Philharmonie, Paris
Concerto for two pianos and percussion, Sz.115
Concerto for Orchestra, Sz.116
Yes, the new Parisian
Philharmonie is a thing of wonder, especially when lit at night. Walking across
the Parc de la Villette, I happened to be there just at the moment when the
lighting, as if by magic, was turned on. Resplendent as a craggy mineral, the
jewel-fancier’s find of the century, from the outside, the hall and its
acoustic put any London counterparts to shame; as, of course, do the acoustics
of so many. (Chamber music is, of course, another matter entirely.) This is the
sort of thing London so desperately needs; alas, should we see a new hall, the
City of London’s claim seems already a done deal. A new cultural quarter,
perhaps in the East, say at Stratford, well connected by Tube, rail, and bus,
would be a real Olympic ‘legacy’. Cue hollow laughter. Trident calls.
In this, my first visit,
Esa-Pekka Salonen led the Orchestre de Paris in an all-Bartók programme. I was
struck at the opening of the Dance Suite
by the bassoon sound, as if a French instrument of old. However, the dominant
orchestral sound, that of the strings in particular, was surprisingly Germanic.
Salonen’s conducting seemed to match that: surprisingly dark and, at times,
deliberate. Then it came to life in the second movement, not unlike The Rite of Spring’s defrosting.
Debussyan languor was another surprise, not at all unwelcome, visitor. The
suite came across, then, in strikingly cosmopolitan manner. One heard at times
a more traditionally ‘Hungarian’ accent, but it was one among many. What a joy,
however, it was to hear this work, so often the province of chamber orchestras,
played with such large forces. And how, in this acoustic, the final chord
resounded!
The Labèque sisters joined
orchestra percussionists., Camille Baslé and Eric Sammut for Bartók’s orchestral
version of the Sonata for Two Pianos and
Percussion. My reaction was much the same as when I have heard it in
concerto form before; I do not mind the orchestral presence, but ultimately, do
not feel that it adds so much, and should rather hear the ‘original’. The
Labèques did ‘creepy’ well, for instance at the opening of the first movement;
their percussionist colleagues played with masterly precision. However, much of
the performance – who was in charge here? The pianists or the conductor? –
seemed to sprawl somewhat: full of incident, but where was the direction? In
the moment, though, soloists elicited sparks from each other, the layout and
the hall permitting a welcome sense of spatial effect. Nocturnal mystery was
palpable in the second movement, although again line was not always so
apparent. Joyous contrast was the hallmark of the finale, almost as if this
were Haydn reimagined. Bartók’s musical procedures spoke clearly; so did what
they emotionally amounted to. The close was delightfully nonchalant.
It was the Concerto for Orchestra, however, which proved the highlight of the
concert. Its opening offered dark, weighty sound from cellos and basses,
deepened by the hall acoustic. The violin and flute response sounded almost
frozen. Violas added warmth to the lower strings – a hint of the orchestral
recitative in the finale to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – and one heard, as it
were, the full orchestra gradually come into being. Brass imparted if not quite
yet a sense of arrival, then at least of a crucial staging-post. Salonen’s
tempi here and indeed throughout the work were highly varied, with some of the
deliberation that had marked the Dance
Suite but also some more conventional ‘excitement’. The second movement
proceeded similarly, albeit with its own instrumental character. I especially
liked the grave yet rounded beauty of the Parisian trombones and horns, and of
course the trio of bassoons, wonderfully fruity. Salonen’s view of the third
movement fascinated. It emerged in strikingly cellular, quasi-Stravinskian
fashion, with an almost Mahlerian pathos at its heart, assisted by great depth
of string tone. This Elegy truly sang as a song of grief. That grief seemed to
carry through into the shockingly vehement opening of the fourth movement. Then
the clouds suddenly lifted, although the shadows were, perhaps inevitably, not
entirely dispelled. Salonen was in no hurry here; the time given for the violas
to sing was especially welcome. But it was not so slow overall, rather varied.
The Lehár/Shostakovich deliberate banality hinted, enigmatically, at
catastrophe. An enigma it yet remained. The finale offered the excitement of
culmination and climax, sounding new, even equivocal at times, in this
particular performative context. Tempi were again highly flexible; string tone
again proved wonderfully deep. Bartók’s genius, never in doubt, felt
nevertheless reaffirmed.
