Rather like the theological principle of the via negativa as a way of discoursing about the divine, it is perhaps easier to say what John Tavener’s last work, Krishna (completed in 2005), is not rather than what it positively is. That theological method is not necessarily intended to be a completely pointless or nihilistic exercise, but instead to exclude at least some ideas, leaving some indefinable core or essence that can be approached or intuited if not precisely pinned down by specific words or logical thought. Tavener called it a ‘mystical pantomime’; its fusion of music and dance certainly circumvents the rational, linear progression we may otherwise expect by the somewhat unfortunate, misleading framing of this piece as a more standard piece of staged music drama on account of its world premiere run at Grange Park Opera, despite best intentions.
Despite Tavener’s lifelong fascination with The Magic Flute, it lacks the developmental, dramatic character of such a Bildungsroman to be exactly a Hindu version of that. If anything, Tavener’s celebration of the cultic, ecstatic mysteries of the Hindu faith is more like the equivalent of what one might see behind the walls of Sarastro’s temple than a parallel to Tamino and Pamina’s journey to enlightenment and initiation into that community. Nor is Tavener’s ‘Celestial Narrator’ the counterpart of the Evangelist in Bach’s Passions who tells the story of Christ’s sufferings from the Gospels in a connected, orderly sequence. Rather, the Narrator’s solemn, chant-like intonations at the outset of each of the work’s thirteen scenes serve more as headlines or captions for the tableaux that follow, or as rubrics for what seems more like the liturgical rite of each scene.
That impression of a ritual enacted before us is underlined by David Poutney’s setting the choreographed action in front of the chorus who are spread out across the tiers of an extravagantly designed temple and act variously as onlookers or devotees. Musically each scene is structured as a mantra, with mainly non-verbalised vocal and choral lines repetitively accompanying the dancing and essentially symbolic representations of scenes from four phases in Krishna’s earthly life, from his birth to his return to paradise.
As a musical setting, however, it also essentially lacks any developmental impetus, the only obvious exception being the motif enunciated on the word “Krishna” or used more generally to denote him, oscillating over a harmonically ambiguous sequence that lodges itself in the mind. It’s varied during the course of the piece, appropriately coming full circle to its initial form on incantations of “Vishnu”, the deity of whom Krishna is the eighth avatar. (Its unlikely melodic resemblance to Beckmesser’s attempts at a prize-winning song in Die Meistersinger is presumably a coincidence.) By and large, though, the score is Western-orientated in style rather than deriving from any specifically Hindu or Indian traditions, though eight flutes are used in honour of the god’s skills on that instrument.
In Krishna’s encounter with Rukmini, their vocal lines sometimes run parallel in thirds so that they sound almost like an echo of a Mozartian duet, but they don’t quite coalesce according to the standard rules of Classical harmony. Mozart certainly is invoked in the closing scenes, as Krishna renounces the earth and returns to paradise. Tellingly, it is not any of Mozart’s religious music which is quoted, but the abstract serenity of the Andante’s opening bars from the Piano Sonata No. 10 (K330) arranged for strings, its repose evidently meant to invoke eternal transcendence. The orchestral dimension is not otherwise an especially prominent strand in this work, at least not in any symphonic sense, and when it does come to the fore it is more as monolithic chordal blocks or a rhythmic pounding in the manner of minimalism, instilling an atmosphere of rapture rather than a purposeful musical argument. Without the orchestral and harmonic colour of that similarly religious-inspired composer, Messiaen, the work doesn’t quite register as the retelling of the life of a holy or sacred figure like the latter’s Saint François d’Assise,or Landi’s Il Sant’Alessio driven by Baroque melodic exuberance.
The overall effect is of each scene as an ecstatic meditation on some aspect of Krishna’s earthly life, comparable with the way in which Catholics pray the rosary by repeating certain prayers as the means to focus on the deeper spiritual meanings of various aspects of Christ’s life and mission. If that implies the need for prior religious commitment, it’s worth noting that non-Christians and Christians seem to have no problem in listening to a mass setting, as a single entity, entirely divorced from its particular liturgical context as dispersed within the Eucharistic re-enactment of Christ’s passion – dramatised one could even say, in the more ritualistic practices of some denominations. Whether a religious experience is an apt phenomenon to cast as a theatrical action remains an open question however, though certainly there’s no reason that music drama shouldn’t address matters beyond the quotidian and provisional (as Parsifal bears witness, for example). Ultimately each audience member must decide whether it is meaningful to attempt to express the mystical and divine by human artistic media or whether, instead, like Ludwig Wittgenstein we can only say ‘whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’.
This project may be justified at a performative level at least, and musical standards here are undeniably high. The four manifestations of Krishna have distinct vocal characters, composed by Tavener in descending order of register. As a child, Rosa Sparks beguiles with her richly soaring, wavering lines in a role that was surely written with Patricia Rozario in mind. Eliran Kadussi brings an equally captivating and unearthly sonority in Krishna’s music as an adolescent, redolent of a male ‘sopranist’ than a typical countertenor, allied with graceful movement on stage. Elgan Llŷr Thomas projects with lithe vigour in the tenor guise of the young man, while Brett Polegato has a grainier, mellower quality in Krishna’s fully adult form, achieving resolution and acceptance before reaching paradise again.
Ross Ramgobin invests the Narrator’s declamations with lyrical ardour in the passages most closely attaining dramatic tension in the score, despite their tending to circle around one note, accompanied by Nao Masuda’s resilient drumming. Where Sara Fulgoni is an exacting Bhumi and Yashoda (Krishna’s mother), Julia Sitkovetsky and Nazan Fikret offer more tender points of contrast as the god’s lover Radha and wife Rukmini respectively.
Mark Shanahan patiently holds the orchestral backdrop together with the Gascoigne Orchestra, who are at one in sustaining the music’s ecstatic focus, and the Chorus of Grange Park Opera, who shape the swirling choral textures with impressive unanimity. As with many representations of a mystical experience, this example is perhaps more likely to bewilder and exasperate onlookers who haven’t or can’t tap into the different pace and subjective nature of its rapture. But it’s an intriguing prospect nevertheless, and confirms the willingness of this festival, and its untiring founder, Wasfi Kani, to broaden the repertoire with new, adventurous works. It will also be mounted by Houston Grand Opera in autumn 2027.
Curtis Rogers
Krishna
Composer and libretto: John Tavener
Cast and production staff:
Celestial Narrator – Ross Ramgobin; Bhumi / Yashoda – Sara Fulgoni; Krishna as a child – Rosa Sparks; Krishna as an adolescent – Eliran Kadussi; Krishna as a young man – Elgan Llŷr Thomas; Krishna as a man – Brett Polegato; Radha – Julia Sitkovetsky; Radha as a child – Jennifer Statham; Rukmini – Nazan Fikret; Onstage drummer – Nao Masuda
Director – Sir David Pountney; Designer – Rachana Jadhav; Choreographer – Shobana Jeyasingh; Lighting Designer – Tim Mitchell; Conductor – Mark Shanahan; Chorus of Grange Park Opera; The Gascoigne Orchestra
Grange Park Opera, West Horsley, Surrey, Saturday 13 June 2026
All photos © Marc Brenner