I have been to quite a few concerts in my life and I thought I had seen it all. The magnificent, the good, the mediocre, the bad and the even worse. I have had the opportunity to review some and have thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the bashing. As I once said, bad reviews are so much more fun to write than good ones. A bad concert really brings out the bitch in me, and I happen to be quite good at being catty and sarcastic, modesty notwithstanding. You will see later just how nasty I can get, thank heavens!
So, as I was saying, I thought I had seen the whole gamut, but when I got the invitation to this concert, I knew I was in for something unusual. The invitation was from the Patriarch of Moscow and all Russia, Kyrill I, to a concert in honor of Pope Benedict XVI, on the occasion of his birthday, at the Aula Paolo VI of the Vatican. The host would not be there, but would instead be represented by Metropolite Hilarion Alfeyev, which I gather to be the equivalent of a Minister of Foreign Affairs. The present was as grandiose as they come – a concert by the Russian National Orchestra (founded by no less than the great Mikhail Pletnev), the Moscow Synodal Choir and the Russian Horn Cappella, in a program of Russian classical and contemporary music, sacred and profane, but, of course, always fitting for the occasion, which means the profane was as sacred as profane can get.
How I, Violetta da Gamba, managed to get invited to this solemn and exclusive event is a matter I will not disclose. At any rate, there I was, seated in a strategic spot of the hall, from which I commanded a perfect view of my surroundings and its occupants and whence I would later be able to take in the music with equal ease.
The above mentioned surroundings were the huge hall designed by Pier Luigi Nervi inside the Vatican territory. It is a huge hall, with brick walls and modern stained glass windows, which is , as they now say, a multifunctional venue, with rows of seats, interpretation booths and the rest of the paraphernalia, lighting, recording equipment, etc. That alone would make it just plain. The cherry on the sundae is an enormous sculpture, Resurrezione, by Pericle Fazzini which looms over the hall from behind the stage, a contorted bronze giant octopus figure, its tentacles spreading in all directions as if to catch you in a lethal metal embrace. On another occasion I attended, this sculpture was enhanced by a palette of crude, multichromatic lighting, spanning all the colors of the rainbow.
There was what seemed to be a normal concert audience, but all probably connected in some way or another to the Holy See. This is not an event you can simply buy tickets to. Rows and rows of clergymen and nuns could also be seen. Then, closer to where His Holiness would be seated (a beautifully white silk upholstered arm chair was waiting for him in the center aisle of the auditorium, about ten rows away from the stage) came the monseigneurs, the bishops and the cardinals, always a breathtaking sight. Taken individually, in their sublimely elegant habits, they are already very impressive. Collectively, they are awesome to behold. Lines of men in black robes, the first and youngest group bareheaded, the next, more mature one, with magenta zucchetti and finally, coifed in bright red, the elder statesmen of the Church. On the other side of the aisle, the VIPs – the diplomatic corps accredited to the Holy See, the Papal Gentlemen, members of the Italian government and assorted personalities.
This is where this particular occasion took on a very special aspect indeed. Among the assorted personalities was one to which all eyes converged, a lady who was positively ogled by every male present and scrutinized by all the females – Madame Sophia Loren soi-même. Why would such an explosively notorious sex symbol be invited to the Pope’s birthday celebration completely baffled me until I stopped looking around and started reading my programme. The ensembles were to be conducted by one Carlo Ponti, who, as we all know, happens to be Signora Loren’s son. What we don’t all know, or at least I didn’t, is that he is a conductor. So Maestro Ponti asked the Vatican Protocol to invite la Mamma to witness his moment of glory. Before launching into the review of the concert proper and having my say about the Maestro’s claim to fame, I cannot refrain from saying a few things about his famous mother.
Sophia Loren is probably now well into her seventies and she carries them superbly, at least from a distance. She was very appropriately dressed in an elegant black suit, with which, as much as I looked, I could find no fault. No flashy jewelry or accessories, she had obviously been well briefed. But there had to be a slip somewhere, and, determined as I was to discover it, I finally did! La Loren, I noticed at a certain point when she was standing just a little ahead of me after the concert, was wearing the most unbecoming little black booties I have ever seen. Being made of some sort of very soft leather, they made her look as if she were wearing high-heeled pumps and black socks. Was I happy! Happier still when I was able to steal a good look at her face and noticed the devastating effects of plastic surgery which make her look as if the angels above are holding her skin up with invisible threads, all ready to pull her up to Heaven when her time comes.
A sudden hush was the sign that the Pope was arriving. Applause erupted, as it always does, when Benedict XVI appeared and made his way to his white throne. It took a while, as he stopped to greet some of the attendants and waved around to all of us. The Holy Father is a very demure looking man, and not even all the pomp which surrounds him and his white (sometimes white and red) robes manage to make him look forbidding as some of his predecessors did. He stoops a little, walks slowly and always has a trace of a childlike smile on his face.. He looks more the sweet, indulgent grandfather than the strict, conservative theologian he is. Anyway, he finally sat down and so could we, to listen first to the welcoming words of Metropolite Alfeyev and, finally, to the music.
The programme started with a great favorite of mine, as it is of all cellists, Rachmaninov’s Vocalise, in orchestral version. From the very first bars, three things became obvious. The first is that I definitely prefer the original voice version, or the transcribed cello version, to the orchestral version which ruins the beauty of the melodic line by adding too many fioriture to the score. Second, it was also immediately perceptible that we were listening to musicians of the highest caliber, delivering an absolutely gorgeous, velvety, dynamically nuanced sound. Technical ability, discipline and superb musicianship made this a splendid ensemble indeed. Third, they could have done without this rather mediocre caricature of a conductor, which I immediately and mercilessly labeled the Lang Lang of the baton. Metronomical indications (fortunately all in the right place), displaced rubati, ridiculously stretched tempi, do I need to go into further details? And so they delivered magnificent sounding and musically unsatisfying renditions of Rachmaninov, Rimsky-Korsakov and Mussorgsky – the Great Gates of Kiev!
Then came a surprising interlude. The Russian Horn Cappella is an ensemble of Russian horns, obviously, but do you know what a Russian horn is? I thought this was just a bunch of Russians playing horns, what ignorance! The Russian horn is a metal Alpenhorn which produces only one note, and was used during hunts. The instruments emit different notes according to their length and width. But never fear, the end result is amazing, as each musician plays his note in perfect timing so that the ensemble produces a piece that seems to be played by one person. Some of the musicians have two or three horns of different sizes in their mouth, and please don’t ask me how they blow into the right one at the right moment. All I can say is that it’s mind blowing.
Then came the sensational voices of the Synodal Choir in sacred works by Rachmaninov and Mussorgsky, a cappella or accompanied by a few instruments, sheer bliss.
The pièce de résistance was Metropolite Alfeyev’s own Canto dell’Ascensione, labeled a symphony for choir and orchestra, the words of which are five psalms from the Book of Psalms, all very ingeniously and creatively put together, quite beautiful and interesting but totally anachronistic, sounding more as if it had been written in 1908, rather than 2008, the date on the programme. All the more surprising as the Metropolite is a man of 44, albeit, of course, an ultra-conservative one. The piece had the great merit of bringing together the gorgeous sounds of the orchestra and the choir, which even Maestro Ponti could not spoil. I’m sorry the Metropolite didn’t throw in a Russian horn or two, it would have added a special touch to the grand finale.
Words of thanks and a blessing from the Pope rounded out this most uncommon evening.