Royal Festival Hall
Grande
messe des morts, op.5
Sébastien Droy (tenor)
Philharmonia Voices (chorus
master: Aidan Oliver)
Gloucester Choral Society
(chorus master: Adrian Partington)
Bristol Choral Society
(chorus master: Adrian Partington)
Esa-Pekka Salonen (conductor)
It was a little over two
years ago that I heard Sir Colin Davis conduct the Berlioz Requiem in St Paul’s
Cathedral; it was the last time I heard – or indeed saw – him conduct his
beloved and loving London Symphony Orchestra. Irrespective of that hindsight, I
found it at the time a magnificent, unforgettable performance, as indeed I
wrote, or rather raved, at the time. Life goes on, however, even when it
comes to requiem masses. This performance was perhaps never going to live up to
the extraordinary nature of that occasion; not only was the greatest Berlioz
conductor of all time delivering his valedictory thoughts on the piece, but for
once, Wren’s cathedral proved a preferable venue. The Royal Festival Hall was
anything but ideal; I could not help but wondering whether a trip, say, to
Westminster Cathedral would not have been a good idea. (The problem was not
simply a matter of the acoustic, as I shall try to argue below.) Those factors
notwithstanding, however, this was in most respects an excellent performance,
one which will have doubtless introduced a good few new listeners to this
singular work.
The acoustical difference
announced itself immediately, with greater orchestral and, perhaps most
strikingly, choral clarity. This could almost have been a different work. Performance
standards, choral and orchestral, were highly impressive throughout; indeed,
just as in St Paul’s, there were no conceivable grounds for complaint in that
respect. The ‘Requiem aeternam’ and ‘Kyrie’ benefited from wonderful
Philharmonia string playing, especially the expressive vibrato employed and
instrumental phrasing (doubtless partly to be credited to Esa-Pekka Salonen
too). It was expressive yet taut. This first movement is perhaps not a terribly
characteristic movement; the work is arguably not the most characteristic of
Berlioz’s œuvre either. Its roots in earlier French music, most of it more or
less entirely forgotten by present-day audiences, came through, as did its
peculiar novelty. A weird instance of applause following this movement was not,
I was grateful, to be repeated.
Cellos and double basses
again made a fine impression at the opening of the ‘Dies irae’. Salonen here,
as throughout, marshalled his forces very well. Palpable tension as the brass
players stood was not entirely fulfilled in reality. I do not think it was any
fault of the performance as such, but the effect, despite its deafening,
all-too-deafening volume, far too much from where I was seated, paled besides
the truer aural perspective and blended sound offered under the St Paul’s dome.
Matters were not improved by a telephone ringing as the deafening brass ceased.
(Do these people have no shame at all?) Still, there was a very strong
impression to be had of the work’s insanity. There was an overwhelming sense of
contrast in the following ‘Quid sum miser’: not, quite rightly, repose, but
supplication.
The ‘Rex tremendae’ then proved
both excitable and exciting. However, it proved a good example of another
problem relating to the venue, though perhaps, to a certain extent, to Salonen’s
conception. (In truth, it is very difficult to say what exactly was owed to
what.) Part of the fascination of this work is its secularism, the strange
emptiness at the heart of the work, about which I wrote when discussing the
Davis performance. That gains meaning and a truly disconcerting quality when
performed not only in a building such as St Paul’s, but also when conducted by
a man whose religious and/or philosophical questing is leading him truly to
grapple with the difficulties presented by such a work. Salonen was musically
very impressive; Davis truly had one think, and experience the implications of
crises of faith.
There was relief to be felt
thereafter from the a cappella
semi-chorus (actually much less than that: probably twenty voices or so) in the
‘Quaerens me’. It was possible to feel a connection with a much older choral
tradition, even if the sense of Palestrina were more apparent than ‘real’.
Especially memorable was the beautiful halo of sound at the conclusion: ‘Statuens
in parte dextra’. The ‘Lacrymosa’ and ‘Domine, Jesu Christe’ have texts I find
well-nigh impossible to dissociate from Mozart: my problem, I know. Or at
least, it takes a performative wrench to have me forget that greatest of all
Requiem settings. Here, Berlioz’s oddness came across strongly, not least the
blazing conclusion to the first of the two movements. But it was only really in
the second that the anxiety to what is after all an imprecations registered in
duly personal – both compositional and theological – fashion.
The ‘Hostias’ benefited from nicely snarling trombones, as
well as markedly ‘white’ flutes – and, of course, excellent choral singing. As
so often, the ‘Sanctus’ was marred by a tremulous tenor, Sébastien Droy, who
was at times somewhat constricted too. A brightly ‘secular’ Hosanna fugue made
its point – perhaps a little too strongly. However, the ‘Agnus Dei’ was very
impressive, bringing due symmetry with the opening movement. Salonen’s control
remained admirable, and there was again delectable menace to the trombones and,
more generally, to the bass line. Finally, there came resolution of sorts, though
I could not help thinking it more ‘musical’ then ‘theological’ – not so much
because Berlioz cannot achieve the latter variety, a point which is at least
arguable, but because the performance as a whole never truly engaged with
theological issues in the first place.
