Barbican Hall
Bartók: Violin Concerto no.2, BB 117; Five Hungarian Folksongs, BB 97
Falla: The Three-Cornered Hat
Images: Mark Allan
A busy few days for Simon
Rattle and the LSO: first two concert performances of The Makropulos Case,
then this concert with Patricia Kopatchinskaja and Rinat Shaham. Both performances
proved, moreover, of the highest quality. Bartók’s Second Violin Concerto is a
substantial work by any standards; it seemed all the more so in this case.
Whether it was actually a spacious performance, I do not know, but it felt like
it in a positive sense, on a grand scale—that is, not a euphemism for dragging.
Kopatchinskaja’s opening statement was relaxed, almost louche, but certainly
not lacking in precision, any more than her highly energetic response. At
times, she seemed almost shamanic, but from within, not without, the music. It
was a highly personal account, though never without warrant, either in the
score or in the more general ‘idea’ of the piece. Rattle has often seemed to me
at his very best as an ‘accompanist’. This was no exception: he led the LSO not
only in kindred precision, but kindred direction, colour, and atmosphere,
always underpinned by harmonic understanding and communication. Kopatchinskaja proved
every bit as responsive to the orchestra as vice versa. Her cadenza was spellbinding,
an object lesson in line, commitment, and understanding. And throughout, performances
sang—and showed, moreover, that they had something to sing, and that there were
different ways in which to do so.
Another such way was on offer at the beginning of the slow movement: fragile yet with undeniable inner strength, a testament of intimacy that could yet turn outwards. The LSO and Rattle wove a gorgeous tapestry of orchestral sound, which, in collaboration with the soloist, often turned towards chamber music. Take, for instance, Bartók’s extraordinary writing for violin, double basses, and timpani; or magical passages of well-nigh suspended animation for harp, celesta, and woodwind. As the path became ever more surprising, even when one ‘knew’, it remained ever secure and coherent, both here and in a finale that combined improvisatory freshness with deep knowledge and understanding. Various balances and relationship were key to this, whether between solo and orchestra, or harmony and rhythm. It was a fantastical, exhilarating performance that achieved that status through command of detail and its integration into a keen sense of musical narrative. The piece felt ultimately like a Mahlerian symphonic ‘world’: in idea, rather than expression, but as an utterance of that stature. Kurtág’s ‘Ruhelos’ from his Kafka-Fragmente said all that might be said as an encore, Webern to Bartók’s Mahler.
Bartók’s Five Hungarian Folksongs made for an arresting opening to the second half, all the more so in such committed, comprehending performances as we heard when Rinat Shaham joined Rattle and the orchestra. My first and last question was: why on earth do we not hear these songs more often? My fist and last answer were alas identical: the language, of course. It is a great, if understandable pity. I cannot vouch for Shaham’s Hungarian, but I can certainly vouch for her communication, which often seemed so vivid as to transcend mere linguistic understanding. ‘In Prison’, the first song, offered a sense of direct witness from the soloist, to another beautifully woven orchestral accompaniment. From the house of the dead, one might say. As Shaham’s delivery became ever more declamatory, her witness chilled all the more. Every song was sharply characterised by all concerned, the LSO warm and precise in the ‘old Lament’, Shaham colourful, even whimsical, yet with something undoubtedly serious to the core of ‘Yellow Pony, Harness Jingling’. A poignant ‘Complaint’ preceded ‘Virág’s Lamps Are Burning Brightly’, delivered with palpable relish: a fine, spirited finale.
Seated at the back of the orchestra, Shaham crafted two excellent cante jondo interventions, one in the Introduction, one in the second act’s ‘Dance of the Miller’, to Manuel de Falla’s ballet The Three Cornered-Hat. That Introduction and indeed the whole of the first act seemed to need no theatre; theatricality lay in the score and the images its performance evoked. The world of puppetry never seemed far away: whether that of the composer’s puppet-opera El retablo de maese Pedro or, increasingly, Stravinsky’s Petrushka. Diaghilev kinship was certainly strong, though Falla’s score never quite sounded ‘like’ anyone or anything else—which certainly included the Spain of Frenchmen such as Ravel and Debussy. Fast and furious, this account shone a welcome midday sun on a dark and wintry London evening. In the second act, Rattle imparted a fine sense of inevitability, the Miller’s dance seemingly necessitating his arrest, which in turn necessitated his escape. The Beethoven parody was clearly, wittily handled and properly integrated into the narrative whole. The ‘Final Dance’ emerged as if a mini-ballet in itself, eliciting rapturous applause from a capacity Barbican audience.
