How do you describe the sheer beauty and joy of Emily Granger’s live harp performance? It’s impossible but I’ll give it a try.
There’s something otherworldly about the harp. The Lyres or Harps of Ur are the oldest surviving stringed instruments in the world. They were made of cedar, boxwood, gold, silver and lapis lazuli. Four and a half thousand years later, the classical harp that Emily borrowed for the evening is still a work of art, crafted from wood, decorated with gold.
If you close your eyes, you can picture yourself as part of tradition that has survived since ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt, evolving through the feasting halls of Ireland and Scotland’s Celtic chiefs, to the Royal palaces of France and Italy.
Nothing will ever replace the wonder and magic of being there, in the room, with a world-class musician, holding an audience enraptured.
In movies, the purity of harp music can be heartbreaking. You feel like you’re holding your breath, like the world is somehow spinning more slowly.
The delicate sounds of the harp defy words and conjure feelings and images, like a magic spell.
I found myself imaging a tiny child, wearing a princess dress and a pair of dress-up fairy wings, running barefoot through soft wet grass, gumboots in hand, after a rain spell. I wondered what everyone else in the audience was feeling or seeing in their mind’s eye.
As Emily said, “I hope with everything going on in the world, that this music makes you feel a little lighter.”
Emily’s new album, “A Thing Of Beauty,” is an absolute delight. It’s a wonderful treasure house full of new compositions, and we were blessed to have four of the composers sitting alongside us in the Sydney Opera House’s Utzon Room.
The evening’s performance sparkled with new music including “Emily’s Suite,” composed by Alice Chance, and “sanddollar,” composed by Sarah Elise Thompson. We journeyed from reminiscences of winters’ past to Californian beaches, from Christina Rossetti’s poetry to lullabies gifted to newborn babies.
Granger is a warm and natural performer, telling us little personal stories of visiting the tiny village of Karoola in Tasmania. She recited poet Hilary Burden’s four Karoola Seasons haikus; Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, and played the four harp pieces they inspired, composed by Christina Sonnemann Baehr.
Granger’s versatility and talent are matched by her devotion to music. Her new album, “A Thing Of Beauty,” is full of new harp music that she has commissioned, creating incredible opportunities for contemporary composers.
As Emily told the audience, “I believe in creating a little happiness every day.”
Emily Granger’s new album, ‘A Thing Of Beauty,’ released through ABC Classic, is now available on CD and streaming. https://www.abc.net.au/listen/classic/shop/emily-granger-a-thing-of-beauty/106866470
You can find Emily Granger online at: https://emilygranger.com/
Haydn’s The Creation Sydney Opera House – Concert Hall
For my first experience of a major classical performance, I could hardly have asked for a more fitting introduction than Joseph Haydn’s The Creation in the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall. Performed by the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs and Orchestra under the direction of Brett Weymark, this one-night concert presentation demonstrated that music alone can tell a story with extraordinary clarity, scale and emotional force.
For those unfamiliar with the form, an oratorio shares many features with opera, using soloists, chorus and orchestra to tell a dramatic story, but is presented as a concert rather than with scenery, costumes or theatrical staging. Oratorios are also usually sacred or liturgical in theme; Handel’s Messiah, which helped inspire Haydn’s The Creation, is perhaps the best-known example. Here, the programme’s inclusion of the libretto was especially useful. As Naomi Hnat noted in the pre-concert talk, The Creation was always intended to be performable for an English-speaking audience, and the edition used in this performance adopted the original English words as set by Haydn. That made the storytelling feel immediate rather than translated at a distance.
Before the performance, a free forty-five-minute talk in the Northern Foyer provided an excellent introduction to the work. Hosted by Tom Forrester-Paton, with Conducting Fellow Naomi Hnat and geobiologist Dr Maxwell Lechte, it proved especially valuable for those without a long background in classical music. Hnat demonstrated key passages at the piano, making Haydn’s musical language accessible without oversimplifying it. Her explanation of the opening “Chaos” was particularly illuminating, showing how Haydn deliberately avoids the musical resolutions audiences instinctively expect, leaving the music unsettled as it searches for order. She also explained the famous “and there was light” passage, where the word “light” marks the transition from C minor into a blazing C major — a moment she described as one of Haydn’s favourites, while Forrester-Paton noted it was also a favourite passage for the chorus to perform.
Brett Weymark conducted with remarkable vitality. At times he seemed almost to dance the music into being, but never in a way that distracted from the performance itself. Rather, he seemed to live inside Haydn’s score as it turned and changed, especially during the more dramatic passages. His evident affection for the work translated into a performance of momentum, warmth and conviction, drawing committed responses from both orchestra and choir.
The opening “Chaos” unfolded exactly as Hnat had described, resisting comfortable resolution and creating an unsettled musical landscape before the famous declaration, “Let there be light.” The command itself arrived softly but with quiet certainty. The true release came with “and there was light,” when orchestra, choir and the lighting above the stage opened together in what felt like a blazing sunrise of sound. After the uncertainty of the opening, the effect was overwhelming: not merely heard, but physically felt throughout the Concert Hall.
The orchestra served not simply as accompaniment but as the foundation on which the entire performance rested. Rather than drawing attention to individual sections, it supported the unfolding narrative and allowed Haydn’s vivid musical imagery to emerge naturally. Nathan Cox’s fortepiano became an elegant bridge between orchestra and voices, adding delicacy and clarity whenever the soloists emerged.
The principal soloists each brought a distinct vocal character to the performance. Celeste Lazarenko’s Gabriel had a quicksilver lightness, bright, agile and seemingly airborne. As Eve, that radiance remained but became more grounded, giving the final part a warmer and more human presence. The transformation was subtle rather than theatrical, allowing the audience to hear not merely another role but another way of encountering the newly created world.
Kyle Stegall’s Uriel brought his own brightness and flexibility to the tenor line, carrying the narrative with clarity and ease. His singing had an effortless quality that allowed the story to move naturally from one stage of creation to the next, without ever feeling merely functional.
Michael Lampard’s baritone offered an ideal counterweight, oak-like in its warmth and solidity. As Raphael, he anchored the great descriptive passages with steadiness and authority; as Adam, he revealed a gentler and more intimate character. His duets with Lazarenko were among the evening’s finest moments, their contrasting vocal colours creating both balance and intimacy.
The addition of mezzo-soprano Yvette Leonard in the closing section broadened the vocal palette of the solo ensemble. Rather than competing with the principal voices, her contribution enriched the finale, adding warmth and balance to the concluding pages and giving the ending a fuller sense of vocal breadth.
If the soloists carried the narrative, the Sydney Philharmonia Choir supplied the emotional and spiritual force of the evening. At its most powerful it became a wall of sound, filling the Concert Hall without losing clarity. Yet what impressed just as much was its subtlety. Softer passages revealed many colours, while from the stalls it was possible to see and hear the individual vocal lines ripple across the risers before gathering once more into a unified whole. The effect was almost orchestral in itself, different voices emerging and receding like changing colours through falling leaves. By the second half, I found myself anticipating each occasion the choir would rise again.
The renovated Concert Hall deserves mention as a participant in the performance rather than simply its setting. The acoustics combined warmth, clarity and power, allowing orchestra, soloists and choir to blend without sacrificing individual detail. Music in this space was not simply audible; it had a tangible physical presence that surrounded the audience and reinforced the grandeur of Haydn’s vision.
The audience responded warmly throughout the afternoon, with appreciative applause between the major sections and a generous ovation at the conclusion. It felt like an acknowledgement not only of technical accomplishment but of the care, preparation and affection that had gone into bringing Haydn’s masterpiece to life.
For a first encounter with large-scale classical performance, The Creation proved both welcoming and awe-inspiring. More than two centuries after Haydn composed it, its sense of wonder remains intact. Under Weymark’s energetic direction, supported by outstanding soloists, orchestra and choir, this one-night performance transformed the Concert Hall into a place where creation was not simply described — it was vividly experienced.
75 years ago, the director and Chief Conductor of Sydney Symphony Orchestra was the renowned Eugene Goossens.
Goossens conducted concerts in the Sydney Town Hall, but he had a loftier goal: a grand concert hall at the heart of the city. Goossens lobbied relentlessly, campaigning for a world-class venue. It was his vision that led directly to the creation of the Sydney Opera House.
I imagined the ghost of Goossens, looking down from the gods, in the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall, as Brett Weymark conducted Sydney Philharmonia’s Symphony Chorus and Baroque Orchestra in Bach’s St John Passion.
Brett Weymark championed classical music in Australia long before he was appointed Artistic & Musical Director of Sydney Philharmonia Choirs. His devotion was honoured in 2021, when he was awarded the Medal of the Order of Australia for services to the performing arts through music.
You may have heard Weymark’s work but never known it. He was the conductor for the movie scores of ‘Happy Feet’ and ‘Mad Max: Fury Road.’
Eugene Goossens fled Australia, mired in a sex and occult scandal that ruined his reputation and destroyed is career. Thankfully, Brett Weymark’s reputation as one of Australia’s foremost conductors continues to grow from strength to strength. This year’s Bach’s St John Passion is his latest triumph.
One of the great joys of life is connecting with others through music. Singing in a choir, surrounded by other voices is a magnificent visceral experience.
Do you sing bass or tenor? Sydney Philharmonia Choirs are currently looking for more basses and tenors.
The Acknowledgement of Country was ‘Tarimi Nulay: Long Time Living Here’ by Yorta Yorta composer Deborah Cheetham Fraillon, translated into Gadigal by Matthew Doyle. This work is hauntingly beautiful.
Language is important, and fortunately for those who speak neither Gadigal nor German, programmes were available online and in hard copy. Following the dialogue is key to fully understanding St John Passion. It highlights the callousness of Jesus’s persecutors, and the genius of Bach, hearing the music bouncing with glee as the chorus humiliates Him on the journey to the crucifixion.
The soloists within this oratorio played their respective roles to perfection.
Timothy Reynolds tenor rang through the concert hall as he narrated the action as the Evangelist. Christopher Richardson took the baritone role of Jesus with reverence. Andrew O’Connor portrayed the stress of Pilate dealing with the enraged mob.
Penelope Mills (soprano), Ashlyn Tymms (mezzo-soprano) and Michael Petruccelli’s (tenor) arias shone.
Bach wove together passages from the Gospel of John, extracts from the Gospel of Matthew, Lutheran Chorales, and his own arias based on poetry from contemporary Passion librettos.
Hearing the Sydney Philharmonia’s Symphony Chorus sing Bach’s Passion is a wondrous experience. Every member of the choirs and each player in the Baroque Orchestra is to be commended and congratulated.
A public service announcement: addressed to the lady that stomped in late during Part 1, in what sounded like wooden clogs. She was roundly shushed and hissed for disturbing the audience as she clumped to Box C. If you are delayed and running late, the least you can do is take off your heels / tap shoes / boots and tiptoe quietly to your seat.
St John Passion was a beautiful, liminal performance, created by world-class artists.
About 25.3 billion kilometres from Earth, travelling at 61,000 km per hour, Voyager 1 contains a gold record that includes recordings of Barnumbirr (Morning Star) and Moikoi Song played by Tom Djäwa, Mudpo, and Waliparu, Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry, and Johann Sebastian Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F Major.
When asked what message humans should send to alien civilisations, the biologist Lewis Thomas replied: “I would send the complete works of Johann Sebastian Bach… but that would be boasting.”
The Brandenburg Concertos are exquisite, like gems, cut precisely and polished so they sparkle.
Imagine you are 36 years old. Your wife had died, you have four children and you need a better paying job. In 1721, Johann Sebastian Bach wrote six concertos in an attempt to convince the Margrave of Brandenburg-Schwedt to hire him. It didn’t work. The manuscript was discovered, tucked away in a library cupboard, in 1849. It appears that the Margrave never saw them.
Miraculously, the original manuscript survived the bombing of the train they were being carried on during World War II. A librarian, transporting the manuscript, fled the train, running out into a forest with Bach’s concertos hidden under his coat.
Madeleine Easton, the artistic director of Bach Akademie Australia, was captivated by the concertos when she first heard them as a child. The music “bubbled” joyfully. She was transfixed and determined that one day she would learn to play them herself.
Easton has more than realised that artistic dream. She is one of Australia’s most celebrated violinists, performing to acclaim internationally, and leading the Bach Akademie Australia.
Bach Akademie Australia are a remarkable group. The promo spoke of “unbridled joy”, a promise kept in the performance of the Brandenburg Concertos tonight. Technical skill is present in abundance in this group of accomplished musicians, but it is the balance of that skill with the dynamic interpretations and the sheer joy of performing that makes Bach Akademie’s music memorable.
It is delightful to see the communication between the musicians as they play: a glance here, the synchronised breathing, the physical uplift of the body to initialise the tempo, or a call and response between instruments in the concerto. The travelling solo in Brandenburg Concerto number three was a pleasurable highlight.
I found odd moments of real magic, not just during the performances but during the interval, when Nathan Cox tuned the harpsichord.
To a certain extent recordings have spoiled us. There is an unspoked expectation of perfection that can only be achieved by editing and the best of hi-fi equipment. With this in mind, there is a wonderment in hearing original and acoustic instruments without amplification, especially in a chamber music setting.
Madeleine Easton plays a 1682 Giovanni Grancino violin, an instrument with a wealth of experience in its wood. Her colleagues are similarly equipped, and we the audience benefit greatly from the wood, the breath, the brass, the experience and the joy.
