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Reviewed: Lyrical Journey on Radio 4

The sunshine boys.

Lyrical Journey
Radio 4

A new series of Lyrical Journey (Sundays, 1.30pm) – each episode travelling to the geographical setting of a famous song in the company of the songwriter – opened with the Proclaimers’ “Sunshine on Leith”, an imploring sea shanty that starts like an inner groan silently rising (“my heart was broken”) only to reach a euphoric place commemorating new love (“thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you”).

Released as a single in 1988, it reached just 41 in the UK charts but has since become the anthem of fans of Hibernian FC and is chosen as the first dance at one in 11 Scottish weddings. The presenter, Jonathan Maitland, pointed out that Withnail and I (released just months before) is another cultural product snubbed on release but now covered in glory.

Maitland stood overlooking Leith, the port district of Edinburgh on the shore of the Firth of Forth, with the Proclaimers – the Reid brothers, Charlie and Craig – whose permanently blushing-plum complexions and thick-rimmed specs have always given them the look of men who prefer to smell out those with similarly tender hearts. Long before international airports and “all that nonsense”, said a local historian standing with them, with a sigh heavy as a cannonball, Leith was the inspiration for Treasure Island. Robert Louis Stevenson’s grandfather built the lighthouses across the Forth, and Leith was a seaman’s den, seething with sailors from all over the world.

Memorably, Craig Reid – prodded by a sweetly fan-boyish Maitland – spoke about writing the song. “To be honest, I don’t know how I wrote it it. Or really remember getting it,” he started. From his lips, almost uniquely, this didn’t sound smug or unlikely, or an attempt to distance himself from the rest of the world living quieter lives.

There was no hint of the terrible, self-congratulatory way that some writers hint at “voices descending”, as though all this was all beyond their control, entirely unbidden and not ordered. Reid shrugged off hints of anything mystical – instinctively knowing that some things are better left unsaid – and just put it perfectly: “I think if you work at something hard enough and often enough you will get something eventually that feels like divine inspiration. Whether it is or not, I don’t know.”

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 18 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iraq: ten years on

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Shell-shock symphony: Berg’s Wozzeck – opera’s take on post-traumatic stress disorder

Begun in 1914 and premiered in 1925, Wozzeck has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects.

When I was 12 years old, I made a devastating discovery. The arias from my favourite operas – Rigoletto, Turandot, The Barber of Seville – which I played over and over again, winding and rewinding the cassettes ­until they ceased to work, did not ­necessarily have words that matched the beauty of the music. Intense study of a book I had received for Christmas called Stories from Opera taught me that although some of the soaring melodies I adored carried words about love, death, horror and tragedy, other lyrics, in translation, proved to be people agreeing where to meet later, or misremembering each other’s names.

This crushing disappointment came to mind again recently while I was listening to an edition of Radio 3’s Building a Library, a segment of its regular Saturday-morning CD review, in which new releases are compared and contrasted with archive recordings to find the best listening experience. The reviewer Gillian Moore was surveying the available recordings of Alban Berg’s Wozzeck. She gave credit to several English-language recordings for the clarity they offer newcomers to this work, but eventually concluded that she must recommend a version using the original German, because there were crucial aural elements that could not be reproduced without it.

Moore, now director of music at the Southbank Centre, chose to kick off a series of semi-staged concert performances of operas with Wozzeck. Although undoubtedly an opera, it was a far cry from the fairy stories and doomed romances that filled my pre-teen ears, but it worked surprisingly well stripped of scenery, costumes and other theatrical accoutrements.

Zurich Opera’s presentation placed importance on the orchestral score above all else, allowing its jagged and insistent lines to remind us that this is music born of the dark years between the world wars. Begun in 1914, but delayed while Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian army (it premiered in 1925), it has class struggle, poverty and mental health problems as its principal subjects. The score owes much to Berg’s fellow Viennese composers Gustav Mahler and Arnold Schoenberg (Mahler’s widow put up the money for the initial publication of the score). At times in this production, the orchestra was so utterly central that it felt like a symphony with singing, rather than vocal melodies with accompaniment.

The Wozzeck of the title is a poor soldier, flawed and dogged by madness and visions we would probably now see as signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. He scrapes a living for his girlfriend, Marie, and their son by humiliating himself before his military and class superiors (the Captain, the Doctor, the Drum Major) and by participating in degrading medical “experiments”. The star of the show, the German baritone Christian Gerhaher, had to withdraw at the last minute for health reasons, so the British singer Leigh Melrose stepped in to reprise his Wozzeck from the widely acclaimed 2013 ENO production. Despite performing from behind a music stand, Melrose acquitted himself well, handling the transitions between Berg’s three singing styles: “half-singing”, Sprechgesang (or “spoken singing”) and full vocalisation to great effect.

Gun-Brit Barkmin, with a severe Twenties bob and a flowing scarlet dress, was a superb Marie – alternately harsh and soft as the music demanded it, flirting destructively with the Drum Major while conveying how little choice she had in the matter. Of the ensemble, Lars Woldt’s Doctor particularly stood out, using the German libretto to drag every ounce of black comedy out of his character’s fascination with Wozzeck’s bodily functions. The high vocal standard proved Moore’s point about the necessity of the original German libretto – it is a difficult language to sing, because of all the harsh consonants and modified vowels, but when used expertly can be unendingly expressive. We hear this in the way the double “zz” of the title character’s name becomes a derisory bitten-off “tz” in the mouth of the Captain; and Wozzeck’s exclamation in Act I that “Du, der Platz ist verflucht!” sounds so much more accursed and deranged with all those consonants in such close proximity.

The German sociologist Theodor Adorno once called Berg “the foreign minister of the land of his dreams”, much to the composer’s amusement; but, hearing the score for Wozzeck laid so bare, you understand what Adorno meant. The incredible double crescendo on a single B from the orchestra after Wozzeck murders Marie – raised by the conductor Fabio Luisi in this performance to an unbearable volume before being allowed to die away – feels like music from an other-worldly nightmare. Yet, for the war-battered men who inspired Wozzeck, his tragic half-life was all too real.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis