Braunstein/Argerich - Schumann, Prokofiev, and Franck, 22 February 2020

Pierre Boulez Saal

Schumann: Violin Sonata no.1 in A minor, op.105

Prokofiev: Violin Sonata no.2 in D major, op.94a

Franck: Violin Sonata in A major

Guy Braunstein (violin)

Martha Argerich (piano)

Martha Argerich returns to town: for chamber music with Guy Braunstein and for the Ravel G major Piano Concerto with Zubin Mehta (to follow). My heart went out to those in the lengthy queue for returns at the Pierre Boulez Saal, but certainly not so much as to relinquish my ticket. Was it worth it? Yes, as ever. All three sonata performances elicited thoughtful, committed performances from Braunstein and Argerich in this, their first joint recital.

First, though, we heard the first of Schumann’s three late violin sonatas: enigmatic works, for which many seem unable to find the key. (I battled with all of them at one time or another as a student pianist, always finding at least one movement well-nigh impossible to bring off.) From the off, this was clearly a true partnership, well balanced, moving forward together, offering dialogue and contrast as required. All three movements benefited from a rightness of tempo and of tempo variation such as enabled much that can often sound problematical simply to fall into place. Argerich’s piano part in the first put me in mind of a cauldron from which Schumann’s witches’ brew could rise and seep into our consciousness – not, perhaps, entirely unlike Wagner’s contemporaneous conception of the orchestra as Greek Chorus. Motivic working seemed to nod on either side to Beethoven and Brahms, without ever sounding like anyone other than Schumann. The central ‘Allegretto’ was taken swiftly, yet with commendable flexibility. Surprises, modulatory and otherwise, at the ends of phrases registered with all the freshness in the world. If ultimately, the music remained enigmatic – that word again – then so it should. In the finale, fantastic, even impetuous flight and traditional lyricism alike rested on rock-solid foundations, harmonically and rhythmically. With so distinguished exponent of the Piano Concerto at the keyboard, we should not have been surprised, but there was no sense that this was something other than music-making between friends on which we were fortunate to eavesdrop.

Prokofiev’s Second Violin Sonata (the violin transcription of his Flute Sonata) followed. I noticed immediately a difference of voice, not only concerning the composer but also his performers, its first movement speaking with idiomatic bitter-sweetness – such exultant, lyrical sweetness from Braunstein – and romanticised modernism. Mood swings were more abrupt, even cinematic, without compromise to underlying continuity. Potentiality in the piano part, simultaneously vertical and horizontal, was vividly generative. And still there remained some of the composer’s old Fiery Angel bite; perhaps there might have been a little more at times, but relative subtlety had its own rewards. The scherzo spoke more clearly of demonic possession, piano scampering taken up by violin and vice versa. There was plenty of sulphur here, however neoclassicised. Uneasy placidity characterised the side-slipping ‘Andante’, perhaps the movement that went deepest, so long as one listened. The finale proved fantastical, swashbuckling, and not without a little grotesquerie. Argerich’s seductive hammering of Prokofiev’s chords said it all.

Opened the Franck Sonata sounded as if one old friend was greeting another – and it her, a third, Braunstein, responding in kind. Not that the music was taken for granted, but that the score had been thoroughly internalised as material for recreation. Outpouring and subsiding were two sides of the same Argerich coin, sometimes even within the same phrase; its spinning would often find itself caught in magical, almost Brahmsian half-lights, though never for long. Tracing and shaping of the first movement’s contours and indeed those of the rest of the sonata were undoubtedly a dual effort, partnership once again apparent from the outset. The second and third movements both offered intensification and due attention to particular character. There was wonder in their transformation too, not least in the myriad of colours revealed in piano chords and their progressions. Braunstein’s violin recitative in the third movement was eloquent and alluring, Argerich already having forestalled the danger of premature climax at the close of the second by taking this music attacca – and what attack this was! The finale offered refreshment in well-nigh Mozartian response, thereafter taking its own path, our guides both knowledgeable and passionate. As encores we heard not one but two Viennese dances by Fritz Kreisler, played, as Braunstein now informed us, on Kreisler’s own violin: a lilting, poignant Liebesleid and a Schön Rosmarin whose notes flew off the page with all the time in the world.

Prom 44: Braunstein/Soltani/WEDO/Barenboim - Schoenberg, Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky, 18 August 2015

Royal Albert Hall

Schoenberg – Chamber Symphony no.1, op.9

Beethoven – Concerto for violin, cello, and piano, in C major, op.56

Tchaikovsky – Symphony no.4 in F minor, op.36

Guy Braunstein (violin)

Kian Soltani (cello)

West-Eastern Divan Orchestra,

Daniel Barenboim (piano/conductor)

This was an intriguing opportunity. I heard two of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra’s three Salzburg concerts last week, stupidly missing the third for a miserable Fidelio. Here, at the Proms, a work from each of those concerts was given. I was thus able to hear two performances of the works by Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, and to hear the Schoenberg First Chamber Symphony from that regrettably missed concert. The acoustic of the Grosses Festspielhaus was, unsurprisingly, a clear winner over that of the Royal Albert Hall. However, as so often, my ears adjusted, so that the experiences were not so different as one might have expected. Performances? Swings and roundabouts. In many ways, very similar, but I think London had the edge in Beethoven, Salzburg in Tchaikovsky.

First, however, was the Schoenberg. I was astonished at the balance between the instruments, difficult to attain at the best of times. At no point were the strings overwhelmed. Barenboim’s combination of flexibility of tempo and sure harmonic understanding made for a very fine performance indeed; so did the richness of sound from these extraordinary musicians. The ‘character’ of themes and their working was as sharp as in Haydn, the cut and thrust of their development well-nigh Beethovenian, in a way I cannot recall previously having heard. That was certainly not at the expense of an array of colours, which seemed to look forward to Schoenberg’s own op.16 Five Orchestral Pieces. The Adagio section brought suspense but also clarity in motivic derivation and development. Colours, again, both took us back to so many of the Austro-German predecessors of whom Schoenberg was so inordinately proud, and forward too. The recapitulation did what it should: recapitulated, yes, but also further developed. Not for nothing is Barenboim renowned for both Schoenberg and Beethoven.

When it came to Beethoven’s own Triple Concerto, the hairs on the back of my neck stood for the first orchestral tutti. Both the deep, rich sonority of the orchestra and the sheer purpose of Barenboim’s conducting ensured that. The sweetness of Guy Braunstein’s tone and the aristocratic, almost Fournier-like character of Kian Soltani’s cello playing proved perfect foils for each other. I was less entirely convinced about Barenboim’s piano; as in Salzburg, there was something a little odd about its tone. But I am over-emphasising small matters; this was a performance of conviction with true fire from all participants. Moreover, Barenboim’s subtle yet teasing rubato for his first entry underlined who was in charge. As in the Schoenberg performance, formal dynamism was communicated and experienced. The closing bars of that first movement were infectious in their sense of fun: like an operatic finale. The slow movement unfolded in a single, unbroken line, with all the dignity of a great symphonic slow movement. How it sang too! And how all three soloists sounded as if they were a regular trio; perhaps they will be. It seemed over in the twinkling of a greatly blessed eye. As in Salzburg, Soltani expertly handled the transition to the finale. He is undoubtedly the real thing; we should expect to hear much more from him. The movement made its progress with Mozartian wit and Beethovenian idealism. Its ‘Hungarian’ lilt edged us at times closer to Brahms. Perfectly poised then, both musically and musico-historically.

Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony opened urgently – perhaps quicker than in Salzburg. Flexibility was again soon manifest, the hush of what we might think of as a second opening as impressive as the great build-up that ensued. Extremes of tempo seemed more pronounced than they had in Salzburg; indeed, there were just a few occasions when I wondered whether Barenboim had gone too far. There was much else, however, for which to be grateful, not least the incorporation of a balletic spirit into his reading. There is no harm, indeed considerable virtue, in having the ominous tread fuse with the spirit of the dance. A little more single-mindedness might have been welcome, but that is to nit-pick. Certainly, the orchestra sounded, insofar as the Albert Hall would permit, as magnificent as ever. For the depth of tone we heard from the strings in the slow movement was breathtaking. Song was an abiding presence, but we experienced too the (apparent, illusory?) pomp of an Imperial Ball, looking forward perhaps to The Queen of Spades. Stark modernity then vied with Romantic ‘consolation’. There were contrasts, then, aplenty, all impressively integrated. ‘Pizzicato games’ was my first thought in the scherzo, perhaps recalling, somewhat unexpectedly, the funeral games of its Eroica counterpart. A piquant trio seemed more insistent, more overtly ‘Russian’ than it had the previous week. That was quite a flourish with which the finale opened. Detail was not lost but rather enhanced by the rhetoric. Barenboim captured and communicated the tricky balance between apparently shifting mood and underlying, implacable Fate. Here, the electricity was at least as intense as it had been in Salzburg.

We were treated to no fewer than three encores. I did not mention the two we heard in Salzburg, since I did not want to spoil the surprise, if they were repeated, for anyone who might have read my review and attended the Prom. The first two were indeed the same: a Sibelius Valse triste of finely traced, rubato-laden progress, and a stunningly virtuosic Ruslan and Ludmila Overture. Following a typically diverting speech, in which Barenboim revealed that the following day marked the 65^th anniversary of his first public concert and lavished praise upon his orchestra, we heard an Argentinian tango. I am afraid I do not know by whom, but it sounded splendidly idiomatic to my ears.

Salzburg Festival (6): Braunstein/Soltani/WEDO/Barenboim - Beethoven and Schoenberg, 14 August 2015

Grosses Festspielhaus

Beethoven – Concerto for Piano, Violin, and Cello in C major, op.56

Schoenberg – Pelleas und Melisande, op.5

Guy Braunstein (violin)

Kian Soltani (cello)

West-Eastern Divan Orchestra

Daniel Barenboim (piano, conductor) 

Beethoven and Schoenberg: the same pairing as Maurizio Pollini’s recital with which my visit to this year’s Salzburg Festival began. They are both composers at the very heart of Daniel Barenboim’s repertoire, and both composers in whose music he excels. Beethoven’s Triple Concerto opened the concert in style, with just the right orchestral sound from the West-Eastern Divan: rich, dark, yes – Furtwänglerian. This might have been the surging of Schopenhauer’s Will. Barenboim understands, seemingly like few if any conductors alive, that harmony is absolutely fundamental to Beethoven and communicates that vital truth. Balance between the soloists – Barenboim, the sweet-toned Guy Braunstein, and the suave Kian Soltani – was excellent throughout, a fine balance achieved between the aristocratic and the rugged. Crucially, the music breathed – and developed. Soltani’s opening solo in the slow movement was quite delectable: beautifully shaped. This was an expansive performance from all concerned, and all the better for it. Soltani’s transition to the finale was equally impressive, and it emerged full of wit and life,  underlying strength supplied by Barenboim and his orchestra.

Schoenberg’s early tone poem, Pelleas und Melisande, is a very difficult work to bring off. Indeed, for some time, I assumed the fault to lie in the work itself; it lies instead in insufficient performances. Barenboim’s was certainly not one of those. He veered structurally toward a Straussian reading, unlike, say, Christian Thielemann, who, with the Berlin Philharmonic a few years ago, revealed Schoenberg’s Brahmsian credentials. Gurrelieder and, of course, Tristan were  always close, even perhaps on occasion Ein Heldenleben too. There was playing of great strength and great delicacy to be heard, ever flexible to Barenboim’s demands. The West-Eastern Divan’s woodwind were outstanding throughout, reminding me more than once of Barenboim’s Wagner – in which he has always insisted on the importance of those instruments. Motivic insistence was certainly present, but not necessarily emphasised, again bringing us closer to the Wagner-Strauss axis than to Brahms. What might initially have sounded like a final dark turn was not unrelieved; variegation questioned our responses. But the final climax dwarfed its predecessors, the concluding sadness grave indeed.