On Wednesday November 19 I visited a relatively new concert venue, attracted by the promise of a performance of some chansons (French art songs, otherwise known as mélodies) by Fauré, Debussy and Ravel. The event took place in a former Roman Catholic church in Yeldeğirmeni, the quarter in the Kadıköy district that is closest to the former Haydarpaşa Station – that magnificent edifice, the work of the German architects Otto Ritter and Hellmuth Cuno, that stands right on the waterfront, and that was once the terminus of all the trains that went along the Asian coast of the Sea of Marmara, and beyond that into Anatolia and eventually Baghdad.
After alighting from the ferry in Kadıköy, my companions and I turned left along the seafront (in the direction of Haydarpaşa) until we came to the corner where Orgeneral Şahap Gürler Caddesi, the coast road, swings round to the right and turns inland. At this point, we entered İskele Caddesi, a side street that leaves the coast road at right angles. Climbing a hill, we passed on our right an attractive building that originally served as a school for the children of the German engineers and other personnel who were working on the construction of Haydarpaşa Station, which opened in 1908. Eventually, we found the Notre Dame du Rosaire Church on our left, beyond a mini-roundabout with bushes in the middle. Built in 1895 as part of a complex that also included a monastery and a school, since 2014 this church has served as an event venue attached to the Kadıköy Municipality. (To find events there, by the way, you will need either to access the ‘Kadıköy Belediyesi Kültür Sanat Portalı’ website of tioket agents Mobilet.)
Considering the fact that performances of French art songs are so rare in Istanbul, we were surprised to find very few people in the audience. Readers of Cornucopia may remember that during the pandemic, in the hope of alleviating people’s boredom as they were cooped up at home, I wrote a series of lengthy blogs on three composers of these songs: Reynaldo Hahn, Gabriel Fauré and Claude Debussy. As a result, readers with sufficiently long memories will be aware that I am completely hooked on chansons, and keep the scores of some of them at my home; I sometimes play through the piano accompaniments, and sing the vocal lines in my quavering (horrible pun intended) tenor voice. This activity has given me a familiarity with many of these works that has, unfortunately, made me an even more crotchety critic of other people’s renditions than I would otherwise have been. I will, however, attempt to keep my carpings to the minimum.
The performers on November 19 were soprano Canan Özgür, trained in her art at the Istanbul University State Conservatoire, and pianist Kenan Tatlıcı, who received his training at the Moscow Conservatoire – a name to conjure with. (My undercover assets inform me that he was there at the same time as fellow-pianist Gökhan Aybulus.) They began their programme with six songs by Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924).
First up was Après un rêve, one of a set entitled Trois mélodies that were written between1870 and 1877. (Fauré actually wrote two sets of songs with this title; this one – Opus 7 – is the first.) This particular item is a perennial favourite with audiences, as singer Elly Ameling points out at the beginning of the recording below.
Après un rêve (‘After a Dream’), a poem originating in Italy – the French version is by Romain Bussine – was composed in or around 1877. I strongly recommend reading the lyrics, available in Richard Stokes’s English translation on the Oxford International Song Festival’ website.
Après un rêve recounts a dream of flight through the skies with a lover and the subsequent bitter awakening to reality. It is not just a cracking good song but also the ultimate expression of the composer’s Saturn-Neptune conjunction: Neptune’s fantasies of idealised love (after all, he is known as the ‘higher arc’ of Venus) are punctured and brought down to earth with a bang by ‘Get real, dude!’ Saturn. Literary readers may be reminded of JG Ballard’s sci-fi novel The Unlimited Dream Company, in which the hero teaches the inhabitants of the London suburb of Shepperton to fly, and they all take off into the firmament together. At the beginning and end of the following video – in which Après un rêve is sung by Elly Ameling – we get to see what the late Mr Dalton Baldwin, the skilful accompanist we have heard in so many of the chansons explored in this series of blogs, actually looked like:
The painful moment when the disillusionment occurs is in fact the climax of the song, and at the concert in Kadıköy I was pleased to hear Canan Özgür let rip with a fortissimo Hélas! (‘Alas!’).
The second item in the Fauré sequence was Au bord de l’eau (‘By the Water’s Edge’, Opus 8 No 1), a gently rocking number in three-four time. My companions voted this song the most enjoyable of the whole set, and I can certainly see why: in my 2020 blog, I described it as a ‘triple-time triumph’. On the ‘Mélodie Treasury’ website there is a translation by Christopher Goldsack of the poem by Sully Prudhomme, who in 1901 became the first-ever laureate of the Nobel Prize for Literature.
In the following recording, the singer is Régine Crespin (1927–2007), one of my two favourite female interpreters of chansons, the other being Elly Ameling. This time, the pianist is John Wustman (1930–), Professor Emeritus of Vocal Coaching and Accompanying at the University of Illinois:
After this, we heard two more settings of poems by Prudhomme: the all-too-brief Ici-bas tous les lilas meurent (‘In this world, all the lilies die’), and Les berceaux (‘The Cradles’), which despite its pleasing rhythm – it imitates both the rocking motion of a cradle and that of a ship at sea – is a more serious and substantial work. It was, in fact, the first item in the second Trois mélodies*set (Opus 23), published in 1879. See Roger Stokes’s translation of the words.
It’s time we heard from a male singer. The following rendition of ‘The Cradles’ is by the inimitable Gérard Souzay (1918–2004), a pupil of Pierre Bernac (1899–1979), whose tuition turned him into an ace interpreter of chansons, aka mélodies* Bernac was a figure of great importance for the genre: other pupils of his were Elly Ameling and Jessye Norman. Here, Souzay – who sings it like he really means it – is being partnered, as he often was, by the redoubtable American accompanist Dalton Baldwin (1931-2019):
As an accompanist myself, I feel that the art of ‘collaborative pianism’ is woefully underrated. So I strongly recommend an obituary for Mr. Baldwin.
The fifth and sixth items in the Fauré sequence by Canan Özgür and Kenan Tatlıcı were Notre amour, a setting of a poem by Armand Silvestre that is a much more light-hearted affair than Les berceaux, which it follows in the second Trois Mélodies set, and Clair de lune (‘Moonlight’, Opus 46 No 2), another of my all-time favourites. It is a setting of a poem by Paul Verlaine that was also the inspiration for Debussy’s famous piano piece – the third movement of his Suite bergamasque.
Clair de lune is a classic chanson dating from 1887. Notice the crafty way [Fauré] brings the voice in ‘prematurely’ at 0:36 – at a point where you are expecting the piano to finish its phrase before the singer’s entry. At 01:19 the voice comes in together with the piano, with no complications, just to put you off guard. But then he plays the ‘premature entry’ trick on you once again: this time it is the piano that comes in ‘too early’ – the reiteration of its initial theme starts at 01:32, before the singer has finished her phrase. In the following video, this masterpiece of subtlety and misdirection (both these qualities being, of course, eminently lunar) is performed by Régine Crespin and John Wustman:
A scurillous aside: in 1888, the Princesse de Polignac (born Winnaretta Singer, the New York-born heiress to the Singer sewing machine fortune) persuaded Fauré to make a version of this song for voice and orchestra. Apart from funding public health projects in Paris, she also operated a musical salon; two of her protégés were Debussy and Ravel. Winnaretta, who was gay, entered into two marriages. During her first wedding night, she is rumoured to have climbed on top of a wardrobe and threatened to kill her husband if he came near her. Her second marriage was to the Prince de Polignac, an amateur composer who was also gay (a much more sensible choice on her part). Her lesbian affairs were numerous, and frequently with married women. A quotation from her Wikipedia entry: ‘The disgruntled lesser half of one of Singer’s lovers once stood outside her Venetian palazzo and issued this challenge: “If you are half the man I think you are, you will come out here and fight me.”’
Back to the concert. In my crabbit wet-blanketiness, I feel duty bound to record that in Les berceaux and Notre amour, I was perplexed by some of the notes the pianist was playing, as they were not the familiar ones I was used to hearing. Perhaps two versions of the score exist? I do not know. Whatever the case may be, his accompaniments, though occasionally just a tad too loud (my companions agreed with me on this point, so I feel less hesitant about making it), were perfectly co-ordinated with the singer. In the event, he soon redeemed himself – if indeed he needed to – with a sensitively-played introduction to Clair de lune, a song in which he played beautifully throughout.
After the Fauré, we heard six songs by Debussy (1862–1918). First up was Nuit d’étoiles, a poem by Théodore de Banville that the composer set to music in 1880, when he was 18. See the English translation of the words by Richard Stokes.
Now, here is Nuit d’étoiles sung by Natalie Dessay, accompanied by Philippe Cassard. This recording also gives you the score:
The Özgür-Tatlıcı duo then performed Pierrot, another setting of a poem by de Banville – this time in a lighter, and slightly tongue-in-cheek, mood. It was one of the composer’s 1881 Quatre chansons de jeunesse. An article by Joseph DuBose on the ‘Classical Connect’ website explains the evolution of the Pierrot character and his treatment by Debussy and other composers,
The next song, C’est l’extase langoureuse, written in 1887 and included in the collection Ariettes oubliées (six settings of poems by Verlaine), was another of my favourites (see Richard Stokes's translation on the ‘Oxford International Song Festival’ website),
The Wikipedia entry for Ariettes oubliées gives a good description of the work, and of the synergy between Debussy and Verlaine:
The poetry of Paul Verlaine had a more profound influence on Claude Debussy’s music than did Debussy’s closest literary or musical acquaintances. ... Debussy and Verlaine were both inspired by subtlety and nuance. Each man sought to innovate by using rhythm and tone color as the basis for a new form of a pre-existing art. In the *Ariettes oubliées*, subtlety, nuance, rhythm and tone color (timbre) converged to create a mature compositional style for Debussy, which, in turn, gave a heightened level of understanding to Verlaine’s poetry. This collection of songs set the tone for all of Debussy’s future vocal compositions in terms of rhythm, harmony, tone, color and attention to poetic detail.
The following rendition of C’est l’extase langoureuse is by Dawn Upshaw; she is accompanied by James Levine (1943–2021), who was music director of the Metropolitan Opera from 1976 to 2016. Once again, the recording is accompanied by the score:
In the first two Debussy songs, Canan Özgür was in fine fettle: she filled the Notre Dame du Rosaire Church with sound, hitting the high notes with flawless accuracy. Following this, both performers gave an impressive rendition of C’est l’extase langoureuse, reproducing its laid-back hedonism in suitably mellow fashion. This song always induces in me a longing for summer, and a dangerously relaxed attitude to whatever tasks I have in hand. Warning: do not listen to it in any situation that demands disciplined concentration – such as when driving in Istanbul traffic.
The Debussy section of the recital continued with his 1885 Deux romances – settings of two short poems (*L’âme évaporée* and *Les cloches*) by Paul Bourget. It then concluded with *Beau soir*, a well-known song, published in 1891, that draws attention to the transitory nature of the human experience, but does so by means of a beautiful melody. (see Richard Stokes’s translation of Bourget’s poem, with its finger-wagging ending. The performers on November 19 gave a subtle and sensitive rendering of this work, which does not build up to a huge climax, but rather ebbs and flows. The balance between singer and accompaniment was well maintained throughout, while the quiet ending was especially impressive, and quite moving. The following crackly rendition of *Beau soir* by the Scottish-American soprano Mary Garden (1874-1967) was recorded in 1929. (You know I love old recordings, so I make no apology for the sound quality). Mary was born in Aberdeen, the daughter of a man who worked as a cashier at a local ironworks; by 1910, she had become an international opera star, and was a household name in the United States. It was she, in fact, to whom Debussy dedicated his six Ariettes oubliées. Unfortunately, the accompanist in this performance is unnamed, but I like how they interpret the song despite the liberties they take with the rhythm:
The third and last set of songs from Canan Özgür and Kenan Tatlıcı was by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937). First, we heard the *Chanson espagnole* from his *Chants populaires*. In 1910, Ravel entered the biannual folksong competition of the Maison du Lied, an organisation based in Moscow; entrants were required to write piano accompaniments to folksongs (to which the vocal lines and the lyrics were supplied) from various countries. The four songs in Ravel’s *Chants populaires* were his entries in the Spanish, French, Italian and Hebrew categories. I used to have an LP containing a rendition by Victoria de los Ángeles of the *Chanson hébraïque*, and had great affection for this song; I will therefore list a performance of the whole set. This recording is by the Italian mezzo-soprano Cecilia Bartoli. Her voice is known for its ‘fully developed sensuousness’ in the lower register; in other words, she has a truly gutsy voice. Here, the accompanist is the South Korean conductor and pianist Myung-whun Chung:
The final item on the programme on November 19 was Ravel’s *Cinq mélodies populaires grecques*, a set of five Greek folk songs that he set to music between 1904 and 1906. The original Greek words were translated into French by Ravel’s friend Michel Dimitri Calvocoressi, whose ancestors were from the island of Chios (in Turkish, Sakız Adası); four of the five songs originate from there, the exception being the third, *Quel galant m’est comparable*, which is from Epirus. This performance is by tenor Bastien Rimondi and pianist Johan Barnoin, an admirably diplomatic accompanist. The notes below the YouTube version give you the individual titles of the songs:
In the Ravel sequence, soprano Canan Özgür began to move her body a great deal more than she had done previously: her expressive arm gestures added an extra flavour to the music. I especially enjoyed her rendition of Là-bas, vers l’église, in which she precisely captured the moody tone of the piece. If I may be allowed to carp, I thought the piano was too loud in Chanson espagnole, and the singer’s intonation in Quel galant m’est comparable was more than a trifle suspect (my companions agreed with me on this). Perhaps things might have gone better for her if there had been a short interval between the Debussy and the Ravel, and she had been allowed to rest her voice. Despite these difficulties, however, co-ordination between her and pianist Kenan Tatlıcı was irreproachable throughout, and I congratulate them both on a most enjoyable performance.
Afterwards, my companions and I explored some of the streets that lie between the Notre Dame du Rosaire Church and the centre of Kadıköy, sauntering along Yel Değirmeni Sokak, taking supper at a late-opening restaurant serving home-cooked food, buying some delicious bread at a local baker’s and eventually turning right towards the coast. Yeldeğirmeni seemed to have become quite an attractive place in recent years; it was, in fact, something of a discovery for us. And so I will conclude with an account of how it came into being.
The word *Yel değirmeni* means ‘windmill’, and the quarter began to take shape when four windmills were constructed there between 1774 and 1789 to meet the need for flour at a time when Kadıköy had just begun to expand. This was, in fact, the first part of Kadıköy to become a residential area: it was given proper streets at this time, and in 1792 one of Sultan Selim III’s footmen had a public fountain built there. This was followed in 1836 by a mosque, constructed by order of Mahmut II. As a sign of Yeldeğirmeni’s precocious development, it was here that Kadıköy’s first post office opened its doors in 1845.
Further development took place in 1857, when the inauguration of a regular steamer service brought the area into closer contact with other parts of the city; in the second half of the 19th century, partly as a result of the improved transport situation, Yeldeğirmeni began to acquire Armenian and Jewish communities in addition to its Turkish and Greek inhabitants. During the 1870s, a railway line was constructed from Haydarpaşa to İzmit, following the shore of the Sea of Marmara, and this further accelerated population growth. The Church of St George, the quarter’s first Greek Orthodox church, was erected in the 1890s, and it was in this decade, too, that Jewish people built their first synagogue, the Hemdat Israel, in İzzettin Sokak, one of the streets leading down to the seafront. The Notre Dame du Rosaire Monastery and Church appeared, as did a school run by Catholic nuns, and eventually German and Greek schools were also opened. These days, as we discovered, the Yeldeğirmeni quarter has an attractively Bohemian atmosphere, some fine old apartment buildings, some arty establishments and – inevitably – lots and lots and lots of coffee shops.
