Jerwood Hall, LSO St Luke’s
Dutilleux – Sur le même accord
Haydn – Cello Concerto no.1 in
C major, Hob.Viib:1Rimsky-Korsakov, Scheherazade, op.35
Culture, education, young
people, London: as victims of the present chaos go, it would have been
difficult to find a better example than those playing at and in the audience
for, this concert. The response was the best possible: defiant excellence. Many
thanks then, to the Melos Sinfonia and Oliver Zeffman, for a light in the
darkness at this catastrophic time in our country’s – and Europe’s – history.
I have begun to warm to
Dutilleux’s music in his centenary year. It had not properly ‘spoken’ to me before,
but Sur le même accord certainly did
on this occasion. So named on account of the six-not chord introduced at the
opening, which provides the material for what comes thereafter, Sur le même accord benefited greatly
from ardent advocacy from Martyn Jackson and the orchestra. Jackson’s
declamatory pizzicato opening presented a storyteller: almost as if he were
telling us ‘Once upon a time…’. Premonitions of Rimsky-Korsakov already – or should
that be echoes? Thinking of Russian composers, Prokofiev often came to mind,
although so too, to a lesser extent, did Berg; there were definite post-war
episodes, though, not least an almost Messiaen-like marimba intervention.
Jackson’s richly seductive line sounded as first among equals, for not only
were there several other splendid solos to enjoy (for instance, from clarinet
and cello), but the work’s dealing, in Dutilleux’s words, ‘with the abstract
relations within the orchestral universe’ came strongly to the fore.
There has never, so far as I
can recall, been a time when warming to Haydn’s music proved a problem for me.
This performance of the C major Cello Concerto, with Bartholomew LaFollette the
outstanding soloist, reminded one of so many of the virtues of that great
European. (Only a fool would ascribe to him ‘nationality’; alas, there are many
fools around.) The first movement opened warmly; it was stylishly, meaningfully
articulated, properly dynamic in its conception of form. That was even before
the solo entry. LaFollette’s playing showed much the same characteristics. And
what a splendid sense of line there was to be heard: gorgeous yet never
self-regarding in tone, clean and clear. Crucially in Haydn, this was a
performance to have one love the music – and indeed its composer. Civilisation
seemed still to be with us, or at least near, the elegance of LaFollette’s
playing, not least in the cadenza, putting me in mind – and no, I am not
exaggerating – of Tortelier. Wonder of wonders, we heard an Adagio that was an Adagio. It sang beautifully, honestly; I almost wished our
Scheherazade would start again. A slightly subdued opening to the finale had me
wonder to start with. It proved, however, to have been a subtle trick, much in
the spirit of the composer, for suddenly, without vulgarity, there came full
orchestral sound and vigour. There was much play like that – and in many other
ways. It made me listen – and what a joy it was here to listen.
Rimsky’s Scheherazade was our work for the second half. Zeffman was clearly
in his element – although he had been no less in the first half. I was
intrigued by the way this symphonic suite proved as much a study of ‘relations
within the orchestral universe’ as the Dutilleux piece had; both, of course,
benefited greatly from the excellence of Martyn Jackson on violin (now as
leader). Its opening was formidable, the Melos Sinfonia’s brass more than a
little ‘Russian’ in their vibrato. The response, needless to say, was silky and
seductive. Subtle dynamic gradations, not in the least pedantic, proved as
expressive as harmony and orchestration, Sinbad and Prince Kalender coming
vividly to life. Glorious string sheen, even from a relatively small band,
helped no end; much the same might be said for perky woodwind. There was
exoticism, of course, but it always felt – indeed, was – directed. A keen sense
of narrative, whether or no it might actually be put into words, was always
present. Transformation of themes proved both a pictorial and an intellectual
delight. If Liszt inevitably came to mind, so too did the future, of both
Strauss and Stravinsky. There were symphonic correspondences; quite rightly, however,
this remained a suite rather than failing as an aspirant symphony. For all its
supposed renown, this is not a work we hear very often in the concert hall; I
am not sure that I have ever done so before. There is all the more reason,
then, to applaud so fine a performance as this.
