Nimble Tread

Till, We Meet Again

Till Fellner and his magic fingers paid a visit to the Wigmore Hall last night to regale an enthusiastic audience with a foursome of Beethoven piano sonatas, the three works of Op. 10 and the famously freewheeling Hammerklavier.  Mr. Fellner's a regular at the Wigmore and has become a local favourite for reasons that are easy to deduce.  His sound is an unusual blend of elegance and heft, light as a spectre at times and, while never quite heavy, weighty and full-figured at others.  Above all, at least for me, is his control of voicing and pace.  He's able to marshal separate lines with terrific musicality, and can somehow make overlapping legato phrases sound clear and articulated instead of gloopy and impressionistic.  These attributes are clearly on display in his Bach recordings and were liberally employed last night as well.
The evening began with a solid and perfectly safe rendition of Op. 10 No. 1 that had the feel of a warm up and all the dramatic tension of one too.  For all his strengths, Fellner seems to still struggle at times to keep the line taught, so to speak.  Things will be humming along nicely there on the knife edge when all of a sudden the strain is interrupted and we listeners are left with a hand full of un-bitten nails.  It took me a little while to put my finger on what deflates certain moments, but I think I've figured it out.  Whereas some pianists play staccato notes in extremely short, very secco manner, Fellner lingers on them for just a fraction of a second longer than most.  This naturally produces a more legato staccato, and while it works brilliantly at times -- as in the final movement of Op. 10 No. 2 -- it also has a tendency to de-fang movements that possess a more stabbing personality.  Even the Largo e mesto second movement of Op. 10 No. 3, dirgeful and broad as it may be, needs some piercing articulation to build the tension necessary to deliver us successfully to the wonderful sense of rebirth that we fill as we hear the first phrase of the third movement.  It has to be one of the greatest effects in the entire repertoire, but the setting needs to be just right in order to get the full treatment, and I'm sorry to say that Mr. Fellner missed it by just a hair. 
Fortunately, there was far more to enjoy in the performance than there was to disregard, and there were several instances of really breathtaking playing.  The fourth movement of Op. 10 No. 3 was simply remarkable and was played with such control over individual phrases and with such an ear to the overarching line that I was positive it would be the highlight of the evening.  I was wrong.  That distinction went to Fellner's performance of the Hammerklavier, which was right on the mark on the whole, and where the last movement was concerned, absolutely first rate. 
There's good news for those of you who weren't in the audience last night.  The Beeb recorded the concert and plans on airing it at 7:00 pm on July 15th.  Set your stereos to record.

Summer

A few notes on the hatching of a new season:

Spring was kind to its little charges this year.  It bathed them in soft, gentle rain and the flora responded by growing tall, lush, or fragrant according to their natures and fancies.  I've become especially fond of a small Philadelphus that lurks furtively on the side of the garden path, in the midst of a swell of winter rhododendrons.  It enjoys ambushing me with its lovely scent just as I'm running off to a meeting I've nearly forgotten, and since the bush is fairly small, I initially had to sniff around for a few seconds until I managed to find it.  Now that I've plotted it, however, I can just give it a parting smell or two and be on my way, which saves a lot of time.
Our rhododendrons and azaleas have all but gone, and aside from a few light purple outliers, all that's left on the plants are their heavy green leaves and an assortment of brown mummified remains.  I brought in a few flowers several weeks ago figuring I'd press them and make a birthday card for my aunt, but I never got around to the pressing and ended up with a drawer full of brittle, tissue-thin, and decidedly dead flowers.  It was a morbid sight, but one easily remedied by a quick tip into the rubbish bin.  My aunt's birthday isn't until November, so there's still time for crafts.
The roses have come in nicely following their annual growth spurt, and from my desk I now look out on a spread of white, red, pink, and mottled flowers.  The petals either cling together in a tight bunch or recline lazily in a decadent swoon.  Either way, they're perched atop be-thorned stems that are around three to six feet tall and though they sway placidly in the gentlest breeze they somehow manage to stay fast in a hail storm.  These flowers are a fine sight, particularly in light of the constant threat of honey fungus, which looms over our roses like the sword of Damocles and has little compunction in destroying a raft of innocents. 
Our small plum tree has been hard at work this year, diligently setting scores of fruit out to hang.  the plums are green and tear-shaped and hard as rocks, but soon enough they'll darken and soften, at which point the yearly contest between man and rodent will begin anew.  The bookmakers have given the edge to the squirrels this year, thanks to the death of Casper the cat and the foxes' preference for the neighborhood garbage over the neighborhood vermin.  Still, one can't hang up the gloves before the bell has rung.  Vicious countenances will be sported until the contents of at least a basket or to have been wrenched from the clutches of those little grey plagues.

***

I took a short walk to day from the Royal Festival Hall to St. Thomas' Hospital with the thought of enjoying an hour or two of relative tranquility in a small garden overlooking the Houses of Parliament.  It's a nice spot, and a surprisingly quiet one given its location.  I suppose people are disinclined to walk the half block necessary to gain entry, or maybe its the thought of sitting outside a hospital that puts people off.  Whatever the case may be, it suits me fine, particularly on a sunny day like today, when the Thames path is lousy with tourists snapping pictures, smoking cigarettes, and meandering along slowly as if on a conveyor belt. 

***

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sun lit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

Robert Frost wrote this stanza as part of his poem Two Tramps in Mud Time back in 1936, probably in Vermont, but anyone who's ever lived in London is well acquainted with the phenomenon described.  Even now, astride the summer solstice, we're subjected to London's seasonal capriciousness.  One minute small children are playing shirtless in Jeppe Hein's Appearing Rooms fountain at the Southbank Centre, drenched to the bone but enjoying the slight sizzle on their skin from the sun overhead, the next they're wrapped like mummies in thick towels brought from home, teeth a-chatter, skin a-goosebumped, and lips a-blue. 
From where I'm sitting I can hear a piper busking on the Silver Jubilee Bridge.  I passed him earlier and noticed that he was offering the full Scottish experience, right down to the Sgian Dubh and black jacket.  He'd just finished up a martial number and was mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he stood broiling in the brilliant haze of light that reflected off the bridge's polished metal.  The clouds have since swarmed in and he's adapted his programme to suit the mood.  The sounds of Amazing Grace are currently floating over the Thames, spurring the the populace on to reflection as they endeavour to enjoy the lazy freedom of a Sunday in June.

***

If there's a more charming way of experiencing the Cotswalds than drifting along the Cam in a punt with two bottles of Champagne trailing on strings and a pretty little friend trying to find the notes to some old song on her guitar, I don't want to know what it is.

***

The summer is a time when the long journey to Hammersmith seems entirely worthwhile.  Perched on the surge wall outside the Blue Anchor, a person can stare for hours at the Thames, watching its traffic drift slowly towards Richmond and Hampton Court, or observing as it moves in the opposite direction, under the Hammersmith Bridge, through Central London, past Dartford and Tilsbury and the estuary at Southend then out to sea at last.

Heads up Haden

Charlie Haden will be at the Royal Festival Hall tomorrow night, where he'll join the legendary Ornette Coleman for an evening of acoustically compromised jazz.  While I'm no jazz enthusiast, I do have a soft spot for Haden, as an album he put out a few years ago, Nocturne, was a long-standing favourite of mine back in college.  I'd since forgotten all about it, but seeing Haden's name on the programme inspired me to give it a listen six years on.  I've tried this experiment before, with mixed results -- tastes do change after all -- so I was a bit relieved to find that I still enjoyed virtually every track.  I did nod off for a minute or two, but when an album's titled Nocturne these sorts of things are to be expected. 

Hometown Tourist

I braved the heart of Piccadilly Circus last night to catch a performance of The 39 Steps at the Criterion, and I can honestly say that I've never felt like more of a tourist than in the walk over.  I had half a mind to have my picture taken in front of Eros, but fortunately the other half saved the day and hastened me along to the theatre before any more dangerous thoughts struck.  For those of you who don't know, the production, which has been going on for God knows how long, is a spoof of Hitchcock's film from the 30s, and is said to have a cast of four, which I'd have thought was under-egging it a bit, but experience fortunately proved otherwise.  Not only were four actors perfectly adequate for the performance, but the minimalist attitude in casting  inspired a host of clever staging tricks that kept the onlookers amused and the exit doors motionless.  The story took a bit of a knock, but I assume the play was crafted with the expectation that most everyone in the audience will have seen the film, and the writers provided just enough in the way of plot to keep the uninitiated abreast of the goings on.  The woman behind me certainly enjoyed herself, and so did the young lady to my left, whose opinion I respect and, in this case at any rate, share.

It's Easy

I hadn't ever laughed out loud in the Barbican Hall before, but that all changed last night when Roby Lakatos and company strolled on stage to join the LSO.  Overlooking for the moment the fact that Roby was wearing red leather trousers, a diamante belt buckle, a diamante brooch, a black crushed velvet jacket, and a wry grin beneath his trademark moustache, the contrast between his band and the LSO was fantastic and like something out of a Marx Brothers movie. 
The orchestra dressed down for the concert, with everyone wearing all black and not a jacket in sight; the Lakatos Boys, on the other hand, adopted a different idiom altogether.  Their guitarist, Laszlo Balogh, sported a tailcoat that he must have borrowed from Wilt Chamberlain since its tails dangled somewhere in the neighborhood of Balogh's ankles, lending him the appearance of a young boy trying on his fathers dress clothes.  Robert Feher, the double bassist, brought his own style to the stage as well, only his tastes extended to the realm of red shirts, purple ties, and colossal D&G belt buckles, all of which combined to produce what you can imagine was a striking effect.  Laszlo Boni, on second violin, somehow manged to acquire a sort of Edwardian frock coat and bore the distinction of being the only member of the band other than Roby to not have his hair slicked back with motor oil.  I don't mention these details to poke fun at the ensemble, after all, they're performers on stage, but rather to help you conjure a vision of last night's state of affairs.  What made the scene all the more amusing was that the gypsy musicians were all massed stage right, which made it easy, and downright irresistible, to keep looking from them to the orchestra and back again.  Imagine if you will Steve Buschemi, Peter Lorre, William Powell, Rudolph Valentino, and Borat all on stage at the same time.  Got it?  Now put the Roosevelt and Truman cabinets behind them and just try not laughing. 

Fortunately, there was more going on than a fashion show, though I have to say right off the bat that the LSO was completely wasted on this concert.  Roby Lakatos and his quintet hardly needed backing, and the orchestra tuttis occasionally drowned out the featured performers even though they were mic-ed.  What's more, there was so much improvising being done by Roby and his phenomenal cimbalom player, Jeno Lisztes, that the LSO musicians spent most of their time twiddling their thumbs waiting to come in.  Truth is, I'd be lying if I said there weren't moments when I wished the orchestra would just pack it in for the night. 
One positive contributor, however, was concertmaster Carmine Lauri, who not only graciously accepted the role of musical straight man during his and Lakatos' duet of Monti's Csardas, but also persuaded Roby to show a few of us lucky to be on hand backstage how to do that two-finger right-hand tremolo thing that he does.  I'm telling you, the man's a wizard. 
As far as the Hungarians' playing goes, it was exactly as expected: confident, beguiling, intermittently schmaltzy and beautiful, impossible, and humorous.  As is often the case with this group, the encores lasted nearly as long as the concert, and they were so charged with virtuosic solo and high octane that when the concert finally ended at 10:30, I staggered off into the wilds of the Barbican, mildly dazed and completely exhausted.  I try to see Lakatos & Co. once a year, but between you and me, that's all I can take!

Race Day!!

Congratulations to Sammy Wanjiru (2:05:10 -- are you kidding me?), Irina Mikitenko, and everyone else who finished today's marathon.  Everybody was in high spirits, including the police who no doubt were happy to be amongst a non-violent crowd for a change.  It was a great race, and hopefully a terrific bellwether for the running season to come. 

Awfully Nice of You to Say

Emanuel Ax has posted some lovely words about Esa-Pekka Salonen on his blog, the creatively named Emanuel Ax's Official Blog.  The praise is offered in Mr. Ax's inimitable spirit of gentility, which is as readily apparent in his non-musical conduct as it is in his playing, and is a welcome change of pace from the snarling, bird-flipping character showcased by some other music notables, who shall of course remain nameless.  Ax will be in Saratoga this summer, where he'll be performing with Yo-Yo Ma and a fellow former Montrealer, Charles Dutoit at the Saratoga Chamber Music Festival.  He'll also be tripping through the maze at Tanglewood, which will see him appear no fewer than three times, including two performances with Ma, violinist Colin Jacobsen, and the Mark Morris Dance Group.  Good luck getting tickets for that!  Ah, Tanglewood...is there a finer spot on earth?

Opposite Banks

Today the Southbank Centre is playing host to two fringe groups, break-dancers and slow fooders (or is it foodists?) and, in the spirit of bonhomie that pervades the place, probably hopes to establish some overlap by the time the sun sets.  It's a reasonable enough ambition, grounded in logic: a day's exertion on the dance floor would naturally rouse a certain hunger in any full-blooded b-boy or b-girl, and I'm sure they'll be only too happy to get their b-hands on some b-food, however slow it might be.
Across the river, the Embankment is teeming with protesters looking to express their opposition to the Sri Lankan government's offensive against the Tamil Tigers and voice their outrage at that same government's alleged human rights abuses.  Seen from the Southbank Centre's balcony, the crowd appears as an undulating mass of black and white, bracketed by a swarm of small red flags fluttering relaxedly in the breeze.  Everything looks pretty relaxed from here, and even Cleopatra's Needle, which has seen a thing or two in its 3,458 years and is today right in the middle of the crowd, doesn't seem too concerned by the scene.  It's a lovely, grey-white day in old London Town.

Salve

To help ease the pain induced by the last post, I offer a soothing balm in the form of Jascha Heifetz (you don't hear that phrase everyday, now do you?):

Pletnev Fiddles With Orphée et Euridice

Here's a comely and excruciating little clip of Mikhail Pletnev giving Gluck's Melodie a good going over during a rehearsal break.  This video will no doubt provoke some strong emotions in anyone who's ever been exposed to the early stages of violin scholarship.  It's a good thing he can conduct and play the piano. 

 

Leon Fleisher's Mozart Concerto CD

Here's a disc that's bound to get good reviews.  For starters, Leon Fleisher's story is so compelling, his manual renaissance so inspiring, that many people will be won over before they even open the jewel case.  "Imagine that," one person might say to another person, "his first concerto recording in over forty years.  Isn't that amazing?"  Talk of this sort usually leads to several copies being purchased as gifts, to be accompanied by notes describing in some cursory fashion the evils of focal dystonia and the wonders of, amongst other things, Botox.  The recipients of these gifts, impressed by the story, will have a listen to hear what a newly invigorated right hand sounds like and will come away touched, not by the novelty of Fleisher's situation, but rather by the quality of his playing.
The disc includes three concertos, No. 12 in A Major K.414, No.7 in F Major for three pianos (in this case two, the second played by Fleisher's wife, Katherine Jacobson-Fleisher) K.242 a.k.a. the "Lodron Concerto," and No. 23 in A Major K.488, each of which sees Fleisher accompanied by the Kammerorchester Stuttgart. 
I should say right off the bat that the Lodron Concerto is not my favourite piece of music.  I've always found it formulaic and boring, particularly its second and third movements, and I'm sorry to say that the rendition on this disc is no exception.  The playing is delightful, particularly the bravura on display at the start of the first movement and at the end of the development, but there's only so much that can be done with the piece.  The Fleishers wring as much sonic diversity out of the concerto as they can, but it's a losing battle. 
The same can absolutely not be said about No. 12, which showcases Fleisher's talents and style in high relief.  There's something so lovely and relaxed about his playing.  The music he produces just seems to spread and spread, producing a nice full sound that's extremely well suited to orchestral playing.  His touch is a bit heavier than it used to be, and at 80 his trills have lost some of their airy speed, but the result is a pleasant surprise: the weight gives the performance a more terrestrial feel, and the music benefits enormously.  In the first movement, for example, the music comes across more playful than humorous, more jolly than giddy.  Fleisher's playing in the second movement is charged with wonderful character, and is full of intermingling emotions that at certain times seem to be at loggerheads but then quickly rearrange themselves to become co-conspirators.  This movement is a great favourite of mine because the playing is so exposed.  It can easily catch out many lesser musicians, but it can also provide more capable ones with a terrific platform to show their stuff, which is exactly what Fleisher does.  His control over the music is outstanding, particularly with regard to transitions and pacing, and he repeatedly conjures the most wonderful largo phrasing.  I didn't notice an off-balance moment throughout the entire piece. 
Ditto for No. 23, which is a far more substantial composition.  Fleisher's in no hurry, and allows us to join him in savouring some remarkable melody lines.  What's more, he plays like a conductor, always keeping an ear on the swivel to make sure he knows what the orchestra is up to.  The result is that he actually plays with the band, which seems to be an increasingly rare feat these days.  This is especially true in the  capricious first movement and in the intimate, almost sonata-like adagio second.  The finale is all grace and low-grade explosives.  A few of Fleisher's runs were a bit uneven, but who really cares.  The personality of the playing is convincing enough to convert glitches to idiosyncrasies, and as we all know, idiosyncrasies, whether in people or in music, are where the good stuff's found.
The album, Leon Fleisher: Mozart Piano Concertos, went on sale on March 31st. 

Off Piste in the Jungfrau

How many of you knew that Mendelssohn was a ski instructor in Wengen?  Not many, I'll bet.  History has been kind to the compositions he rattled off on pub pianos to impress the local Swiss Misses, and as a consequence his accomplishments on the slopes have been all but purged from the memory of human accomplishment.  Fortunately, Wengen is eager to right the wrongs done to Flying Felix, as he was known, and has made the admirable gesture of establishing a memorial, or to use the mellifluous German term, the Gedenkstätte Felix Mendelssohn, in the outskirts of town.  I tried to pay it a visit last weekend, but got snowed out.  It's avalanche season, and even though I have terrific admiration for Mendelssohn, I didn't feel like making it a joint memorial.  It'll have to wait 'til summer.

Math

Henning Kraggerud + Sibelius Concerto = Amazing.

(But can't they do something about the bass buzz at the Cadogan Hall?)

Bonnie Hahn-y

I'm a bit stumped as to why Hilary Hahn was booked to play the Barbican.  The space isn't particularly friendly to chamber music, and the likelihood of her filling the hall was pretty slim, even factoring in her recent Grammy win and the legion of young girls that flocks to her every performance.  Still, those of us who were there were treated to a nice, if somewhat acoustically muted, performance by Miss Hahn and her firebrand pianist, Valentina Lisitsa.  
The pair lent their efforts to three of Ives's sonatas, numbers 1, 2, & 4, of which number 2 was the standout as far as I'm concerned in so far as its mood swings were brought to light with lovely deftness and legerdemain.  Somewhat less intoxicating, however, was the assortment of Brahms's Hungarian Dances, which sadly fell a bit flat.  They would have benefited immensely from a bit of rustication, but then again, what wouldn't?
I was excited to see two of Ysaÿe's sonatas for solo violin on the programme, particularly as I figured Miss Hahn would do them terrific justice.  I was right.  Number 4, in E minor, was played wonderfully: its voices were carefully highlighted, and its tricky transitions were managed very musically, which is no small feat.  The same can be said for the E major sonata, which is all firebreathing at first but then mellows right out into a more reflective mood, which is soon left behind in a burst of adrenaline.  Hahn's performance wasn't as vigorous as what you might get from Leonidas Kavakos or Henning Kraggerud, who're cut from a more ripsnorting cloth, but it certainly got the old ticker pumping and made me grateful for the dreamlike tranquility of Ysaÿe's Rêve d'enfant, which followed.  I love the piece, and wish it was performed more often.  There's a terrific recording of Ysaÿe himself playing the tune, and it's as mysterious and wonderful as anything you'll ever hear.  Hahn's version was more earthbound, but no worse off for being so since the idiom gave the piece an enjoyably robust character.  
 And speaking of robust, how about Bartók's Romanian Dances?  I never get tired of listening to the harmonics of  Stamping Dance  and the wistful melody of  Dance From Bucium, and I like to think that Miss Hahn feels the same way.  It would certainly seem so if her playing's anything to go by.  
The concert was capped off with Paganini's  Cantabile, which was played as an encore to my great delight, as it was exactly what I was hoping to hear.  The piece is perfectly suited to her amazing tone, and she's given it a good amount of attention as a result.  This clip goes some way towards demonstrating my point.  The woman's a wonder.

So Nice

What lovely weather we're having!  Aren't we lucky.  It looks like we're in for a delightful weekend, full of sun, fun, and Bach.  That's right, the Southbank Centre's hosting their Bach Weekend 2009, which will include six concerts in the Purcell Room and the Queen Elizabeth Hall.  First up will be Saturday's 11:30 Coffee Concert, where James Johnstone playing the two- and three-part inventions, then it's on to Jonathan Manson and Matthew Halls, who'll be performing the gamba sonatas at 3:00.  Saturday evening will see Martin Feinstein direct the Brendenburg Concertos, and the next morning cellist Alison McGillivray will perform solo suites three and four.  We'll see more of Mr. Feinstein and company on Sunday afternoon, when they'll perform the flute sonatas, and then the whole business will be capped off that night with Catherine Manson and Nicholas Parle's performance of the sonatas for violin and harpsichord.  You can buy a ticket for the entire weekend, which will set you back £80, or you can hack away at it piecemeal.  Programme and ticket information can be found here.

A Quick Note

Till Fellner will be playing four Beethoven sonatas at the Wigmore tomorrow night (the 11th).  I'd be there if I were you, and you'd certainly be there if you were me.
Too soon?  How about Hilary Hahn at the Barbican on April 1st.  She'll be playing music by Ysaÿe, Brahms, Ives, and Bartók.  As if that weren't good enough, her accompanist on this go 'round will be the amazing Valentina Lisitsa.  Not for the faint of heart.  

Lunchtime Treat

Fellow Canadian James Ehnes has slowly insinuated himself into my favour, first with a slew of terrific recordings, then with a performance of Bach Sonatas & Partitas a year-or-so ago, and most recently with his appearance yesterday at the Wigmore Hall, where he played Leclair's Sonata in D Op.9 No.3, Prokofiev's Sonata No.2 Op. 94, and Ravel's Tzigane.
While his interpretation of Prokofiev was too even for my tastes – I like the piece's jaggedness and the driving pulse of its march sections, sue me – it was certainly skillfully played. Far more successful, and better suited to Ehnes' rich sound, was the Leclair sonata, which got a good airing, and was displayed in all its terpsichorean glory. A person would have to be made of some foul stuff to avoid smiling at some point during each of the four movements, and the responsibility for that fact, however dubious the fact might be, is shared by Leclair, Ehnes, and pianist Andrew Armstrong.
The concert was closed out with Ravel's Tzigane, a familiar show stopper that's been used in that capacity since Jelly d'Aranyi first tried it out in 1924. Ehnes really laid into the G string at the start of the introduction, and didn't ease up until ten minutes later, when the audience picked up the thread of enthusiasm and made their approval known. Pieces with lively endings always get spirited applause, and sometimes those applause are actually merited. This was one of those times.

The Daily Grind

Liverpool Street Station commuters had a bit of a surprise on January 15th thanks to T-Mobile who filmed the above advert.  See anyone you know?

A Recommendation For My Readers in Cambridge

The Camberwell Composer's Collective has assembled an interesting array of Sunday coffee concerts that will take place at Kettle's Yard and will feature some rather eclectic lineups.  You can read more about the concert season here.

Listen, Do You Want to Know a Secret?

I was at the British Library last night for a storytelling event called The Liberty Tree, which featured Hugh Lupton and Nick Hennessey spinning some remarkable yarns of Robin Hood and his Merry Men.  Their performance was very impressive, not just in terms of delivery, but with regard to memory as well.  I know people who have a hard time recalling their phone numbers, and these two guys were rattling off ten-minute-long poems as though the words were written on a wall at the back of the room.  Awfully admirable, let me tell you.  
I’d arrived a bit early, and not having much to do, spent some time looking through the Library’s treasure chest, which is in fact a vast black room charged with terribly atmospheric lighting. Aside from the Magna Carta (that old thing), some maps, an assortment of illuminated manuscripts, and some early folios, all of which are so beautiful it brings a tear to the eye, the Library has a nice collection of musical knickknacks. You know, little things of meager importance, like handwritten scores to Ravel’s Bolero, Handel's Royal Fireworks, and Beethoven's sketches for his Violin Sonata in G Major, Op.30/3. They also have a fine little artifact on display packed into a velvet-lined wooden box and bearing the label Beethoven’s Tuning Fork.  The ID is a bit misleading, but the fork’s lineage is impressive, and goes thusly: Beethoven gave it to the violinist George Bridgewater, who, like Beethoven, had studied with Haydn, and ended up performing with LvB in 1803.  (The two men went on to have an enormous quarrel, allegedly over a girl of course, but that’s neither here nor there in re. the tuning fork.)  After Bridgewater’s death, the object passed through several hands before finding a home with Gustav Holst who, for whatever reason, passed it along to Ralph Vaughan Williams.  It was his widow, Ursula, who finally donated the fork to the Library in 1993.  
It’s a dense looking thing, and I’d be curious to know what frequency it puts out.  It’s certainly not a 440, but I wonder how much lower it can be.  430?  428?  Or maybe a Baroque-ish 415.  Who knows.
Equally intriguing is the Library's collection of Beatles memorabilia, which consists of a couple of LPs, a promo poster or two, and several original handwritten lyrics to, amongst other tunes, Help, Yesterday, and Ticket to Ride. I'm not even a Beatles fan, but I have to say it's amazing to be able to see how John Lennon shuffled the first line of Help, changing it from “When I was so much younger than I am today” to “When I was younger, so much younger than today,” which works a bit better, doesn't it.
Admission’s always free, so if ever you find yourself near King’s Cross with nothing to do, just pop in to the Library and have a look ‘round.  You’ll be glad you did.