借小提琴家列奥尼达斯·卡瓦科斯在中国演出之际，回顾一次十几年前的对话。 By Lucy Cheung 16 September 2026 看到雅典人列奥尼达斯·卡瓦科斯（Leonidas Kavakos）最近又去了上海，想起2014年在伦敦《留声机》大奖颁奖礼现场对他的一次简短专访。 当年他获得“年度艺术家”奖，在被拉到一旁做采访时，还特地先确认过自己那把18世纪制造的斯特拉迪瓦里名琴的位置才放心。作为小提琴家，卡瓦科斯早在1985年赢得芬兰西贝柳斯国际小提琴比赛，1988年又获得帕格尼尼国际小提琴大奖赛冠军；1991年，他凭借西贝柳斯小提琴协奏曲的录音首次获得《留声机》大奖的认可。后来他逐渐成为指挥家，2007年接替罗杰·诺林顿（Roger Norrington），担任萨尔茨堡室内乐团艺术总监，并先后担任伦敦交响乐团、波士顿交响乐团客席指挥。 上台致辞时，他特别提到唱片公司Decca对“既不漂亮又不年轻”的自己不离不弃，坚持把艺术成果放在商业考量之前，“这在当今乐坛已经是保守派”。随后他在台上演奏了两段独奏，包括原曲写给古典吉他的改编版《阿尔罕布拉宫的回忆》。谈到古典音乐在商业社会中的前景，他这么说：“音乐的意义在于聚焦人性，今后不论路如何难走，我会继续下去。” 在颁奖礼上见到卡瓦科斯时，他同年刚在上海完成了中国首演；在那之前还与相识于韦尔比耶音乐节上的钢琴家王羽佳，合作录制了勃拉姆斯三首小提琴奏鸣曲。以下是当时晚宴间的简短访谈，现重新整理分享。 卡瓦科斯在2014年留声机大奖颁奖礼 Photo: Ben Ealovega 对话列奥尼达斯·卡瓦科斯 我认同古希腊人：音乐与数学、阅读、体育并列，是教育的主干 LC=张璐诗 LK=Leonidas Kavakos LC：留声机大奖对你来说有什么意义？ LK：这是很重要的奖项。候选名单当然是由《留声机》的编辑选出来的，但最终选出“年度艺术家”的投票却是由大众完成的（当年的“年度艺术家”和“年度管弦乐团”均由公众投票选出；此后《留声机》调整了评选规则，如今“年度艺术家”与其他录音奖项一样，由杂志乐评人与编辑共同评选——编者注），这对我来说特别有价值，它给了我启发、勇气和力量，继续往前走。 LC：作为希腊人，在一向被欧美音乐家垄断的古典乐坛，有融入难度吗？ LK：不怎么会有这种感觉。我觉得音乐家的国籍与他在乐坛的发展毫无关系。当然，在中欧这些国家，学习古典音乐会有更多机会，氛围会更好一些，机制更完善，也有更多管弦乐团。但有音乐天赋的人遍布世界各地，他们唯一需要的是很早被发掘、获得赏识，从而得到养分充足的栽培。 LC：你既拉小提琴，又当指挥。这两者里，你更重视哪个角色？ LK：我的第一堂小提琴课是我父亲给的，他教了我基本的古典知识。但要说心里话，排第一位的肯定是指挥。小时候我待在家里时，最喜欢随便拿起一本什么书，放到谱架上，自己就开始瞎指挥。 LC：活跃乐界多年，经历过不同的人生阶段，你对哪些作曲家的作品感觉更近？ LK：我会有选择性地去演奏曲目，我心里面很清楚，有些作品我是肯定不会去演绎的，到底有哪些我也不方便说，但这些音乐往往难以让我充分表达自己，作品本身不够有意思。我也拉当代作品，有几个我很喜欢的现代作曲家，比如沃尔夫冈·里姆（Wolfgang Rihm）。但没人能够取代勃拉姆斯、莫扎特、贝多芬，不仅是因为这些人写出好作品，还因为这些作品的结构里有某些能够触及到人类存在的东西。音乐并不光是大家听完了鼓掌、转身就忘了的东西。我很认同古希腊人的态度：他们将音乐与数学、阅读和体育并列，视其为教育体系的主干。而现在，人们将艺术视为单纯的娱乐，可艺术不光是生活中美好的部分——艺术就是生活本身。 LC：你录制的西贝柳斯作品获得广泛认可，西贝柳斯对你是否有特别的影响？ LK：我觉得自己并没有特别擅长演绎哪位作曲家。无论是西贝柳斯、贝多芬还是肖斯塔科维奇，我选择去演奏的音乐都是历史上伟大的作品。但话说回来，我最早拉的协奏曲是西贝柳斯的小提琴协奏曲，而凭借这次录音，我也第一次被《留声机》大奖选上（1991年“年度最佳协奏曲”）。还因为我18岁时在赫尔辛基赢过西贝柳斯比赛，对作曲家确实会有种不一样的亲切感。 卡瓦科斯在2014年留声机大奖颁奖礼 Photo: Ben Ealovega LC：住在雅典，目前希腊的艺术氛围如何？ LK：我是住在那儿，但主要工作范围都在国外，一年里也只在希腊演那么几场。但我在雅典有很多朋友和音乐同行，我们经常聚。最近我跟一个希腊作曲家朋友合作一部新的协奏曲，很快就会做首演。你要知道，所有跟“音乐”（包括这个词本身）相关的一切：节奏、乐句等等，都起源于希腊。我们今天所定义的“古典音乐”，最初源于拜占庭音乐，不幸的是，文艺复兴时期的希腊处于奥斯曼帝国统治之下，没有机会参与到文艺复兴运动中。可即使如此，你会看到很多巴洛克歌剧都取材于希腊神话；作曲家——从贝多芬到20世纪的德彪西、希曼诺夫斯基，都从古希腊文化中获得过灵感。今天其实到处都差不多，艺术在衰败。你看，就算像荷兰这样文化发展健康蓬勃的地方，最近也在合并乐团、关掉广播乐团。这不光是音乐，而是整个文化界遇到的问题。每次我们一听说哪里要缩减资金，首当其冲被裁减的肯定是文化——这实在太糟糕了，没有文化的人类禽兽不如。 LC：这个问题能怎么解决呢？ LK：依我看，扭转这个局面的关键在于希腊、中国、印度、埃及这些文明古国——文明古国的文化本身就相当当代化，因为它们不会过期，会历久弥新。文明古国需要负起责任，在文化上而不是经济上领先世界。文化的核心是人类，而这正是我们这个时代所缺失的。我们的教育制度存在缺陷，没人真正把文化当成一回事。我们要做的是首先是从教育着手，但这将是个漫长的过程。可今天我们都不愿意等待，人们只想看到立竿见影的结果。古代的文明可从来没教过我们这方面的知识。 LC：你自己有从事教育项目吗？ LK：目前我每年在雅典的音乐学院里教大师课，我迟早要开一个自己的音乐院校。这个大师课今年进行到第四年了，但愿会有长远的发展。 Writer Lucy Cheung

法国大提琴家让-吉安·凯拉斯在他的中国巡演前，与我们分享了他的一些趣事。 By Lucy Cheung 14 September 2026 9月12日晚，法国大提琴家让-吉安·凯拉斯（Jean-Guihen Queyras）在伦敦威格莫尔音乐厅（Wigmore Hall）演奏巴赫《无伴奏大提琴组曲》全集。9月27、29日，他将在上海和深圳演出同一套曲目。 我第一次碰到他的现场，是在2011年的爱丁堡国际艺术节：凯拉斯与钢琴家亚历山大·塔霍（Alexandre Tharaud）在皇后大厅合作了一场音乐会，曲目横跨17世纪到20世纪。说“碰到”，因为当时我纯粹是被节目单上的法国巴洛克作曲家马林·马雷（Marin Marais）作品吸引，多年前一部电影《日出前让悲伤终结》令其作品“咸鱼翻生”，乃至助推了“古乐”潮的继续发展。当时演出后问凯拉斯，他说那是他第一次现场拉奏马雷，还没有录音的计划。直到2023年，才看到他和塔霍合作录制的马雷专辑，当中收录了爱丁堡现场演奏过的《d小调组曲》第20首：带有32个变奏的《西班牙福利亚舞曲》。 15年前那一次听凯拉斯演奏的柯达伊《无伴奏大提琴奏鸣曲》、及他和塔霍合作的普朗克的《大提琴与钢琴奏鸣曲》，我印象极深。犹记得柯达伊，一撇一捺的独白，沉重热烈的感叹号一个挨一个，琴弦间五个八度跌宕时，太阳忽然透入了窗门。下半场，他再立起制于1696年的琴，拉马雷的《d小调组曲》。不同于古乐演奏惯有的轻盈与克制，大提琴在他的手中同时拥有一种现代的戏剧感。这种音色差异，其实来自凯拉斯对乐器配置的选择：他演奏2007年和2023年两版巴赫组曲时，使用了现代金属弦；与古乐团合作巴洛克作品，则会换上纯羊肠弦，甚至拔掉现代的尾针。演奏不同年代的作品，他有时会使用由维也纳制弓师托马斯·格贝特（Thomas Gerbeth）制作的现代弓，较重，能够承受20、21世纪音乐所要求的强大爆发力；另一把则是较轻的图尔特（Tourte）历史弓，触弦更轻盈细腻。 塔霍与凯拉斯 © Marco Borggreve 凯拉斯和塔霍的选曲横跨三个世纪，演绎却有统一的体温。接下来的普朗克忽然明亮，窗内光线也刚好逐渐加强。当年的爱丁堡还是现金交易时代，我下楼找了个ATM再回头，中间不过隔了五分钟，两人刚发行的同曲目专辑已售罄。 前几日黄昏，我在西伦敦凯拉斯的朋友家，再次见到了这位大提琴家。到门口时正好遇见他跑完步赶回来，汗湿一身，他请我稍等十分钟，冲澡后快速抹干头发，拿了一杯清水，坐到我对面。与凯拉斯交谈了一个多小时，话题涉及两次录制巴赫“大无”、历史羊肠弦与现代金属弦的分类使用、皮埃尔·布列兹对他的影响、他与塔霍兄弟般的友情和音乐上的默契、两年前搭火车进入基辅演出，以及与爵士乐、希腊民乐等多种门类的合作。详细访谈内容不日推送，以下先分享一组轻快的“即时问卷”。 你心目中的完美幸福 我想，应该是在山里，和几个朋友一起喝一杯不错的勃艮第葡萄酒。我很喜欢山，喜欢徒步。 你对一个人最看重的品质 大方。 如果只能带一部音乐作品去荒岛，你会选择—— 贝多芬《e小调第二“拉祖莫夫斯基”弦乐四重奏》，作品59之2，第二乐章 我在纽约读了三年书，其中有一年过得非常艰难。那时的我很穷，而纽约并不是一个适合穷人的城市，你需要足够的钱，才能在那里维持体面点的生活。更何况，我从小在乡下长大，之前又在弗莱堡生活了三年，那是一个可爱的小城市，生活、自然、人际关系，一切都很温和；而纽约对我来说却像一片丛林。我完全没有适应，觉得自己就像一头不知所措的小动物。 也正是在那段状态很不好的日子里，我开始一遍遍地听贝多芬这首作品。那个慢乐章非常长，大约二十分钟（一边哼了起来）。贝多芬曾经写信给一位朋友，说创作这一段音乐时，他想到的是自己躺在那里仰望星空的情景。这个画面当时很触动我，因为当你仰望星空时，你是一个人，非常孤独；但与此同时，你面对的又是整个宇宙。孤独与普世性，就这样共存。 巡演时，除了大提琴，你一定不会忘记带—— 我的日记本。 你最早的音乐记忆 可能是在我还是婴儿的时候。我母亲和一位大提琴手一起演奏一些意大利曲目。后来我开始学大提琴，最先想演奏的就是维瓦尔第。 如果可以和一位在世或已故的音乐家共进晚餐，你会选择—— 很长一段时间，我都会说海顿。我觉得很有意思的是，在古典主义时期，音乐有非常严格的规则，但海顿总能在其中找到幽默、创造力，以及一些不那么循规蹈矩的东西。不过最近，我发现了这方面比海顿走得更远的作曲家：现在我特别着迷于卡尔·菲利普·埃马努埃尔·巴赫（C.P.E. Bach）的音乐。我很想认识他，所以现在会选他。 人们了解你之后会觉得意外的一件事 可能是我会突然“入定”，思绪不知跑哪里去了。比如和亚历山大·梅尔尼科夫（Alexander Melnikov）排练时，他有时在我面前挥手我都没反应，别人会对我木讷的样子感到意外。 最近笑得最开心的一次 昨天吧，我的孩子们在家庭群里发了一些我们几年前拍的视频，大概是六七年前圣诞节的时候。我们当时在玩一种类似卡拉OK的跳舞游戏，屏幕上会有动作，我们跟着一起跳，还把自己拍了下来。他们把视频重新发出来，我看到自己跳得非常滑稽、非常傻。孩子们看着那些视频笑得特别开心，我也觉得很好笑。 Writer Lucy Cheung

从裸体海报到防雨外套，从古老预言到现代中产家庭，托比亚斯·克拉策以极简而冷峻的舞台语言重新审视《麦克白》，在荒诞、压抑与紧凑之间追问人物究竟能否真正掌握自己的命运。 By Ma Guanghui 13 September 2026 When 2026年9月12日 Where 汉堡州立歌剧院（Staatsoper Hamburg） Who 指挥：托马什·哈努斯（Tomáš Hanus） 导演：托比亚斯·克拉策（Tobias Kratzer） 舞台设计、服装：莱纳·赛尔迈尔（Rainer Sellmaier） 灯光：米夏埃尔·鲍尔（Michael Bauer） 合唱指导：爱丽丝·梅雷加利亚（Alice Meregaglia） 戏剧构作：劳拉·施密特（Laura Schmidt） 麦克白：卡塔尔·卡拉格迪克（Kartal Karagedik） 麦克白夫人：尼诺·马查伊泽（Nino Machaidze） 班柯：亚历山大·维诺格拉多夫（Alexander Vinogradov） 麦克德夫：多夫莱特·努尔格尔季耶夫（Dovlet Nurgeldiyev） 马尔科姆：科林·艾金斯（Colin Aikins） 弗里恩斯：维利·勒夫勒（Willy Löffler） 麦克白之子：加布里埃尔·伯特歇尔（Gabriel Böttcher） 麦克白的仆人：克里斯托弗·耶宁（Christopher Jähnig） 汉堡州立歌剧院爱乐乐团 汉堡州立歌剧院合唱团 What 汉堡州立歌剧院2026/2027乐季开幕演出：新版威尔第《麦克白》 汉堡州立歌剧院新版威尔第《麦克白》 摄影：马光辉 记一笔 摄像机侵入伸手不见五指的深夜，闪光灯照亮一片光秃秃的树林：没有枝桠，凌乱，毫无生机。一个赤身裸体的男人爬上一根光秃的树干，带着恐惧和不安，紧紧抱住树干，身体摇摇欲坠。他还想继续往上爬吗？ 这是汉堡州立歌剧院新版威尔第《麦克白》的宣传照。它出现在汉堡的大街小巷，但毫不意外，因为裸体形象惹来争议，于是如今海报上多了一块黑色遮挡，盖住敏感部位。 走进歌剧院，幕布已经升起。眼前是一座灰黑色的阶梯舞台，像一个被切成一半的圆形剧场，只被昏暗的灯光微微照亮，背后是一堵灰黑色的墙。托马什·哈努斯带领汉堡州立歌剧院爱乐乐团奏响充满悬疑色彩的序曲。随后，一群身着全黑的合唱团成员从舞台两侧鱼贯而入。他们更像一个现代舞团，在一阵奇异的身体扭动中，缓缓在半圆形看台上找到自己的位置，随后开始女巫的预言。 北德的夏天已经结束，街上越来越多人穿上那些功能性十足的中长款防雨夹克。班柯和麦克白自然不能赤身裸体登台，于是也穿上了防雨夹克，里面是熨烫平整的衬衫。啊，真是“班味”十足，仿佛刚从隔壁写字楼下班，直接走进了汉堡歌剧院的舞台。只有麦克白胸前挂着的一枚徽章，提醒观众他或许是一个重要人物。也是从这一刻开始，一种刻意制造出来的撕裂感出现了：现代都市中产白领，与那些试图让他们相信的古老预言，并不天然适配。 预言唱罢，女巫们和舞台上那些没有发声的男性歌者们并没有离去。他们就坐在半圆形剧场的看台上，注视着接下来两个多小时里发生在这个半圆之中的权力游戏。 麦克白一家三口与后面的“观众” Photo: Monika Rittershaus 没错，整个演出的大部分时间里，舞台布景几乎没有变化。于是，幕布也几乎从未落下。在其他舞台制作中，幕布的功能之一是“不剧透”舞美；但这部《麦克白》的舞美，就像海报上的裸男一样，几乎在演出开始的那一刻便已经被观众一眼看完。 那问题也随之而来，对于《麦克白》这样叙事时间跨度大、场景多的歌剧，导演托比亚斯·克拉策和舞台设计莱纳·赛尔迈尔如何进行时间和空间的叙事？他们想出了一个被过度使用的妙招：在舞台前沿装上一排射灯。每逢转场或者幕间，射灯便直射观众席，刺眼的强光遮蔽舞台原本昏暗的环境光，制造出一种视觉上的“盲区”。它形成了一个黑场，一种电影效果，更准确地说，一种蒙太奇。 克拉策今年2月执导奥尔加·诺伊维尔特（Olga Neuwirth）《怪物乐园》（Monster’s Paradise）时，也大量使用了电影手法：实时投影叠加在现场影像之上，讨论影像媒介本身可能具有的欺骗性。在《麦克白》中，他则用更简单的方式处理时间。苏格兰国王邓肯造访麦克白的城堡，被视觉化成一场中产阶级家庭聚会。几次刺眼的灯光亮起又熄灭，每次黑场结束，舞台上呈现的都是一幅静态的聚会图景。于是，对国王盛大的迎接，被切割成几个由黑场串联起来的静态镜头。电影蒙太奇经常用于压缩叙事时间，而在现场演出中，观众通常仍然会按照舞台发生的时间来感知时间。克拉策却反过来，利用灯光把舞台时间压缩成一组组静止的瞬间。舞台时间流转，故事时间却在飞转。 麦克白夫人在威尔第笔下，相比莎士比亚原作有了更高的戏剧地位。在这部不断追问人的自由意志的歌剧中，她是那个不断推动犹豫不决的麦克白走向深渊的人。有人曾把她的野心与“没有孩子”联系起来，但在克拉策看来，这种解释放到今天，很容易滑向一种带有厌女色彩的想象。因此，他反其道而行之：在这版《麦克白》中，麦克白夫妇有了一个儿子。在咏叹调《来吧！赶快行动！》（Vieni! t'affretta!）中，麦克白夫人苦口婆心、心急火燎地鼓动丈夫采取行动，而身旁的麦克白和儿子却在玩变形金刚玩具车。这种符号性的批判在《怪物乐园》中比比皆是，但好在《麦克白》中克拉策克制了许多。更有意思的是，麦克白夫人的声音有多急切、有多充满欲望，她的外表就有多像一个普通家庭主妇，有多缺乏“杀伤力”。克拉策再次把这些被权力欲望冲昏头脑的人物，与普通观众拉到同一水平线上。 班柯被杀的雨夜 Photo: Monika Rittershaus 荒诞感在邓肯被杀之后达到高潮。面对国王之死，除了“家庭主妇”麦克白夫人，其他惊恐失语的权贵全都是精英打扮，就像今天任何一个写字楼里的公司管理层。直到这一场戏结束，麦克白夫人才彻底“黑化”；此后再度出现，她已经换上华服。 而后是一场雨。舞台背光打亮雨幕，画面突然变得诗意起来。一袭黑衣的杀手撑着长柄黑伞，等待班柯和他的儿子弗里恩斯到来。这个画面很难不让我想到王家卫《一代宗师》里的雨夜动作戏：相似的黑白色调，相似的逆光，也有一种被雨水切开的空间感。随后发生的伞下谋杀，则又让我想起刁亦男《南方车站的聚会》中那个令人印象深刻的暴力美学时刻。 但克拉策并不真正使用暴力。动作被缩减到最低限度，血浆更是完全缺席。整部戏的环境始终保持着洁净。这当然是一种美学选择，就像他让人物穿上防雨外套一样：汉堡新版《麦克白》也被包裹在一层“防雨材料”里。 只是，防雨外套虽然防雨，体感却很闷。这版《麦克白》也是如此。长时间几乎不变的舞台、灰黑色的布景与服装、持续的低照度和低对比度，以及那些最初颇有趣味、但重复使用之后便开始显得单调的射灯，都制造出一种“闷”的体感。但“闷”也意味着一种极简。整场演出几乎没有传统意义上的幕间停顿，极简的舞台结构让四幕之间始终保持着一种简单的连续性，反而让这部原本场景众多、时间跨度很大的歌剧显得异常紧凑，故事几乎是在一口气里完成的。 音乐也是如此。威尔第的音乐本身已经足够美，足够有戏剧张力，也足够宏大，但在哈努斯的控制下，乐队的声音有时却像来自很远的一支室内乐队。尼诺·马查伊泽唱起那些抒情段落时，哈努斯几乎总会把速度稍稍放慢，然而她在那些音高不断跳跃的唱段中，声音依然偶尔不稳定，带着一种毛刺感。麦克德夫的咏叹调《啊，我的孩子们》（O figli, o figli miei）是当晚最受欢迎的声乐时刻，多夫莱特·努尔格尔季耶夫的表演令人动容，只是声音仍然缺少一种能够真正冲出重围的光泽感。几乎只有饰演班柯的亚历山大·维诺格拉多夫拥有威尔第式的声量与气场。麦克白的饰演者卡塔尔·卡拉格迪克则时不时透露出一种无力感。尤其是在他杀死邓肯之后唱出的“一切都完了”，高音区反而出现一种脆弱而无助的质感。这倒是很符合克拉策对人物的理解：他们不是天生的怪物，而是在一次次选择之后，把自己推向了深渊。 合唱团脱掉身上的黑色外衣，显出底色 Photo: Monika Rittershaus 反倒是合唱团，可能成为了整晚最大的功臣。他们大多数时候坐在阶梯上，像观众一样观看事态发展，但他们同时又是女巫、命运，以及舞台秩序本身。第三幕开头，麦克白再次寻找女巫，女巫召唤出幻象，并把那个紧紧抱住枯树干的麦克白继续往更高处送去。随后，生灵涂炭。合唱团脱掉上身黑色的外衣，露出各不相同的鲜艳色彩，并相继倒在舞台前方死去。这些看似整齐划一的小人物，实际上也各有自己的颜色，各有自己的“自由意志”。他们既观看，也推动；既像命运，又像普通人。 麦克德夫在第二幕结束前突然摘掉耳麦，看向作为“最高领导人”的麦克白夫妇。摘掉耳麦，意味着拒绝（与导演团队的）沟通；但在这个舞台上，它又非常具体地成为一种拒绝服从。这是麦克德夫的自由意志在说话。当然，这也是一个只有在这一刻才能成立的动作。因为马上要中场休息。作为演员的多夫莱特·努尔格尔季耶夫，还是要听导演指挥的。 Writer Ma Guanghui

基里尔·别特连科带着柏林爱乐重返逍遥音乐节，带来乐团2026/27新乐季开幕演出同款曲目。 By Weida Wang 03 September 2026 When 2026年9月2日 Where 伦敦皇家阿尔伯特大厅（Royal Albert Hall） Who 指挥：基里尔·别特连科（Kirill Petrenko） 柏林爱乐乐团（Berliner Philharmoniker） What 埃尔加《谜语变奏曲》，Op. 36 柴可夫斯基《第四交响曲》，Op. 36 基里尔·别特连科与柏林爱乐在逍遥音乐节 Photo: Berliner Philharmoniker/Lena Laine 记一笔 今年五月我去了英格兰中西部的莫尔文（Malvern），也走了几处与埃尔加有关的故居和纪念地。丘陵起伏平缓，镇子安静，人与人之间的距离似乎比大城市短。站在那里回头看《谜语变奏曲》，这样一部作品最初来自一个相当私人的生活世界。 十四个变奏写的都是埃尔加身边的人：妻子Alice、朋友、音乐上的同伴，还有朋友家那条掉进怀伊河的狗。灵感来得也偶然：他结束一天的教学回家，坐在钢琴前随手即兴，Alice听见一段说好听，作曲家于是开始设想，如果换成身边不同的人来弹，这段音乐会变成什么样。而全曲最后一个变奏E.D.U.写的是他自己。不过这部作品从出生第一天起就不只属于英国。1899年的首演由汉斯·里希特（Hans Richter）指挥——一位出身哈布斯堡王朝匈牙利部分、在维也纳受训、以瓦格纳权威闻名，后来成为伦敦音乐生活核心人物的指挥家。首演九年之后，尼基什·阿图尔（Nikisch Artúr）就带着柏林爱乐演了它。 所以今晚真正的问题不是“德国乐团能不能演埃尔加”，而是：一百二十多年之后，别特连科在这部作品里放进了什么。这部作品本身其实也鲜少在柏林爱乐乐团近年的曲目单中出现，但却出现在了其今年的乐季开幕音乐会之中。 逍遥音乐节（BBC Proms）的这套曲目两周前刚在柏林作为乐团本乐季的开幕音乐会演出，原样搬到了伦敦。由此看来，这不仅是为巡演而精心设计的曲目，是他们给自己乐季定调的那一套。 基里尔·别特连科与柏林爱乐在逍遥音乐节 Photo: Berliner Philharmoniker/Lena Laine 上半场 《谜语变奏曲》的演绎相当克制，同时保留着非常鲜明的柏林爱乐气质。 差别最明显的是弦乐。英国乐团的埃尔加传统习惯让连绵的齐奏带上浓郁而直接的歌唱性，情绪是铺开的。今晚柏林爱乐的演绎，旋律依然流动，但声音内部始终留着一层不肯完全交出去的东西。Nimrod变奏的渐强不是一口气推上去的，而是分层展开，声部一层一层叠进来，力度的增长带着台阶感，顶点不像被冲出来的，更像被一级一级搭起来。 克制并没有让作品变重。在那些轻快甚至带点玩笑意味的变奏里，乐团的反应极其灵巧：Troyte变奏的粗鲁与冲撞、Dorabella变奏的木管碎步、G.R.S.变奏里那条狗落水又爬上岸的短短几十秒，节奏、音色与声部之间的转换都带着近乎室内乐的敏锐。 低处的含蓄和快处的灵动互相映照，“谜”的意味恰好藏在这种不断变化的距离里。音乐一直在显露性格，同时一直有所保留，这里的神秘感来自声音内部的暧昧与层次。 下半场 “柴四”是一部情绪高度饱和的作品。命运的铜管动机、焦虑、挣扎、突然爆开的激情，从第一乐章起就不断推着音乐往前。今晚的情绪同样满，但结构始终没有松掉。 织体复杂的段落最能说明问题。即使进入高度紧张的状态，各声部仍然保持着鲜活的存在感：旋律、伴奏音型、内声部之间不断彼此回应、彼此推动，层次始终清楚。 第三乐章的全弦乐拨奏是个现成的展示台：今晚的拨弦音量压得相当低，却颗颗清楚，没有因为轻而变得含混。随后木管与铜管的进入极漂亮，声音带着一层光泽，与前面那片低语式的拨奏形成了很干净的对比。末乐章在阿尔伯特大厅是个真正的难题，铜管与打击乐极容易糊成一团，而今晚打击乐始终清楚有力，没有被吞进混响里。 基里尔·别特连科与柏林爱乐在逍遥音乐节 Photo: Berliner Philharmoniker/Lena Laine 别特连科 上一次认真听别特连科的现场之后，我以为自己知道他会怎么处理这两部作品。今晚的印象是，他的印记比我记忆里更深。 深在一种吊诡上：沉静的地方极其幽微，情绪几乎不完全交出来；一旦放开，又浪漫得毫不迟疑。这两端在同一场演出里并存，而且不是靠交替，是靠同一种控制力同时维持的。他给情感一个清晰的形式，又不让形式冷掉。 别特连科在台上动作并不小。左手用得极多，几乎全程在塑形：提示层次、压音量、指出某个声部该往哪儿去。身体的动作也很明显，不是那种把自己收起来的指挥。最引人注意的是他给节奏点的方式：果断、准确，几乎是“卡”在点上，乐团接得毫不含糊。他和乐手之间的交流是看得见的。也就像世间对他的评价一样——一些看似不经意和超越性的表达往往来自于别特连科个人极度精心的排练过程和对作品本身极度考究的分析与拿捏。 值得一提的是，乐团方面提到别特连科长期着迷于变奏这一形式，视其为“围绕一个恒定内核的持续变化”的音乐化身。这几乎就是今晚《谜语变奏曲》给人的感受：距离一直在变，音乐的内核始终没有动。考虑到他一贯把德奥古典与浪漫传统当作乐团的DNA，在乐季开幕选埃尔加，本身就是个例外动作。 返场 “柴四”结束后，掌声和欢呼持续了相当一阵。阿尔伯特大厅的站票区跺起脚来，声音直接从地板传上去。别特连科几次回到台上鞠躬，乐团几次起立。我一直以为下一次他回来就要开始了。 但没有返场。 事后顺手查了一下，这大概本来就是他的习惯：2018年他带柏林爱乐来Proms，观众同样热烈，同样没有加演。于是今晚出现的其实是一种错位，伦敦观众按Proms的方式表达期待，指挥按自己的方式回应。也许对一部已经把情感推到极点的“柴四”来说，再补一首轻巧的小品确实多余。 Writer Weida Wang

2026年逍遙音樂節落幕，王羽佳、三首世界首演作品及致敬桃莉·巴頓的特別曲目，共同譜寫年度終章。 By Annsherry Wang 13 September 2026 2026年逍遙音樂節最後一夜 Photo: BBC/Chris Christodoulou When 2026年9月12日 Where 皇家艾伯特音樂廳（Royal Albert Hall） Who 指揮：薩卡里·奧拉莫（Sakari Oramo） BBC交響樂團（BBC Symphony Orchestra） BBC交響合唱團（BBC Symphony Chorus） BBC歌手（BBC Singers） 鋼琴：王羽佳 男高音：尼基·史賓斯（Nicky Spence） 歌手：雪瑞登·史密斯（Sheridan Smith） 歌手：沃德·湯瑪士姐妹（Ward Thomas） 歌手：碧薇莉·奈特（Beverley Knight） What 倫納德·伯恩斯坦：《韓地德序曲》（Candide – overture） 約翰·福爾茲·凱爾特（John Foulds Keltic）：《組曲-哀歌》（Suite – Lament） 德沃夏克：《水仙女》“王子詠嘆調” 斯梅塔納：《我的祖國》“伏爾塔瓦河” 薩米·穆薩（Samy Moussa）：《酒神頌》（Dithyramb，世界首演） 塞繆爾·巴伯：《鋼琴協奏曲》 桃莉·巴頓（Dolly Parton）：《致桃莉，獻上我的愛》《9 to 5》《Jolene》《I Will Always Love You》，編曲：Fiona Brice 霍爾斯特：《行星組曲》“木星” 亞歷山大·茨法斯曼（Alexander Tsfasman）：《鋼琴與管弦樂爵士組曲》 多位藝術家：《蘇格蘭節拍》（Scotch Snap，世界首演），編曲：Stuart Calvert 安·達德利（Anne Dudley）：《生命之虹》（Iris of Life，世界首演） 法蘭克·勒瑟（Frank Loesser）：《紅男綠女》“坐下，你這是在搗亂”（Guys and Dolls – ‘Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat’） 亨利·伍德改編：《不列顛大海之歌幻想曲》 薩金特改編：《統治吧，不列顛尼亞！》 埃爾加：《希望與榮耀之地》 帕里作曲，埃爾加配器：《耶路撒冷》 布里頓改編：英國國歌 蘇格蘭傳統民歌，坎貝爾改編：《友誼地久天長》 Why 2026年逍遙音樂節歷經兩個月、超過30萬人參與、20個國際演出團體，BBC旗下的數位影音平台也創下收聽紀錄，終於在昨晚迎來有著濃濃傳統的最後一夜。 今晚的曲目兼顧古典、流行、歌劇、音樂劇、在歷年固定的英國愛國歌曲曲目基礎下，加入了三首世界首演作品，以及王羽佳帶來的兩首近代鋼琴曲。並且特別呈獻《致桃莉，獻上我的愛》組曲，向剛逝世的美國傳奇鄉村天后桃莉·巴頓致敬。 2026年逍遙音樂節最後一夜 攝影：王郁婷 記一筆 倫敦的夏天長度由逍遙音樂節決定。閉幕夜的慶祝氣氛從音樂廳外面就開始，身著英國國旗紅藍白三色的觀眾排隊入場，中間不時加入其他國家的旗幟，坐在我身旁的英國男士告訴我，這是他的第十八場《最後一夜》。 台下揮舞的芬蘭國旗，呼應台上的BBC交響樂團首席指揮薩卡里·奧拉莫的芬蘭背景。小提琴家出身的他特別注重弦樂在樂團中的平衡，今晚他的指揮充滿活力、鬆弛有度，跟全場觀眾也互動性十足。唯可惜在《伏爾塔瓦河》節奏稍慢，缺少了作品中該有的河水變化特色。 或許適逢美國建國第250週年，最後一夜有大量美國作曲家作品登場。一週多前才在薩爾茲堡音樂節彈完閉幕的王羽佳來到倫敦，上半場帶來塞繆爾·巴伯的《鋼琴協奏曲》，音色靈動，炫技毫不費力；下半場亞歷山大·茨法斯曼《鋼琴與管弦樂爵士組曲》，則是對格什溫筆下那個美國爵士的華麗年代的頻頻回望。 尼基·史賓斯在2026年逍遙音樂節最後一夜 Photo: BBC/Jennifer Hawthorn 要為最後一夜安排曲目並不容易，既要彰顯逍遙音樂節的歷史和地位，也要顧及英國傳統和國際多元，致敬古典的同時還要展望未來。今晚首演的有加拿大作曲家薩米·穆薩《酒神頌》，色彩鮮明，古希臘時代的《酒神頌》由男聲合唱在慶典中演出，而逍遙音樂節的閉幕儀式感，恰如其分地烘托出作品強調的召喚與狂喜氛圍。另外一首世界首演是英國作曲家安·達德利的《生命之虹》，作品風格沉靜自然，可惜被今晚其他色彩鮮濃的作品遮蓋，以至於不太突出。 蘇格蘭男高音音尼基·史賓斯一口氣擔綱了《水仙女》“王子詠嘆調”、《蘇格蘭節拍》、百老匯音樂劇《紅男綠女》中的“坐下，你這是在搗亂”以及《統治吧，不列顛尼亞！》，富有感染力地在各個角色中穿梭，證明自己不光有蘇格蘭裙和腰包，更有絕佳的舞台戲劇張力。 幾週前世界送走了傳奇鄉村天后桃莉·巴頓，今晚特別呈現的《致桃莉，獻上我的愛》組曲帶來她最膾炙人口的三首歌曲，讓全場觀眾亮起手機的手電筒，在星海中搖曳合唱。緬懷桃莉的音樂成就，更緬懷她帶來世人的慰藉與愛，慶祝人性光芒閃耀的時刻。 Writer Annsherry Wang

《幻想与遐思》，美国钢琴家布拉德·梅尔道在全新个人专辑中探索人在独处时的多种情绪状态。 游刃于爵士乐和古典乐之间的美国钢琴家、作曲家布拉德·梅尔道（Brad Mehldau）的全新个人钢琴专辑《幻想与遐思》（Fantasy & Reveries），将于2026年11月13日由Nonesuch Records发行。专辑收录《钢琴幻想曲》（Fantasy for Piano）与《十四首遐思》（Fourteen Reveries）两组作品，均由梅尔道创作。 昨日（9月8日），专辑中的《遐思一》（Reverie 1）和《遐思二》（Reverie 2）率先上线，并同步发布两首作品的滚动乐谱视频，让听众可以随着音乐阅读完整乐谱。 《钢琴幻想曲》最初受钢琴家杰里米·丹克（Jeremy Denk）委约创作，与梅尔道的《巴赫之后三首》（Three Pieces after Bach）处于同一时期。梅尔道在专辑内页中写道，这两部作品有着相近的“音乐执念”：漫长延伸的持续音、三和弦的协和与极端不协和之间的尖锐并置，以及自由划分的7/4拍。 他形容《钢琴幻想曲》的音乐织体“非常密集”，其中一个重要的演奏挑战，是在厚重的声音层次之中，让旋律自身的叙事线索依然能被听见。如果说《钢琴幻想曲》拥有更完整、连续的发展结构，《十四首遐思》则刻意走向相反的方向。梅尔道没有选择大跨度的发展，而是将十四首短曲分别凝缩成情绪。 “Reverie”既可以指白日梦，也可以指神游、出神的状态。梅尔道将它理解为一种清醒时刻里的暂时抽离：“人从眼前的环境中离开，进入只属于自己的意识空间。有时，这是一种主动的逃离，让人暂时摆脱日常生活的单调；有时，却是不由自主地滑向忧郁。” “在一切情况下，它都是一种内在经验，只属于我们自己的意识，与他人无关。”梅尔道写道。因此，《十四首遐思》最终表达的是一种独处状态：音乐时而陶醉，时而平静；时而紧张、孤寂，又时而趋于狂喜。 布拉德·梅尔道 图：Elena Olivo 《幻想与遐思》也延续了梅尔道近年来不断在爵士、古典音乐与个人创作之间寻找联系的轨迹。自2004年以个人专辑《东京现场》（Live in Tokyo）首次加入Nonesuch以来，他已经在该厂牌旗下发行22张作品，包括六张三重奏专辑，以及多张个人独奏与合作录音。 其中，2024年的《巴赫之后II》（After Bach II）和《福雷之后》（Après Fauré）分别从巴赫与福雷的音乐出发，将两位作曲家的作品与梅尔道受其启发而创作的音乐并列；《2020年4月组曲》（Suite: April 2020）则是在疫情封锁期间录制的个人钢琴作品。 2022年的《雅各的梯子》（Jacob’s Ladder）从《圣经》以及音乐与信仰的关系出发，同时融入梅尔道少年时期所钟爱的前卫摇滚。2023年的《布拉德弹披头士》（Your Mother Should Know: Brad Mehldau Plays The Beatles）则是一张现场钢琴独奏专辑，收录他对约翰·列侬、保罗·麦卡特尼及乔治·哈里森作品的重新诠释。 梅尔道最近的专辑是去年8月推出的《驶向太阳》（Ride into the Sun），收录他对已故歌手、词曲作者兼吉他手埃利奥特·史密斯（Elliott Smith）作品的重新演绎。 音乐之外，梅尔道还曾于2023年出版回忆录《成长：建立个人音乐谱系·第一部》（Formation: Building a Personal Canon, Part I），以第一人称回望自己的音乐成长，以及那些构成其个人“音乐谱系”的作品与艺术家。

在不来梅音乐节闭幕之夜，西蒙·拉特携手弗莱堡巴洛克乐团与伊莎贝尔·福斯特，以历史演奏实践重新打开舒曼作品的声音世界。 By Ma Guanghui 05 September 2026 伊莎贝尔·福斯特、西蒙·拉特与弗莱堡巴洛克乐团在不来梅音乐节 © Patric Leo When 2026年9月4日 Where 不来梅钟厅（Die Glocke, Bremen） Who 小提琴：伊莎贝尔·福斯特（Isabelle Faust） 指挥：西蒙·拉特爵士（Sir Simon Rattle） 弗莱堡巴洛克乐团（Freiburger Barockorchester） What 2026年不来梅音乐节（Musikfest Bremen）的闭幕演出，以“舒曼宇宙”（Kosmos Schumann）为名，上演三部舒曼作品：歌剧《格诺费娃》（Genoveva）序曲、《d小调小提琴协奏曲》、《C大调第二交响曲》。 西蒙·拉特与弗莱堡巴洛克乐团在不来梅音乐节 © Patric Leo 记一笔 不来梅音乐节的最后一晚，迎来了本届可能最具明星相的阵容：指挥西蒙·拉特与小提琴家伊莎贝尔·福斯特。从伯明翰、柏林，到伦敦、慕尼黑，拉特尔早已对指挥现代大型交响乐团得心应手，但这一次与他合作的，却是以历史启发演奏（Historically Informed Performance）见长的弗莱堡巴洛克乐团。乐器、编制乃至声音理念都有所不同。而古乐、早期音乐及相关的历史演奏实践，恰恰是不来梅音乐节的传统与专长。在最后一个晚上，音乐节以舒曼向自己的传统致意。 拉特走上没有指挥台的舞台，以一种平视的姿势开始指挥。几乎从《格诺费娃》序曲开头的渐强开始，古乐团特有的透明层次感便逐渐显现，尤其是弦乐声部与打击乐、铜管交织时，各个声部依然保持着清晰的轮廓。而没有指挥台的好处也很快显现出来：拉特可以在乐团留给他的半圆形空间中自由走动，用一种更加亲密的方式与不同声部互动。小编制带来透明度，也带来了更强的灵活性。序曲临近结束时，音量突然收缩，拉特与乐团之间的默契在这样的瞬间尤其明显。 随后，身着一袭三宅一生的福斯特“飘”上舞台。这套服装她从琉森穿到柏林，再到不来梅，只是每次登台的配色有所不同。随着几名铜管乐手在序曲结束后离场，《D小调小提琴协奏曲》的乐队编制进一步收紧。最直接的听感，是乐团与独奏之间的关系变得水乳交融，没有谁试图盖过谁。尤其当独奏小提琴进入低音区时，这种融为一体的感觉更加明显，也更加接近室内乐。福斯特的琴声同样如此：丝毫没有压迫感，反而相当亲密，尤其当她与弦乐组彼此呼应时。福斯特向来不是炫技派，她的演奏审美也从来不是“多才是多”。这种克制首先体现在技巧层面：她很少使用颤音，即使面对的是浪漫主义作品。但当她真正进入低音区、让颤音介入时，那种高速而细密的振动反而带出了一种耳语般的质感，仿佛恋人絮语，耳鬓厮磨。 舒曼的这首小提琴协奏曲创作完成后被雪藏了80多年。它继承着贝多芬的衣钵，却又显得破碎、游移，甚至有些冗长，始终存在一种难以消解的内在矛盾。这或许也符合人们对于舒曼“神经质”的某种刻板印象。它最终得以首演，却又被纳粹德国挪用于政治宣传，成为被禁演的门德尔松小提琴协奏曲的“替代品”，首演时甚至使用了经过修改的版本。 西蒙·拉特与弗莱堡巴洛克乐团在不来梅音乐节 © Patric Leo 到了《C大调第二交响曲》，编制再次扩大。音乐在一片混沌与悬而未决中开始，逐渐找到清晰的节奏，最终形成相对固定的形态。拉特左手灵动，时而画圈，充满表情；拿着指挥棒的右手则轻点、勾勒，只在关键处给出方向。就这样，他像抽丝剥茧一般，把原本纠缠在一起的声部逐一理清，让每条线条重新显形。第二乐章的谐谑曲尤其有趣，在一以贯之的透明度，以及声部之间你应我和的基础上，弹性速度（rubato）也被拉特尔运用得出神入化，他仿佛同时掌握着刹车和油门。到了慢板乐章，更让人惊叹的是中段弦乐的低音齐奏：为什么那么多人可以发出那么小的声音？那一刻，音乐厅里原本几乎察觉不到的环境声突然变得嘈杂起来。当然，这也得益于钟厅本身出色的声学条件。随后，声音再一点一点累加，像重新生长，最终直接冲向第四乐章C大调的胜利尾声。这样的对比与动态变化，本身就是一种享受。 抛开音乐社会学、音乐考古学等因素不谈，古乐团常常被误以为表现力有限，仿佛现代乐器意味着声音的“进化”。但偶尔坐下来感受一下这样的“老爷车”飙车，倒是能顺便反思一下现代越来越强大、精密的声音体系究竟给了我们什么，又拿走了什么。 Writer Ma Guanghui

法国男高音本杰明·伯恩海姆在不来梅音乐节的独唱音乐会，从迪帕克、柏辽兹，到蒙波、希纳斯特拉，再转向普契尼，最终回到法国香颂，但问题是，他该怎么用声音处理不同的歌曲？ By Ma Guanghui 03 September 2026 When 2026年9月2日 Where 不来梅钟厅（Die Glocke, Bremen） Who 男高音：本杰明·伯恩海姆（Benjamin Bernheim） 钢琴：埃德维日·埃尔申霍德（Edwige Herchenroder） What 以“甜美的法国”（Douce France）为名的一场独唱音乐会，法国男高音本杰明·伯恩海姆从迪帕克、柏辽兹的法语艺术歌曲出发，走进蒙波、希纳斯特拉的西语世界，再转向普契尼的意大利歌曲，最终回到20世纪法国香颂。 本杰明·伯恩海姆与埃德维日·埃尔申霍德在不来梅音乐节 © Patric Leo 记一笔 法国是一个神奇的国家。即使社交网络上充斥着各种给法国“祛魅”的meme，也丝毫不影响法国依然仗着浪漫与美之名行走世界。这不，一场标题为“甜美的法国”（Douce France）的音乐会，主角正是那个永远脸上挂着灿烂微笑的法国男高音本杰明·伯恩海姆（Benjamin Bernheim）。他也果然不出所料，带着招牌式的微笑登上了舞台——身后的背景早已被蓝、白、红三色灯光点亮。 第一次在现场见识伯恩海姆的魅力，是去年10月柏林德国古典音乐大奖（Opus Klassik）的颁奖典礼。他演唱马斯奈《维特》（Werther）中的咏叹调《为何叫醒我》（Pourquoi me réveiller），黄金般的嗓音照亮了整个柏林音乐厅。但除此之外，更令我印象深刻的是他的获奖发言。他提到，整个产业应该继续支持古典音乐，而创作和演奏古典音乐，其实并不需要高科技。我猜他话里有话，或许是在暗指那场闹剧一般的颁奖礼。 但这一次在不来梅音乐节（Musikfest Bremen）的亮相，我其实是带着疑问去的。音乐会的部分曲目已经收录在2024年发行的同名专辑《甜美的法国》中，只是钢琴家有所不同。相比现场，这张专辑显然更符合“甜美的法国”这个标题：曲目主要围绕法国艺术歌曲与香颂展开，并没有现场这么多来自西班牙和意大利的作品。而我的担忧在于：伯恩海姆作为一个足迹遍布世界知名歌剧院的抒情男高音，唱起艺术歌曲来，是否终究会带有一些过于强烈的戏剧性？ 当晚，他一开口唱起迪帕克《邀游》（L’invitation au voyage），果然还是那个带着浓郁意大利味道的声音：明亮、集中，在高音处无尽闪耀。尤其是向上冲出的那一下，力度之强，足以叫醒任何一个打瞌睡的人。相比之下，钢琴家埃德维热·赫申罗德（Edwige Herchenroder）却显得更加冷静，这或许反而更接近迪帕克歌曲中那些借鉴舒伯特的部分。但在《菲迪莱》（Phidylé）中，伯恩海姆又展示了高音区的pianissimo，一个是炫目的高音，一个是几乎悬浮起来的弱音，两者都体现出他对自己声音近乎绝对的控制力。 到了柏辽兹的声乐套曲《夏夜》（Les nuits d’été），赫申罗德的钢琴向前走了一步，开始与伯恩海姆声音一贯的辉煌相抗衡。有时候，甚至能听出伯恩海姆歌声中的某种骄傲。尤其是在第二首《玫瑰精灵》（Le Spectre de la rose）中，当他唱到“你将我捧起时，我仍缀满珠露，那是洒水壶洒落的银色泪珠”时，声音本身的辉煌与歌词所带出的惆怅之间形成了一种张力。到了第五首《在墓地》（Au cimetière），听觉上的疲惫稍微得到缓解。伯恩海姆可以在低音区依然保持稳定的声量和气息，声音不再一味向外投射。末曲《未知岛屿》（L’île inconnue）中，赫申罗德的钢琴更加积极，伯恩海姆的声音也多了一点舞动的感觉，仿佛提前预告了下半场。 本杰明·伯恩海姆与埃德维日·埃尔申霍德在不来梅音乐节 © Patric Leo 从蒙波的忧郁，到希纳斯特拉带有弗拉明戈色彩的节奏，伯恩海姆的西班牙语发音同样十分清晰。但在发音与音色上，却几乎听不出它与前面的法语艺术歌曲有什么区别。而到了普契尼，伯恩海姆显然有一种驾轻就熟、回到主场的感觉，此前唱西语歌曲时摆在面前的谱架也被撤走。他一张口，就是典型的普契尼式抒情男高音：宽阔、明亮，带着毫不掩饰的戏剧性。这也是整场音乐会中最适合他声音的部分。在那些戏剧性与抒情性的时刻，他的声音十分慷慨，毫不吝啬，也成功赢得满堂彩。 最后是三首法国香颂。第一首便是音乐会同名曲《甜美的法国》。伯恩海姆紧张的声带在这里终于稍微松弛了一些，律动感开始出现，感染力也随之上升，甚至偶尔闪过一些爵士乐的感觉，赫申罗德的钢琴也自然跟了上来。结尾的《若我们只有爱》（Quand on n’a que l’amour）旋律和歌词都朗朗上口，四句一段的循环结构本来可以提供一种轻盈、流动的感觉，人声甚至可以偶尔稍微跳出节奏框架。但伯恩海姆显然将其更严肃化、戏剧化处理了。 这大概就是我听完整场音乐会之后最大的感受：伯恩海姆似乎在用同一种声音处理所有作品。当然，这并不意味着他的歌唱缺乏技术。恰恰相反，无论是高音的控制、弱音的稳定，还是不同语言中的咬字，他都展现出了一个顶尖歌剧男高音所拥有的能力。但那些制造戏剧性的颤音、突然迸发的辉煌高音，以及始终保持高度张力的声乐线条，或许不应该成为一种放之四海皆准的发声原则。 在一场横跨法、西、意的欧陆歌曲巡礼之后，返场曲似乎不可避免地来到了德语世界。弗朗茨·莱哈尔的通俗歌曲《你是我整个的心》（Dein ist mein ganzes Herz）不出意外地又以同一种方式被演唱：高亢、饱满、戏剧性十足。而就在这个瞬间，我想起了德国假声男高音安德烈亚斯·朔尔（Andreas Scholl）几周前在社交媒体上发布的一段视频。他把它称为给男高音的“进阶课程”：既然有一个高音C，就绝不能浪费，于是每一个音都要使出洪荒之力，最大限度地增加戏剧性。但有意思的是，不久之后，他又发布了一首新歌《Just be happy》——流行、说唱，当然不是用美声唱的。 Writer Ma Guanghui

Sirat (Óliver Laxe, 2025) 阅读中文版 Sirat didn’t win “big” at Cannes 2025 — instead, it took home the Jury Prize, almost an consolation prize. Yet for many critics and festivalgoers, it was the true best of the festival. In a competition judged by a nine-member elite jury, the outcome is rarely “fair” in any objective sense — too much depends on personal taste. Beyond the official prizes, alternative rankings by unofficial outlets often provide a clearer picture of a film’s artistic impact. The most influential among them include the Screen International grid, the International Cinephile Society (ICS) panel, and one overall critics’ grid voted on by over a thousand accredited journalists. In many of these, Sirat emerged as the champion of the competition — the true “uncrowned king” of Cannes 2025. In Islamic belief, the Sirat is a bridge — thinner than a hair, sharper than a blade — stretched over hellfire that all souls must cross after death. Filmed in the Sahara, Sirat reimagines this concept as a grueling journey. Set in a future ravaged by the third world war, the film follows a group of subcultural “refugees” from Europe who plunge deep into the desert, seeking out a kind of radical Burning Man-style rave. One step from heaven or hell, one step from collapse or transcendence — the film balances precariously on this spiritual and existential edge. Bridging these extremes is a pounding techno score by French electronic musician Kangding Ray (born David Letellier), whose artist name reflects his early time living in Kangding, Sichuan province of China. Techno rooted from Detroit in 1980s, it’s driving, minimal and percussive. The music at first feels like an odd choice, almost absurd. A line of futuristic sound systems being assembled in the sand, cut into the dry quiet of the desert valley, has a surreal dissonance. In his previous film O que arde, director Óliver Laxe used Vivaldi’s arias and Andreas Scholl’s ethereal countertenor voice to elevate his already poetic imagery. That was graceful — if a little too expected. This time, Laxe gives out a command to fall. Kangding Ray takes it literally, tethering transcendence to the ground with rhythm, bass, and sweat. In this film, the “high” and the “low” — spirit and flesh, void and rave — don’t flow in a one-way vertical hierarchy. They loop. After years of harsh reality — pandemic, war and social upheaval — Laxe’s film offers a quiet faith: that sacredness can still emerge from collapse. In most films, music adds only an emotional filter. In Sirat, it’s structural — take it away, and the film couldn’t make sense at all. Kangding Ray’s soundtrack, composed mostly before shooting even began, grants the music a surprising independence. Yet its deep entanglement with the film scenes ensures it remains inseparable from the images. This is minimalism not in style, but in method — a reminder that new languages don’t come from more material, but from new perspectives. The night before Cannes’ main competition awards were announced, the 15th Cannes Soundtrack Award named Kangding Ray its winner — joining the ranks of previous honorees like Mica Levi (The Zone of Interest), Daniel Lopatin aka Oneohtrix Point Never (Good Time), and Lim Giong (The Assassin). On the morning of May 24, Sirat was screened one last time at the Debussy Theatre in Cannes. After 90 minutes, the entire city of Cannes lost power. The screening halted abruptly. Some audience members walked out in confusion. Others, moved by the techno, started dancing in the aisles. One person cried out: “This is the most immersive film I’ve seen. I won’t leave until I finish it.” A short apology was broadcast. Then, in a poetic turn, Beethoven’s string quartet filled the anxious room. Six minutes later, the lights faded again. The classical stepped out, the techno resumed. We had the pleasure to speak with Kangding Ray on May 22. I was a bit afraid, to be honest, because I felt like it was very ambitious — and very crazy in a way. G=Ma Guanghui K=Kangding Ray G: How did you get involved with this production? Is this your first time working with Óliver Laxe? K: It's my first time working with Óliver, but it's my second score. I've done one German film before. Sirat has been a pretty amazing journey. We've been working on the score for a year and a half. I started working when he approached me — he knew my music and wanted me to get involved in the film, so he sent me the script. We worked a lot based only on the script, the story, and the impression it gave me. It was much more of a mental approach to the music. I didn’t score to the images — I scored based on the story and what was inside Óliver’s head. Sirat (Óliver Laxe, 2025) G: That's amazing, because usually composers make the music based on the images. K: It was more, you know, a discussion — because we had really long work sessions, sometimes lasting five days. I would stay at my place, and we’d work in the studio and try things. He would tell me about the movie he had in his head, and I was producing sounds and themes. At some point, we managed to find the texture and the right atmosphere. It was all about finding the right tone for what Óliver had in his mind. G: Can I say Óliver is a fan of yours? K: Yeah, I mean, he loves my music very much. He basically loved both sides of it — the more techno-driven work, but also the more ambient, atmospheric, mental, hypnotic side. I have quite a wide range of music in my discography, and he had been listening to it. So he just approached me. And when someone like Óliver reaches out, I just wanted to follow him on this crazy adventure. G: What was your initial reaction to the script? K: I was a bit afraid, to be honest, because I felt like it was very ambitious — and very crazy in a way. There were many things I was almost unsure about. I was like, “Are you sure you really want to go there?” But at some point, you know, he’s the director, so you have to follow him. There’s a level of trust you need to build — and I built that trust. I said, “Okay, I’ll make the music, I’m at the service of your vision. I’ll do my best, and we’ll make a really crazy film together.” But first, I had to trust his vision. G: But I feel like somehow you can resonate with this story, right? K: Yes, I totally relate. It resonates so much with my music — the mystical approach, the rave scene, and the fact that we’re showing people who are not usually represented in cinema. It’s a subculture, and I wanted to represent it in the best, most respectful way possible. These are marginalized people, often invisible to society. They travel in trucks, live on the fringes, and choose to live outside of contemporary modern society. But at the same time, they’re very pure. Even though I live in a city like Berlin and am more connected to society, I really relate to this state of mind. And I also really loved Óliver’s mystical approach — it’s a very spiritual film, I think. I learned a lot just by talking to Óliver — about spirituality, about what it means, about our relationship to death, and the journey we’re all taking in life. It was an incredible learning experience — like having a teacher. Sirat (Óliver Laxe, 2025) G: Who took the lead during the music production process? Was it you or Óliver? K: I mean, I did the music — I was responsible for the music. He followed my lead in that sense, but of course, it was a dialogue. When I compose music, I want to resonate with an idea. I don’t just make random cool music — that doesn’t interest me. I want the music to be exactly what’s needed for the images. Óliver trusted me with the music. He told me several times that this was one of the most intellectually stimulating collaborations he’s ever had. We had deep conversations, talking about ideas and how to translate them into sound for the film. So he guided me conceptually, and I created the sounds as we went along. Most of the music was made during the first phase — before the shoot. Then I adjusted things when the editing came in. That adjustment process took a long time too; it was very precise work. But the core material was already there. I’d say 90% of the material was done before filming. Some things were adjusted later, but it was more about fitting it to the final cut — refining the placement. The nice thing is that they could shoot with the music already in mind. In a way, the edit followed the music more than the music followed the edit. It’s no longer about entertainment. It becomes a soul-searching experience. G: I also listened to the soundtrack you made for Wann kommst du meine Wunden küssen. I feel like that one was more ambient and restrained — compared to what you did for Sirat, which feels more raw and intense, like techno in its pure and brutal form. What led you to this different approach? K: Because I listened to the director. That first film is a very delicate one, directed by Hanna Doose. It's a fragile story about three women going through a kind of crisis. There’s no action, no big drama — it’s all emotions and dialogue. It’s a very restrained and tender film. It’s beautiful, but it’s not intense or crazy or action-driven. So the sound had to match the tone. If I had done something too intense for it, it would have been completely out of place. But with Sirat, we wanted the music to match the energy of the film. And the energy is like a slap in the face. It’s a descent into the abyss. The film starts with techno and then slowly dissolves — until, by the end, there’s almost nothing left. That was the idea: to show a journey from the rave, the intensity, those massive techno slaps at the beginning, and then gradually dissolve into something more like a soundtrack — beautiful, granular, almost like grains of sand. So I used the sound of wind, the sound of sand, the feeling of the desert, the idea of the horizon. And of course, there's a psychedelic approach, because the whole thing is kind of like a trip — a psychedelic trip. And because the story itself dissolves — the film becomes more abstract, more fragmented — the sound had to follow that energy, to slowly go towards nothingness. Sirat (Óliver Laxe, 2025) G: Okay, this just leads perfectly to my next question. I feel like we can split the film into two parts. The first part is a journey of searching — searching for the daughter and also for the next rave. The second part feels like a struggle for survival — everyone doesn’t know when they’re going to die. You’ve already explained your different musical approaches to these two sides of the story. K: Yeah. But there's also another kind of searching — a search for the self. The search is no longer outward, it becomes inward. And because this is an immersive film, we wanted to express that to the audience — that you're not watching the film, you're in the film. The sound pulls you in, makes you part of it. So as a spectator, you're also searching — but inside yourself. You start asking: What am I afraid of? You’re confronted with things you usually can’t — or don’t want to — see. So it’s no longer about entertainment. It becomes a soul-searching experience. G: Yeah, I totally agree. I feel like in many parts of the film, I just wanted to stand up and dance — but, you know, I couldn’t do that. Many films use electronic elements in the score, like the works of Cliff Martinez, Oneohtrix Point Never, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and Alva Noto. But what you did for Sirat feels completely different. K: Yeah. I mean, there are different approaches to this. Alva Noto, for example, is a good case — he’s one of my mentors. He’s the one who really introduced me to the world of music. He was one of the first artists I connected with when I arrived in Berlin. Same with Ryuichi Sakamoto. I met both of them, and we played together in Japan and Europe. But over the years, I gradually developed my own approach — something much more raw, visceral, and psychedelic. Of course, I’m still influenced by those mentors — Sakamoto, Alva Noto — but my world now is a blend of experimental music, the Berlin techno scene, and the psychedelic festival culture in Europe and Japan, which I’m very involved in. So when I make music for film, all of those influences come together. I have a knowledge of both the more academic, experimental, institutional music world — and also the most underground raves and clubs. That’s why I can bring both faces into the film. Sirat (Óliver Laxe, 2025) G: Have you ever discussed with Óliver why he wanted techno for this film? The reason I ask is that in his last feature, he used a lot of classical music — which is totally different from Sirat. K: Yeah. Again, I think it’s a matter of matching the culture he wants to represent. The culture in this film is one of raw experience through dance. Dance is at the center. Dance is a form of being alive — of still being alive — and also of overcoming adversity. A lot of the characters have disabilities — they’ve lost a hand, they’ve suffered. And dance becomes a form of catharsis for that suffering. There’s a strong connection between religion and dance, between spirituality and dance. I think Nietzsche once said, “I would not trust a god who doesn't dance.” So dance is a kind of affirmation — it’s how we express who we are as human beings. It doesn’t need to make sense. It’s a celebration of life. So that’s one element. We wanted this strong, intense way of dancing — not just a little movement, but really going for it, in a very powerful, almost primal way. And then there's another element: texture. The texture of the desert. The desert isn’t soft. It’s not glossy or smooth — it’s granular. It’s sand, rocks, scorching sun, infinite horizon, dried-up riverbeds. The sound needed to reflect that. That’s why, in our very first discussions, Óliver and I talked a lot about this: What is the sound of the desert? How do you convey this feeling of vastness — of being so small, so insignificant in front of the sky? It’s a confrontation with the immensity of the universe — and a search for who you are within it. They’re real people. They’re not playing roles. G: Just to follow up on what you just said — I was really fascinated by how your score sometimes merges with the film's sound design. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but during one desert driving scene, I felt like the friction of the wind, the sand, and the car almost formed a rhythm. I could hear a kind of boom boom — like a hidden pulse underneath everything. K: Yeah, sometimes we used sound elements to match and blend. And sometimes you don’t even know exactly what you’re hearing. The wind is often incorporated — like, sometimes something passes and rises up, and I use that in the score to blend elements together. The sound design elements — like the truck sounds and other effects — were created by Laia Casanovas. But of course, we worked very closely together. It was a team effort. We’re all working toward one vision, so everything — the score, the sound design — needs to be connected and flow as one. G: In traditional film scoring, composers often rely on recurring themes, motifs, and variations. Do you also work this way? K: There is one motif that we used — it’s kind of the theme of the film. It appears in three different forms. The first time it shows up is during the rave. It’s the underlying motif of one of the rave tracks — the last one, before… well, I won’t spoil it, but let’s say the last rave track. That’s where it starts, and it launches the journey. This underlying motif then appears maybe two or three more times throughout the film, but each time it becomes more and more degraded — almost disintegrated. By the end, it’s unrecognizable. It's like the sound slowly decays, mirroring the degradation in the film itself. You can interpret that in many ways, but one inspiration was this very important piece by William Basinski called The Disintegration Loops. He used tape loops and played them for hours until the physical material of the tape began to degrade. That process of physical disintegration really inspired me — the idea of a sound becoming unrecognizable as it falls apart. G: I also found it quite funny when Jade, the leading female raver, says something like, “This music is not for listening — it’s for dancing.” She’s basically explaining the rave scene to the father. K: Yeah, she says that in response to the father, and it’s a very nice scene because you can feel that he’s really annoyed — he actually hates the music. But he has to go through it. And slowly, he begins to understand why they’re doing this. That scene is like a ceremonial introduction — a way of showing him, and the audience, why this matters. The father, in this case, represents the establishment. A lot of people — especially from outside the scene — say things like, “Techno is just noise. It’s just boom boom boom.” But for those who are part of the scene, who are immersed in it, it’s not noise at all. “Noise” is always in the ear of the listener. If you don’t have the cultural context, of course you’ll think it’s too loud or meaningless. You might prefer something like classical strings. But if you're part of this culture, the meaning of what you call “noise” changes completely. This has always been the case throughout music history. When punk first arrived, the establishment called it noise too. There’s this famous interview with Iggy Pop where he says something like, “They call our music noise.” That’s what always happens — when people don’t understand a new sound or movement, they dismiss it as noise. And yes, it is noisy, just like punk. But once you understand the attitude and the cultural meaning behind it, it’s no longer noise — it becomes music. In the film, the father says something like, “I can't tell the difference — it all sounds the same.” And she replies, “Yeah, but it’s not for listening. It’s for dancing.” That’s how you understand it — through movement, through being in it. Of course, there are layers. You can also just listen to the music without dancing, and it still means something. But this scene reflects how the system — the establishment — views subcultures like rave. G: And also, it feels quite physical from what you just said — especially considering the choice of actors. K: Yes, exactly. They’re not professional actors. They come from the real rave scene, from the free party scene. They were cast directly from that world. So they’re real people — they’re not playing roles. You can't get more authentic than that.

伦敦Soho区的Ronnie Scott’s爵士俱乐部将于2026年2月启动全新音乐空间Upstairs at Ronnie’s，可容纳140名观众。这是俱乐部自2005年重启以来规模最大的一次改造，标志着这家老牌爵士地标首次为古典音乐设立固定演出单元。 新空间的节目编排由小提琴家、歌手兼制作人莉齐·鲍尔（Lizzie Ball）与俱乐部艺术总监、钢琴家詹姆斯·皮尔森（James Pearson）共同策划。每周一晚的古典音乐之夜将分为早场和晚场，围绕三个板块展开： Ronnie Scott’s Classical All Stars：由皮尔森领衔，集合Lizzie Ball、Shlomy Dobrinsky、Megan Cassidy、Gabriella Swallow、Jon Shenoy、Callum Au、James Turner七位英国乐手组成，以室内乐编制重新演绎交响与管弦作品。首场将纪念《蓝色狂想曲》英国首演100周年，后续曲目包括拉赫玛尼诺夫《第二钢琴协奏曲》、沃恩·威廉斯《云雀高飞》、莫扎特《小夜曲》，以及“好莱坞黄金年代”与“电影原声Part II”。 Classical Kicks：鲍尔2012–2019年在俱乐部发起的先锋项目重启，阵容包括Gabriella Swallow（大提琴）、Miloš Milivojević（手风琴）、James Turner（打击乐），曲目跨越皮亚佐拉、巴托克、格什温。 Close Up Classical：音乐与对谈形式，嘉宾有演员朱丽叶·史蒂文森（Juliet Stevenson）、电影作曲家大卫·阿诺德（David Arnold）、作家哈丽雅特·康斯特布尔（Harriet Constable）。 詹姆斯·皮尔森与莉齐·鲍尔 © Mark Allan 特别活动包括Her Ensemble（英国首支由女性与非二元性别音乐家组成的乐团）、Chineke! 驻场弦乐四重奏、#UriPosteJukeBox项目，以及世界知名无伴奏合唱团The King’s Singers首次登台，带来爵士与流行改编节目。 Upstairs at Ronnie’s在2024年暂停演出后进行了全面改造，如今配备Yamaha S3X三角钢琴、升级舞台与声学系统、Yamaha与D&B音响，并由新任行政主厨Steven Connolly打造餐饮。后台区域首次向公众开放，改造为The Greene Rooms，以老板Sally Greene命名，作为会员与艺术家交流空间。 伦敦首家专业爵士俱乐部Ronnie Scott’s背景 1959年由萨克斯手罗尼·斯科特（Ronnie Scott）与彼得·金（Pete King）创立的Ronnie Scott’s，是英国第一家专业爵士俱乐部。它从唐人街地下室起家，经历英镑危机、房租上涨、疫情封锁，仍在伦敦音乐地图上屹立不倒。这里曾接待Miles Davis、Chet Baker、Ella Fitzgerald等传奇，也留下Jimi Hendrix去世前的最后一次演出。2019年俱乐部成立60周年时，原址爵禄街39号门外挂上“蓝牌匾”，确认其历史地位。 当下，英国音乐场地正处于普遍困境：2023年全国16%的基层场馆关闭，超过四成亏损。Ronnie Scott’s的扩建不仅是空间的更新，也是一种姿态，意在维系音乐生态。正如皮尔森所说，这里的古典系列要保持与爵士现场一样的亲密与活力，而董事总经理Fred Nash强调，目标是让Upstairs成为“世界上最好的小型场地”。 六十五年来，Ronnie Scott’s一直是伦敦少数仍在运营的老牌俱乐部。如今，它把爵士与古典并置于同一屋檐下，既是延续，也是新的开始。

When 21 November 2025 Where Barbican Hall, London Who Hiromi Uehara Sonicwonder James Copus What One of the highly anticipated performance of EFG London Jazz Festival: Hiromi’s Sonicwonder — live performance featuring Hiromi (piano, keyboards), Adam O’Farrill (trumpet), Hadrien Feraud (bass), Gene Coye (drums), with special guest James Copus (trumpet). Why Knowing Hiromi for many years only through recordings and videos—solo, in her Trio Project, with Sonicbloom, and now with Sonicwonder—the Barbican concert on 21 November was, the first time I had seen her live. Hiromi's Sonicwonder © Emile Holba Live Notes A Canon Under Pressure The concert was introduced by a Guardian critic, who presented Hiromi as one of the newest additions to the pantheon of jazz greats—named in the same breath as figures such as Pharoah Sanders and Herbie Hancock. For a brief moment I hesitated. The very notion of a canon has been under heavy attack since the second half of the twentieth century. In classical music, invoking “the canon” today immediately draws attention to its mechanisms of exclusion: the power of institutions, the selective violence of curricula and programming, the overwhelming dominance of western, white, male composers. To speak of “the” canon without irony is already to raise eyebrows. In jazz, this situation is more paradoxical. On the one hand, we all think we know who belongs to its central pantheon: Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, to name only the most indisputable. Their music is surrounded by a constellation of standards, archetypal solos, and historically charged recordings, endlessly transcribed, quoted, and re-actualised. In this sense the jazz canon is not merely a list of works or artists but a set of obligatory passages: recordings and pieces through which one is expected to travel in order to become recognisably “a jazz musician”. On the other hand, jazz’s own historical self-understanding is oriented toward transformation, rupture, and the invention of new temporalities. Each major moment— bebop, modal jazz, free jazz, fusion, the proliferating post-1990 genealogies—defines itself by breaching a boundary that earlier institutions had tried to stabilise. The canon in jazz therefore cannot simply be a canon of stable forms. It can only be a canon of breaks: a retrospective ordering of decisive gestures that, in their own time, unsettled the very criteria by which canonicity could be measured. This makes the idea of a jazz canon structurally unstable. If those we call “great” are precisely those who fracture inherited vocabularies, the canon can never be a closed museum of styles. It becomes an archive of fault-lines. To declare someone “the latest addition” to such a canon is less to fix them in place than to pose a question: what, in their music, constitutes a genuine shift of language rather than an intensification of existing ones? Hiromi’s Position Hiromi occupies a curious, perhaps symptomatic place within this unstable canon. She is uniquely fluent across jazz history, with a famously devout relationship to Oscar Peterson—she opened for his final trio tour in Japan in 2006—and a clear debt to Chick Corea, Keith Jarrett, and the whole lineage of pianists who negotiated classical technique with jazz improvisation. She moves between ragtime stride, bebop figuration, quartal harmony, fusion-era keyboard textures, and prog-rock riffs with the speed of a passing thought. Hiromi © Emile Holba It is tempting to reduce all this to “technique”, and her sheer technical reliability arguably surpasses that of many of the figures to whom she is constantly compared. But the more interesting question is what this technique is in the service of. Hiromi’s idiom is an almost delirious synthesis: stride piano collides with stacked fourths, Zappa-like fusion lines, funk ostinati, and the complex time-signature changes of progressive rock. The result is delivered at a level of clarity and precision that, in purely pianistic terms, places her among the most technically assured performers jazz has produced. Yet this very density of reference also marks a distance from the kinds of innovation associated with the canonical names mentioned earlier. Parker, Coltrane, even Corea in his most decisive moments, changed the underlying vocabulary: they reconfigured the grammar of lines, harmony, form, or ensemble interaction. In Hiromi’s case, one often has the impression of an extreme synthesis and acceleration of already established idioms rather than the inauguration of a genuinely new one. Even the much-discussed “classical” influence—something long since familiar from Art Tatum, Bill Evans, Jarrett and others—no longer appears as a rupture but as a further intensification of an existing hybrid. The Concert All of this was still turning in my mind when Hiromi and the other three members of Hiromi’s Sonicwonder—Adam O’Farrill, Hadrien Feraud, and Gene Coye—took the stage and, within seconds, dissolved any neat theoretical considerations about the “canon” . They opened with the now notorious “XYZ” from her debut album Another Mind, a piece whose theme has acquired a kind of cult status among musicians. The composite metre—variously notated but here felt as something like 9/16 + 4/8 + 9/16 + 3/8—immediately forced the audience into a different sense of pulse: too irregular to settle into comfort, too insistently grooving to be experienced as mere complication. From the first bars the band demonstrated a level of synchronisation, accuracy, and mutual control that was frankly shocking. By the time Feraud launched into his first bass solo, the Barbican was already won over. Adam O’Farrill and Hadrien Feraud © Emile Holba Having seen many jazz musicians over the past decades, some of whom are routinely claimed as “greats”, what unfolded on this stage felt calibrated on another scale. Before any extended improvisation had taken place, Sonicwonder already resembled, in its compositional density and rhythmic precision, the world of bands like Animals as Leaders or Tigran Hamasyan’s more prog-inflected projects: labyrinthine unison lines, abrupt metric shifts, and a control over form that can only come from countless rehearsals and shared band history. But within two bars of Feraud’s solo it was clear that we had moved somewhere else again. Playing electric bass in an effortless alternation of slapped figures and legato runs, he navigated the shifting accents and implied modulations with a kind of casual ferocity, never sacrificing sound or time. The solo did not feel like an embellishment of the written material so much as its continuation on another plane, as if the composition itself had sprouted an additional, improvising limb. In that moment, the language of canon and pantheon felt oddly beside the point. What was shown on stage was an extreme present tense: a music that, while built from existing vocabularies, produced an intensity that made one briefly understand why, despite all the justified suspicion surrounding the word, critics still reach for “canon” when they encounter something like this. Suddenly all critiques of “mere synthesis” no longer registered as accusations of insufficiency. If anything, it may be exactly what makes Hiromi emblematic of a late-canonical moment: a stage at which the historical innovations of jazz have been internalised so thoroughly that their recombination can reach previously unimaginable levels of complexity and energy, without necessarily producing a new dialect. She appears less as the founder of a new school than as the point at which multiple histories converge and are driven, with exhausting force, to their limits. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Because while Feraud was showing that he was operating at the highest level all by himself, I noticed something about Hiromi that perhaps only a live setting allows one to grasp fully: her comping. Giving the other band members centre stage until late into the song, Hiromi was content to remain in the role of accompanist—yet in the most meaningful way possible. As many pianists, guitarists and others will attest, comping is the secret mastership of jazz improvisation. It is rarely as immediately dazzling as an elaborate solo, but to find one’s own voice in this category deserves its own credit and comes with its own demands: a finely tuned ear for one’s fellow musicians, an unshakeable sense of time, and the intuition of when to step back and when to assert oneself. Hancock, if anything, was an exceptional comping player. I sometimes feel more capable of recognising his playing from the way he accompanies others than from his own solos. Hiromi must have eaten his records by the spoonful; otherwise it is difficult to explain the level of expertise and dedication she displayed long before playing the first note of her own solo. Gene Coye © Emile Holba Before that moment arrived, however, it was Gene Coye and Adam O’Farrill’s turn to take centre stage. While Coye’s solos did not fill me with the same kind of awe that Feraud had inspired minutes earlier, he maintained throughout the evening a solid, reliable backbone for the band. If Feraud was revelatory as a whole, his style is too volatile—at too many parties at once—to be bound to simple rhythm-section duties. It was here that Coye held the whole thing together. Meanwhile O’Farrill has, over the past years, established himself as one of the most striking trumpet improvisers of his generation, moving between New York’s avant-leaning small groups and more straight-ahead contexts with equal ease. His playing combines a dry, centred tone with an almost conversational phrasing: lines that begin in tightly coiled, bop-inflected figures and then unfurl into wide intervallic leaps or sudden bursts of upper-register intensity. At rapid tempos he threaded this restless, slightly angular language through Hiromi’s and Feraud’s rhythmic grids with total assurance. The youngest member of the group made it abundantly clear that this is where he belongs, even at such an early stage of his career. All of them had earned their ranks by the time Hiromi began her own solo, moving, as she is known to, between grand piano and her two Nord keyboards, binding together decades of styles once more: George Duke-inflected fusion synth lines—with an almost theatrical use of the pitch wheel—colliding with grand-piano runs reminiscent of Oscar Peterson or Chick Corea. All of this appeared, impossibly, in one crisp, tightly argued solo. From here on out the concert unfolded without surrendering anything of its initial force. The band moved into Out There, the four-part suite from the Sonicwonderland project: beginning with “Takin’ Off,” then into the restless, slightly mischievous “Tidal Wave,” passing through the groove-driven “Strollin’,” and closing with the expansive, questing gestures of “The Quest.” Played without interruption, the suite functioned less as a sequence of pieces than as a single, continuously modulating environment through which the band travelled with absolute authority. The Encore The concert ended with standing ovations and the unmistakable sense that what had been witnessed would not soon fade. Yet as if to intensify this impression even further, Hiromi opened the encore alone, with her rendition of the Beatles’ “Blackbird.” In this stripped-down moment she seemed to negotiate directly with the audience, turning toward us on certain chords and phrases as if to ask, almost teasingly: did you hear that? One felt a performer whose command was not only technical but atmospheric; someone capable of shaping the room itself simply by directing her attention outward. I do not know how many decades it takes to reach this level of presence, this ability not merely to play for an audience but to guide it, mould it, make it complicit in the smallest inflection of a line. James Copus and Adam O’Farrill © Emile Holba The concert closed with a guest. London-based James Copus, who has rapidly gained recognition in recent years for his combination of crystalline tone, fluid upper-register control, and unusually compositional approach to improvisation, joined the stage. Having substituted for Adam in three of the Netherlands dates earlier in the month, he was invited to finish the European tour together with the full group. Closing with the title track “Sonicwonderland,” audiences at the Barbican were able to witness an unprecedented, perhaps never-to-be-repeated formation: a quintet built around two of the most promising young trumpet players on the planet. Watching Copus take his solo with the poised, forward-leaning concentration that characterises his playing, one sensed O’Farrill regarding him with a mixture of camaraderie and competitive spark. When Adam entered, he delivered his finest solo of the evening—rapid lines, daring rhythmic displacements, and a final ascent into the upper register executed with a nonchalance that bordered on defiant. Afterglow The band left the stage again under standing ovations, and I am sure that if the sudden lighting of the hall had not imposed its unmistakable signal of finality, the audience would have remained, calling them back for yet another encore, and another after that. There was a shared sense that something unusually complete had unfolded. Not complete in the sense of closure or resolution, but complete in the way an evening occasionally aligns: when players of extraordinary ability find themselves in a formation that amplifies, rather than competes with, each individual voice. Hiromi's Sonicwonder © Emile Holba What lingered was not merely admiration but an afterglow, the feeling that one had witnessed a group operating at the very edge of its own capacities yet without strain, without display. In contrast to some of the other concerts at this London Jazz Festival, Sonicwonder did not need to present itself with attitude. It simply unfolded at a level rarely reached, leaving in its wake a quiet astonishment that such evenings still occur—moments in which the music justifies itself without proclamation, but by the sheer force of its own momentum.

When 23 November 2025 Where HERE at Outernet, London Who Nubya Garcia Max Luthert Sam Jones Lyle Barton Jamz Supernova What The finale of EFG London Jazz Festival 2025 featuring Nubya Garcia and her band, opened by Jamz Supernova. Why After hearing SHABAKA and Hiromi’s Sonicwonder earlier in the festival, I was curious to see what it would mean for Nubya Garcia to close the London Jazz Festival in a very different space, with a very different promise: a late-night, standing-room show in HERE at Outernet, complete with bespoke visuals projected onto the venue’s giant LED screen. Nubya Garcia Band © Tatiana Gorilovsky Live Notes The change of room already reframed expectations. The Barbican, where SHABAKA and Hiromi had played, is an archetypal concert hall: fixed seating, frontal acoustics, everything oriented toward listening. HERE at Outernet is almost the opposite – a subterranean, club-like box four floors below Tottenham Court Road, designed for 1,500 standing bodies, with light and screen doing as much work as sound. The evening began with Jamz Supernova’s DJ set, which kept the atmosphere closer to a club warm-up than a typical festival support act, and the main set started noticeably later than billed – a delay that might not matter in a purely dance context, but which here reinforced the sense that visual and atmospheric build-up were being weighted as heavily as the music itself. On paper, the band could hardly be stronger. Garcia arrived off the back of Odyssey, the 2024 album that extends her blend of spiritual jazz, dub and orchestral colour, and she brought with her the now-established touring rhythm section: Max Luthert on bass, Sam Jones on drums, with Lyle Barton on keyboards and electronics fleshing out the harmony. This is a group that has already been tested in festival conditions and in more traditional concert settings. And in the opening stretches of the set – built around material from Source and Odyssey, including a version of “The Message Continues” – you could sense why they have become central figures in the London scene: the bass lines heavy but mobile, the drums carving broken-beat patterns that lean as much toward contemporary beat culture as toward hard bop, the saxophone riding on top with a broad, vocal tone. Yet what unfolded over the next ninety minutes never quite matched the promise of that line-up. Compared with Sonicwonder at the Barbican – a band that appeared entirely without attitude, simply took their places and played at a frighteningly high level, leaving everything else to the music – Garcia’s show leaned heavily into presentation. The musicians were sharply styled, framed by a constant stream of cosmic imagery: nebulae, starfields, abstract planetary forms drifting slowly across the immense screen. In principle this interstellar staging could have articulated something essential in her recent work, which often reaches for a sense of journey and cosmology. In practice, it sometimes felt as though the visual dramaturgy was doing work that the sound could not consistently sustain. The problem was not concept but execution. Sam Jones’ drumming drew on the now widely circulated language of hyperactive, almost JD-Beck-like continuous chops: hi-hat runs and snare flurries that turn the backbeat into a dense, flickering texture. At its best this gave the music a nervous propulsion; at its worst it slid into a kind of gestural blur. Several times, fills that looked dazzling from the balcony – sticks flying, arms carving big arcs through the light – landed slightly behind or ahead of the beat, or smeared accents that the rest of the band seemed to be aiming for. The result was a rhythmic surface that promised more than it delivered: visually spectacular, musically a little sloppy. Nubya Garcia © Tatiana Gorilovsky A parallel issue emerged in the saxophone sound. Garcia’s basic tone remains compelling: warm, rounded, with the grain of the instrument always audible even when pushed hard. But the decision to bathe the horn in heavy reverb and delay – presumably to fill the large room and match the “cosmic” aesthetic – had a severe cost. Anything faster than an eighth-note line quickly dissolved into mush; runs that acoustically were almost certainly articulated with clarity became indistinct clouds of notes, their inner rhythm buried under the tail of the previous phrase. On medium and up-tempo tunes, the ear no longer followed the contour of a line but only its general energy. The effect was to flatten the difference between a carefully built solo and a more routine passage: both arrived at the listener as washes of saxophone colour hovering over the beat. This is not to say that the evening lacked strong moments. When the tempo dropped and the band opened the texture, the same reverb that had previously obscured detail suddenly made sense. Sustained notes bloomed into the room; the interplay between bass and drums became legible; motifs from Odyssey gained a certain widescreen aesthetic, at times reminiscent of the legendary Cowboy Bebop soundtrack or even Ornette Coleman’s Virgin Beauty. There were stretches where Garcia’s phrasing, given more harmonic and temporal space, reconnected with the spiritual-jazz lineage that first brought her to prominence. But these moments alternated with passages where the sheer ambition – drums, synths, processed saxophone, screen imagery – produced less an image of mastery than of poorly executed pretension. The contrast with SHABAKA’s festival appearance earlier in the week is instructive. SHABAKA has recently moved away from the overtly maximalist language of his work with Sons of Kemet and The Comet Is Coming toward a more stripped-back, meditative register; live, this registered as a refusal of spectacle in favour of concentrated sound. Hiromi’s Sonicwonder, for their part, achieved something opposite but equally focused: a virtuosic, almost prog-jazz excess whose internal precision kept every detail audible. Garcia’s Outernet show seemed to sit uneasily between these poles: committed to the idea of a fully immersive, audio-visual “journey”, but without the rhythmic tightness or sonic clarity needed to make that immersion musically compelling from start to finish. One could say, more generally, that the evening dramatised a tension running through much of the contemporary London scene: between the desire to treat jazz as dance music again – to draw on club culture, sound-system aesthetics, the visual vocabulary of electronic festivals – and the still unresolved question of how jazz functions in such environments. When the room, the lights and the projections demand constant escalation, solos risk becoming pure display, spectacle for its own sake. In the end it was precisely the interstellar metaphor – weightlessness, the sense of being carried far away – that was least convincingly delivered.