Royal
Festival Hall
Tchaikovsky – Piano Concerto
no.1 in B-flat minor, op.23
Dvořák – Symphony no.9 in E
minor, op.95
I keep trying with
Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, and a Richter performance can just about momentarily
dispel my doubts, but less than that simply confirms me in my belief that
Nikolai Rubinstein’s initial dismissal of the work was not so far off the mark.
It is certainly difficult to imagine on what conceivable musical grounds it is
performed so frequently, the greatest problem being that apparently tacked-on introduction. Yes, it can be argued from
looking at the score that there is a connection with subsequent material, but
does it ever sound like it? Perhaps it does, and I have yet to hear the right
performance; at any rate, this was not it.
Yuri Temirkanov’s conducting of
the Philharmonia was impressive; he can probably conduct this concerto in his
sleep, but it certainly did not sound as if he were. The introduction was
somewhat on the swift side, no great loss. Thereafter, the first movement was
characterful and agile – at least from the orchestra, which, when having the
spotlight to itself, might have been performing one of the symphonies. Denis
Kozhukhin, alas, rarely showed any sign of listening to the other players; it
was as if it were his show and his show alone, the orchestra treated as if it
were a mere ‘accompaniment’, certainly no way to salvage so problematical a
work. It was a pity, since Kozhukhin was perfectly capable of exhibiting dark,
weighty tone, at times melting away into nothingness. The slow movement was, on
the surface, well played, but it was difficult to detect anything much beneath
the surface, at least when it came to the pianist. The orchestra, alive with
dance tunes and rhythms was another matter. A typically alert orchestral
opening promised well for the finale, dispelling a predictable bronchial
outburst. There was a sense of urgency throughout, though at times, Temirkanov
perhaps drove a little too hard. Indeed, at times, the performance felt on the
verge of falling apart. Meanwhile, Kozhukhin apparently remained in a world of
his own, his playing increasingly brutalising. Thank goodness it was not
Mozart.
The second half offered an
estimable account of Dvořak’s ‘New World’ Symphony. The opening intrigued,
sounding more as if were plunged into action that had been going for some time
than I can recall. The first movement’s exposition proper clearly derived from
material we had heard: not only analytically, but dramatically (as if there
were such an opposition!) Temirkanov drove the performance urgently, but not
too much, and relaxed significantly for the second group, which benefited from lilting
rubato. Here, as in Tchaikovsky, the Philharmonia’s strings sounded splendidly
full of one. The concision of the movement registered very well indeed. Its
successor benefited from an unsentimental approach. Jill Crowther’s
beautifully-played English horn solo was first among equals in an excellent
woodwind section. This was a songful account, with due understanding of
harmonic development. The third movement bore definite kinship to the
contrasting sections in the slow movement; rhythmic detail was very well
pointed. In that respect, one might even have called it ‘balletic’, so long as
that were not understood to detract from its symphonism. If the work bears its ‘cyclic’
features too obviously on its sleeve, then that is not the performers’ fault;
at least they were duly suggestive here. The same might be said of the finale,
given an impassioned, perhaps more overtly Romantic performance: full of
dramatic tension, without a hint of the routine.
