Music review: Prom 50 - Stephen Layton, Polyphony, City of London Sinfonia

A concert of rare intellect.

Musical memorials take many forms, as Sunday night's Prom elegantly demonstrated. A concert dedicated to Richard Hickox, whose sudden death in 2008 robbed English music of one of its most persuasive champions, the evening reflected the conductor's legacy and tastes, but also explored the broader question of how we bear witness culturally, whether to a life, a death, or - in the case of the First World War - to an era-defining tragedy.

Described by composer Frank Bridge as "one of the few lovely things that has ever happened to me", Benjamin Britten's Variations on a Theme of Frank Bridge sees the younger composer paying musical homage to his teacher and mentor, whose success he would so dramatically exceed but whose influence he would never outgrow. While showcasing the gamut of his technical skills (incorporating with sly wit many more quotations from Bridge than just the main theme), the Variations lack the smugness that colours many of Britten's earliest works.

Performed by the City of London Sinfonia, the ensemble founded by Hickox himself, the work's dramatic extremes were vividly painted. Directed by Stephen Layton, the violence of the lower string interjections of the "Funeral March" battled against the euphemising lyricism of the violins, while the "Wiener Walzer" had all the sinister sophistication of a ballroom described by Isherwood.

Macabre echoes of this latter movement persisted into the world premiere of Colin Matthews's No Man's Land that followed - a work originally commissioned by Hickox. A memorial to the composer's grandfather, killed at the Somme, this 20-minute oratorio stages a dialogue between the ghosts of two dead soldiers whose corpses are strung up on the barbed wire of no man's land.

Combining live orchestral textures (including an out-of-tune upright piano "of the kind that might have found its way to the Western Front") with recorded military marches and popular songs of the day, Matthews's music mirrors the fragmented rag-bag of images, the "memories and scraps of song and wisps of rhyme" that make up Christopher Reid's poem.

While the result is sonically distinctive, this very quality risks limiting the work's conceptual scope. Aurally we are snagged on the barbed wire of the literal, never allowed to wander as freely over the emotions and issues as Captain Gifford's text (sung with patrician lyricism by Ian Bostridge). With the shadows of Britten's War Requiem pre-empting Reid's ghostly figures, more than textural innovation is needed if No Man's Land is not to remain a postscript to this great work. It is perhaps the piece's other speaker, Roderick Williams's Cockney Sergeant Slack who emerges most poignantly, the jarring optimism of his bar ballads tarnished by cynical shrugs of orchestration - a lurking string pedal point, a dark chord in the low woodwind.

A thrilling reminder of why Layton has established himself as one of the finest choral conductors worldwide, the Mozart Requiem that followed transmuted the personal memorials of the first half into a generous and urgent testament to all humanity.

While Polyphony (particularly their men) are capable of some seriously wrathful thundering, it was with exploratory fragility that we opened - a musical plea (and an uncertain one at that) rather than the more traditional command, "Grant them eternal rest, O Lord." Framed by this vulnerability the operatic drama of the "Dies Irae" took fresh emphasis, illuminated by lightning flashes of consonants that the choir flung out into the audience. Only the solo quartet occasionally faltered, unbalanced by Bostridge whose voice, while expressive, seemed to belong to a different ensemble, lacking the fuller-textured vibrato of his colleagues and sitting particularly awkwardly in duets with soprano Emma Bell.

Homage; epitaph; memorial: this was a concert of rare intellect, a programme whose musical reach exceeded its grasp to substantial and poignant effect. While English music-making is much the poorer for the loss of Hickox, his legacy will long persist in the hands of such colleagues, collaborators and institutions.

DE AGOSTINI PICTURE LIBRARY / BRIDGEMAN IMAGES
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Eighty pages in to Age of Anger, I still had no idea what it was about

When Pankaj Mishra describes a “postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”, he inadvertently summarises his own book.

Most books arrive on the market dragging a comet tail of context: the press release, the blurb on the back, the comparison with another book that sold well (sometimes this is baked into the title, as with a spate of novels in which grown women were recast as “girls”, variously gone, or on the train, or with dragon tattoos or pearl earrings). Before you even start reading, you know pretty much what you will get.

So I was particularly disconcerted to reach page 80 of Pankaj Mishra’s Age of Anger and realise that I didn’t really know what it was about. The prologue starts with a recap of the tyrannical career of the Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio, namechecks The Communist Manifesto, describes how Europeans were enthralled by Napoleon’s “quasi-autistic machismo”, links this to the “great euphoria” experienced in 1914, mentions that Eugene Onegin “wears a tony ‘Bolívar’ hat”, then dwells on Rimbaud’s belief that not washing made him a better writer, before returning to D’Annunzio to conclude that his life “crystallised many themes of our own global ferment as well as those of his spiritually agitated epoch”.

Psychologists have demonstrated that the maximum number of things that a human can hold in their brain is about seven. The prologue is titled “Forgotten Conjunctures”. I might know why they have been forgotten.

Two pages later, Mishra is at it again. How’s this for a paragraph?

After all, Maxim Gorky, the Bolshevik, Muhammad Iqbal, the poet-advocate of “pure” Islam, Martin Buber, the exponent of the “New Jew”, and Lu Xun, the campaigner for a “New Life” in China, as well as D’Annunzio, were all devotees of Nietzsche. Asian anti-imperialists and American robber barons borrowed equally eagerly from the 19th-century polymath Herbert Spencer, the first truly global thinker – who, after reading Darwin, coined the term “survival of the fittest”. Hitler revered Atatürk (literally “the father of the Turks”) as his guru; Lenin and Gramsci were keen on Taylorism, or “Americanism”; American New Dealers later borrowed from Mussolini’s “corporatism”.

This continues throughout. The dizzying whirl of names began to remind me of Wendy Cope’s “Waste Land Limericks”: “No water. Dry rocks and dry throats/Then thunder, a shower of quotes/From the Sanskrit and Dante./Da. Damyata. Shantih./I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.”

The trouble comes because Mishra has set himself an enormous subject: explaining why the modern world, from London to Mumbai and Mosul, is like it is. But the risk of writing about everything is that one can end up writing about nothing. (Hang on, I think I might be echoing someone here. Perhaps this prose style is contagious. As Nietzsche probably wrote.) Too often, the sheer mass of Mishra’s reading list obscures the narrative connective tissue that should make sense of his disparate examples.

By the halfway point, wondering if I was just too thick to understand it, I did something I don’t normally do and read some other reviews. One recorded approvingly that Mishra’s “vision is . . . resistant to categorisation”. That feels like Reviewer Code to me.

His central thesis is that the current “age of anger” – demonstrated by the rise of Islamic State and right-wing nationalism across Europe and the US – is best understood by looking at the 18th century. Mishra invokes the concept of “ressentiment”, or projecting resentment on to an external enemy; and the emergence of the “clash of civilisations” narrative, once used to justify imperialism (“We’re bringing order to the natives”) and now used to turn Islamic extremism from a political challenge into an existential threat to the West.

It is on the latter subject that Mishra is most readable. He grew up in “semi-rural India” and now lives between London and Shimla; his prose hums with energy when he feels that he is writing against a dominant paradigm. His skirmish with Niall Ferguson over the latter’s Civilisation: the West and the Rest in the London Review of Books in 2011 was highly enjoyable, and there are echoes of that fire here. For centuries, the West has presumed to impose a narrative on the developing world. Some of its current anxiety and its flirtation with white nationalism springs from the other half of the globe talking back.

On the subject of half of us getting a raw deal, this is unequivocally a history of men. We read about Flaubert and Baudelaire “spinning dreams of virility”, Gorky’s attachment to the idea of a “New Man” and the cultural anxieties of (male) terrorists. Poor Madame de Staël sometimes seems like the only woman who ever wrote a book.

And yet, in a book devoted to unpicking hidden connections, the role of masculinity in rage and violence is merely noted again and again without being explored. “Many intelligent young men . . . were breaking their heads against the prison walls of their societies” in the 19th century, we learn. Might it not be interesting to ask whether their mothers, sisters and daughters were doing the same? And if not, why?

Mishra ends with the present, an atomised, alienated world of social media and Kim Kardashian. Isis, we are told, “offers a postmodern collage rather than a coherent doctrine”. That is also a good description of this book. 

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era