Barbican Hall
Bach: Concerto for two violins in D minor, BWV
1043
Schumann:
Piano Concerto in A minor,
op.54
Beethoven:
Symphony no.3 in E-flat
major, op.55, ‘Eroica’
Anne-Sophie Mutter, Maxim Vengerov (violins)
Martha Argerich (piano)
Oxford Philharmonic Orchestra
Marios Papadopoulos (conductor)
A curious concert this: three
star soloists, any one of whom would likely prove a highpoint of most orchestras’
seasons; an excellent yet, to many, unknown orchestra; and, sadly, a conductor
who proved at best mediocre. Quite how the Oxford Philharmonic and Marios Papadopoulos
had been able to enlist the services of Anne-Sophie Mutter, Maxim Vengerov, and
Martha Argerich (!) for the orchestra’s twentieth-anniversary concert, I have
no idea. Even if I could not help but wish that I had left at the interval, it had
been an unusual, or rather unique, opportunity to hear all three.
Bach’s Double Violin Concerto
was performed without conductor, violins and violas standing. The orchestra
instantly revealed a cultivated string sound, matched and indeed led by Mutter
and Vengerov. The first movement was taken quickly indeed: too fast, I am
afraid, with much of Bach’s music simply skated over. Solo ornamentation was
not unduly distracting, but largely unnecessary. Still, compared to what one
often hears today in Bach, there was nothing especially perverse. The central Largo ma non tanto was again on the fast
side, but perhaps not entirely unreasonably so. Mutter’s tone proved more
Romantic, although Vengerov’s rich, viola-like tone on the G string offered its
own allure and pleasure. It was a musical, if not especially profound
performance. (We shall always have the Oistrakhs.) Much the same might be said
of the finale, again very quick, but with better reason than the first
movement. Mutter showed a naturalness in her phrasing I have not heard from her
in years.
Argerich, however, seemed far
more in tune with Schumann and his demands. A full, Romantic orchestra, large
by today’s standards and all the better for it, joined her in an emphatic
opening paving the way for poetic flights of fancy from piano and woodwind
soloists alike. The problems, such as they were, lay with Papadopoulos, who
drove the orchestra mercilessly, quite unmusically, and unquestionably at odds
both with its playing and with that of the soloist; that is, until, he suddenly
his direction started meandering. Insofar as Argerich regained (infinitely
flexible) control, there was much to enjoy. Her direction of what became
essentially chamber music was as much to be savoured as her solo playing; a knowing,
confiding nod to the principal cello would have been heard, even had it not
been seen. Innigkeit and fire,
dialectically related yet apparently spontaneous, reminded us once again what
we miss, given her withdrawal from the solo platform. So too did the cadenza,
despatched with a well-nigh Brahmsian integrity and vehemence, yet fresh as
ever. If only, here and elsewhere, she had been partnered by a musician with a
superior sense of harmony, of form, of tempo: a Barenboim, for instance. The
Intermezzo benefited greatly from being essentially led by Argerich: these were
her dreams, her phantoms. The finale’s opening bars proved surprisingly martial,
yet not unreasonably so. Would that the same might have been said later on of hard-driven
orchestral tutti, blaring
brass much in need of reining in.
There was little faulting the
orchestra in the Eroica Symphony. Admirable
heft, variegation, unanimity of ensemble, and much more were all on display. Not
to have the first movement taken at currently fashionable breakneck speed
proved a relief in itself. Alas, neither here nor in any of the symphony’s
movements did Papadopoulos convey so much as a hint of structure becoming
dynamic form. The harmonic motion on which the symphony’s progress is founded
passed for nothing, so too did much phrasing, especially during the slow
movement. One phrase just followed another, one paragraph another. What did it
add up to? What did it mean? Very little, so far as I could discern. The
Funeral March and finale seemed interminable: not on account of having been taken
particularly slowly, but from a lack of formal logic and impetus. Merely pleasant
Beethoven barely registers as Beethoven at all: given the
excellence of the orchestral playing as such, a great pity. As for the tedious, allegedly ‘humorous’
encore, the less said the better.
