It is a truth widely acknowledged that in summer a music lover ought to make the effort to attend a festival performance somewhere nice and different. But surely it does not have to be in evening dress? When it comes to dressing up, I'm more a peacock than a Gordon Brown. Black tie is fun every now and again. But bib-and-tucker opera carries a cultural message, and that message is getting out of hand. In particular, a proliferation of expensive sub-Glyndebourne country opera houses is creating a whole stratum of summer venues some of which might as well hang a notice on the gate saying, "Bugger off, proles. Your kind not wanted here."
Historically, music festivals grew out of a desire to be less formal, not more. They were places where performers and audiences could travel, relax, concentrate and enjoy. Places where the repertoire could be innovative and experimental. Places to let the hair down, not put it up.
Many festivals still have that quality, notably in democratic America. Tanglewood, to which the Boston Symphony Orchestra adjourns in the summer, is the classic example. The sense of being away from the rigours of routine is palpable, among musicians and audiences alike. Many European festivals achieve something of that quality, of course, but a few march in the other direction, not least because of their frequent dependence on corporate sponsorship. Places like Salzburg, Bayreuth and Glyndebourne can still be relaxing places for musicians to escape to—and also for audiences to enjoy—but performances at such places are socially exclusive rituals.
So it was with unmixed relief and a sense of being in an altogether more comfortable place that I made a festival trip this summer that I would encourage every opera lover to make at least once in their lifetime. It was a visit in which the quality of the artistic performance and the wholly unintimidating nature of the social experience were in concord rather than conflict. The fact that this festival was in social democratic Sweden rather than socially polarised Britain surely had something to do with it.
The Drottningholm Theatre has had a famously up-and-down history. When it was first built in 1766, this court theatre in the grounds of the Swedish royal palace on an island in the Stockholm archipelago was one of the true centres of European opera. But in the 19th century it fell into complete theatrical disuse, only to rise again in the 1920s, with its original stage machinery fully restored. In the past 80 years, there have been a few more minor ups and downs. Some years Drottningholm has struggled to present a summer festival at all—but this was also where Ingmar Bergman filmed his all but perfect Magic Flute. When I first went there 15 years ago, there were four operas in that season's repertoire. This year, there were only two.
Nevertheless, the opportunity to attend a performance of one of the world's oldest operas in one of the world's oldest opera houses—and one of the few at which it is possible to arrive by boat—is to be savoured. This year, to mark the 400th anniversary of the work's first performance, Drottningholm offered Monteverdi's L'Orfeo—the original song of love and death—in a ravishing performance directed by the festival's newly appointed music director, British-born Mark Tatlow. And there wasn't a black tie, and barely a necktie of any kind, in view.
If the Swedes can do it, why can't we? To which the answer is: we can. Go to the Holland Park opera festival season in west London, for example, and you will catch something of the same mix of artistic excellence and social informality. Both are balm to the soul. But west London is not the Stockholm archipelago, and never will be. Drottningholm is beyond compare. As Bergman's movie captures so movingly, the world there seems in harmony.
To clap or not to clap?
A couple of issues ago I suggested in this column that concert halls could take a more proactive approach to members of the audience who insist on inflicting the twin curses of coughing and mobile phones on other attendees. Given the sophistication of modern ticketing systems, I said, it ought to be possible for managements to identify these antisocial elements. Why not have a system of concert hall Asbos? One offence would get a sharp warning. A second would mean a year on the blacklist. I'm sure it would be effective.
The suggestion provoked a lively response, not least from the BBC, who rang me during the Proms to see if I would go on the radio to reprise my grumpy old man bit, this time attacking not coughers and phoners but audiences who applaud at the end of movements. I had to explain to the BBC researcher that I have no problem at all with people applauding between movements or after arias if that's what they want to do—as long as they don't interrupt the music prematurely or insensitively. Sometimes, any sort of applause can be too much. There was a remarkable example of this a year or so ago when Valery Gergiev ended Shostakovich's 4th symphony in such oppressive silence that no one applauded for more than a minute—even though it had been a towering performance.
Mostly, though, I'm against silly rules that make newcomers feel excluded or uncertain how to behave—like those affected opera buffs shouting "Brava!" or "Bravi!" rather than a plain no-nonsense "Bravo!" (if they must). I'm not in the least snobbish about or annoyed by applause after individual movements. All I ask is to be able to listen to the movements themselves without distraction. Grumpy? Me?
