Romance on the Rhine

The day was cold. The church hall was small. Concert goers straggled in, their dark winter coats and sombre clothing giving an impression they were refugees queuing up to be processed. A hum of conversation gradually filled the space. The pianist was already seated at the Yamaha grand piano. She was conferring with her white-haired page turner. Microphones were placed either side of the dais, where a couple of floral arrangements were dwarfed by the massive pipes of the church organ.

I scanned the programme. Romance on the Rhine…a recital of divine German and French songs. I flipped the pages casually. English translations stressed the huge gap between composers of earlier centuries, and the music of today. Romance? These flowery lyrics hardly fit our world. The news is awful, the economy is bad, terrorists and pollution are our daily diet. We have dug ourselves into a low state of confidence and trust.

One thinks such thoughts on a cold winter’s day.  But wait, the singers emerge from the wings and the pianist smiles at the audience. We hear that Act 1 comprises German composers: Mozart, Mahler, Richard Strauss and Schumann. The singer positions herself and nods to the pianist.

A pure note is heard. Something about this sound expands in my heart. German syllables fill the hall, lingering with grandeur on the ear. The lyrics are no longer trite, for I cannot understand them, nor do I want to. They speak through music, and the cares of the day evaporate.

These are art songs, we are told. They are a play between the voice and piano. I can hear this interplay as imposing passages ripple from the pianist’s hands, blending as the soprano eases forth quiet notes or soars to a climax.

Act 2 airs the French composers; Faure, Poulenc, Saint-Saens. It is the turn of the second soprano now. This romantic language draws forth her stories as in turn she is coy, devout, wistful, naughty. Always, she is a songbird. Always, the piano leads and follows, swells and dies. It is no longer a cold winter’s day. I have forgotten all the bad news. I am lifted up to another place, a place of great gifts, of art.

The last applause slows. The concert is over. Smiles and friendly greetings go with us to our cars. What a pity it is, that such experiences are not considered newsworthy. The news tonight will not even mention this event. But whatever grim facts are in store, I have the gorgeous harmonies of the Flower Duet from Lakme as my antidote. Thank you so much,  Kathleen Moore, Kathryn Dries and Sharon Raschke. 

                                     (Painting by Thomas Eakins, 'The Concert Singer'.)