Tim Phillips Principe

The music of Gabriel Fauré is at once unclassifiable and inexpressibly beautiful. One must yield to its seductions, savour in it the charm of the unexpected. The cello is the voice of the Fauré mélodie without the words. Its mellowness conceals passion. When Xavier Phillips and Cédric Tiberghien take possession of it, it becomes sensual, incandescent, a bouquet of refined, evergreen harmonies. The Élégie and the Berceuse will never fade, nor will the two late cello sonatas, whose surging vitality is that of a young man of more than seventy!

Brahms’s Trio op.114, originally conceived for clarinet (like the two Sonatas op.120), is presented here in its version with viola: ‘Like all Brahms’s works, this trio is a vocal, melodic piece. And the viola is perhaps the instrument of the string quartet that comes closest to the human voice’, says violist Miguel Da Silva. ‘This version with viola obliges me, as a cellist, to listen differently: our two stringed instruments must “breathe” together and match their articulation’, continues Xavier Phillips. These three works from late in Brahms’s career testify to his modernity: ‘Brahms was often considered a classical composer who was impervious to modernity, the guardian of a certain tradition’, says pianist François-Frédéric Guy, who agrees with Schoenberg that he was, on the contrary, highly innovative: ‘We have a fine example, in the trio, of the extraordinary modernity of his combinations of rhythm and timbre: he is a total innovator.'

In his 1919 essay “The Uncanny,” Sigmund Freud defines the term as follows: “the ‘uncanny’ is that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar.” To this end, a feeling of uncanniness distinguishes itself from just being afraid because of its relation to what we already know, a disturbing variation of what we expect to see when we look in the mirror or the kind of horror that comes from inside the house. The uncanny valley, for instance, describes the creepiness that seeps in when we encounter an almost but not quite perfect replica of a human being (robots, computer animations, the list goes on).

Grant-Lee Phillips’ new album, All That You Can Dream, is a turbulent and highly musical rumination that finds the veteran singer-songwriter addressing the strange fragility of life. The collection of songs bears the markings of his prolific output, a melodic prowess and an ear for lyric in everyday conversation. Comparable to the works Low or Duster, Phillips offers a salve to a wounded world, struggling to regain equilibrium. This is Grant-Lee Phillips at his most reflective, wrestling with the most pertinent of questions. Focusing on life in quarantine ("A Sudden Place," "Cruel Trick") and the ever-shifting political landscape ("Rats in a Barrel," "Cut to the Ending"), this collection shows that Phillips remains one of the finest singer-songwriters of our time.