Royal Albert Hall
Schubert – Overture in C
major, ‘in the Italian Style’, D 591
Mozart – Piano Concerto no.23
in A major, KV 488Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944
 |
| Images: Copyright BBC/Chris Christoudoulou |
Bernard Haitink and the
Chamber Orchestra presented what will surely be remembered as one of this
season’s finest Proms. Not perfect, although it certainly was not far off in
the second half, but an experience of such unforced and unshowy, wise and
lively musicianship that only someone predisposed not to do so would not have
come away buoyed by that experience.
Schubert’s C major ‘Italian’
Overture – there are two, the other in D major – is not amongst his finest
works, but it has enough that is characteristic and indeed enough that is fun
to merit the occasional outing. Above all, it is what it says: an overture, a
genre which seems to have become strangely unfashionable. (In part, that is a
consequence of a welcome rediscovery of other ways to programme an orchestral
concert than overture-concerto-symphony; that seems, however, to have left some
with the idea, triumphantly refuted in this concert, that
overture-concerto-symphony is no longer an option, or is somehow intrinsically
unimaginative.) The introduction took us quickly from Mozart to Rossini (well,
sort of: that can be exaggerated) to Schubert. Ersatz Rossini reinstated in the
exposition proper reminded me of the work of both Claudio Abbado and Maurizio
Pollini with this wonderful orchestra in its early years, although, especially
in Haitink’s hands, Schubert could not help but shine through. Harmonies, key
relationships, even rhythm (looking forward to the ‘Great’ C major Symphony)
announced kinship clearly, an not only with the composer’s ‘Italianate’ Sixth
Symphony. The COE proved spruce, vernal; woodwind playing, unsurprisingly,
offered many highlights. And yes, there was more of a sense of the theatre than
one tends to find in Schubert’s own opera overtures.
Haitink opted for a very
small orchestra for Mozart’s twenty-third piano concerto: eight first violins
down to three double basses. Especially during a slightly bland first movement,
I could not help but wish for a little more, not least given the notorious
acoustic of the Royal Albert Hall. Occasional ‘period’ mannerisms intruded, but
only slightly: over-emphatic slurring of quavers from the violins, for
instance. Compared to most of what we must put up with nowadays, it was almost
nothing, but it seemed a pity, allied to slightly thin string tone in the
opening tutti. The orchestra sounded fuller following the entry of Maria João
Pires. She offered beautifully shaded playing: never fussy, let alone mannered.
There was great clarity too, not least, crucially, when it came to her
left-hand. And yet, beautiful though this was, the performance, in this
movement anyway, never quite seemed to engage with Mozart’s greatest emotional
depths, all of which are where. It was not all surface, by any means; but nor
did it move to tears, at least in my case.
Mozart’s unfathomable depths
are perhaps still more readily apparent in the slow movement. Here, both soloist
and orchestra were much readier to explore them. The COE’s Harmoniemusik was exquisite, with the lightest direction – yet one
imagined it made all the difference – from Haitink. Pires treated the music as if it were an aria, that ‘as if’
crucial: a singer can hardly sing an aria as if it were one, but a pianist can suggest with her playing, and did. Her
evenness of tone was a thing of wonder. So were, for example, the bassoon duets
which, more than once, caught my ears. Ineffable sadness, lightly worn,
characterised the close. Papapeno put in a guest appearance, as he must, in the
finale. Again, the COE woodwind were simply ravishing. That treacherous bassoon
line at the opening – I remember a bassoonist in my college orchestra unsuccessfully
pleading with me, as soloist, to take the movement even a little slower – was
despatched as if the easiest thing in
the world. Mozart must never, but never, sound difficult. Episodes had their
own character and were seamlessly integrated, as if without effort. There were, perhaps, times when a little
greater dynamic range would not have gone amiss, but this was otherwise quite
delightful.
I was fortunate enough to
hear a great Schubert ‘Great’ from the Vienna
Philharmonic and Daniel Barenboim earlier this year. Ultimately, if I had
to choose, I should opt to experience that again, but that is more a matter of
Furtwänglerian personal taste than of æsthetic judgement. I can safely say that
I have been privileged to hear two great performances in 2015, that art is not,
thank God, yet subject to ‘league tables, and that I should thus count myself
doubly fortunate. Whereas Barenboim had opened in unforgettable, darkly
Wagnerian fashion, Haitink’s first movement introduction – more to the point,
perhaps, his first horn, Chris Parkes – had no hint of the portentous; indeed,
that opening was almost, but not quite, fragile. The COE, as one would have
expected, fielded a smallish orchestra, albeit larger than that for the Mozart:
strings, I think, 12:10:8:6:4. This was a performance which certainly did not
avoid the darker corners of Schubert’s score, but nor did it dwell upon them.
Balance was perhaps the watchword, offering a conception of the composer which
perhaps placed him, rather than Beethoven, as Mozart’s most obvious heir – or rather,
the most obvious heir of a particular conception of Mozart, such as we had
heard earlier. The life we heard in the inner parts was reason enough to
celebrate such a conception; brass gently yet unmistakeably reminded us that
life necessarily entails death. And, wonder of wonders in these ‘authenticke’
times, although Haitink’s initial tempo had been on the fast side, there was an accelerando to come to the
exposition proper. (The idea of anything approaching ‘authenticity’ with
respect to a work never performed during the composer’s lifetime is more than
usually absurd, but let us leave such irrelevances where they deserve to be
left.) Having made that Mozartian comparison, I should add that there were
differences too. The strings were far more willing, rather as I wish they had
been earlier, really to dig in, often belying their numbers, whilst retaining
the transparency those numbers probably aided. Haitink’s development section
was fresh with the spirit of adventure, always so keen with this orchestra,
and, in the quieter passages, harmonic mystery too. The recapitulation sounded,
quite rightly, as exploratory as if it were formally a second development. The
coda did not – could not – have the cataclysmic import Barenboim and the VPO
had brought to it, but proved triumphant in its own, more modest, way.
The slow movement – yes, I
know some people do not like it to be called that, but who cares? – was as
fresh as expected, without downplaying stern intrusions, which truly exuded
menace. The world of melancholic song was never far away either. Indeed, as
mentioned, above, balance, in an almost Abbado-like way, seemed to be Haitink’s
watchword. Lengths were truly heavenly; I wished it might have gone on forever.
Style, vigour and, yes, song characterised the scherzo, equally well balanced
between such apparently competing tendencies. There was a sense of conversation
between the musicians such as one might have expected from a great string
quartet. By the same token, the movement’s stature, which one almost
inevitably, however misleadingly, is tempted to call Beethovenian, shone
through. So, however, did feather-light, yet equally goal-orientated
Mendelssohnian presentiments. We could dream, even after Midsummer. The sheer
scale naturally also had one think of Bruckner, although Bruckner could surely
never have summoned up such lightness and ease. The trio was just as lovingly
detailed, very much with its own character, all too easily categorised as ‘rustic’.
Not that there was nothing ‘Austrian’ to it, but it should not, could not, be
reduced to the realm of the Heuriger, however inviting. Haitink unfailingly
shaped and communicated the contours of the finale, having one almost believe
that the music was speaking ‘for itself’; as ever, art concealed art. There was
much that so poignant in melody and harmony, perhaps all the more so for the
lack of heavy underlining. That pair
of oboes brought a tear to my eye, as did moments of Mendelssohnian magic – put
to other ends. The final blaze of glory was, again, quite different in
character, as it had to be, from that which Barenboim had engendered. There
was, of course, no need to choose. Magnificent!
