The King’s Singers performing at the Holy Trinity Cathedral.
The King’s Singers performing at the Holy Trinity Cathedral.
OPINION
Long queues in the cathedral courtyard and an air of high anticipation among a near-capacity audience augured well for The King’s Singers’ Auckland Arts Festival appearance.
And it was immensely civilised entertainment, a beautifully curated programme transporting us around the world and through the centuries,with superlative singing punctuated by urbane, informative commentary.
Titled after the group’s 2020 album Finding Harmony, this concert investigated the power of music as a tool of protest, an opening sequence of civil rights songs ending with the breath-taking sonorities of U2′s tribute to Martin Luther King.
A Baltic bracket was laid out around a stirring rendition of Estonia’s unofficial national anthem, as featured in that country’s courageous Singing Revolution, followed by the grim humour of composer Veljo Tormis, continuously repeating the word “taboo” against sometimes terrifying drum strokes.
There was humour too in the Scottish bracket, in a final medley that had the singers miming enthusiastic fiddlers and bagpipers, but David Overton’s pellucid scoring of Loch Lomond stole hearts, especially when we had been told of the song’s political inspiration.
The King's Singers men's choral group.
Bach, Byrd and Tallis represented the struggles between Catholicism and Protestantism in their time. This was dramatically introduced, the men marching on stage, lustily singing Martin Luther’s A Stronghold Sure to a pounding drum — which then magically melded into Bach’s euphonious chorale on the tune.
For those not aware of the fascinating choral tradition in Georgian folk music, three pieces must have been a revelation, especially a gentle love song featuring the effortlessly warm baritone of Christopher Bruerton.
New Zealander Bruerton introduced Whina Said, a lulling and lilting meditation on the wise and eternally relevant words of Dame Whina Cooper by Auckland composer Robert Wiremu.
Instead of the recent, topical fare promised, the final set was distinctly lightweight. Not that one didn’t enjoy an effervescent Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious or the men’s hearty clowning around in When I’m Sixty-Four, even if Rimsky-Korsakov’s bumblebee might have flown more smoothly in studio conditions, with microphones.
