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8 Nov 2017

TO HEAR SIBELIUS, DO WE REALLY NEED TO KNOW ABOUT FINLAND?

8 Nov

2017


A few days before its concert marking Finland’s centenary on 7 December, the Philharmonia Orchestra and Southbank Centre will present an afternoon of talks and discussions on the subject – and a little context goes a long way, argues curator Andrew Mellor.

On 2 December at Southbank Centre, I’ll be introducing a series of talks, discussions, videos and performances focussing on Finland’s journey to independence in 1917 and the role art and music played in that process. The afternoon is part of a series of similar events at Southbank Centre that fall under the title What You Need To Know.

The obvious question that title raises – particularly if you’re planning to hear the Philharmonia Orchestra play some truly astonishing music by the Finnish composer Jean Sibelius on 7 December – is this: do you really need to know about any of the things we’ll be discussing?

Some might answer that question with a resolute ‘no’. Music is music, they could legitimately argue: it doesn’t need any geo-political or historical baggage to make its point or to move its listeners. To some extent, I agreed. But as someone who came to music because I love what it does to my ears and my senses rather more than what it represents in the way of knowledge gathering or intellectual nourishment, I would politely disagree.

For me, and I suspect for many others, context and investigative discussion can unlock certain elements in a piece of music that would otherwise lie undiscovered. Historical facts, parallel creative narratives and explanations of musical structure and process all reveal things about music that can make us hear it differently; that can make elements of it speak more vitally, painfully, beautifully and universally.

Here’s an example. On 7 December, Esa-Pekka Salonen and the Philharmonia Orchestra will play Sibelius’s Lemminkäinen Suite – a set of four orchestral movements that tell a story in music drawn from Finland’s epic poem, The Kalevala. The first movement of the suite is one of the strangest and most distinctive stretches of music Sibelius or anybody wrote. It seems to sustain itself purely through intangibly sourced momentum, and to contain no themes or tunes at all. I thought long and hard for many years about what might be going on inside that piece of music to make it so distinctive and so ‘ordinarily’ exciting – music that gets down on its hands and knees and talks to its audience as equals.



 

The answer isn’t in many music textbooks or even in the score itself (certainly not if you don’t know what you’re looking for). But it is in the historical context; in what was going on at the time Sibelius wrote that stretch of music and how those things influenced him. In fact, the composer was borrowing a structural technique from a certain tradition of Finnish folk singing based on cumulative repetition and slow transformation. If you came to hear Ilona Korhonen singing ‘runo song’ after the Philharmonia’s performance of Sibelius’s last two symphonies in September, you’ll have heard that tradition – or a version of it – first hand. 

Once you hear the ‘runo song’ elements at work in his music, you can more easily grasp Sibelius’s procedures. But perhaps more significantly, you can start to understand how his art was rooted in something deeper than just writing functional, purposeful music. It was wrapped up in new ideas of ‘Finnishness’ that were infiltrating the upper reaches of Finland’s creative life in the years before the country declared independence from Russia. Ethically or not, many such indigenous elements were declared representative of the country’s ‘identity’, an identity that was seen as pre-requisite by leading figures mobilising the populace for independence.

Does that, in turn, give extra weight to the sense of striving and pining we hear in the first part of the Lemminkäinen Suite? And if so, should it? Finland’s process of forging a national identity in art influenced a lot of painting, literature, music and even architecture from the late 1800s into the twentieth century. But when we look back on it now, the story doesn’t seem quite so straightforward.

Two people who know more about that than most are the guest speakers at our event – the real experts. Daniel Grimley is one of the world’s leading thinkers in the area of Nordic music and its relationship to worldwide musical currents as well as traits and agendas closer to home. He has some fascinating, evolving thoughts on the subject. His colleague from the University of Oxford, Eveliina Pulkki, is equally well placed to discuss some of the untruths and hidden truths that surround Finland’s artistic reputation and place them in a broader cultural and social context. Not only has she conducted extensive original research in the field, she also happens to be a Finn.

Eveliina, in fact, will help us look beyond Sibelius, an exercise that might help us glance back at the composer and his music with fresh eyes and ears. So too will the music of a composer who wrote at the same time as Sibelius and in the same country, but in a different style: we’ll hear live music by Toivo Kuula (1883-1918) courtesy of the Philharmonia Orchestra’s MMSF Instrumental Fellowship programme. We’ll also hear, via video, from Esa-Pekka Salonen and from the Finnish violinist Pekka Kuusisto. Sibelius himself will even put in a brief appearance on screen too.

Hopefully that will make you consider joining us on 2 December. If you do, I hope you’ll discover something new about Finland and its cultural life that will enhance your enjoyment of Finnish art, be it music, photography, literature of even film. But I also hope you’ll bring your own ideas – that you’ll challenge all of us who speak and ask the questions that interest and occupy you, whatever they might be. Sibelius loved nothing more than a frank, free, lively discussion with friends. We hope – minus the large quantities of alcohol – to enjoy the same.

Andrew Mellor


27 Oct 2017

ASTOR PIAZZOLLA: THE FOUR SEASONS

27 Oct

2017


On Thursday 2 November, the Philharmonia Chamber Players continue their free early-evening concert series with a performance of Piazzolla's Estaciones Porteñas (The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires).

Bandoneonist Julian Rowlands introduces his arrangements and the world of Astor Piazzolla in this post.

Bandoneonist and composer Astor Piazzolla is the most famous representative of Argentinian tango music. His work transcends the genre of tango, referencing classical music, jazz and rock, and entering the worlds of opera, literature and film.

Piazzolla's Cuatro Estaciones Porteñas (Four Seasons of Buenos Aires) were not originally conceived as a suite. The first movement to be composed, Verano Porteño (Summer), was written in 1965 as incidental music for the play Melenita de Oro by Alberto Rodríguez Muñoz. Piazzolla also immediately created an arrangement of the piece for the traditional tango orchestra of his mentor Aníbal Troilo that was recorded in 1967. Otoño (Autumn) was written in 1969, and Primavera and Invierno (Spring and Winter) in 1970.

Many of Piazzolla's major works, including the Estaciones, were written for tango ensembles, the majority for a quintet consisting of bandoneon, violin, electric guitar, piano and bass. Classical ensembles usually perform these works in arrangements. The Estaciones are frequently heard by concert audiences today in the arrangement for violin and strings written by Leonid Desyatnikov in 1996-8 that was popularised by Gidon Kremer. Desyatnikov's version is a work of recomposition that incorporates sections from Vivaldi's Four Seasons (Quattro Stagioni) and passages by the arranger to create a concertante suite for the violin. It is a very effective concert work that doesn't require an extensive knowledge of tango performance practises to perform.


I have taken a different approach in the arrangements of the Estaciones that I have made for bandoneon and string quintet, and by way of explanation I will describe how I see the tradition of Argentinian tango and the music of Piazzolla as related to, but distinct from, European art music or classical music.

Piazzolla studied with the great 20th century classical figures Alberto Ginastera and Nadia Boulanger, but as a performer he worked for most of his life within the tradition of Argentinian tango. Tango argentino is an art music tradition in which orchestras (the “orquestas típicas de tango”) employed professional arrangers, but the score is often a preliminary that is altered, developed and embellished in rehearsal and performance. Piazzolla composed at the piano and then changed anything that didn't work in rehearsal with his band. Final performance versions weren't captured in the scores that were eventually published.

Tango musicians understand how to create the rhythmic structures notated in Piazzolla's scores in shorthand, how to add articulation and dynamics to shape the phrase, and to vary the rhythmic structure of melodies. In the extensive solos passages, the lines as notated are a simple framework on which Piazzolla and violinist Fernando Suárez Paz hang their intricate, rhapsodic embellishments. The most difficult aspect of this embellishment for classical musicians is the so-called “fraseo” (phrasing), where the soloist pushes and pulls the tempo against the steady pulse of the accompanying instruments; any tendency to follow the soloist breaks the phrasing, so the ensemble has to brutally resist their instinct to play in the sensitive manner that is engrained in chamber musicians!



The relationship between score and realisation in tango is more similar to baroque music than to any other genre: there is a role for embellishment but not for extensive improvisation over a chord sequence, and a sense of dance is important, even in works that weren't written to be danced. Piazzolla's music resembles baroque music structurally: it often reduces to two contrapuntal melody lines with a bass, and piano and guitar perform a continuo-like role in between obbligato passages. Imagine if we had recordings of Vivaldi and Corelli performing their own pieces – what a revelation that would be. But in the case of Piazzolla we do have the recordings, and with a piece like Verano Porteño we can follow the development of Piazzolla's interpretation through the successive recordings that he made. In tango the recording is the authoritative text, and the primary means of transmitting the tradition in Argentina is through transcription and recreation of recordings under the guidance of experienced teachers. We can create versions of the great classic tangos that are faithful replicas of recorded performances and that serve as a starting point for our own interpretations, which can then develop from performance to performance in a continuation of the tradition.

The arrangements that I have written are closely modelled on Piazzolla's recordings with his quintet, except for Verano Porteño, which is based on the extended version that he created for his nonet consisting of bandoneon, electric guitar, piano, drums, string quartet and bass. So in this movement I was able to recreate much of the string writing using the same instrumentation.


Decisions have to be made regarding how much and how exactly one includes passages that may be spur of the moment creations, sometimes simplifying in order to allow space for new interpretative ideas, while trying to capture the moments of ecstatic rhapsody in a way that will bear recreation without becoming stale. There were passages where I asked myself: is this too crazy to include in a concert version? But I mostly resisted the temptation to censor or to bowdlerise and I will leave it to audiences to decide whether I made the right calls. I think that it pays off to study the recorded versions deeply and repeatedly in order to gain an insight into the decision making and creative processes that forged this repertoire.

Piazzolla was a great composer who spent a lifetime working his musical material and producing many masterpieces, while simultaneously maintaining a performance career at a high level. He also represents the visible tip of an iceberg when it comes to Argentinian tango music, and I hope that as more musicians take an interest in performing his music in the stylistic traditions of Buenos Aires, they will also explore the repertoire of the great orquestas típicas – of Aníbal Troilo, so important in Piazzolla's development, and also of Osvaldo Pugliese, Carlos di Sarli, Pedro Laurenz, Juan D'Arienzo, Osvaldo Fresedo, Florindo Sassone ….

© Julian Rowlands: bandoneon.co.uk


24 Oct 2017

Joseph Phibbs: Clarinet Concerto

24 Oct

2017


On 4 and 5 November, the Philharmonia Orchestra and Principal Clarinet Mark van de Wiel perform the premiere of a new Clarinet Concerto by British composer Joseph Phibbs, in concerts in Basingstoke and London conducted by Edward Gardner.

In this article, Joseph Phibbs introduces the piece and explores the influences that shaped the concerto.

This 24 minute work is the result of a long and creative friendship with Mark van de Wiel, whose extraordinary expressive and technical scope – ranging from standard classical repertoire to the most demanding contemporary works – in large part shaped the work’s form and character.

Comprising four movements, the work opens with a slow introduction, the unfolding of the clarinet’s opening theme supported by soft, sustained strings. A type of rondo emerges, signalled by a soft pizzicato ostinato in the lower stings over which the clarinet’s earlier theme is transformed into a solitary, blues-inspired refrain. The mood here is urban, snatches of dance rhythms accompanying the soloist’s ever-expanding melodic gestures, while elsewhere a myriad of orchestral figuration (first in the woodwind, and later the strings) is suggestive of city lights.

A more lyrical theme appears towards the end of the movement, before giving way to a fast coda. A cadenza serves as a bridge to the second movement, a fast and unsettled type of nocturne-fantasy whose principal thematic material is defined by a short recurring scalic figure in the clarinet which expands and transforms as the movement progresses. A number of contrasting episodes allude to various non-classical traditions to which the clarinet is often linked, including Eastern European folk music, before the movement closes abruptly.  



The third movement, a slow and at times mournful vocalise, is reminiscent of the work’s opening by way of its pared-down orchestral scoring, and features a simple repeated harmonic pattern over which the soloist ‘sings’ in an often impassioned and at times strident manner.

Following without a break, the fourth movement harks back to the urban-inspired world of the first, though here with greater abandon. Ever denser, rising chords in the orchestra punctuate florid gestures in the clarinet, before leading to a faster coda. A syncopated passacaglia emerges, inspired by its literal meaning (‘street walk’), the soloist’s at times wild, quasi-improvisatory lines weaving through a constantly shifting orchestral backdrop, underpinned by the repeated bass line which characterises this form. This in turn accelerates towards the end of the movement to form a faster ‘walking bass’, before a final ascending flourish brings the work to a close.

My thanks to Mark, the work’s dedicatee; the Philharmonia, at the suggestion of former Managing Director David Whelton; and Malmö Live Konserthus, at the suggestion of Per Hedberg, Head of Programming, for their generous support.

© Joseph Phibbs

Commissioned by Mark van de Wiel, the Philharmonia Orchestra and Malmö Live Konserthus.

Film: Watch Phibbs introduce his previous Philharmonia commission, Rivers to the Sea, winner of the orchestral category of the 2013 British Composer Awards.


11 Oct 2017

Voices of Revolution: Martin Sixsmith on Battleship Potemkin

11 Oct

2017

Series Advisor Martin Sixsmith introduces Eisenstein's 1925 masterpiece, Battleship Potemkin, ahead of the opening concert of the Philharmonia's Voices of Revolution series with Vladimir Ashkenazy on 12 October.

Most of us know at least something about Battleship Potemkin. The images of the massacre on the steps, the child’s pram careening down them and the old woman shot through her spectacles are celebrated icons of political cinema. But how many of us know what led up to the massacre? What year it took place? If indeed it did take place?

Sergei Eisenstein’s film is set not in 1917, but twelve years earlier, in June 1905. The Tsarist regime had been rocked by two cataclysmic events, the Bloody Sunday revolt in February and military disaster in the Russo-Japanese War in May. Spooked by unrest at home and gambling on the distraction of a foreign war, Nicholas II had sent the Russian fleet half way round the world to engage the Japanese in the Straits of Tsushima.

The outcome was a seaborne charge of the light brigade, the worst naval defeat in Russian history. Outmoded, underequipped ships advanced into a hail of concentrated enemy fire to be picked off and sunk, one after the other. Eight battleships and four cruisers went down before the Russian admiral raised the flag of surrender. Four thousand men were dead, another seven thousand taken prisoner.

Russia had been humiliated and anger with the Tsar boiled over. “An unparalleled crime was committed by those who sent us to our deaths”, wrote Vladimir Kostenko, ship’s engineer of the cruiser Oryol. “Our decrepit, degenerate monarchy was hoping for a miracle, but instead got the catastrophe of Tsushima. It is Tsarism that has been smashed by the Japanese guns. It is Tsarism that bears the shame of this defeat. The whole absolutist system is morally bankrupt!”



Discontent spread quickly. In the southern port of Odessa, sailors of the Black Sea fleet rose up in protest. It was a natural subject for Bolshevik propaganda and in 1925 – the twentieth anniversary of the revolt – Eisenstein’s film made the most of it. We see the sailors on the Potemkin abused by their masters, forced to eat maggot-infested meat and threatened with a firing squad when they complain. The film draws us into indignant complicity with the men’s plight; we share their exaltation when the mutiny spreads to other ships then to the inhabitants of Odessa itself.

The drama is compelling and Eisenstein uses ground-breaking cinematography to intensify its impact. Rapid intercutting between shots, subliminal frames with images evoking pity or horror combine with sophisticated montage techniques to give the film an enduring potency. It was judged so powerful, in fact, that it was banned in several countries, including in Britain until 1954, on the grounds that it would foment social unrest.

But as with so many revolutionary legends, the Potemkin events were less dramatic than their subsequent portrayal. The film’s most celebrated scene of Tsarist Cossacks slaughtering civilians on the steps leading to the docks did not happen. There were clashes elsewhere in Odessa, but it was Eisenstein’s genius that transposed them to the now legendary location. And the final tableau of the pro-Tsarist flotilla switching sides to grant the revolutionaries safe passage out of the port is largely fantasy. So convincing were Eisenstein’s efforts, however, that more than one history book has reported them as fact.

By the time the film was made, the Bolshevik regime had decreed that all art should be clear and simple, with a political message comprehensible to the even the least educated. Eisenstein’s task was to elicit a visceral response from his audience, to channel their sympathies in the correct political direction; and because dialogue was impossible in the era of silent movies, the role of the soundtrack took on added significance. The film needed music that would heighten the onscreen emotions and reinforce its effectiveness as agitprop.



The Austrian socialist composer Edmund Meisel, who wrote the score for the first international screening in Berlin, did a solid job. Delays in getting the film passed by the censor meant he had only 12 days to complete it, but he worked hard to match the music to the action on the screen – not always the case with film scores in the past.

Eisenstein liked Meisel’s music, but expressed the hope that a new score would be written every 20 years. Only that, he felt, would preserve the film’s freshness and guarantee its impact on future audiences, as musical tastes changed. It was an expression of faith in Potemkin’s longevity, a faith that has been justified. New scores were written in 1950, 1985, 2004 and 2011 by different Soviet and Western composers.

In 1975, when the Soviet authorities released a fiftieth-anniversary edition of the film, extracts from three Shostakovich symphonies were assembled into a slightly cumbersome soundtrack, beginning and ending with the supposedly triumphant D Major fanfares and finale from number 5. The use of well-known bleeding chunks was hardly subtle, and the score that will be performed by the Philharmonia and Vladimir Ashkenazy attempts to remedy that by deploying a wider range of Shostakovich themes (from symphonies 4, 5, 8, 10 and 11) in a version that succeeds in sounding more organically connected to the storyline.

Marrying film and live music is not always simple, however, and Eisenstein himself left a warning in his memoirs that should keep modern day performers on their toes. “A 1929 showing of Potemkin in London,” he writes, “was utterly ruined because they varied the projection speed to help fit it to the music. They destroyed the whole rhythm of the thing and, for the first time in my film’s existence, the audience burst into laughter.”

© Martin Sixsmith



12 May 2017

Lawrence Power, Viola: Breaking the Mould

12 May

2017


On Thursday 1 June 2017, British viola player Lawrence Power makes his second appearance with the Philharmonia Orchestra this season. Digital Producer Marina Vidor explains why his performances with the Orchestra are a little bit different.

We meet violist Lawrence Power for a coffee well in advance of filming with him. He’s relaxed and keen to talk about the solo viola pieces he has programmed ahead of the two concerti he is performing with the Philharmonia this season: Julian Anderson’s Prayer ahead of the Walton Viola Concerto (12 February 2017) and Esa-Pekka Salonen’s Pentatonic Étude ahead of the Bartók Viola Concerto (1 June 2017). He is committed to breaking out of current classical music programming trends and trying new approaches – in this case solo pieces that introduce a concerto.


"I have always been fascinated by the cycle we find ourselves in with programming. The whole ‘overture-concerto-symphony’ is very much a sort of fashion we’re in at the moment. Maybe we’re slightly coming out of it now – certainly with the Philharmonia, who are doing some really innovative things. You look at some of the early 20th century programmes, late 19th century programmes, of [Joseph] Joachim, for example… It’s just wonderful what they put together, seemingly incongruous things."

Lawrence Power


We agree to make a music video featuring Esa-Pekka Salonen’s Pentatonic Étude, written for Power, as a preview for audiences coming to our June concert. Get a sneak peek here – we release a full video performance of the piece on Friday 19 May on our YouTube Channel.


Several months later we film Lawrence performing the Pentatonic Étude in his agent’s gallery space in Wandsworth, southwest London. MaestroArts has a beautiful art gallery with a good acoustic and we are blessed with a sunny winter morning. The gallery’s walls feature botanically inspired prints by the artist Jan Hendrix. The crew is excited because we’re making the first recording of this brilliant solo piece composed by Salonen in 2008, full of dazzling technique and folk-inspired warmth. Power’s Antonio Brenzi viola, made in Bologna circa 1590, fills the room with sound.

Because the viola has fewer solo works written for it than, say, the violin or cello, Power is committed to increasing the size and scope of its repertoire. In this way he continues the rich tradition within Britain of great violists inspiring composers. Lionel Tertis (1876-1975) and William Primrose (1904-1982) were two of the greatest violists who have ever lived and throughout their careers encouraged composers to write for their instrument, resulting in a number of important new pieces for the viola including compositions by Arnold Bax, Frank Bridge, Benjamin Britten, Gustav Holst, Benjamin Dale, York Bowen, Ralph Vaughan Williams and William Walton. Béla Bartók started his Viola Concerto for Primrose, but left it unfinished at his death in 1945; it was finished by violist Tibor Serly, who had been Bartók’s apprentice. Lawrence Power has premiered works written for him by Mark-Anthony Turnage, Julian Anderson, Huw Watkins, Alexander Goehr, Olga Neuwirth and of course, Esa-Pekka Salonen. 


"The opportunity to work with composers is an honour, really. It’s the greatest thing. To start from scratch and to present something without any influence, without any history… It keeps you so fresh as a musician, just to be aware of all of those processes at their very infancy. When you go back to classical repertoire and having worked with composers a lot, I take back so much freedom. You’re not paralysed by history, by style, or by what people will think of the way you play Beethoven or Bach."

Lawrence Power


Salonen’s Penatonic Étude was written to lead straight into the Bartók Viola Concerto and makes reference to the concerto’s opening pentatonic (five-note) scale. Tickets for Lawrence Power performing with the Philharmonia on 1 June are still available. Gustavo Gimeno conducts, with Mahler Symphony No. 1 in the second half. Click here to book: https://www.philharmonia.co.uk/concerts/1622

Watch the full interview with Lawrence Power here:


28 Apr 2017

Inspirations Part III: What To Expect

28 Apr

2017


The next concert in our Inspirations series with Esa-Pekka Salonen and pianist Pierre-Laurent Aimard, on Thursday 4 May, juxtaposes the music of Debussy and Boulez in an original way. Philharmonia Concerts Manager Natasha Riordan-Eva explains what will happen on the night.

When seen in isolation, colours can look beautiful, but flat. But when we see colours alongside each other, we see the connections between the different shades, the subtleties of how the addition of tones can create warmth or a sense of cold, light and darkness, and how colours complement each other. At our concert on Thursday 4 May, we delve into the sound worlds of Claude Debussy and Pierre Boulez and the beauty of this concert is the order in which the pieces will be performed.

Esa-Pekka Salonen has curated the order of the first half in which the works of Debussy and Boulez will interrupt each other; each piece will lead into the next without a pause and, like seeing colours together, the soundscapes of Boulez and Debussy will complement and inform each other:

BOULEZ Notations IV, for solo piano (1’)
BOULEZ Notations IV, for orchestra (2’)
DEBUSSY 'Gigues', from Images (7’)
BOULEZ Notations VII, for solo piano (1’)
BOULEZ Notations VII, for orchestra (6’)
DEBUSSY 'Rondes de Printemps', from Images (8’)
BOULEZ Notations II, for solo piano (20")
BOULEZ Notations II, for orchestra (2’)
-interval-
DEBUSSY Fantasie for Piano and Orchestra (26’)
DEBUSSY La mer (24’)
 

The solo piano miniatures will be performed by Pierre-Laurent Aimard who is no stranger to this concept. In 2010 Aimard presented Collage Montage at the Aldeburgh Festival, a concert in which Pierre-Laurent chose various solo piano works and crafted them together to create a single line of music. Works bled into each other with the fluidity of watercolour paint and pieces you wouldn’t think had anything in common effectively became extensions of each other.

That concert has been at the back of my mind as I’ve been listening to the Boulez and Debussy works we will perform on Thursday. I’ve started to hear things in the music that I hadn’t heard before. Now I hear part of Debussy Gigues in the Seventh of Boulez’s solos piano Notations – is this really my mind hearing something new or am I actively seeking similarities? Do the piano Notations sound less harsh if they are heard in the context of the Debussy works? Does the Debussy sound more contemporary alongside the Boulez? Listen to our Spotify playlist and see what you think:



 

The beauty of presenting music in this order is that as the listener your ears and intuition are on high alert as you are transported to different sound-worlds. Whether you know these works well or whether you are a first-time listener, this concert will allow you to experience these brilliant compositions in an order that has been curated by Esa-Pekka Salonen, whoknows these scores inside-out and understands how they can be crafted together to create a one-off experience.

To enhance the atmosphere, lighting designer Colin Grenfell has created tailored lighting for the first half. We want the concert experience to enhance the experience, and the different moods of the solo piano and orchestral music will be reflected in the lighting. Surtitles will indicate when each new piece begins.

The opening of the second half is a step backwards in time from the Boulez. Debussy started working on the Fantaisie for Piano and Orchestra in 1889 when he was 27, and whilst there are hints of his later harmonic language the mystery of Images is not yet there. Fast forward a few years and we reach La mer: this is Debussy at the height of his creative powers. Sun shimmers on the water, waves crash and the wind tears through the sea. Salonen has said that ‘no matter how many times you have looked at every note [of La Mer]…it only sounds new.'

Debussy broke ground with this piece, and surprised his contemporaries who had thought they knew Debussy’s ‘style’. A fitting end to a concert devoted to two artists who took music to the edge, conducted and performed by two musicians who in turn continue to push boundaries.

Tickets for Inspirations: Debussy & Boulez, on Thursday 4 May 2017, are still a available. Click here to book tickets.

Image: Esa-Pekka Salonen conducts Stravinsky's Les noces, featuring Pierre-Laurent Aimard (right-hand side of the image) on 26 May 2015, as part of the Philharmonia's Stravinsky: Myths & Rituals series.