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Saint David's Hall was my favorite and most convenient concert venue, a theater that seats 2000. It took less than three minutes to leave the building in which I live to walk across The Hayes and into the hall. They closed it for repair in September 2023, when it was discovered to suffer RAAC disease: Reinforced Autoclaved Aerated Concrete. The roof threatened to fall in on the performers and patrons. That roof is being replaced. It was promised to be reopened in 2025, then 2026, and now in 2027.
When it does reopen, it has a new lease with the Academy Music Group, its new operators. Rumors among Cardiffians has it that the venue will give rise to the loss of classical music performances for which the hall was distinctly designed. In its place there will be more popular music concerts. The classical music did have difficulty filling seats. AMG has made a commitment to include a minimum number of classical music performances, but there is a cynical distrust that they will not adhere to this promise and that the interior will be damaged by a less dignified clientele. Meanwhile, no one is mentioning a reinstatement of the Welsh Proms, which my friends sorely miss.
The BBC National Orchestra of Wales, which formerly regarded Saint David’s Hall as their home, is now making their home in the smaller Hoddinott Hall at the Wales Millennium Centre, seating 350. It is where I now go to see them, one of the small theaters in the WMC. (The Donald Gordon Theatre at the WMC is larger, seating 2,500 and having the second largest stage in Europe.)
I was not getting my live classical music fix often enough. As of this October, I have decided to begin regularly attending concerts at the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama. I have been to three concerts and the month has not yet ended. To reach the college is only a fifteen-minute stroll. I’ve been to the RWCMD once before. That was to hear one of the school’s teachers, a jazz pianist. It was years ago and in the Dora Stoutzker Hall.
Martha Masters
This first concert upon my return to the RWCMD was to hear Martha Masters, classical guitarist. This time, it was not in the modern college building, but adjacent to it. It was my first time inside the Anthony Hopkins Centre, named for the school’s famous alumnus. The stone structure was originally the Cardiff Castle’s stables. Ms Masters’ performance was taking place in the Weston Gallery. It seats 80 people and must not be confused with the Weston Studio at the Wales Millennium Centre, which seats 250 people, a mistake I almost made. The former stables are a beautiful stone quadrangle creating a large courtyard at its center.
Entering Weston Gallery, I wondered if it had begun life as a majestic stall for horses. It had a high arched ceiling that made me think of a Quonset hut. The windows were on one side and out of reach, facing the courtyard. What stunned me was the exceptional quality of the artwork that hung on the walls. I must have appeared strange and been annoying, shuffling around to get a good look at each piece while others were trying to settle into their seats. I left the room to ask the staff, why did so many fine works happen to be there, inaccessible for viewing by the general public. After the recital, the staff came to find me to tell me the story.
Julian Bream by Derek Hill.
Julian Bream, one of the most renowned classical guitarists, established a trust to provide financial assistance to students at several institutions, which included the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama. He visited the Weston Gallery and decided the walls should not be empty. He donated artwork from his private collection. One of the paintings was a portrait by Derek Hill of Bream playing a guitar at nineteen. At the back of the Weston Gallery was a painting of Bream’s dog. The rest did not have Bream as their theme.
Martha Masters was wonderful. She introduced us to two women composers I’d never heard of, Ida Presti, a 20th century classical guitarist and composer, and
Dale Kavanagh, a contemporary classical guitarist and composer. After the recital, I asked her about her guitar. Its body had been stained darker than most classical guitars. It produced a gorgeous sound. I could wish the Gallery had better soundproofing. Chopin was tickling a piano somewhere nearby.
As for the guitar, it was made by Simon Marty, an Australian luthier. It was unusual in having a radial bracing beneath the soundboard, bursting away from the bridge. Marty was a trained engineer with a doctorate in engineering sciences. He brought research and development to the craft, advancing our knowledge of the guitar to be on par with our knowledge of violins.
That same night, I happened to see Martha Masters with a couple of her friends on Saint Mary Street. She was making her way to the train station. She wore the guitar in a case on her back. I thought about how I always carry pens and a notebook.
The second concert was in the main building of the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama, a unique and not unattractive building. The edifice rests inside the edge of Bute Park. It looks like two different buildings beneath one sweeping roof that overhangs the sides. The northern part is shaped like a round antique washtub covered in horizontal wood slats. It encloses an acoustically excellent 450-seat chamber concert hall, the Dora Stoutzker Hall. I was there to hear the Welsh National Opera Orchestra conducted by 33-year-old Jiří Habart. The music was Beethoven, Haydn, Dvořák, but most importantly Wagner’s “Wesendonck Lieder” sung by soprano Elizabeth Lewellyn.
A side door opened very slowly and Ms Lewellyn walked onto the stage with quiet elegance while the orchestra was still playing. She was majestic in her pose, wearing a bright green gown covered with large red and pink flowers. She took her position behind a music stand and waited. The orchestra finished and started the next piece, and she sang. All those musicians, the conductor, the singer, they can look at the splotches of ink on paper and can hear the music in their skulls. Nothing I can write will make music in my reader’s skull.
I was again in the Dora Stoutzker Hall the next day. This time to hear Clare Hammond play piano as part of the Steinway International Piano Series. Between the pieces, she took up a microphone and gave a little history of each composer. Such composers as Ravel and Debussy I was familiar with, but others I was hearing for the first time. Mel Bonis, Germaine Teilleferre, and Cécile Chaminade were all French women who suffered fathers that tried to thwart their careers because they were women. Also included was British-Canadian composer and conductor Michael Betteridge, alive and well and young, but until this concert I’d never heard of him either.
Why did the agility and accuracy of human fingers evolve beyond any ability needed for survival?
An elderly couple had been sitting behind me. They were piano teachers. They had noticed I was making notes during the interval and asked if I was a music reviewer. I told them I was not qualified to review music, that I was merely noting the experience and how it made me feel. The conversation went on longer.
Instead of walking home along the road, after the concert I turned behind the school and strolled through Bute Park in its glorious Autumn vesture, windblown and cold, wondering.
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
