Yang/BBC SO/Oramo - Enescu, Bartók, and Brahms, 10 November 2026

Barbican Hall

Enescu: Romanian Rhapsody no.1 in A major, op.11 no.1
Bartók: Violin Concerto no.1, Sz.36, BB 48a
Brahms: Symphony no.1 in C minor, op.68

Inmo Yang (violin)

BBC Symphony Orchestra

Sakari Oramo (conductor)

Wagner’s Ring was 150 years old this summer. Another key nineteenth-century musical work, composed by the man once and by some still seen as Wagner’s antipode, celebrated its sesquicentenary only last week. Whether that were the reason for programming Brahms’s First Symphony here and now, I do not know; neither it nor the Ring is a stranger to us. At any rate, this Barbican performance from Sakari Oramo and the BBC Symphony Orchestra was an estimable one, preferable in every respect to the sloppy, disengaged Brahms I heard from Christian Thielemann in Salzburg in August. 

First, though came a first half itself of distinctly unequal halves. George Enescu’s first Romanian Rhapsody came and went at length, almost impossible to credit as the work of the composer of Œdipe, or indeed the distinguished conductor we know from recordings. It was, of course, a sin of youth, one that irritated Enescu in later years, and there is no harm in hearing it from time to time, even if it outstays the welcome that might be better accorded to three or four minutes’ worth of music. Woodwind solos were characterful, as was an especially fine viola solo. The orchestra was in general warm, lively, seemingly enthused by Oramo’s guidance; all concerned milked it for whatever it might be worth. What else can I say? It is certainly rhapsodic and felt so, but not in the way Bartók would make his own—and make so much more out of. 

Bartók’s First Violin Concerto led us immediately into a different realm, at times akin to the fashioning of a Szymanowskian magic carpet, albeit here with distinctly Prokofiev-like moments of bitter-sweetness as subtly brought out by violinist Inmo Yang and Oramo. (It is the other way round really, of course, but that was at least how I heard them.) Yang’s opening solo struck a fine balance between rumination and direction, as did all that was to follow. The first movement travelled through quasi-chamber music – this could have been a quartet – and beautifully balanced orchestral counterpoint as more instruments joined, in an awakening akin to a natural process, a coming of spring in post-Romantic fashion, Strauss and even Wagner surfacing, proving a welcome tonic on a cold, rainy evening. Intimations of The Wooden Prince and Bluebeard’s Castle were to be heard, but equally the musicians did not push too hard, happy to give the younger Bartók his own voice, all the while spun in finest silk. Quizzical and exuberant, ardent and indeed erotic, soloist and orchestra struck a similarly well judged partnership in the second movement, rhythmically tight or malleable as called for. Different types of material were well characterised yet also related, indeed consequent, all at a duly high temperature. Quite why so many soloists are intent on giving an encore I can never understand. Occasionally it adds something other than time, but not so much here in the guise of a Telemann fantasia (the second movement of no.7 in E-flat major). 

And so to Brahms. The BBC SO’s richness of tone remine us, should we have needed it, that this orchestra can hold it own with any. Oramo’s way with the first movement introduction and indeed the first movement as a whole was, to my ears, surprisingly swift but not unwarrantedly so. It had its own logic and marked Brahms here in a particular line of succession to Beethoven, Haydn too, which was perhaps all the more different from Wagner’s. More important, it seemed to come from a place of both pain and hope: our lot, as well as Brahms’s, if we are lucky. It certainly developed in recognisably Beethovenian motivic fashion, the development in particular with no shortage of Romantic fury. The second movement brought a rich vein of consolation that contained, even gave voice to, rather than overcoming still-enduring pain. It offered spacious contrast, again audibly in descent from a more Classical conception of the symphony. There were especially fine violin and horn soli, as well as a beautiful compliment of Harmoniemusik. Oramo captured to a tee the third movement’s own low and its place in the greater river-flow of the symphony as a whole. It offered release, but also its own involvement and complexity, balanced through cross-rhythm and harmony; Brahms’s haunting ‘giant’ Beethoven was still very much present. The finale emerged directly from its close, reasserting struggle, earlier even that explicit reference, prior to major-mode triumph. Moreover, when those intimations came, they were not necessarily reassuring: all in its own time, a proper motto for Brahms more generally and certainly in the genesis and construction of this symphony. What followed was less painted than sculpted, yet ultimately found necessary release.

Iphigénie en Tauride, English National Opera, 6 November 2026

 

Coliseum

Iphigénie – Christine Rice
Oreste – Jacques Imbrailo
Pylade – Nick Pritchard
Thoas – Morgan Pearse
First Priestess – Olivia Rose Tringham
Second Priestess – Amy Holyland
Greek Woman – Sarah Gilford
Scythian Priest – Robert Winslade Anderson
Diane – Lucy Barton
Child Oreste – Travis Elliot-Smith

Director – Lyndsey Turner

Designs – Soutra Gilmour
Lighting – Tim Mitchell

Orchestra and Chorus (director: Matthew Quinn) of the English National Opera

David Bates (conductor)

Images: Helen Murray

ENO’s new Iphigénie en Tauride has much to commend it. First, that this great opera is being staged at all. It is the antithesis of a mindless crowd-pleaser; it has no space for empty display, its focus relentlessly on drama created through the combination of words, music, and staging, to the extent that the more trivially minded of opera-goers will disdain it. So much the worse for them. Second, that it is performed in French rather than in English translation. No language will suffer more from the practice, unless there were to be actual recomposition. The results, however conscientious, are always unsatisfactory, and, in an age of surtitles, the effort is entirely unnecessary. Many potential audience members shun opera in translation, whilst the few who laud it seem more intent on maintaining a Brexit-inclined world-view and restrictive practices than anything else. Neither London nor England, we should hardly need reminding, is monolingual—and long may that be the case. It may have taken a while to get here, but let us be thankful that ENO has seen sense, and hope this will not prove an isolated incident. Berlin’s Komische Oper has gone from strength to strength since it ditched its similar policy. This could be a lifeline for ENO, if it has the courage and vision to grasp it.

 Important though those matters be, they would count for little without distinction in performance. Here too, there was much to commend. The ENO orchestra was on excellent form, in a refreshingly big-boned account that recognised Gluck’s drama for what it is, for the French orchestral tradition in which it stands, and for the size of the auditorium. It was in every respect the best work I have heard from David Bates, visibly and audibly committed to the score and its drama, though I could happily have done without his singing along and other strange noises emitted. They were a price worth paying, though in a direct, dramatically attuned performance that will surely have won Gluck new converts.

Christine Rice impressed in the title role, strong and compassionate, if at times just a little bland. Jacques Imbrailo gave a mostly forthright performance as Oreste, in fine balance between realism and myth, though occasionally sounding a little tired. Nick Pritchard’s Pylade was for me the pick of the bunch, unerringly stylish and moving, though Morgan Pearse’s Thoas was just as good, albeit in a slightly more limited role. The chorus, though a little frayed at times, was involved and involving, minor shortcomings more than made up for with dramatic commitment. Smaller roles were all well taken, though the decision to allot Diane to a heavily amplified child’s voice was unfortunate: not a criticism of the performance itself, but rather of its musical jarring.

That was presumably a production rather than a musical decision, born of the problematic deus ex machina. It is difficult not to agree with Aristotle’s criticism of the device here. Director Lyndsey Turner’s decision to introduce a child Iphigénie and Oreste had its own logic, offering a nice bridge between past and present for a work in which Fate stands crucial. Reliving and re-viewing worked well, and they were not overdone. The vocal problem could readily have been resolved by employing an offstage adult singer. Otherwise, the production was direct and focused on the drama; it readily complemented, in turn being complemented by, what we heard. There was little set to speak of, but that was turned into a virtue. Costumes bridged the gap between ancient and modern without becoming a mishmash: a rare skill, to be duly applauded. Save for one technical mishap, well navigated, lighting was well harnessed to dramatic ends. The only other fly in the ointment was a strangely stylised fight scene. Time and time again through this opera’s brief, concise span, we were reminded that all is drama. Let us hope that this success will lead to more Gluck in London: it points to a good, if far from the only, part of what opera as a serious artform should be about.