Royal Festival Hall
Haydn – Missa in Angustiis, ‘Nelson Mass’, Hob. XXII:11
Strauss – Ein Heldenleben, op.40
Sarah-Jane Brandon (soprano)
Sarah Connolly
(mezzo-soprano)
Robin Tritschler (tenor)
Luca Pisaroni (bass-baritone)
London Philharmonic Choir
(chorus master: Neville Creed)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Yannick Nézet-Séguin
(conductor)
Haydn’s settings of the Mass
ought to be heard incessantly, in churches and in the concert hall. For reasons
that elude me, they are not, even this, the so-called Nelson Mass, arguably the most celebrated of all, if only on
account of his nickname. Indeed classical sacred music in general, Mozart’s
included, with a very few obvious exceptions, is unaccountably neglected by
most concert programmers. (When did you last hear Beethoven’s Mass in C major,
op.86, any of Gluck’s sacred music, anything that was not a Mass setting from
the Salzburg Mozart, or indeed any of the shorter liturgical works by
Schubert?) Perhaps performers, audiences, bureaucrats alike still have the
Whiggish canard that the Enlightenment was somehow concerned with
secularisation seared into their incurious minds; if so, send them away with a
copy of Ernst Cassirer’s venerable Philosophy
of the Enlightenment in one hand and a good few scores or recordings in the
other. In any case, let us hope that the London Philharmonic will programme
more of this wonderful repertoire, especially if performed with such success as
it was here, under Yannick Nézet-Séguin.
The ‘Kyrie’ plunged us
immediately into a world of high liturgical, symphonic, well-nigh operatic,
drama, the D minor tonality of Don
Giovanni ringing in our ears. It was driven, but not too much; Nézet-Séguin
knew where to yield too. The London Philharmonic Choir, here as elsewhere,
shone, fullness of tone and precision in no sense antithetical. Sarah-Jane
Brandon imparted the necessary note of wartime terror to the return of the ‘Kyrie’
material, form sharply delineated by Nézet-Séguin. A propulsive opening to the ‘Gloria’
shared that marriage of choral weight and transparency. It struck me, perhaps
for the first time, how much Haydn’s writing for soprano against choir
prefigures the ‘Hymn’ in The Creation,
which lay, after all, just around the corner. The setting of the words ‘miserere
nobis’ seemed to evoke Mozart – which of course in many senses it does, Haydn
always keen to learn at the hands of the younger genius.
A particularly Haydnesque
combination of Baroque sturdy figured bass, such as one always finds in his
setting of the Creed (‘Tu es Petrus’) and Beethovenian symphonism characterised
the opening section of the ‘Credo’. It was nicely shaded too, without
fussiness. The cult of alte Musik
furthered by Gottfried van Swieten, Viennese patron to Mozart and Haydn, as
well as librettist (of sorts) for Haydn’s oratorios, was heard here for the
inspirational influence it was: none of today’s mere antiquarianism (at best),
but a vital force, informing performance and composition alike. Just listen to
the words ‘et homo factus est’, Handel channelled via Haydn’s loving yet
vigorous offices. The final section, like much of the rest of the faster
material, was taken at a challenging tempo, or at least a tempo that would have
proved challenging, had it not been for the excellence of orchestral and choral
execution.
The ‘Sanctus’ was properly
imploring, taken at a magnificently slow tempo, without the slightest hint of
dragging. ‘Pleni sunt cœli...’ came as a thunderbolt of joy. A flowing contrast
to both parts of that preceding movement was offered by a flowing ‘Benedicturs’.
Militarism made its point, chillingly, yet commendably without the exaggeration
one would most likely have endured from latter-day ‘authenticke’ freak-shows.
Textures were clear and weighty
(where necessary). Nézet-Séguin handled the ‘Agnus Dei’ with loving tenderness.
Sarah Connolly offered excellent solo work at the opening, soon joined by her
equally fine colleagues, Brandon, Robin Tritschler, and Luca Pisaroni. ‘Dona
nobis pacem’ brought a wonderful, elating feeling of choral and orchestral
release. Was anyone a more joyful contrapuntist – or homophonist! – than Haydn?
As he is alleged to have said to a (slightly dubious) biographer, Giuseppe
Carpani, ‘At the thought of God my heart leaps for joy, and I cannot help my music
doing the same.’
Strauss’s
Ein Heldenleben followed the
interval. It is difficult to think of anything meaningful to connect the two
works, so it was better approached simply as a contrast – which indeed it was. Nézet-Séguin and the LPO revelled in the
opening kaleidoscope of colour, which sometimes, quite rightly, tended a little
towards the phantasmagorically nauseous.
The LPO’s cellos shone particularly, horns (led by David Pyatt) here and
elsewhere quite glorious. Strauss’s critics were properly carping; Pieter Schoeman’s
violin solo offered a delectable ‘feminine’ contrast, clean but not clinical, sinuous
but not cloying. It was an interesting reading taken as a whole: not overtly
symphonic, yet by the same token certainly not without form. Rather, the latter
seemed to emerge from the material, which is doubtless as it should be. (Not
that there is just one way of that happening, of course.) Battle was
instrumental in more than one sense, a battery of brass and percussion both
impressing and amusing: Strauss the inveterate ironist. It was brutal, but in a
toy soldiers’ sort of way. There were a few occasions when I thought Nézet-Séguin
might have relaxed a little more, but that was certainly preferable to
meandering, always a danger in this score. The difficulty of shooting’s one
bolt too early – I am not even convinced that Karajan always showed himself
innocent of that all-too-seductive mistake – was avoided completely: quite an
achievement.
