Wigmore Hall
Janáček:
Concertino
Mozart:
Quintet in E-flat major
for piano, oboe, clarinet, horn, and bassoon, KV 452Beethoven: Septet in E-flat major, op.20
Juliette Bausor (flute)
Adrian Wilson (oboe)Matthew Hunt (clarinet)
Amy Harman (bassoon)
Naomi Atherton (horn)
Benjamin Navarro, Claudia Ajmone-Marsan (violins)
Ruth Gibson (viola)
Gemma Rosefield (cello)
Laurène Durantel (double-bass)
Tim Horton (piano)
Ensemble 360 appeared here in
its full complement of five string players, five wind players, and pianist,
although never (quite) all at the same time. I have no idea why we do not hear Janáček’s
Concertino all the time, but then I
might say the same about all the music performed here, none of which suffers
from over-exposure. Maybe it is just a matter of the slightly unusual ensemble,
although it would hardly be difficult to put one such group together from time
to time. At any rate, this proved to be a delightful, varied concert of
delightful, varied, and yes, great music.
The commanding nature of the
opening piano figure, both in work and in Tim Horton’s performance, ensure that
it lodged itself in the memory securely, ready for what was to come. Soon one
could hardly help but imagine oneself, whether musically or even scenically, in
the world of The Cunning Little Vixen.
The obsessive, obstinate quality of Janáček’s music shone throughout the first
movement, and indeed beyond, with splendidly big-boned playing both from Horton
and Naomi Atherton on French horn. Vixen-like
scurrying announced the second movement’s well-matched partnership between
Horton and Matthew Hunt on E-flat clarinet. Music and performance seemed almost
to suggest a chamber fantasia on the opera – save for the fact that your
common-garden operatic fantasia might seem somewhat vin ordinaire compared to this. (So, to be fair, would your
common-garden opera to Janáček’s’s masterpiece.) It is a truth almost
universally acknowledged that most chamber writing of this period will reveal a
debt, a comparison, or at least a contrast with Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale; the third movement in
particular did so here, without ever jettisoning a strong, true voice of
Moravian modernism. Resolutely unsentimental as before, it and the final
movement proved as colourful as they were rhythmically taut, a sense of joy in the
‘purely’ musical, however illusory, shining still brighter than any partial association.
No one with an ear would ever
deny the masterpiece status of Mozart’s Quintet for piano and wind instruments.
It is difficult to imagine anyone having done so after this performance, again
big-boned, more Klemperer- than Böhm-Mozart, if that makes any sense, and certainly
none the worse for it. Not that it was old-fashioned, hesitate though I may to
use the dubious word ‘timeless’ here. Perhaps it is better simply to say that
it was certainly Mozart – and what could be better than that? The grandeur of
the first movement’s introduction was certainly communicated. So too, though,
was the chiaroscuro of what followed. The work emerged as something close to a
predecessor of the Berg Chamber Concerto – and, again, what could be better
than that? The import of the development section’s modulatory plan seemed
especially keenly felt, occasional very minor slips notwithstanding. I wondered
to begin with whether the Larghetto
might have yielded, even smiled, a little more, yet it certainly had, in its
own way, the virtues outlined for its predecessor. Solo wind playing was
delectable from all, likewise the Harmoniemusik
as a little band. Any slight reservations I might have had evaporated during
the course of the movement. Crucially for a finale, and however obvious they
may sound, the final movement worked as something very much more than music
that just happened to be placed last. Objectively, whatever that might mean, it
was perhaps rather on the fast side for Allegretto,
but I did not mind; and, if I did not, I doubt that anyone else would have
done. Its character was well judged, a slight loss of tension in the approach
to the cadenza notwithstanding, and that ultimately is what matters.
I am not sure that I can come
up with a single minor reservation concerning the performance of what may well
be Beethoven’s sunniest work, the Septet. The first movement, echoing Mozart’s
in more than mere tonality, again benefited from an introduction on the grand
scale, followed by an especially rhythmically alert performance of the
exposition and indeed the rest. Not that, as sometimes, regrettably, happens
with Beethoven, an emphasis on rhythm emerged in isolation; melody and harmony
were equal partners, at least. Above all, though, this glorious music, which I
love more than words could ever speak, made me smile and even shed the
occasional tear. In abstracto, I
might have thought the second movement again taken a little too quickly. There
is, however, no in abstracto when it comes
to Beethoven. It worked, flowing in utterly ‘natural’ fashion. The balance,
once more, between detail and the longer line, between melody and harmony,
could hardly be faulted, and I certainly have no wish to try.
Swifter than I can recall
hearing, the Minuet likewise worked – with thrilling affection, as it were, in
no sense sounding rushed. And yet, at the swift tempo, certain wind notes
sounded intriguingly, indeed revealingly, close to Webern. (Maybe we should
hear some of his music from these players; I do not doubt they would have
something to say about it.) The Theme and Variations unfolded relatively
quickly again, yet again without sounding rushed. I loved the viola and cello
solos in the first variation for the real sense of the instruments they
imparted, if that does not sound too nonsensical. The physicality of playing an
instrument was certainly imparted, albeit by musical rather than distracting
visual means. Wind instruments taking the lead in the following variation proved
an equal, if different – is that not what variations are for? – delight. Every
variation possessed and spoke of its own character, whilst retaining a strong,
generative sense of relation to the whole. The scherzo proved, in tempo broadly
understood and thus in character too, a step on, if only a step on, from the
minuet, but that was quite enough. As for the finale, one might simply have asked
‘finale problem, what finale problem?’ The grandeur, again, of the introduction
and the sheer joy of what ensued, taking daringly fast – it is, after all,
marked Presto – registered with a
keen sense of fun. The movement’s sterner moments and procedures, quite
properly too; yet, however ‘symphonic’ we may consider this work, its place in
the serenade tradition remained unchallenged.
