I feel as if I may have heard a 'star is born' performance tonight in Peter Maxwell Davies' Eight Songs for a Mad King. The performer was Leigh Melrose. 
He was brought back on stage, I think, 4 times and absolutely deserved every clap and call from the audience. It was apparant in the singer's face - despite his modest manner - and that of his fellow players that they understood they'd reached the hall with their music.
The Davies piece took up the second half. In my ignorance of it, I expected a very ironic or political piece in the Eight Songs. What I heard - and watched - was a completely compassionate, comic, tragic work in a performance fully but delicately expressing the delusion, disorientation, fragmentation and distress of a man gone mad. There's much extreme vocalising which had the rawness of the kind that contemporary composers and players tear out of their string instruments. But also a tenderness for the man by Leigh Melrose himself so that though there were comic moments, the King had nothing of indignity about him, only of affliction. It was an amazing performance; as much physical theatre as vocal and though it contained moments of lovely baritone song, a great deal of the singer's musicianship came from the integration of his facial, bodily and vocal delivery. A total performance; acting.
The hall - though respectful from the beginning - became progressively clearly unified in attention and feeling. There were still snorts of laughter (I did this myself) but no twitches, no rustles, no breathing even. Truly, intently attending in silence. I've never been in a concert hall before and felt such common intent.
He was brought back on stage, I think, 4 times and absolutely deserved every clap and call from the audience. It was apparant in the singer's face - despite his modest manner - and that of his fellow players that they understood they'd reached the hall with their music.
The Davies piece took up the second half. In my ignorance of it, I expected a very ironic or political piece in the Eight Songs. What I heard - and watched - was a completely compassionate, comic, tragic work in a performance fully but delicately expressing the delusion, disorientation, fragmentation and distress of a man gone mad. There's much extreme vocalising which had the rawness of the kind that contemporary composers and players tear out of their string instruments. But also a tenderness for the man by Leigh Melrose himself so that though there were comic moments, the King had nothing of indignity about him, only of affliction. It was an amazing performance; as much physical theatre as vocal and though it contained moments of lovely baritone song, a great deal of the singer's musicianship came from the integration of his facial, bodily and vocal delivery. A total performance; acting.
The hall - though respectful from the beginning - became progressively clearly unified in attention and feeling. There were still snorts of laughter (I did this myself) but no twitches, no rustles, no breathing even. Truly, intently attending in silence. I've never been in a concert hall before and felt such common intent.
Comment