Concord of sweet sounds
At last, says Stephen Pettitt, London has a concert hall with decent acoustics Before the 18th century, the places in which concert music was publicly played were usually places first, concert halls second, Outside the theatre, a field in which from Ancient Greek times acoustics have always been an important consideration, the quality of sound one heard was largely a matter of serendipity. The science was inexact, although it was found in the 18th century that long and narrow was better than short and wide, and that as a resonator wood gave a more satisfactory result than, say, marble. There is a story that Haydn, much indulged by his employers, secured the disposing of a fancy marble floor at the Esterhazy's palace in Eistenstadt in favour of a plain wooden one,
Otherwise, however, no architect, as far as we know, sat down with the resident Kapellmeister and his happy band before beginning the planning of a new concert room in order to consult on acoustic matters, to debate the ideal shape of a room, the advantage or otherwise of a flat or curvaceous ceiling, the height of a platform, the material of the seat coverings (there usually wasn't any), or the extent or limitations of decorative details that were allowable. Successes in Leipzig's old Gewandhaus and in Vienna's Musikverein were down to a combination of instinct, luck and architectural styles that also happened to be acoustically sympathetic. Failures such as the Royal Albert Hall, where despite all the flying saucers hanging from the ceiling one still feels that one is hearing the horns from last night's concert, were the result of favouring scale and (all-important) atmosphere over scientific and musical considerations. Strange, when one considers that this vast, absurdly pompous edifice, totally impractical for most purposes, was at the heart of London's science and arts park. Stranger still that we love it to pieces and make every possible allowance.
In the arrogantly all-knowing 20th century, architects suddenly seemed unhappy about leaving acoustics to chance. Unfortunately, however, the application of acoustic theory did not always work in practice. Paris's Salle Pleyel was built in 1927 with a fan-shaped auditorium that was supposed to diffuse the sound equally to its 3,000strong audience, The result was a disaster, the sound diluted and dry. So what happens in 1951? Leslie Martin's Royal Festival Hall, otherwise architecturally magnificent and celebratory, repeated the mistake. For all its various technological advances, which included the acoustic isolation of the interior, the RFH was built with inappropriate age-of-austerity materials. And in exactly that fan shape which was proved to be so wrong in Paris. The result is a sound as dry,
as unexciting, as it could possibly be. Half a century later we still live with it. The piecemeal, cheapskate renovation plan put in the place of Richard Rogers's spectacular but politically inconvenient designs (the absurd thinking was that too much Lottery money had been spent at Covent Garden and not enough on vast sports stadia) continues to be executed at roughly the pace of a Conflex suburban train in an autumn rush hour. And acoustic overhaul — the most important work, surely, in a hall that is still supposed to be at the heart of the musical world — seems to be nowhere near the top of the list of priorities.
After the experience of the RFH, the City of London boys who created the Barbican were going to ensure that the mistakes were not repeated. Or so we were told, Models were built, recordings and measurements taken, computers whirred into action and photographs were taken of musicians crouching in the models, as though that would give them an accurate idea of what the place would sound like. Unfortunately someone decided that the Barbican should serve a dual purpose as a conference hall. So the audience had to be near the stage. So the hall was conceived, wouldn't you know it, in the shape of a fan radiating out from the platform, the main difference between it, the Salle Pleyel and the RFH being that the Barbican would be even wider and less deep. So, despite all the promises, the acoustic miracle came to nothing. London's handsome new hall had been blessed with a pig's ear of an acoustic. Balance was erratic, clarity non-existent. The brass section shrieked as though its members had already been to the pub and couldn't control their raucous selves. The sound was slightly improved a few years ago, when scarlet-coloured acoustic panels suddenly appeared fastened to the walls. But it was still far from satisfactory.
But what is satisfactory? There seems to be these days a pronounced preference for a particular character that I am not entirely sure I like. I must in all conscience here commit a small heresy concerning the acoustic of the most highly acclaimed hall in the nation, the gaudy crimson and chrome Symphony Hall in Birmingham, ten years and several schools of architecture and acoustics younger than the Barbican. The place has what is called an 'adjustable acoustic', which really means lots of giant caverns whose doors can be opened onto the hall to increase the amount of echo. When they are open, the decaying sound — the echo — has a weirdly artificial, twodimensional quality, which partly explains why most conductors most of the time don't bother with this expensive gimmick. But even when they are closed, the sound has a wallowing warmth.
Symphony Hall is not half as lush, however, as the halls acoustically designed by Yasuhia Toyota, the renowned acoustician of the Japanese company Nagata Acoustics. His interiors, one of which is about to grace Frank Gehry's fiendishly expensive (mainly because of the carpark), dazzlingly sculptural Disney Hall in Los Angeles, are all graceful, boat-like lines in polished exotic woods. Undeniably they look fabulous, with wonderful billowing ceilings. And they feel comfortably engulfing, womb-like. The trouble is, as I recently heard for myself in the Toyota-designed Kitara Hall in Sapporo, Japan, that they make all music feel comfortably engulfing, too, with a pronounced and obscuring boom to the double basses and timpani. Which might be fine for Richard Strauss, but is less fine for Haydn or Stravinsky, where clarity of articulation and colour is vital.
That is why I welcome what has recently happened at our dearly beloved Barbican. Last summer, a mere 20 years after its opening, £6 million was spent on a thorough makeover which included, besides new stage machinery and air conditioning, a brand-new acoustic designed by the British architects Caruso St John and the Chicago-based acoustics firm Kirkegaard and Associates. Did I say a brand-new acoustic? Indeed. I went to the opening concert, which had the LSO and Colin Davis playing Mozart (with the musically delectable Mitsuko Uchida) and Elgar's First Symphony. The difference is astonishing. Thirty-five suspended reflectors coated in something prettily reflective called Rirnex (an acid-etched stainless steel) and the raising of the over-stage canopy has lifted the shrouds of uncertainty. Now the sound is almost too far forward. Where certain instruments were heard only in shades of grey, now one can hear all the colours, all the detail. Where some instruments used to stick out like sore thumbs while others seemed as muted as a sacked critic, now all is clear, yet well blended and well balanced. Best of all, the acousticians have not turned the place into a giant bathroom, but have been content to keep the resonance period relatively brief, though there is nevertheless a basic warmth. At last. London has a decent venue for orchestral music. And, you know, suddenly the barbaric style of its architecture doesn't seem too bad.
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