/en/

http://www.bindella.ch/de/restaurantoverview.html

http://www.tibits.ch/en/restaurants.html

https://www.zuerich.com/en/visit/wellness/zurich-thermal-baths

www.junginstitut.ch/english

http://kuesnacht-ochsen.ch

Parsifal Rationing

Have you ever heard of such a thing, rationing the number of times you can encounter Wagner's Parsifal? Well I have to, otherwise I might literally lose my head or die of cranial engorgement. You see, the thing is, I love the music way too much for stable mental health. At Bayreuth,  Wagner's "home built" opera house, strange men in rain coats with greasy hair hang around before a show wearing pathetic signs round their necks saying,  "please sell me a ticket". They are hooked, addicted, pathetic: in a way like Parsifal himself. The compassionate holy fool who restores Von  Eschenbach's knights to their deeply spiritual encounters with the Holy Grail starts his journey in the guise of a naive oaf.
 I have tried to analyse what it is about, say, the Act 1 interlude or the Good Friday music that lifts me into tantric ecstasy. In case you haven't got a clue what I am talking about, I am referring to the ultimate yogic tantric sex practice when you bypass sexual intercourse and instead  literally "come" out of the top of your head! This Wagner fix for me is, I suspect, at least as powerful as heroin. I am told that substance makes sex pall into insignificance so you can see why I might be worried if I got hooked!
Yesterday at Covent Garden I heard the sweetest most manly Gurnemanz sung by Rene Pape, God what a voice, what a man, what subtle care of text. Then there was Tony Pappano moulding  the dough of his orchestra into untold sensuality with his very bare hands, no baton here. The Parsifal was good vocally although my sassy companions were disturbed by his barrel tummy. Personally I  prefer fat and a good technique rather than thin and flat of tone. The Kundry, Angela Denoke, is a mere slip of a woman.  Her impressive middle voice was vastly "over-covered" and gripped in a steely controlled way: I was immediately suspicious as to how she would get her top notes. They were indeed a pitiful whimper which made a damp squib out of the climax of her salvation. Casting not up to snuff here. I have noticed of late a proclivity for thinness over good singing in the casting of lead women at Covent Garden.
Stephen Langridge's production above all things did allow the music to breathe and I admire him for taking that risk. The whole story is so loaded with Christianity, Masonry and outright wishful thinking that we can all become suckers for the unbelievable fairy tale. However I feel we miss a trick if we ignore the underbelly of the story, which is about what Jung called "Self Actualisation", i.e., becoming true to oneself.  Kundry  represents not "fallen women" but the ideal of rampant commercialism, fame and ego inflation. When Parsifal finally throws her off and redeems both of them Wagner is saying "look, we can live a more fulfilling life without all of that!"
As a composer I am impressed that Wagner created his own libretto because it gives him full autonomy to infuse his music with a marinated interpretation of the grail legend. Whatever your feeling may be about Wagner (appalling antisemitism) or the grail legends (religious bunkum) this music transcends itself. In his Parsifal Wagner literally finds his voice and in that deeply personal yet public act I am found too.

"Taking Holy Orders

"Taking Holy Orders": Yes, my friends, it's come to this. It's time for me to contemplate and rejuvenate. I have embraced Academia. I am up at Cambridge University, be-gowned, bespectacled, a fresher at large reading for an MPhil in composing. My aim is to create three orchestral interludes and three scenas as calling cards for a full length opera, my first. Such a grand project can only be contemplated in a special place and Cambridge certainly is that. Carillons of chapel bells ring uncharacteristically into the late evening. The central fountain of King's courtyard resonates with a curiously Italian balmy ease. But it will get colder as the Michaelmas term goes on, I know that. I have my cold-resistant jodhpurs ready for nightly descents down Magdalene street on my trusty Ridgeback bike, now coded with secret runes to deter thieves.



The meetings with other composers have so far been furtive. Getting to know them is like sweaty petting, it's warm hearted enough, but where is it going I wonder? Our leaders are exceptionally good, which is reassuring. The microtonal, esoteric music of Tristan Murail feasted our ears in the first seminar, heartily washed down with mathematical explanations of carrier notes and modulation notes, a far cry from the bitonal cycle of fifths I have unleashed in my first compositional workout "Meditation on the Nature of Love". God knows what "Musicology and its Debates" will throw at me tomorrow. The preparatory reading involves a lot of Californian Academics slagging each other off, but Mozart and the North American Blackfoot Tribe always seem to emerge unscathed. Never mind, perhaps I will find consolation at the Cambridge Union debates: I am now a life member. Or will I find calm in the new St. Edmunds (my college) women's boat, rowing with a body of gorgeous women down the river Cam at 7.am? This is guaranteed to be cool!



But will I write a better Opera in this rarefied atmosphere than in domestic bliss? I am immediately released all week from cleaning concerns. To compose an opera one must, I believe, be prepared to hone and throw away a lot of material that’s not up to the mark. So will this be the place to do it? I am reflecting hourly on my music as I walk through the exquisite grounds of St John’s College, between the music faculty and cosy teas in town. A job worth doing needs full commitment, so it's time to take up holy orders. I have a terrific contemporary novel as the basis for my opera...no, I am not going to divulge here its subject or eminent writer, suffice it to say it offers broad scope to compose a stunning "Big Country" musical landscape. I may even use some of these additional microtonal techniques. Then there are the multi-layered characters that will have "double" voices: a lyric soprano who can also sing in pop-singer belt voice, a tenor (male or female!) who can sing in manly chest and histrionic mezzo/countertenor. The percussion section will include bowed vibraphone, a donkey jaw from Peru, part of a car engine, razor shells. I will reveal more as I go on. But for now, let the distilling of compositional fluids start, my vessels filling, emptying, disseminating and transforming.