Vaughan Williams is known for his distinctively English style on the one hand, and his rejection of the late romantic German style in music on the other. However, his ‘lush, pastoral’ string writing – the result of his strong interest in English folk song, modal harmonies and the music of the Tudor period – is occasionally interrupted by harsher passages varying in intensity from the merely angular to the outright abrasive, and he also had a penchant for frequently-changing rhythms. The Suite for Viola and Orchestra is a series of eight miniatures that exhibits all the above features (except, perhaps, the harshness) and features a prominent solo viola part.

The eight movements are divided into three groups: (1) a Prelude, Carol and Christmas Dance; (2) a Ballad and Moto Perpetuo; and (3) a Musette, Polka Mélancolique and Galop. In the following recording, which is accompanied by a viola-and-piano reduction of the score, the piece is being performed by the distinguished violist Frederick Riddle (1912–95) with the Bournemouth Sinfonietta, conducted by Norman Del Mar (1919–94). (One of Del Mar’s teachers of composition at the Royal College of Music, where he also studied horn-playing and conducting, was Vaughan Williams.) The notes under the YouTube version give you a brief description of each movement.

At the concert on January 16, Vaughan Williams’s Suite for Viola and Orchestra was performed by the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra under the direction of their German guest conductor, Raoul Grüneis, the solo part being played by the young British violist Timothy Ridout. Trained at the Royal Academy of Music and the Kronberg Academy in Taunus, Germany, Ridout won first prize in the inaugural year of the Cecil Aronowitz International Viola Competition in 2014; then, in 2016, he won first prize in the Lionel Tertis International Viola Competition, established in 1980.

After some initial uncertainty, the woodwind department played well in the first movement – the Prelude. I especially enjoyed some back-and-forth duets involving the solo viola and a bassoon, and later the viola and a flute. The woodwinds also shone in the energetic Christmas Dance third movement, which incidentally illustrates the way this composer put English music on a different track by adopting a leaner approach to orchestration. (In 1907 and 1908 he took lessons from Maurice Ravel, a master orchestrator; Wikipedia informs us that these studies enabled Vaughan Williams to ‘clarify the textures of his music and free it from Teutonic influences’. I assume that in this context, ‘Teutonic’ refers to the works of German composers such as Beethoven, Wagner, Brahms and Richard Strauss, which have a fuller – perhaps, even, heavier – sound.) The Christmas Dance also features frequently changing rhythms – in this case, from 3/4 to 6/8 and back again.

In the wistful fourth movement, entitled Ballad, the violist gave an impressive display of quiet and subdued but intense and atmospheric playing, while in the fifth (Moto Perpetuo), which features some pleasing interjections by the harp, the rhythmic chopping and changing – as in the Christmas Dance, bars are divided sometimes into three shorter beats, and sometimes into two longer ones – was well handled by both the soloist and the orchestra. I have to say, though, that for Turkish musicians accustomed to the rhythms of their native folk music, this must have been a walk in the park.

William E. Everett, writing in the Journal of the American Viola Society (Vol 13 No 2, 1997), tells us that while the Ballad is pastoral in character, the Moto Perpetuo that follows it is ‘ominous’. ‘The movement is certainly the most virtuosic and technically challenging of any in the Suite,’ he says; ‘this is the dark, foreboding world of Vaughan Williams’s Fourth Symphony (composed 1931-34, first performed 1935), a work contemporary with the Suite.’ I would definitely agree with his description of the Moto Perpetuo as ‘virtuosic and technically challenging’, but for my money the Fourth Symphony, completed after the death in 1934 of the composer’s closest friend, Gustav Holst (of The Planets fame), is far more angst-ridden and turbulent than this comparatively anodyne walk in the dark. The Fourth Symphony is modernism at its most acerbic, prompting contemporary commentators to opine that it reflected the ‘naked violence triumphant in Europe’ after Hitler’s rise to power. Anyway, here is Everett’s full article. It starts on page 9.

My enjoyment of the Suite for Viola and Orchestra was enhanced by the fact that I had recently returned from spending the Christmas season in my native Tameside. There, I had had several walks in the Pennine foothills, and Vaughan Williams’s evocation of an idealised English countryside allowed me to indulge in a little nostalgia. This was especially so in Carol, the folk-song-like second movement – yet another example of changing rhythms (alternate bars are in 4/4 and 5/4, but the effect is one of even-paced smoothness rather than jerkiness). That is not to say, of course, that I did not appreciate Timothy Ridout’s faultless viola-playing – especially in the Moto Perpetuo movement touched on above – and the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra’s sensitive accompaniments.

Having broached the subject of Vaughan Williams’s symphonies, I will add that I admire the later ones – not just the ‘serene’ Symphony No 5 (written in 1938-43 and dedicated to Jean Sibelius, who said complimentary things about it), but also his tougher, grimmer productions, two of these being the bleak, ‘post-nuclear’ last movement of the Symphony No 6 (1944–47) and the chilling Symphony No 7 (the ‘Sinfonia Antarctica’, partly based on his score for the film Scott of the Antarctic and completed in 1952). Also, when in a particularly laid-back mood I enjoy his The Lark Ascending, a romance for violin and orchestra in which I once played the horn. However, the piece that I regard as his masterwork is the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.

The Fantasia was written to be performed in Gloucester Cathedral, where it received its first hearing at the Three Choirs Festival in 1910. It is unusual in that it features three groups of musicians (two string orchestras and a string quartet) positioned in different parts of the building. Much of the writing is antiphonal, with lots of ghosting, in which a melody played by one of the ensembles is echoed by another. The modal harmonies the composer was so fond of work particularly well in this context as the Phrygian mode in which Tallis’s tune was written – this being the scale you get when you play the white notes on a piano starting on E – minimises any uncomfortable clashing when the two main groups launch out in different directions.

Vaughan Williams came across Tallis when he was editing The English Hymnal, a hymn book published for the Church of England in 1906. Thomas Tallis (c.1505-85) was a composer of mostly choral music – especially church anthems. One of these, Spem in Alium, was written for a choir divided into 40 parts; this may possibly be where Vaughan Williams got the idea of dividing the orchestra into different groups. (In the mid-1960s, I sang in a performance of this work in Manchester Cathedral.)

Here is a rendition of the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by the BBC Symphony Orchestra, conducted by the late Sir Andrew Davis (1944–2024); it takes place in Gloucester Cathedral, the location of the work’s first hearing.

For those wishing to explore this ‘spacious and sonorous’ work in greater detail, there is an account of it by Mark Pullinger on the Bachtrack website. Not everyone liked the Fantasia, by the way: after its premiere, the organist of Gloucester Cathedral described it as ‘a queer, mad work by an odd fellow from Chelsea’.

But that will be quite enough Englishness for the time being: let us return to the concert in Istanbul on January 16. In the second half, the orchestra played Beethoven’s Symphony No 8 in F major, Opus 93. This four-movement work, completed in 1812, is the shortest of his symphonies and is mostly light-hearted in mood. Beethoven himself preferred it to his Symphony No 7, which he had only just completed when he began No 8. For my part, I recognise that the well-planned construction of No 8 is more formally satisfying than that of No 7, but the hauntingly beautiful Allegretto second movement of No 7 has no counterpart in No 8 – or indeed anywhere else in Beethoven’s oeuvre.

Carl Czerny, a pupil of his, said the great master was angered by the lack of enthusiasm with which his Symphony No 8 was greeted when first performed in Vienna in 1814, but Beethoven’s terrible conducting (he was growing increasingly deaf, and the orchestra largely ignored his ‘ungainly gestures’) may have had something to do with it. Also, the audience may have been expecting something less subtle and more demonstrative – something in the style either of his Symphony No 7, which was played immediately before this one and received wild applause, or of his ‘patriotic pot-boiler’ Wellington’s Victory, which was also on the progamme. Here are links to two descriptions of the work: the first is a concise piece, taken from notes by Misha Donat, on the Hyperion website, while the second is a more detailed, but still approachable, account by Thomas May on the Nashville Symphony website.

I thought the stars of the concert on January 16 were Raoul Grüneis, the conductor, who managed the rallentando (gradual slowing down) passages very successfully, performing some expressive contortions with his left hand in the second movement of the Beethoven; the violins, who stayed perfectly in tune even when playing in their potentially squeaky high register; the brass department, who roared out some rousing fanfares and gave us a couple of mellowly melodious horn duets; and – last but certainly not least – the young lady who bashed the kettledrums with such commendable verve, thus demolishing what has traditionally been a male prerogative.

The first work on the programme was the Violin Concerto No 1 in F sharp minor by the Polish violin virtuoso, composer and pedagogue Henryk Wieniawski (1835-–80), the solo part being played by Lakatoš. Wieniawski, born to Jewish parents in Lublin, Poland in 1835, was admitted to the Paris Conservatoire at the age of eight in recognition of his exceptional talent, and subsequently became one of the greatest violin virtuosi of all time. An International Violin Competition named after him and first held in 1935 takes place in Poznań every five years. The two violin concertos he wrote during his brief but distinguished career are of exceptional difficulty. In fact, his second violin concerto (in D minor) is more often performed than his first, but to say that they both require the performer to display absolute technical mastery of the instrument would be a ludicrous understatement.

In the Violin Concerto No 1, first performed in Leipzig in 1853, the performer is required to produce double-stopping (that is, playing notes on two strings simultaneously) at breakneck speed, with jumps from the top to the bottom of the instrument’s range thrown in for good measure. Add to this some terrifyingly tricky writing for the artificial harmonics a good violinist can produce in the very top register, and you have a veritable nightmare of a piece.

Lakatoš was born in Novi Sad (Serbia) in 1991. After receiving training in Novi Sad and Zurich, he won First Prize at the Pablo de Sarasate International Violin Festival in Pamplona, Spain, in 2015, and is currently Professor of Violin at the Academy of Arts in Novi Sad and the Faculty of Music in Belgrade. In addition to past performances in Germany, Poland, the USA, Switzerland, Britain, Slovenia and Croatia as well as his native Serbia, recent engagements have taken him to Spain (where he often plays) and St. Petersburg.

The fact that Lakatoš’s rendering of the Wieniawski concerto on December 5 was not always entirely accurate did not in any way diminish my appreciation of his skill: the demands made by this work are unreasonable, and anyone who can give this formidable piece a fair shot has my respect. It would be nice to say that the orchestra rose to the occasion to support him, but unfortunately that would not be entirely accurate (with regard to the first movement, at least): there was a somewhat ragged duet between the woodwinds and a horn, and indeed the woodwind department as a whole did not coordinate well with the soloist in the initial stages. The orchestra’s string department, by contrast, performed well throughout the concerto, and the violins – inspired perhaps by Lakatoš’s example – stayed in tune even when playing at the very top of their range. I found the third movement (which follows a brief slow interlude) more enjoyable than the first, largely because there was less gratuitous showing off by the solo violin and therefore more to get one’s teeth into. 

In this recording of Henryk Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No 1 in F sharp minor, Itzhak Perlman is being accompanied by the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Seiji Ozawa.

In the second half, the orchestra played Felix Mendelssohn's Symphony No 3 in A minor, the so-called ‘Scottish Symphony’. In the summer of 1829 the 20-year-old composer made his first visit to Britain – the first of ten – to attend, and sometimes participate in, concerts in London, some of which included his own works. David A McConnell, writing on the ‘Classic Review’ website, tells us that Mendelssohn ‘took the capital by storm, conducting his first symphony with the London Philharmonic and playing Beethoven’s Emperor concerto from memory, which thrilled audiences’. In mid-July, no doubt in need of some rest and relaxation, he set off on a walking tour of Scotland with his friend Karl Klingemann.

While the two were in Edinburgh, the ruins of Holyrood Chapel at Holyrood Palace left a profound impression on Mendelssohn; it was on this occasion, in fact, that he received the inspiration for a new symphony. In a letter to his parents, he wrote: ‘In the deep twilight we went today to the palace where Queen Mary lived and loved ...The chapel below is now roofless. Grass and ivy thrive there and at the broken altar where Mary was crowned Queen of Scotland. Everything is ruined, decayed, and the clear heavens pour in. I think I have found there the beginning of my ‘Scottish’ Symphony.’ McConnell tells us that ‘It is indeed this initial sketch (with slight modifications) that became the opening theme of the slow introduction and the melodic DNA for most of the themes in the symphony.’ However, although Mendelssohn jotted down a few ideas for the work at the conclusion of his tour of the Highlands, he failed to make much progress with it, and in 1831 he laid the work aside, eventually completing it in Berlin in 1842.

In fact, this was not the only piece to come out of his Scottish holiday: during a visit to the island of Staffa, off the west coast, he was so excited by the sight of a famous cave – a structure, formed of basalt columns, that juts out into the sea – that he immediately noted down the theme for his overture The Hebrides. This work is sometimes known as Fingal’s Cave, ‘Fingal’ being the name of the hero of an epic poem by the 18th-century Scottish poet and historian James Macpherson. (Macpherson claimed that the poem was the work of a 3rd-century bard writing in Gaelic, but this assertion was, I fear, what in Cockney rhyming slang is known as a ‘pork pie’. He later distinguished himself by penning a response to the American Declaration of Independence in which he asserted the ‘rights’ of Great Britain and defended the actions of King George III.) 

Returning to the concert, Mendelssohn’s four-movement Symphony No 3 was first performed in Leipzig, where he was director of the Gewandhaus concert hall, in 1842. Wikipedia describes the symphony as follows: ‘... the emotional scope of the work is wide, consisting of a dark and stormy first movement, a joyous and fairly brief second movement, a slow movement maintaining an apparent struggle between love and fate, and a finale that takes its components from Scottish folk dance’.

Before the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra began its performance, the announcement about not applauding between movements was repeated, and in consequence there was none of the ill-timed clapping that can sometimes disturb the musicians’ concentration. In the symphony, the orchestra’s initial entry was refreshingly crisp; indeed, their coordination was markedly better than it had been in the first movement of the Wieniawski. The woodwind department, in particular, upped its game several notches (there was some beautiful lyrical playing from them, especially in the second movement), and the strings’ timing was impeccable throughout the work. In the third movement, the brass section came in precisely on cue and in unison, and in the fourth their fanfare was an impressive blast of bombast. I especially enjoyed a subtle clarinet/bassoon duet, and thought the horns merited special praise for blaring out the big themes with gusto in the noisy final section (their most exposed entries come in at 37:42 and 38:49 in the recording below).

This performance of Mendelssohn’s Symphony No 3 is by the Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich, conducted by Paavo Järvi.

For those interested in the technical aspects of the work, this video by the music critic Dave Hurwitz on his ‘Ultimate Classical Music Guide’ will be enlightening. He focusses on the thematic transformations in the "Scottish Symphony" and its cyclical construction. Scroll on to 2:45 to skip the initial rant.

I cannot leave the subject of Mendelssohn without drawing attention to two of his works that although outstanding, are not performed as frequently as they deserve. The event that established me as a Mendelssohn fan was listening to a performance of his String Octet in E flat major by fellow-pupils at my secondary school. Astonishingly, this professionally-crafted masterpiece was written when the composer was only 16 years old. The ‘Allegro moderato ma con fuoco’ first movement, in particular, is to my mind one of the most exciting pieces ever written for strings, rivalling even César Franck’s Sonata in A major for violin and piano in its volcanic intensity. The late Conrad Wilson (former music critic of The Scotsman) described the octet in the following words: ‘Its youthful verve, brilliance and perfection make it one of the miracles of nineteenth-century music.’

Dave Hurwitz, in another of his videos, describes this work as ‘unkillable’ – by which he means that it is next to impossible to play it badly. “It’s so phenomenally well written for the performers,” he says, “that they’re just totally absorbed in the act of playing the work... It’s one of those pieces where you’re absolutely enveloped in the music. ... You just sort of immerse yourself and go into this trance-like fog, and out it comes... It’s technically challenging, it’s artistically worth every second of it, and it’s so well written that you can’t damage it.” In line with this judgement, he does not single out any particular recording as being ‘the best’ available. Here is a link

I, however, have made my choice. Here is a performance by ‘Jascha Heifetz, Gregor Piatigorsky, and friends’. Heifetz, by the way, was the highest-paid violinist in the world by the time he was 18. After hearing his debut concert at the Carnegie Hall, Fritz Kreisler (another leading violinist of the 20th century) said: “We might as well take our fiddles and break them across our knees.” This is a remastered recording, so please forgive the somewhat jerky start.

The second Mendelssohn work that I think needs rescuing from ill-deserved obscurity is his A Midsummer Night’s Dream overture. In this recording, we hear the whole thing (including the overture) played by the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, conducted by George Szell. Where did that famous Wedding March actually come from? Well, now you know. And that braying donkey effect, depicting the Bottom character in Shakespeare’s play, is just wonderful. In my opinion, these swooping ‘hee-haws’ – first heard at 3:14 and 8:02 – completely belie Hurwitz’s comment that Mendelssohn had ‘no sense of humour’.

An aside: the donkey has made many important contributions to literature, including The Golden Ass (a somewhat bawdy ancientRoman novel, also called *Metamorphoses*, by the second-century author Apuleius) and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes*. Incidentally, readers are advised to watch out for the forthcoming publication by Cornucopia of With Donkeys Across Anatolia – Christopher Trillo’s highly entertaining account of a journey through western Anatolia on donkey-back in 1981.

Is it not remarkable how frequently Scottish themes and outdoor adventures (such as walking tours of the Highlands and donkey-driven expeditions) have come up in this review? Accordingly, I will end with Edinburgh-born Stevenson’s account, at the end of the chapter entitled ‘Upper Gévaudan’ in his aforementioned book, of the philosophy behind the journey he undertook with his often-cantankerous four-legged companion Modestine in 1878.

‘For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more clearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints. Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccupied with our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must be worked for. To hold a pack upon a pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind. And when the present is so exacting who can annoy himself about the future?’

That last sentence might well be applied not just to the frustrating but ultimately enlightening experiences encountered during travel, but also to the intense but ultimately rewarding concentration required to play a difficult piece of music such as the Mendelssohn Octet; both serve to ‘occupy and compose the mind’. Remember Dave Hurwitz’s comment about performers of this work being ‘just totally absorbed in the act of playing the work – you lose yourself in the music’? Spot on, Mr Hurwitz! All credit to him, too, for recognising Mendelssohn’s seldom acknowledged, but very real, genius.

Yunus Karma’s Kintsugi Moss Sculpture (2025) poised in the Şule Gazioğlu Gallery

As Istanbul edges towards spring, a new exhibition at the Şule Gazioğlu Gallery draws our attention to our inner relationship with nature. 

Rooted: The Garden Within (26 February — 19 March) brings together works by Annette Louise Solakoğlu, Elena Tash, Işık Güner and Yunus Karma. Each artist, working in a different medium, explores the deep connections between human experience and the natural world. 

Annette Louise Solakoğlu (featured in issues 67 and 69) presents works from two series. Her Botanica pieces draw on the compositional discipline of Dutch Golden Age still lifes and the tradition of momento mori. Using a scanning-based photographic process, she creates layered compositions that capture the tonal depth and delicacy of plants. Works from her Istanbul Gardens series turn to cultivated spaces across the city, where architecture and vegetation coexist with human presence.

Annette Louise Solakoğlu, Secret Garden, Zeki Paşa Mansion (2025)

Annette Louise Solakoğlu, Botanica I, New York (2024)

Readers will also recognise the work of Işik Güner, whose irises graced the cover of issue 67. Güner’s botanical illustrations are grounded in field study and careful documentation. Her meticulous watercolours render each species with exquisite precision. On view are works from her Turkish Irises project, which records every iris species in Turkey within its natural habitat. These watercolours are shown alongside sketches from her recent research journey to Japan, reflecting on ecosystems and biodiversity through close observation of the plant itself.

Section from Işık Güner’s Plants of Japan-Travel Journal, 2025

Işık Güner, Forest (2025)

Yunus Karma’s Kintsugi Moss Sculpture (2025) poised in the Şule Gazioğlu Gallery

Yunus Karma presents pieces inspired by the Japanese philosophy of kintsugi, which recognises the value in repair and continuity. Using preserved moss and repurposed vessels, he creates sculptural works that bring out the tactile and spatial qualities of organic materials. Elena Tash works with antique fabrics, layering symbols and textures to connect natural materials with memory and inner experience.

Elena Tash’s Garden of Memories (2026) combines antique fabrics to create evocative new garments.

Rooted: The Garden Within encourages a moment of reflection, presenting nature not only as what surrounds us, but something deeply internalised within our own lives and perception.

Photos by Cengiz Çavuşoğlu and Elena Tash. 

The exhibition, Rooted: The Garden Within can be visited at Şule Gazioğlu Gallery in Emirgan, Hekim Ata Cd.3A Tuesday to Saturday 11am - 6pm, Sunday 1pm - 5pm. No entrance fee. 

Sadly, sadly, Sunday is the final day of the London Antique rug and Textile Art Fair, (open from 11am to 8pm till January 25th). If you are in London come visit our stand in this wonderful fair full of treasures. It's been such a treat seeing old friends of Cornucopia, meeting our subscribers and welcoming new ones. 

Our busy stand at the top of the stairs

The London dealer Ebi Shafagh's gorgeous kilm's, suzani's and antique textiles. 

A modern carpet in warm colours designed by Gideon Hatch

The very unusual piece in the center is a Zoorastraian wool embroidery from Isphahan (1870) 20th Century Modern.. 

Villa Rosemaine introduces a trunkload of delights from Toulon:18th-century French Creole embroidery (top left), 19th-century suzani from Taşkent, Rabat Moroccan embroidery, 

A superb antique Circassian Bordjalou Kazak carpet from İbrahim Tekin's Rug Specialist

Dominic Or

Emily's House, London: 

Uzbek wool and silk embroidery from Aaron Nejad Gallery 

On November 28 I attended a concert at the Atatürk Cultural Centre in which the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra was conducted by Sascha Goetzel (photograph by Özge Balkan). This event, one of the DenizBank Concerts, started off with an announcement that the first item on the programme – Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (‘Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun’) – had been cancelled. On hearing this, I gave a wry smile: knowing that in the second half the orchestra would be required to perform Richard Strauss’s long, difficult and extremely taxing Alpine Symphony, I conjectured that this work had taken the lion’s share of the rehearsal time, leaving none for the Debussy. I have to say, however, that in the event the orchestra’s superlative performance of the Strauss – a constantly moving tapestry of rich and well-rehearsed sounds – fully justified any sacrifice that may have been made

As a result of the programme change, the proceedings actually began with the second item – Nuits d’été (‘Summer Nights’), a song cycle completed in 1841 by the French composer Hector Berlioz (1803–69). This work consists of settings of six poems by the poet, novelist, journalist and literary critic Théophile Gautier (1811–72), in which the progress of love from youthful innocence to loss, and finally renewal, is described. Ballet fans will recognise Gautier, who was a devoted friend of the composer’s, as the author of the scenario for Giselle; art-lovers, meanwhile, will recall that as chairman (from 1862 onwards) of the Société nationale des beaux-arts, he rubbed shoulders with famous artists such as Delacroix, Manet and Gustave Doré. As if this were not enough, Gautier, whose physical strength was proverbial, was also an ace swimmer.

The reader may well wonder why I have devoted so much space to Gautier, and so little to Berlioz. The reason, I will freely confess, is that I am somewhat underwhelmed by Berlioz as a composer. It is true that the Symphonie fantastique, his most famous work, has its moments, especially in the witches’ knees-up at the end – a piece of Hollywood grotesquerie that must surely be the ultimate 19th-century Gothfest. Also, I have a soft spot for his Christmas song L’Adieu des bergers à la Sainte Famille, a piece whose title is usually anglicised as The Shepherds’ Farewell. But by and large, my less than generous estimation of his talents as a composer wins out over the natural sanguineness of my temperament. So it was with resignation, rather than anticipation, that I settled down to listen to Nuits d’été.

The soloist at the concert on November 28 was the Turkish mezzo-soprano Deniz Uzun. In the first of the six songs, there was a marked lack of coordination between the singer and the accompanying instruments (especially the woodwinds); this was a pity, as for my money this number is the most attractive of the six. In fact, it took until the third song for the soloist and the orchestra to gel into a harmonious ensemble. Here, things looked up: there was a palpable sense of drama, and the singer hit the high notes with tremendous force. Communication between singer and instrumentalists improved as time went on; in the last three songs their coordination was perfect, and I actually started to enjoy myself. In the finale the orchestra produced a nicely rounded, expansive sound. Meanwhile, the singer gave a committed performance, swinging her arms about (something she had not done previously) as she turned up the dial to the max. Here is a performance of Nuits d’été by the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande, conducted by Ernest Ansermet. The soloist is Régine Crespin (1927-2007), one of my favourite French singers. 

Before leaving the subject of Berlioz, I would like – as an apology to the poor man for the dismissive things I have said about him – to list performances of what I see as his finest achievements: the fifth and final movement of his Symphonie fantastique (the witches’ sabbath) and the Christmas song for which I have such fondness. A description of the Symphonie fantastique on the LA Phil website by Herbert Glass describes the infatuation that led the composer to write the piece and takes you through each of its movements. Now, here is a performance of the finale, the Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath, by the Orchestre national de France, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. Note that while listening, wearing green makeup is compulsory; cackling is optional.

The Shepherds’ Farewell comes from Berlioz’s oratorio L’enfance du Christ. In the following recording, made at the Académie du Palais royal in Paris, the conductor is Jean-Philippe Sarcos, the founder and artistic director of the Orchestra of the Palais Royal.

As an encore, mezzo-soprano Deniz Uzun gave us a setting of Haydar haydar, a poem by the 17th-century folk poet Kul Nesîmî, who wrote in the tradition of Alawite-Bektashi metaphysical heterodoxy. This rousing number drew much more enthusiastic applause from the audience than Nuits d’été had done, and it gave the singer a send-off that reflected well-deserved appreciation for her talents – and, of course, for her powerful voice.

In the second half, the orchestra played An Alpine Symphony, a tone poem by Richard Strauss (1864–1949). Written between 1911 and 1915 and one of Strauss’s largest non-operatic works, it depicts the experiences between dawn and nightfall of group of climbers who are ascending a mountain in the Alps. The story moves through the climbers’ day as they pass through idyllic scenery on their way up, then take a wrong path and have some dangerous moments. Finally, they arrive at the summit, but are caught in a violent thunderstorm on their way down.

The Wikipedia entry tells you what part of the journey each of the piece’s 22 sections is intended to represent. An Alpine Symphony calls for a huge orchestra including an organ – or, in the case of the performance on November 28, a rather more modest electronic keyboard – and some unusual percussion instruments: a wind machine (a large cylinder rotated by means of a handle) and a long strip of metal which when waved about produces a noise that is supposed to resemble thunder.

My choice of the following recording was influenced by the preferences of Dave Hurwitz on the Classics Today website. He is quite rude about the piece, describing it as ‘glitzy’ and ‘vulgar and bombastic’, but some of his comments are insightful and pertinent. Here is a link to his pronouncements. This performance of An Alpine Symphony is by the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Kazimierz Kord. The YouTube version gives you the score and a time stamp for each section. 

I was most impressed by the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra’s performance of this work. The woodwind section was perfectly in tune from the word go, the fanfares from the trumpets, horns, trombones and tubas were beautifully played, and all the members of the expanded percussion department – including the lady playing the big bass drum – had their timing down to a ‘T’. At each crashing chord from the full orchestra the conductor leaped around on the podium. He must have trained the players well, as their many difficult entries were invariably well coordinated. Perhaps the violins’ intonation was a trifle suspect in the high register on occasions, but we will allow the bashing of drums, blaring of trombones and screaming of clarinets to drown out all criticism: it was a highly enjoyable performance.

The orchestra as a whole stayed perfectly in tune right to the end, where the organ comes in to add its stentorious voice to the musical mayhem. Considering the fact that at one time the Istanbul State Symphony Orchestra had me writhing in my seat as I grimaced over its ragged entries and winced at its hideous intonation, things have certainly come a long way. A great deal of hard work must have been carried out to bring the orchestra to this point, and though I do not know the names of the people responsible, I congratulate them. Unlike Debussy’s faun, idling on mossy banks in the heat of a summer afternoon, those conductors must have spent many hours coughing and shivering in unheated concert halls as they worked their players to exhaustion, and the players themselves must have practised until their fingers bled or their lips ached and went numb. We may admire the resulting tapestry for the work of art that it is, but the fingers that tied each individual knot equally deserve our appreciation.

Well, there is now a brief chance to experience the often moving photographs of Timurtaş Onan in the flesh. Timurtaş Onan: A Wanderer’s Street Tale is at Galeri Işık, Tesvikiye, until January 24. For more than two decades Onan has been charting the life of Istanbul, which he has been publishing privately for an ever growing band of followers in a series of beautiful books. This show brings on Onan's favourites. 

Here is a small selection from the show:

Although Timurtas Onan: A Wanderer’s Street Tale is not a selling exhibition, art prints can of course be ordered from the photographer, and couriered worldwide. Please write to info@timurtasonan.com.

Digital subscribers can read the full Cornucopia article, Beyoğlu: A Bohemian Rhapsody here.

The first number – Aha! – was purely instrumental. We heard some fine brass playing from the five trumpets and four trombones on stage. There was also some well-coordinated blaring from the five saxophones, among whom I was pleased to see some musicians I had previously listened to at closer quarters in various jazz clubs. Although I might have wished to hear more of the pianist (he was drowned out by the other instruments in this number), I could tell immediately that Serkan Özyılmaz, a graduate of the Composition Department of the Mimar Sinan University State Conservatoire, was going to make some satisfying ventures into atonal space, launching himself a good deal further out into that risky realm than most would dare to. 

Then Sibel made her entry wearing a blue outfit that was most appropriate to her Libran Sun sign: pastel hues such as pink and blue are said to open the heart, soften one’s presence and bring to bear a calming influence. In accordance with the predilections of Venus, their co-ruler, Librans tend to seek harmony, and (of course) balance. She began A Foggy Day accompanied only by the piano, and after this came an impressive guitar solo from conductor Cem Tuncer, who laid down his baton and girded his instrument at several points during the concert.

Recently Sibel has been working with the French trumpet-player, composer and arranger Jean-Loup Longnon; a couple of years ago, in fact, she made recordings with his big band at the Studios Ferber in Paris. The two have given a large number of concerts in France and Russia – even one in Senegal, a former French colony, where French is the main foreign language. As a result, her English numbers are now interspersed with songs in French, and the third item in her programme – which I believe was called Ce soir – was one of these. I was pleased to see that she captured its insolent 6/8 slinkiness to perfection.

One special feature of the concert on November 26 was the emotional range Sibel achieved in the slower numbers, and it was one of these – Our Love is Here to Stay – that came next. On occasions where feistiness was called for she sent her voice hurtling across the hall like a howitzer shell, but when the mood changed to one of intimacy or wounded anguish, she dropped down to a highly charged, almost tearful, hush.

A little illogicality never goes amiss in a jazz concert, and in the sixth song, entitled Four, she demonstrated her ability to scat-sing, or vocalise, integrating long stretches of nonsense words into a song. Ella Fitzgerald wrote a book about it. Sibel really ought to produce her own, with examples of the ‘Doo-doo-dah’ and ‘Bi-bi-boo-bop’ variety. I’d buy it. This item was marked by another session of guitar-playing from the conductor, and the first full-length drum solo. (The audience really liked that – for some reason, drum solos always draw enthusiastic applause.) The next number was sung in French; I don’t actually know what its title was, but among the words I recognised were Sous la pluie de novembre – ‘Under the November Rain’. Here, the double-bass player gave us an appropriately smoky, subdued and overcast solo in bossa-nova rhythm.

In the final number, What a Little Moonlight Can Do, Sibel unleashed a powerball of sound that nearly burst the Theatre Hall’s doors wide open. It was accompanied by a great deal of that grittiness that these days is described as ‘edge’. Her encore, I was delighted to see, was a slow one with lots and lots of ‘let’s torture our tonsils’ throatiness. It takes a great deal of musical maturity to do an encore that is not of the high-energy, roistering variety, but all the musicians on the stage that night undoubtedly had that quality in abundance.

I left the premises thinking to myself that there are few places in the world where one can hear a jazz concert of this quality, and my heartfelt congratulations go not only to Sibel Köse, who was magnificent, but also to each and every one of the musicians who accompanied her with such consummate skill and professionalism. Long may they blow, bow or bash their instruments!

The most beautiful aspect of organising such an event is meeting new people and seeing new perspectives emerging from the exchange of ideas. At the heart of these discussions, I realised, is a shared commitment to sustaining our craft, both by preserving what it was, in all its richness, but also by reimagining how it can evolve in today’s world.

Gorgeous, intricate handwoven Kani shawls by Kashweave

When we speak of heritage, India and Turkey are both rich and diverse, but at the heart of the event is a shared commitment to craft sustainability – not simply preserving heritage but reimagining it within today’s creative framework.

"My collaboration with India, though, has deep personal roots, thanks to a trip I took there with my grandfather when I was starting out in my career.  I come from the fourth generation of an entrepreneurial family, and my journey to India had a deep formative impact on me. It helped me understand that carpets and textiles are not merely objects but integral parts of a society’s deep cultural heritage, ultimately steering me toward academic research in this field. Curating an exhibition on Indian craftsmanship in Istanbul became both a professional and emotional milestone. Each time I embark on a project now, I am overjoyed at being able to tell a country’s story through the marks its culture leaves behind and being able to introduce people from other cultures to them."

Hali Magazine's editor Ben Evan looks at the gold pattern on the 18th-century Mughal printed fabric from the Chowmahalla Palace Collection

 Through curated displays and panel discussions, the event highlighted how traditional Indian weaving practices continue to inspire innovation- serving as a living medium through which cultural narratives are told, identities are shaped and international collaborations are formed. As the curator, I wanted to show that heritage is not an ancient memory but a living presence. And when modern vision is born through the hands of craft, the result is nothing short of mesmerizing. Each piece becomes a thread connecting person to person and generation to generation.

Princess Esra Jah listens to the guest talks during an evening event

The exhibition was an opportunity to display rare pieces, notably a collection from the last Nizam of Hyderabad at Chowmahalla Palace, presented to the public for the very first time. I am deeply grateful to Esra Birgen for her unwavering support.  Esra Birgen – later known as Esra Jah – married the eighth Nizam of Hyderabad, Mukarram Jah. Through her projects, she has played a vital role in bridging Turkish and Hyderabadi Heritage, using her dual cultural background to enrich both traditions. She led the remarkable restoration of Chowmahalla Palace – the cover story in Cornucopia 69. Considered the largest restoration project undertaken since 1947, it was honored with the UNESCO Merit Award.  She also helped renovate Falaknuma Palace, later leased to Taj Group and turned into a luxury hotel. The collection she brought from Chowmahalla Palace – being presented to an audience for the very first time – and her presence with us during the event marks her as the symbol of keeping heritage alive.

Hyderabad and Turkey became politically connected through marriages that took place after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. At that time, under the Nizam’s vision, Hyderabad was experiencing its heyday, with the Nizam one of the richest men in the world. During our panel discussion on November 28, Princess Esra shared her memories from the past and we had a chance to revisit the threads of stories.

Tarun Tahiliani's new collection

'Hyderabad had an infrastructure far ahead of its time, even serving as an example for England’, Princess Esra noted. 'When we compare clothing and the place of women in social life to today, they were in a much more favourable position. I remember being astonished by the fact that jewellery was designed for men and that men wore more elaborate clothes than women, adorning themselves with jewellery. Perhaps this helps us understand a bit of the splendour of life back then. Today, these traditions no longer continue with their former enthusiasm. I don’t think it’s right that some ways of life and habits disappear under the pressure of modernization.'

19th-century shawl from the Şeref Özen Collection

Along with the Chowmahalla Palace collection, Şeref Özen showcased an invaluable group of kaftans and shawls. Şeref, a textile enthusiast for more than two decades, traces the memory of each textile he collects.

Hand-embroidered Palledar shawl from Kashmir, by Kashmir Loom

Hand-embroidered Jamawar shawl from Kashmir, by Kashmir Loom

Kashweave, born from the timeless artistry of Kashmir, is a contemporary brand dedicated to preserving the region's age-old weaving traditions. Two antique shawls from Kashmir, both dated to the 19th century, along with rugs and modern shawls, were displayed to show his passion for continuity.

Kashmir Loom, Tarun Tahiliani and Injiri, leading Indian textile brands who carry that tradition into the future, showed the beauty of their collections, each with its own distinctive design language. The techniques are traditional but the garments are modern.

Kashmirloom's woven and embroidered shawls from the beautiful lake capital of Kashmir Valley have been infused with a modern soul. The company has endeavoured to preserve heritage while fostering its progress. Their great inspiration is Kashmir, ranging from the valley’s unique location to weavers' talented hands.

For Tarun Tahiliani, 'all that we were and more' has always been a ruling philosophy, guiding him to create female silhouettes rooted in India's heritage of draped forms.

Original dress designs by Injiri. 

Meanwhile, Injiri – which means ‘real India’, and in particular the real Madras checkered textiles exported to West Africa in the 18th century – has studied the world’s ethnic traditions to create a design language that isn’t dictated by trends and fashion shows.

Left to right: Injiri's Radhika Shekhawat, the collector Şeref Özen (SO Rugs and Textiles), the author Serra Oruç, who curated the exhibition, Tannya Aghi (Tarun Tahiliani), Mijito Vinito, Consul General of India in Istanbul, and Ubaid Punjoo of Kashweave

In my view, cultural diplomacy is one of the most effective fields in building bridges between Turkey and India. I see such events as complementary elements that help sustain the centuries-old relationship between our countries and strengthen the common language reflected in our emotional narratives.

Culture has become our world’s most powerful form of communication. Last year’s Islamic Arts Biennale in Jeddah, Egypt’s Grand Egyptian Museum, the first Bukhara Biennale – all exemplify this shift, where art functions as a locomotive that transports a culture’s output onto the world stage. At Bukhara, curator Diana Campbell encouraged participating artists to collaborate with local master craftsmen, whose names then appeared on the labels of the exhibits. It’s a sign of a new era in cultural policy and an understanding that as countries promote their cultural heritage worldwide, encouraging cultural exchange, what we call 'soft power' is growing. Audiences at the Metrohan last year were already looking forward to the next edition of events. And I am looking forward to pursuing my great passion: connecting the past to the present with the stories I uncover, and sharing them.

20th-century silk saree's from the Chowmahalla Palace Collection

My thanks to the exhibition’s cohost, the Consulate General of India.

USEFUL LINKS

• kashmirloom.com
• kashweaveglobal.com
• injiri.co.in
• https://shop.taruntahiliani.com

Order Cornucopia No 69: An Indian Summer with a Turkish twist from this website. 

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:

The ADK Orchestra, formed of students at various conservatoires, is the brainchild of Mr Ramis Sulu, its conductor. Its sponsor, meanwhile, is the Zehra Yıldız Foundation for Culture and the Arts, an organisation named after Zehra Yıldız (1956–97), a Turkish soprano who passed away after suffering a brain haemorrhage during a concert tour in Germany. The proceedings on November 11 began with a speech by Mr Caner Akın, on behalf of the Foundation, in which he described the institution’s goals and the history of its involvement with the orchestra.

The first half of the concert consisted of pieces for flute and orchestra in which the solo parts were played by Ms Aslıhan And. First, we heard the Nocturne for flute, piano and strings by Sergii Leontiev, a contemporary Ukrainian composer living in Los Angeles who specialises in film music, arranging and orchestration. I was immediately impressed by the quality of orchestra’s co-ordination with the soloist, as well as by its excellent intonation – a feature that I was pleased to see remained constant throughout the whole programme. I was less impressed, however, by the piece itself, which I found to be strong on audience appeal, but – perhaps as a consequence of this – devoid of any original features, especially in the harmony department. A performance of this work by And, in which she is accompanied by the Ukrainian String Orchestra, conducted by Christophe Rody, is available on YouTube.

Next up was the Solo de Concert No. 6 (Opus 82) by the French flautist and composer Jules Auguste Demersseman (1833–66). This work, sometimes known as his ‘Italian Concerto’, presented a good deal more for one to get one’s teeth into, so to speak. The arrival on stage of the woodwinds and horns was a welcome sight, promising as it did a fuller sound than had been the case in the previous work. I found the Solo de Concert, which began with a rousing march, to be a jolly affair, very French in its polished musical style and urbane mood but embellished with oodles of Italian references. And’s skills were comprehensively showcased in this three-movement work, and I admired both her dexterity in the fast-moving passages – especially in the fearsome cadenza – and the orchestra’s ability to come in on time, and at the right speed, after the frequent ‘stop-and-start’ changes of rhythm. (Credit must undoubtedly go to their conductor here.) Although the second movement began like an aria from an Italian opera, and the third struck me as being a straight crib from Rossini, the good humour that pervaded the whole piece made everything forgivable. Poor Monsieur Demersserman, whose early death is believed to have been due to tuberculosis, must have had at least some moments of joie de vivre.

Here is a performance of the Solo de Concert No. 6 by flautist Francesco Loi. He is accompanied by the Seoul Virtuosi Orchestra, conducted by Patrick Gallois.

The third, and final, piece in the first half of the concert was the Fantaisie brillante sur ‘Carmen’ by François Borne (1840–1920), a French flautist with the principal opera company in Bordeaux who was also a composer and a professor at the Conservatoire de Musique de Toulouse. He is noted, apart from his other abilities, for having brought about technical improvements to the flute as an instrument. An (unfortunately unsigned) article on the ‘Utah Symphony’ website has the following to say about the 1880 Fantaisie brillante, a work that is now a staple of the Romantic flute repertoire:

Borne’s setting of Carmen’s luscious melodies – like those by Sarasate for the violin, and by Busoni and Horowitz for the piano – combine the virtuoso’s understanding of the solo instrument with a flair for the dance rhythms and passionate colors of the opera. Borne fills his setting with spectacular arpeggios that require fleet fingering and consummate breath control. Carmen’s brilliant Habanera, a traditional dance that she performs with castanets (and with abundant flirting), anchors the work. But the mood of Borne’s Carmen is far brighter than that of the fatalistic Gypsy girl of Bizet’s opera. In Borne’s showpiece, a set of brilliant variations on her showy Habanera leads to a triumphant close – in marked contrast with the opera’s violent, tragic ending.

In this work, the ADK Istanbul Youth Orchestra were, if I may be pardoned for using the expression, ‘on a roll’. They managed the off-beat entries at the beginning without a single flaw in their co-ordination, and they successfully negotiated a tricky rallentando (ie, a gradual slowing down – full marks once again to Sulu, their conductor). Later on, the horns performed well in the high register when required to provide punctuation to a flute solo. I have to admit that there were times when the flautist got a little ahead of the orchestra, but that did not detract from my appreciation of her spectacular technique. All in all, this was a very creditable performance of an appealing piece.

In this rendition of Borne’s Fantaisie brillante sur ‘Carmen’, the soloist is the distinguished French-Swiss flautist Emmanuel Pahud. The orchestra is the Orchestre national de Lyon, conducted by their Armenian maestro Alain Altınoğlu.

Given that the concert took place the day after November 10, the anniversary of the death of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, it was no surprise that the second half should consist of a performance of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3, the ‘Eroica’, with its funeral-march second movement. This is one of my favourite Beethoven symphonies by reason of its powerful, driving rhythm, its use of syncopation (a major departure from the accepted norms of the time), its clashing mino-second discords (another surprisingly modern feature), and most of all its surging energy – which bursts out in a hell-for-leather last movement. 

This particular performance was enhanced by some sensitively-shaped phrasing (for which, once again, I must praise the conductor), some gorgeously fulsome sound from the cellos and double basses, the violins’ faultless intonation when playing in their high register, some excellent solos and ensemble playing by a well-balanced woodwind department – and the appearance on stage of a ginger cat during the first movement. The cat eventually disappeared, but the excellent phrasing continued throughout. My only criticisms are, firstly, that the strings’ co-ordination was slightly off-colour at the end of the second movement, and secondly, that the poor horns fluffed their fanfare in the third. (Being a former horn-player, I felt for them: everything else they did during the concert went swimmingly, but when called upon to perform their party piece, they succumbed to nerves.)

I do not wish, however, for any ungenerous carpings to cast a shadow over my account of this concert, which I found both enjoyable and (most of all) highly encouraging for the future course of Turkey’s progress towards the goal of attaining the level of European orchestras in terms of professionalism. And didn’t Atatürk himself say something about the desirability of equalling the Westerners at their own cultural game? I certainly have no intention of making any political points, this being a purely musical blog, but I do like to hear classical music well performed, and see no reason why Turkish people shouldn’t experience this pleasure.

But enough of theorising. When I left this concert, I was still on a Beethoven high, and attracted attention to myself by singing (rather loudly, I have to say) the melody of that horn fanfare on the pavements of Kadıköy on a balmy November evening.