Another characteristic shared by the two works is that they are often described as “depressing”. It is not hard to see why; both are impressed with a deep solemnity and a profound tonal darkness. Yet it is not a description with which I am comfortable; it is one thing to call the Adagio sad or melancholic, which it undoubtedly is, but “depressing”, if taken in its verbal rather than merely adjectival sense, implies not just that the music exudes despair, but that it engenders like despair in the listener. This is certainly not my experience of it. The Adagio has gained popularity as a soundtrack to occasions of mourning, such as those following 9/11 and the Japanese earthquake last year. Why is it considered so suitable for such events? It surely cannot be to compound the gloom. It seems more likely that its true function is to try and make sense of suffering which is often described as unimaginable. Hence it takes music, the most powerful and expressive of all art forms, to imagine the suffering. Once this can be done the suffering can be understood, and thereafter the process of conquering it can begin. Far from being depressing, music such as the Adagio can, by offering some insight into the pain of others, be a source of hope and catharsis.

Certainly the pleasure of music such as the Adagio, imbued as it is with such depth of sorrow, can be exhausting, and there will be times when the listener prefers to stay at home rather than embark on the tiring emotional journey it demands. But those who undertake the journey, suitably equipped, can expect to be rewarded not with misery but with a joy made all the more poignant by the misery which preceded it. Genuinely depressing music is surely that which cheapens human experience and which would have benefited from never having been composed, but I’m not going to start on John Cage again.

Furthermore Dvorak’s American Quartet, the apogee of our journey, is technically Czech; but it is so powerfully evocative of the land from which it takes its name that it transcends its European roots to be a truly international work, echoing the composer’s own New World adventure from which this quartet and his ninth symphony sprang forth. The evocation comes from the manifold pentatonic melodies which constitute the quartet’s principal thematic materials, presented and developed in accordance with European classical tradition. Thus we have a first movement sonata built around two distinctive pentatonic subjects, redolent of Negro spirituals in their joyousness and purity. This is followed by a slow second movement in which luscious and lyrical melodic themes, spread over painfully beautiful close harmonies, are underscored by a persistent viola mantra, the campfire around which the other instruments sing their sensitive and haunting songs. The third movement alternates between a light scherzo and a rather darker trio, and involves the intricate development and distribution of no more than two or three melodic ideas between various combinations of instrument. Last of all is a breathlessly exciting finale which takes the story of the American dream all the way to the Western frontier. In this sense one can even see the American Quartet as a Westward journey itself, carrying the Mayflower of the quartet form to what must have seemed, at the time the work was composed and America was still expanding, like the very edge of the world.

It is however far more than a geographical progression which our programme undergoes. The contrast between the Emperor and the American could hardly be greater. The Emperor, with its deep sense of form and artistry, is the ultimate aristocratic quartet, celebrating the finery and majesty of the imperial court; conversely the American, filled top-full with the wordless stories of slaves and cowboys, is a quartet of the common man, a quartet of the heart rather than the head, a gorgeous and glorious hymn to the men who built the land of the free from scratch. It is a tale of the power of hope and the dignity of hard-won democracy, and we invite you to come and listen to it, and the rest of our musical pilgrimage, next week.

The serious business of the first half is Haydn’s Emperor Quartet, a quartet of such distinction that it has its own name. Its name derives from the hymnal theme of the second movement, Haydn’s original dedication to Emperor Franz II, the last Holy Roman Emperor. Its seriousness lies in the ceremonial majesty of its melodic phrasing and the formality of its dimensions. It does not lack fun; however it is conscious of its own responsibility to provide the grand, sweeping Emperor’s hymn with a suitable context, and it does not disappoint. The most notable musical aspect of the three faster movements is how derivative they are of the quartet’s first bold melodic statement, with its heavy anacrusis driving towards a powerful C major chord. This theme permeates the whole quartet and undergoes a variety of transformations throughout, reappearing in a range of keys – from a rough, rustic drone in E Major in the first movement development, then cautious and mysterious in A Minor in the trio of the third movement, to the dark and intense C Minor chords which characterise the finale – each with its own characteristic mood. This monothematic approach, a long way from the standard sonata form of Mozart with its masculine and feminine subjects, could become tiring in the wrong hands, but Haydn’s skilful treatment of his melodic ideas makes each new expression of the theme sound fresh and novel, while ensuring the unity of the whole is maintained.

Against this the second movement variations sound a world away, but they succeed in showing an altogether softer side to imperial power. As with the other movements, Haydn succeeds emphatically in repeating an idea while keeping it interesting, and each successive variation adds a new layer of intrigue and complexity to the theme. But it is the powerful simplicity of the theme which makes the variations possible. Of course it is now well-known as the German national anthem (an irony perhaps, as it pre-dates the German state by several decades). Still, in the sparse, intimate setting of the string quartet, it emerges as a melody of surprising sensitivity, even vulnerability. The Emperor with no clothes, perhaps.

Suffice it to say that alongside one of the giants of the symphonic canon, Volans’ “concerto” (presumably a composer who so “mistrusts” form would have conceived a less formal title) sounded rather pathetic. It shouldn’t be like this of course. Some classical premieres could genuinely be described as historic events: the epic premiere of Beethoven’s Fifth and Sixth Symphonies and Fourth Piano Concerto in the same programme, the near-riotous enthusiasm which greeted Elgar’s First Symphony on its first performance, and the inaugural exhibition of Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony, in a Soviet Union besieged by the invading Nazis. Of course not every premiere can attain these standards. But there does remain a wider point about modern composition, the reputation of which suffers from the kind of racket heard at the Albert Hall on Monday. The nadir of post-modernist composition has passed; there is a new generation of composers who realise the cultural selfishness of failing to add to the stock of compositions which, like Brahms’ First, will stand the test of time. However such composers must hear Volans‘ tuneless noise, and the praise of his fellow conspirators such as the concerto’s soloist, and be tempted by the view that form and melody are relics, rather than the lifeblood of classical composition.

Of course this might just sound like an appendix to the John Cage rant, and there are obvious similarities (though at least 4’ 33” has the benefit of irony). And perhaps Proms audiences really do think form and melody are finished, and only go to see the premieres (there was some applause for the composer when he appeared on stage at the end, although this sounded like polite English applause lacking any genuine enthusiasm). However I would hazard that Volans’ Third Piano Concerto will not be played at the Proms a hundred years hence, which surely tells its own story.

Still if this were just a cosmetic change we could perhaps laugh it off. But it would appear from the trailers that the channel which axed The Bill for financial reasons, only to apply the largest part of its economies to the wages of the presenters of its breakfast show Bankbreak, has decided that a full hour of classical music is just too much of an advertising risk, and instead must be adulterated by musicals and Shirley Bassey. I have nothing against Les Miserables, and it might well be that classical aficionados are thrown the odd bone of a violin concerto, but the idea that our foremost commercial broadcaster cannot even muster one classical music programme a year without turning it into some kind of variety show is profoundly depressing. The most culture the erstwhile home of the South Bank Show can now manage is Popstar to Operastar. Is our nation so much of a backwater that there is no market for anything more than this? I really don’t think it is, but clearly ITV has very little faith in its audiences’ tastes, nor any impulse to think originally and challenge them. The result is that a single Proms season on the BBC manages to fit in more culture than we are likely to see on ITV this side of the twenty-second century, by which time it might finally have finished paying Simon Cowell‘s pension.

Some might argue that events like the Classic Brits help to introduce new audiences to classical music, by mixing the violin concertos with popular numbers. This might make sense if such newcomers had somewhere to go with their new-found interest, other than Sky Arts or back to Britain’s Got Talent. Also the way classical music is presented on mainstream television – as an alternative variety of pop, gleaming with shallow glamour – is not going to encourage anyone to make the leap from Nessun Dorma to the Ring Cycle. As such we must conclude that ITV’s lack of interest in the classical genre is genuine, which is a great sadness for the many exposed only to the conspiratorial lie that the classical world is grey and unwelcoming.

Yet this fine library in the heart of Newcastle, housed in the characteristically classical architecture of the city, is a useful and practical participant in modernity rather than a mere source of nostalgia. It is, oddly enough full of books; a statement of the obvious perhaps, but when compared to its modern city library counterpart it becomes a statement of some significance. The Lit and Phil is what might be called a proper library, unencumbered by the modern distractions of technology and commerce which, fine though they are, are best appreciated in moderation, and a library seems like the ideal place to escape them, to lose oneself for a short while in learning and possibility. Furthermore, it is a library full of what might be described as proper books, with hard backs, lots of words and that slightly intimidating dusty austerity that most great things possess. However there is more to it than books; musicians can find in there an impressive catalogue of printed and recorded music. And then, right in the heart of the building, resides a recital room. At first glance it promises nothing remarkable, containing only a grand piano and a few equally grand paintings. But it is the perfect place for a string quartet recital, featuring a surprisingly sympathetic acoustic and just the right amount of space for an audience whose attentiveness more than compensates for its modest numbers. Needless to say we are looking forward to returning for another concert later this year.

The Lit and Phil is an independent institution which of course relies overwhelmingly on private patronage to survive. We hope to make some small contribution to its continuation when we next perform there. In the meantime we prevail upon no-one to make donations they cannot afford, but it goes without saying that this august place is a worthy recipient of anything you can give, and that your generosity would not be unappreciated. So if you want to prove that wise men are as easily parted from their money as fools, we invite you to follow the link below.

It is to minimalism’s great credit that, although it was conceived in the sanitised environment of the academy, it has transcended its origins and developed into something with mass appeal in the hands of such skilled craftsmen as Glass and Nyman. The reasons for this are inherent in the music, which is essentially concerned with the art of repetition. The older classical composers used repetition as a way of stating again something which had already be said; it was a means to an end. With minimalism the repetitions, and the progressions which take place within and between them, are the whole point. Of course for repetitions to be musically rewarding the right themes are needed, and there is undoubtedly great facility in the minimalist masters’ presentation of harmony and texture. Texture in particular is crucial, allowing the accumulation of so many different motifs that the listener becomes mesmerised. The visual equivalent is of towers of spinning plates growing before an entranced observer; the higher the plates climb, the more impressive the achievement. Yet, paradoxically, within such complex textures great unity of sound is maintained as delicately-arranged cross-rhythms knit the various timbral strands together into one rich, cohesive tapestry. To borrow another visual metaphor, the effect is like a magic eye picture; the listener becomes aware of the distinction between the parts and the whole only by giving it his full concentration.

Such attributes make the minimalist form a particularly versatile one, capable of being carried to a variety of different settings. This is especially evident in the widespread use of minimalism in films, to which it is almost uniquely well-suited; because it is more concerned with atmosphere and mood than bold and brightly-coloured melodies, it easily assimilates with the visual, while its reliance on repetition makes it very easily tailored to on-screen events. Yet minimalism is equally at home in the concert hall as the cinema, and there is no reason why we might not choose to perform a minimalist quartet at some time in the future.

However it must be doubted that the feted Cage was the correct vehicle for this year’s protest. For the post-modernist, ultra-conceptual school from which the Cage is drawn is as much anathema to real music as the X Factor. Cage and his followers claim that 4’ 33” is musical essentially because it provides listeners with the opportunity to create their own image of the music, and reach some profound conclusions about the interaction of music, silence and everyday sound. However it is hard to see how such an outcome is in Cage‘s gift; everyone who lives in a tolerably quiet house can ponder on the distinction between hearing silence and listening to it every night of their lives. The idea that Cage has done something audaciously novel is surely mythological. Indeed 4’ 33” is devoid of intellectual as well as artistic value. It is not hard to imagine an indolent music student who, having realised with horror the imminence of his composition deadline, conceives some silent concoction reinforced by a flimsy commentary explaining why his submission really does constitute music. But pure silence is not music; anyone possessed with minimal intuition is aware of this, and no amount of semantic sophism can make it otherwise. Yet 4’ 33” is also anti-musical in the more profound and damaging sense that it turns the public away from serious music into the alluring embrace of X Factor hooks which, for all their faults, are capable of providing some transient entertainment. Supporters of Cage rightly argue that there is so much more to music, and life, than pop and the X Factor. Yet if the alternative is Cage, why should anyone believe this? Little wonder that if Cage is the best competition to the X Factor that “Classical” music can muster, large numbers of popular music fans stick to what they know, leaving the genuine and vast treasures of the real Classical world tragically under-discovered and under-appreciated.

In truth it is not clear why real music fans should care less who has the Christmas number one. But perhaps that is beside the point. By all means rage against the machine; but please, don’t use such blunt weapons as Cage’s hollow, lifeless hymn to academic self-indulgence.

Merry Christmas and Happy 2011 to all our followers.

Most of the programme I have written about in previous posts. We open with the Telemann Viola Concerto; starting off with a solo might well be a daunting responsibility for me, but the piece has such a wonderful sun-coming-up feel to it that the beginning is its rightful place. In any case I shall be ably assisted by the ensemble. The Beethoven Romance is a sumptuous work for solo violin, occasionally tempestuous but in such a way that never threatens to defeat the prevailing mood of placid lyricism. I have no doubt Adam will do it justice. The Corelli Christmas Concerto is a staple of the early music repertoire – and of our concert programmes as well – and always a pleasure to play. The second half begins with the third Mozart quartet in G, one of the finest examples of the gentle perfection for which the composer is known. The latest item on the programme is the first movement of the Brahms Cello Sonata No.1, which I expect Michael to render with characteristic panache. The piece itself is one of those stirring nineteenth century works which somehow manages to convey a complete narrative in the space of a single opening movement, a dark and impassioned exposition progressing through an intense development to a gloriously serene conclusion. Although I am sure that the remaining movements are an equivalent delight, one is never conscious of being disadvantaged by only hearing one of them. The final item, as promised, is the Haydn Quartet in F Minor, Opus 20 No.5 , which like the Brahms starts from a troubled place but unlike it finds an altogether less satisfying – but no less emphatic – resolution at the end of a journey whose ultimate terminus remains uncertain until what is almost literally the bitter end.

One hopes however that our audience will be wholly without bitterness at the end of our concert season. These are great works which deserve a respectful hearing, but also a professional performance, which is what we aim to provide. To that end this column will remain dormant for the foreseeable future. It has been a great pleasure to produce it, and hopefully it will prove an even greater one to translate words into action in a few weeks time.

A critic recently remarked, in an interview with Philip Glass, how the quartet is particularly well-suited to intimacy and introspection. It is arguable that this has made it ideally placed to exploit the trend for more recent composers such as Debussy, Bartok and Shostakovich to use their works to convey moods of darkness and disturbance reflective of the often troubled and tumultuous times in which they lived. In the early days of the quartet it was not the fashion to write music to convey mood as such; however this began to change as the nineteenth century progressed, and the quartet was found to be sufficiently versatile to express Shostakovich’s powerful and painful cris de coeur as well as Mozart’s elegant exhibitionism. The timbral unity of the quartet is also significant; no other combination of four instruments could provide such an opportunity for the ensemble to sound as if it is speaking with one voice. One could of course make a quartet out of flute, oboe, clarinet and bassoon, but harmonically the result would remain a mixture rather than a compound, with each constituent instrument remaining easily identifiable and the harmonic blend imperfect. Alternatively a quartet of four flutes or four clarinets would have a limited range. And, while the trained ear can tell apart a violin and a cello playing the same notes at the same pitch, they are timbrally far more similar than a flute and a bassoon.

These are just a few of the reasons why string quartets continue to be the staple for modern composers such as Glass, following in the august tradition established by Haydn. Perhaps this is to over-complicate though; I admit to bias, but string instruments are the most wonderful of all musical inventions, and the quartet configures them in the most beautifully simple way, that there is something for all composers to mould into their own creation. Of course the greatness of the string sound is primarily responsible for the success of the symphonic form as well, but that risks opening up a controversy which should be saved for another day.