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Al-Ahram Weekly 15 - 21 June 2000 Issue No. 486 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 15 - 21 June 2000 Issue No. 486
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Songs the papaya taught me
By David Blake
Gagaku: Imperial Court Music and Dance (Japan), Cairo Opera House Main Hall, 8 June
This magical, magisterial concert was a portcullis sliding gently open, enough to reveal a peep, no more, into the Heian period of Japanese history. A peep, though, is enough to arouse one's enthrallment and hope for more. It seemed short but was long and, like the era it revealed, totally unique.
At the opening the stage is bare, rather like a wrestling arena -- space everywhere. At the back of the stage, on a ramp, is the orchestra, and soon the area downstage is full of monkish tall figures clad alike in a wonderful, resinous, brown-rust colour, subtle and helping to set the scene. The atmosphere is restful but exciting.
These are the singers and they squat down on the green base square, each with his instrument. "Gagaku" literally means "elegant music," and is the oldest surviving musical tradition in Japan. It must have been formed at about the same time as the city of Heian (later Kyoto) in 794 AD. Heian grew rapidly to become a strange, isolated civilisation, dominated by a single family, the Fujiwara. The court itself was witty, tranquil, isolated, and paper thin. It blew away at the first signs of trouble, but its great times extended well into the tenth century. The chief fascination of the performance was to hear the music this strange, fastidious race enjoyed, and see the dance they produced, because for Europeans, except the specialists, Heian is further afield than Mars.
As it happened the first two pieces, choral and instrumental, sounded close to home. The composition was clearly laid out -- the phrases rounded off like any classical music, and strangest of all, the keys are clearly major or minor, no quarter tones, so the Western ear is not troubled, as it often is, by the abrasive and more aggressive sounds of the Arab scales. How far east does one have to go to reach the comfort of the simple major key? And it is so long ago. The instruments, however, sound very oriental -- the flutes Egyptian, and an instrument like the qanoun makes the same gentle keyboard sound as it always has in Cairo. The voices are not dark but float to the heights, pale and white. The effect is comfortable and restful, with plenty of silence in between the stops and gaps.
In the last piece an emotion approaching despair rose out of the composition, and the sounds and accents were reminiscent of Webern. So there was really nowhere else for the Heian to go -- they had found out all about music while we were bracing ourselves for the shock of the baroque. The effect was of meeting, in the same dream, a collection of ghosts. Luxurious sounds, and then the dance begins. This was the majestic part of the concert, and the most mysterious.
The last half of the programme was divided into four sections. The opening section was a Spring Flower Dance by four identically clad men, taller than the opening monks, their costumes seeming to extenuate their size. The question arises, are they real or are they on stilts? They are for real because there are squats and lunges revealing live human bodies beneath.
The dance is in slow motion, so slow the dancers appear like barely animated statues. They are like cubist paintings which move, swaying and sweeping about in huge curves. Are they birds, devils or both? They are flowers, immense peonies, the petals swaying in the wind. Slow -- they take a step a minute -- until a huge monolithic mass in high costume lifts a hem line, and then takes a minute jump, rather like a city sparrow.
The music is impersonal, to match the presence of the beings. The flower men walk from the scene -- pause, deep silence, then two absolute giants come in to the dance arena, eight feet tall, dressed in red and gold. They are triumphant, meditative, yogic. It is not dance they are at. It is contemplation of movement itself. The giants begin to move. They actually lunge and cover ground, then straighten up to their full height and march slowly off stage. Enter a solo performer at last, the first in the concert, not masked but blackened. He makes slice-like thrusts and slashes, a giant, in a sort of red-stained executioner's apron, making accusative gestures. Even the robe cannot hide his strength. He is a dancer with balance and control. He alone receives warm applause and takes a bow.
The last part is vocal and instrumental, and when at the close, the performers stand icily impersonal, we wonder if indeed we are we. and if so, who are they?
One of Japan's greatest writers, an irascible genius, Sei Shonagon, she of the Pillow Book, one of the most original notebooks ever written and a literary phenomenon from the Heian golden age of literature, wrote a small poem that she passed through her front door to someone who had the temerity to attempt a visit of respect to someone of her age and fame: "I cannot bring myself to say/ Do not wonder, for often in/ Consternation/ I ask myself whether I am I."
Cairo Symphony Orchestra, an all-Vivaldi programme, chief violinist and conductor Yasser El-Serafi, Cairo Opera House Main Hall, 10 June
Isn't he clever? He couldn't be more clever or he would be Bach. Then why does he pall in spite of everything? He takes you to the very edge of being tiresome, then the Italian machinery, so perfectly handmade and practical, puts down the breaks. Then something almost divine happens, he slows on the turns, no braking noises, and the listener enters a different territory altogether -- ease, beauty, health and gentleness. Antonio Vivaldi is at his pranks again. He is a prankster of genius, of the light send-up and the well-mannered let-down. He knows who he is at the party of life, and that always counts.
Yasser El-Serafi knows who he is too, and so his all Vivaldi concert never palled or sounded stale. Defeating the weather outside, everything was fresh and of the right, tart perfume. Roses are sweet but have thorns, like this concert. El-Serafi knows how far to let Vivaldi go -- then he pulls on the reigns and the high jinks of the jig-a-jig ceases and El-Serafi gets down to business.
From the Concerti Grossi op.3, down to number nine for two violins and cello obligato, and the basso continuo in B-minor, he guided the chamber orchestra section of the Cairo Symphony Orchestra with the special qualities for which he is rightly famous.
In his youth El-Serafi sawed gently away over heights and deeps. These days the tone is the same. He is a singer, and it shows in all he plays. What his sounds are about is love, and reverence for what is in hand. There are stars and stars, stars that blaze and pass, and stars that quietly go on shining.
This concert ended, of all things, with the Four Seasons of Vivaldi. It is as reverberative as Aida. This music dances over our graves it is so well known.
But not with El-Serafi. Painlessly and quietly, he restitches it all till not even one thread shows, and Vivaldi flashes out at the end -- a new man, thanks to El-Serafi, the star with the quiet, built-in glow.
