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Showing posts with label Grieg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grieg. Show all posts
Monday, 21 May 2012
Friday, 18 March 2011
Arensky Chamber Orchestra/Gould - Rautavaara, Grieg, Vivaldi, and Schnelzer
Cadogan Hall
Rautavaara – Pelimannit (‘The Fiddlers’), op.1
Grieg – From Holberg’s Time: Suite in the Olden Style, op.40
Vivaldi – Violin Concerto in D major, ‘Il Grosso Mogul,’ RV 208
Albert Schnelzer – Emperor Akbar (British premiere, orchestral version)
Arensky Chamber Orchestra
Clio Gould (violin, director)
Last September, I reported enthusiastically from the Arensky Chamber Orchestra’s launch at the Institute of Directors. I am delighted to say that this concert’s performances proved of an equally high standard. A crack team of young soloists combined under the leadership of Clio Gould to provide an object lesson in stylish, dynamic string playing.
To stand out amongst a host of chamber ensembles, the ACO has resolved to do things differently, not for the mere sake of it, but to attempt to present works in interesting new ways, both through programming and presentation. Interesting connections abounded: Scandinavian string music from Einojuhani Raatavaara, Edvard Grieg, and Swedish composer, Albert Schnelzer, the string orchestral version of the latter’s Emperor Akbar also fitting nicely with one of Vivaldi’s two Mogul excursions, the D major concerto, RV 208.
As we entered the Cadogan Hall, members of the orchestra greeted us from a balcony above the stage with their own arrangement of folk material collected by fiddler Samuel Rinda-Nickola (1763-1818), thus preparing us for Rautavaara’s The Fiddlers, which also makes use of Rinda-Nickola’s material. A student work, indeed his op.1, The Fiddlers (or ‘Pelimannit’) is full of exuberance; at least it was in this typically energetic performance. The informative programme notes informed us that Rautavaara originally wrote a piano piece, which he subsequently arranged for string orchestra. From the idiomatic rendition here, one would never have guessed, though the composer perhaps sounds closer to the likes of Honegger than to his later self (no complaints here). Depth and richness of tone combined with sharp characterisation of individual movements, relishing but never unduly exaggerating the composer’s ‘wrong-note’ harmonies, to provide a memorable account. Another programming idea: perhaps a potential companion piece to Bernd Alois Zimmermann’s riotous Rheinische Kirmestänze?
Grieg’s Holberg Suite followed: another work originally composed for piano and subsequently arranged for string orchestra. It is an unfashionable work; indeed, one might say much the same of Grieg as a composer: a pity, since its evocation of the Baroque suite is charming and never resorts to pastiche. Lightly nostalgic, the ACO’s account paid homage to an imagined eighteenth century, whilst making abundantly clear that this was a nineteenth-century work. Grieg’s harmonies delighted, not least on account of well-judged harmonic rhythm under Gould’s wise direction. String tone itself was expressively rich, though never overwhelmingly so: light and rich are not necessarily antonyms. The Air (‘Andante religioso’) was sung especially beautifully, never descending into the realms of the maudlin. Gould’s solos proved beguiling, but so did those from other section principals, amongst whom Steffan Rees’s finely shaded cello line deserves especial mention.
Gould was the soloist for Vivaldi’s Il grosso mogul concerto. I cannot claim to be a paid-up Vivaldian – Dallapiccolla’s line, popularised by Stravinsky, about writing the same concerto a few hundred times dies hard – but this was a fine reading that never outstayed its welcome. Once again striking was the richness, though not a ‘Romantic’ richness, of tone displayed by the orchestra as a whole, a fine backdrop for Vivaldi’s – and Gould’s – flights of violinistic fantasy. The slow movement, for solo and continuo, showed that there is variety within Vivaldi’s box of tricks, even if I could not help – heretically? – thinking that Bach’s arrangement remains superior to the original. But what a joy it was to hear such warmth from the orchestra: utterly distant from current attention-seeking ‘authenticity’. I was put in mind of the English Chamber Orchestra in its heyday.
Finally came the British premiere of the orchestral version of Albert Schnelzer’s Emperor Akbar, its quartet version written for the Brodsky Quartet. Where the inspiration for Vivaldi’s title remains obscure, Schnelzer pays explicit homage to Salman Rushdie’s portrait of the Mogul Emperor in The Enchantress of Florence. Indeed, we heard readings from Rushdie prior to both the Vivaldi and Schnelzer pieces. Schnelzer, according to his biography ‘has openly declared that communication is a key element in his music.’ I am not sure that there is anything particularly unusual about that, though the implication would seem to be that (relatively) straightforward is better. The dance-inspired rhythms and melodies were once again expertly despatched by the orchestra, though I could not help wishing that something a little more intellectually engaging were on offer. Ferneyhough perhaps: I suspect these players would cope…
The next ACO concert will feature Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht, both in its original sextet version, alongside an exhibition of new works from the Royal College of Art, and in the version for string orchestra. Perhaps my belief in the original’s superiority will be challenged; we shall see… For further details on the Arensky Chamber Orchestra, please visit the orchestra’s website (click here).
Rautavaara – Pelimannit (‘The Fiddlers’), op.1
Grieg – From Holberg’s Time: Suite in the Olden Style, op.40
Vivaldi – Violin Concerto in D major, ‘Il Grosso Mogul,’ RV 208
Albert Schnelzer – Emperor Akbar (British premiere, orchestral version)
Arensky Chamber Orchestra
Clio Gould (violin, director)
Last September, I reported enthusiastically from the Arensky Chamber Orchestra’s launch at the Institute of Directors. I am delighted to say that this concert’s performances proved of an equally high standard. A crack team of young soloists combined under the leadership of Clio Gould to provide an object lesson in stylish, dynamic string playing.
To stand out amongst a host of chamber ensembles, the ACO has resolved to do things differently, not for the mere sake of it, but to attempt to present works in interesting new ways, both through programming and presentation. Interesting connections abounded: Scandinavian string music from Einojuhani Raatavaara, Edvard Grieg, and Swedish composer, Albert Schnelzer, the string orchestral version of the latter’s Emperor Akbar also fitting nicely with one of Vivaldi’s two Mogul excursions, the D major concerto, RV 208.
As we entered the Cadogan Hall, members of the orchestra greeted us from a balcony above the stage with their own arrangement of folk material collected by fiddler Samuel Rinda-Nickola (1763-1818), thus preparing us for Rautavaara’s The Fiddlers, which also makes use of Rinda-Nickola’s material. A student work, indeed his op.1, The Fiddlers (or ‘Pelimannit’) is full of exuberance; at least it was in this typically energetic performance. The informative programme notes informed us that Rautavaara originally wrote a piano piece, which he subsequently arranged for string orchestra. From the idiomatic rendition here, one would never have guessed, though the composer perhaps sounds closer to the likes of Honegger than to his later self (no complaints here). Depth and richness of tone combined with sharp characterisation of individual movements, relishing but never unduly exaggerating the composer’s ‘wrong-note’ harmonies, to provide a memorable account. Another programming idea: perhaps a potential companion piece to Bernd Alois Zimmermann’s riotous Rheinische Kirmestänze?
Grieg’s Holberg Suite followed: another work originally composed for piano and subsequently arranged for string orchestra. It is an unfashionable work; indeed, one might say much the same of Grieg as a composer: a pity, since its evocation of the Baroque suite is charming and never resorts to pastiche. Lightly nostalgic, the ACO’s account paid homage to an imagined eighteenth century, whilst making abundantly clear that this was a nineteenth-century work. Grieg’s harmonies delighted, not least on account of well-judged harmonic rhythm under Gould’s wise direction. String tone itself was expressively rich, though never overwhelmingly so: light and rich are not necessarily antonyms. The Air (‘Andante religioso’) was sung especially beautifully, never descending into the realms of the maudlin. Gould’s solos proved beguiling, but so did those from other section principals, amongst whom Steffan Rees’s finely shaded cello line deserves especial mention.
Gould was the soloist for Vivaldi’s Il grosso mogul concerto. I cannot claim to be a paid-up Vivaldian – Dallapiccolla’s line, popularised by Stravinsky, about writing the same concerto a few hundred times dies hard – but this was a fine reading that never outstayed its welcome. Once again striking was the richness, though not a ‘Romantic’ richness, of tone displayed by the orchestra as a whole, a fine backdrop for Vivaldi’s – and Gould’s – flights of violinistic fantasy. The slow movement, for solo and continuo, showed that there is variety within Vivaldi’s box of tricks, even if I could not help – heretically? – thinking that Bach’s arrangement remains superior to the original. But what a joy it was to hear such warmth from the orchestra: utterly distant from current attention-seeking ‘authenticity’. I was put in mind of the English Chamber Orchestra in its heyday.
Finally came the British premiere of the orchestral version of Albert Schnelzer’s Emperor Akbar, its quartet version written for the Brodsky Quartet. Where the inspiration for Vivaldi’s title remains obscure, Schnelzer pays explicit homage to Salman Rushdie’s portrait of the Mogul Emperor in The Enchantress of Florence. Indeed, we heard readings from Rushdie prior to both the Vivaldi and Schnelzer pieces. Schnelzer, according to his biography ‘has openly declared that communication is a key element in his music.’ I am not sure that there is anything particularly unusual about that, though the implication would seem to be that (relatively) straightforward is better. The dance-inspired rhythms and melodies were once again expertly despatched by the orchestra, though I could not help wishing that something a little more intellectually engaging were on offer. Ferneyhough perhaps: I suspect these players would cope…
The next ACO concert will feature Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht, both in its original sextet version, alongside an exhibition of new works from the Royal College of Art, and in the version for string orchestra. Perhaps my belief in the original’s superiority will be challenged; we shall see… For further details on the Arensky Chamber Orchestra, please visit the orchestra’s website (click here).
Monday, 30 March 2009
BRSO/Jansons - Beethoven, Strauss, and Ravel, 29 March 2009
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Symphony no.3 in E-flat major, op.55, ‘Eroica’
Strauss – Vier letzte Lieder
Ravel – Daphnis et Chloé: suite no.2
Anja Harteros (soprano)
Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra
Mariss Jansons (conductor)
On paper, this seemed rather a perplexing programme; it did not make a great deal more sense in practice. Placing the Eroica symphony in the first half of a programme might occasionally have something to be said for it, maybe with other carefully chosen Beethoven, or a Romantic or twentieth-century work both influenced by it and of standing such that it would not be overshadowed: perhaps the Symphonie fantastique or Ein Heldenleben. There might be other possibilities; there is certainly no point in being prescriptive. However, I do not think Strauss’s Four last songs and the second Daphnis et Chloé suite, masterpieces though they may be, would even have made much sense as companions to the Eroica had they preceded rather than followed it.
The performances were mixed too. This was certainly not an Eroica to grab one by the scruff of one’s neck, to make one recognise it as probably the most revolutionary chapter in the entire history of the symphony. Mariss Jansons had little truck, thankfully, with ‘authenticity’, but nor was this a performance of old-school drama or monumentality. That ruggedness characteristic of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra under Eugen Jochum, Rafael Kubelík, and Sir Colin Davis, seemed to have vanished. The first movement in particular glid past, pleasantly and musically. But what did it mean? As I remarked recently, with respect to Daniele Gatti’s performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, one might not be able to answer such a question in words, but one should at least try with music. And, I might add, with music, which, pace Stravinsky, most certainly can express something, however directly or indirectly, other than itself. Toscanini notoriously claimed: ‘Is not Napoleon. Is not Eroica. Is Allegro con brio.’ That, minus a little brio, is what it sounded like here, although with an infinitely greater sense of musical ebb and flow than the Italian conductor ever mustered.
The Funeral March was on its own, somewhat reduced terms rather impressive. One could have wanted more gravitas. Jansons nevertheless summoned up a cumulative, apparently ‘purely musical’ flow, which, backed up by the French Revolutionary resonances of prominent wind, here beautifully performed by his Munich players, imparted an almost Grecian note to proceedings, even if the note struck were more of personal sadness than world-historical tragedy. . I was also much taken with the scherzo, fleet yet never trivial, and the marvellous trio, in which the Bavarian horns played their part to perfection. The finale was good in parts, yet I never had the sense one does from, say, Furtwängler (inevitably) or Klemperer (ditto), that the variations came together as an absolute whole. I have heard some utter nonsense spoken about this movement; any fault lies with less than great performances rather than with Beethoven. Philippe Boucly's flute solo was especially well taken, indeed mesmerisingly so. Jansons is, of course, a marvellous conductor, but I am not sure that Beethoven shows him to his greatest advantage. Consider the following programme note to this very symphony from Wagner in 1851:
… the term ‘heroic’ must be taken in the widest sense, and not simply as relating to a military hero. If we understand ‘hero’ to mean, above all, the whole, complete man, in possession of all purely human feelings — love, pain, and strength — at their richest and most intense, we shall comprehend the correct object, as conveyed to us by the artist in the speaking, moving tones of his work. The artistic space of this work is occupied by … feelings of a strong, fully formed individuality, to which nothing human is strange, and which contains within itself everything that is truly human …
Such ambition might or might not prove realisable; here, despite considerable musical qualities, it was never on the agenda.
The Strauss songs were in many ways rather similar. I certainly have heard Jansons impress in Strauss but not so much here. Im Frühling was taken at a faster pace than I have ever heard, which might make some sort of sense, I suppose, in distinguishing spring from the all-pervasive autumnal mood of its successors. It merely sounded hasty, however, peremptory even, and ‘tradition’ is surely right to consider this a retrospective, autumnal view of spring. Other tempi were relatively brisk, especially when compared with Karajan’s recording with Gundula Janowitz, which has made so indelible a mark upon my consciousness. Orchestral soli were wondrously taken, the violin and horn especially noteworthy, but the orchestra as a whole sometimes sounded a little routine: Karajan on an off-day, yet, for better or worse, without the sheen. The final sunset was beautiful, if a little overtly pictorial; for my taste, suggestive metaphor should be more to the fore than actual birdsong. Anja Harteros was good without in any sense proving memorable. Her diction improved as time went on; perhaps that was a matter of adjusting to the acoustic. I found her tone a touch glamorous, rather than meaningful; surely the trick here is to understand that Strauss’s writing for his favourite instrument, the soprano voice, is both ‘instrumental’ and acute in its response to the texts. It is not necessary to ‘respond’ in such minute detail as Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, although that is certainly one route to follow, but this is so much more than mood music.
For me, the best performance was of Ravel’s suite, which left me wishing we had heard the complete ballet. Here, even if I were inclined to do so, I should be able to find nothing to fault. The BRSO sounded superlatively French in timbre, precision, and warmth, rather in the way that the Boston Symphony Orchestra did in its heyday, without any of the thinness of tone that has often bedevilled actually existing French orchestras. Once again, the flute solos in particular (Boucly) were outstanding. Jansons conjured magic from every bar, granting each movement its particular character yet never forgetting that, even as a suite, there is a greater unity to consider. Ravel’s peerless orchestration was truly given its head, with blend as important as, but not more important than, individual timbres; the two aspects sounded in quite perfect balance. The sunrise was an object lesson in how to portray such ‘natural’ – actually nothing of the sort – phenomena, quite a contrast with Strauss’s sunset. And the concluding Danse générale was, quite rightly, both sensuous and rhythmically exciting.
Such virtues were maintained in the two encores: ‘Solveig’s Song’ from Grieg’s Peer Gynt and ‘The Wild Bears’ from Elgar’s second Wand of Youth suite. The former contrasted chasteness with revealing hints of Tchaikovsky, whilst the latter proved an object lesson in rhythmic and colouristic scintillation. One might never have guessed that it was by Elgar...
Beethoven – Symphony no.3 in E-flat major, op.55, ‘Eroica’
Strauss – Vier letzte Lieder
Ravel – Daphnis et Chloé: suite no.2
Anja Harteros (soprano)
Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra
Mariss Jansons (conductor)
On paper, this seemed rather a perplexing programme; it did not make a great deal more sense in practice. Placing the Eroica symphony in the first half of a programme might occasionally have something to be said for it, maybe with other carefully chosen Beethoven, or a Romantic or twentieth-century work both influenced by it and of standing such that it would not be overshadowed: perhaps the Symphonie fantastique or Ein Heldenleben. There might be other possibilities; there is certainly no point in being prescriptive. However, I do not think Strauss’s Four last songs and the second Daphnis et Chloé suite, masterpieces though they may be, would even have made much sense as companions to the Eroica had they preceded rather than followed it.
The performances were mixed too. This was certainly not an Eroica to grab one by the scruff of one’s neck, to make one recognise it as probably the most revolutionary chapter in the entire history of the symphony. Mariss Jansons had little truck, thankfully, with ‘authenticity’, but nor was this a performance of old-school drama or monumentality. That ruggedness characteristic of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra under Eugen Jochum, Rafael Kubelík, and Sir Colin Davis, seemed to have vanished. The first movement in particular glid past, pleasantly and musically. But what did it mean? As I remarked recently, with respect to Daniele Gatti’s performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, one might not be able to answer such a question in words, but one should at least try with music. And, I might add, with music, which, pace Stravinsky, most certainly can express something, however directly or indirectly, other than itself. Toscanini notoriously claimed: ‘Is not Napoleon. Is not Eroica. Is Allegro con brio.’ That, minus a little brio, is what it sounded like here, although with an infinitely greater sense of musical ebb and flow than the Italian conductor ever mustered.
The Funeral March was on its own, somewhat reduced terms rather impressive. One could have wanted more gravitas. Jansons nevertheless summoned up a cumulative, apparently ‘purely musical’ flow, which, backed up by the French Revolutionary resonances of prominent wind, here beautifully performed by his Munich players, imparted an almost Grecian note to proceedings, even if the note struck were more of personal sadness than world-historical tragedy. . I was also much taken with the scherzo, fleet yet never trivial, and the marvellous trio, in which the Bavarian horns played their part to perfection. The finale was good in parts, yet I never had the sense one does from, say, Furtwängler (inevitably) or Klemperer (ditto), that the variations came together as an absolute whole. I have heard some utter nonsense spoken about this movement; any fault lies with less than great performances rather than with Beethoven. Philippe Boucly's flute solo was especially well taken, indeed mesmerisingly so. Jansons is, of course, a marvellous conductor, but I am not sure that Beethoven shows him to his greatest advantage. Consider the following programme note to this very symphony from Wagner in 1851:
… the term ‘heroic’ must be taken in the widest sense, and not simply as relating to a military hero. If we understand ‘hero’ to mean, above all, the whole, complete man, in possession of all purely human feelings — love, pain, and strength — at their richest and most intense, we shall comprehend the correct object, as conveyed to us by the artist in the speaking, moving tones of his work. The artistic space of this work is occupied by … feelings of a strong, fully formed individuality, to which nothing human is strange, and which contains within itself everything that is truly human …
Such ambition might or might not prove realisable; here, despite considerable musical qualities, it was never on the agenda.
The Strauss songs were in many ways rather similar. I certainly have heard Jansons impress in Strauss but not so much here. Im Frühling was taken at a faster pace than I have ever heard, which might make some sort of sense, I suppose, in distinguishing spring from the all-pervasive autumnal mood of its successors. It merely sounded hasty, however, peremptory even, and ‘tradition’ is surely right to consider this a retrospective, autumnal view of spring. Other tempi were relatively brisk, especially when compared with Karajan’s recording with Gundula Janowitz, which has made so indelible a mark upon my consciousness. Orchestral soli were wondrously taken, the violin and horn especially noteworthy, but the orchestra as a whole sometimes sounded a little routine: Karajan on an off-day, yet, for better or worse, without the sheen. The final sunset was beautiful, if a little overtly pictorial; for my taste, suggestive metaphor should be more to the fore than actual birdsong. Anja Harteros was good without in any sense proving memorable. Her diction improved as time went on; perhaps that was a matter of adjusting to the acoustic. I found her tone a touch glamorous, rather than meaningful; surely the trick here is to understand that Strauss’s writing for his favourite instrument, the soprano voice, is both ‘instrumental’ and acute in its response to the texts. It is not necessary to ‘respond’ in such minute detail as Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, although that is certainly one route to follow, but this is so much more than mood music.
For me, the best performance was of Ravel’s suite, which left me wishing we had heard the complete ballet. Here, even if I were inclined to do so, I should be able to find nothing to fault. The BRSO sounded superlatively French in timbre, precision, and warmth, rather in the way that the Boston Symphony Orchestra did in its heyday, without any of the thinness of tone that has often bedevilled actually existing French orchestras. Once again, the flute solos in particular (Boucly) were outstanding. Jansons conjured magic from every bar, granting each movement its particular character yet never forgetting that, even as a suite, there is a greater unity to consider. Ravel’s peerless orchestration was truly given its head, with blend as important as, but not more important than, individual timbres; the two aspects sounded in quite perfect balance. The sunrise was an object lesson in how to portray such ‘natural’ – actually nothing of the sort – phenomena, quite a contrast with Strauss’s sunset. And the concluding Danse générale was, quite rightly, both sensuous and rhythmically exciting.
Such virtues were maintained in the two encores: ‘Solveig’s Song’ from Grieg’s Peer Gynt and ‘The Wild Bears’ from Elgar’s second Wand of Youth suite. The former contrasted chasteness with revealing hints of Tchaikovsky, whilst the latter proved an object lesson in rhythmic and colouristic scintillation. One might never have guessed that it was by Elgar...
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