Prom 31 - Coote/Hallé/Elder: Berlioz, Elgar, Grime, and Beethoven, 9 August 2014

Royal Albert Hall

Berlioz – Overture: Le Corsaire, op.21

Elgar – Sea Pictures

Helen Grime – Near Midnight (London premiere)

Beethoven – Symphony no.3 in E-flat major, ‘Eroica’, op.55

Alice Coote (mezzo-soprano)

Hallé

Sir Mark Elder (conductor)

 

One of the most saddening aspects of this year’s Proms has been the insulting disservice it has done to new music. Whoever is responsible for the decision to cut contemporary works from television broadcasts should lose his or her job forthwith; it is difficult to imagine a case in which the BBC has acted more clearly against anything remotely approaching Reithian principles. (For the most informative and thoughtful piece on this issue, I have seen, please visit Classical Iconoclast here.) And so it was, apparently, that despite giving the London premiere of Helen Grime’s Near Midnight, the BBC saw fit not to broadcast it on television, whilst offering the rest of the concert. Not only was the decision wrong, it was foolish, for this probably proved the highlight of the Hallé’s concert under Sir Mark Elder. (Incidentally, does not this ‘Hallé’ rebranding sound silly; whatever was wrong with the Hallé Orchestra?)

 

Near Midnight was the first piece Grime wrote for the Hallé as Associate Composer, as we learned in the composer’s informative programme note. Initially inspired by D.H. Lawrence’s poem, Week-night Service, it shows a composer seemingly born to write for a large symphony orchestra. Indeed, though there is not necessarily much in common in terms of language and musical content, that ease of handling initially put me in mind of Henze, though French composers and perhaps Carter may offer a more revealing comparison. Considerable, but not excessive, use is made of percussion, likewise brass fanfares which act ‘almost like the tolling of bells … important markers in the structure of the piece’. A keen sense of drama and fantasy – and fantasy accomplished – was very well conveyed by orchestra and conductor; so was Grime’s careful pacing, impetus building before subsiding beautifully. Composer, orchestra, conductor, and not least television audience: all are owed an apology by the BBC.

 

The first half had been devoted to Berlioz and Elgar, in what might, barring Near Midnight, have been a classic Barbirolli programme. In the Corsaire Overture, Elder seemed unable to settle upon convincing tempi. The opening was absurdly fast; what followed seemed excessively drawn out, there seeming to be little that connect various sections. However, the orchestra itself was on fine form, no detail being lost, whatever the tempo. That said, when very fast, accented notes tended to be snatched at rather than given their full import: hardly surprising. Not for the first time in the evening, I longed for the late Sir Colin Davis.

 

Alice Coote joined the orchestra for Elgar’s Sea Pictures. Hers was a carefully variegated performance, in many ways admirable, though sometimes she struggled either to make herself heard or at least to make the words heard in the Royal Albert Hall acoustic. Elder ensured that the orchestra did not overwhelm her, offering a magical tapestry of orchestral colour. Whether one can take Alice Elgar’s poetry is a matter of taste, or lack thereof, but ‘Capri’ at least proved a charming musical interlude between ‘Sea Slumber-Song’ and a dignified, if somewhat slow-moving ‘Sabbath Morning at Sea’. ‘Where Corals Lie’ was splendidly free, whilst maintaining a good sense of form. The Hallé was again beyond reproach, as full of colour as if this had been Les Nuits d’été. Again, though, it was difficult to make out a good number of the words. The final song, ‘The Swimmer’ was urgent yet noble, perhaps more operatic than oratorio-like. Again, though, the music is so much better than the poem (this time by Adam Lindsey Gordon).

 

After Midnight followed the interval, Grime’s piece then being followed by the Eroica Symphony. On this showing – and, indeed, on that of his Royal Opera Fidelio – Elder is, alas, not a great Beethovenian. Quoted in the programme, he made wearily predictable ‘authenticke’ remarks, claiming that his work with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment had ‘changed everything: the excitement, the edge, the daring … Comfortable opulence has no place here.’ Yes, of course Furtwängler, Klemperer, et al. were known for that very lack of excitement, edge, and danger, and of course for ‘comfortable opulence’. Likewise more recent Beethovenians as different as the aforementioned Sir Colin, Daniel Barenboim, and Michael Gielen. People say silly things, however, and it does not necessarily invalidate their performances. What was striking, however, was how lacking in excitement, edge, or danger Elder’s performance was.

 

The first movement was fashionably fast, presumably conforming to some metronome fatwa somewhere, but what was more apparent than mere speed was the strange lightness of tone. The Hallé’s performance was well articulated, sometimes excessively so. However, if Elder’s performance were punctilious with respect to the score – as if that were ever more than the starting-point for a performance! – what seemed entirely lacking was any sense of meaning, of why this work and Beethoven’s vision might matter. What ought to be a truly climactic moment, that of recapitulation, passed by almost unheralded – and weirdly un-phrased. Heroism: whither now? Beethoven seemed bizarrely domesticated, certainly far from Wagner’s 1851 vision of this symphony:  ‘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.’ But no, of course, Wagner is wrong, and ‘authenticity’ is right.

 

Perhaps surprisingly, the Funeral March fared better, though only comparatively. It flowed well – which, at whatever tempo, it must – and, despite a swift temp, it did not sound rushed. However, it was often little more than pleasant, which is hardly enough; there was certainly little sign of the composer to whom Wagner referred to as ‘the master who was called upon to write the world history of music in his works’. Withdrawal of string vibrato irritated too. Mendelssohn came to mind in the scherzo, albeit with loud(-ish) interjections; again, Beethoven’s spirit seemed distant. (It is perhaps worth mentioning here Elder’s strange, quite inauthentic decision to use four horns.) The finale went along its way quite merrily, if rather quickly, but with all the metaphysical import of a Toblerone. I was left feeling distinctly nonplussed, and recalling Barenboim’s performance two years previously at the Proms: it might as well have been a different work, and not only on account of the heroism of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra.

Prom 19: Hallé/Elder - Berlioz and Mendelssohn, 30 July 2009

Royal Albert Hall

Berlioz – Overture: Benvenuto Cellini
Berlioz – La mort de Cléopâtre
Mendelssohn, Symphony no.2 in B-flat major, op.52, ‘Lobegesang’

Susan Graham (mezzo-soprano)
Sally Matthews (soprano)
Sarah Castle (mezzo-soprano)
Steve Davislim (tenor)

Hallé Choir (chorus master: James Burton)
Hallé Youth Choir (chorus master: Gregory Batsleer)
Hallé
Sir Mark Elder (conductor)

I entertained high hopes for this concert. Sadly, many, though by no means all, remained unfulfilled. Londoners are spoilt when it comes to Berlioz, but it would be a pity if the presence of Sir Colin Davis scared off all challengers. It does not seem to do so, which is all well and good, but Sir Mark Elder’s account of the overture to Benvenuto Cellini disappointed. Opening rhythms were sharply defined but the music was simply too hard-driven, a problem exacerbated by a lack of orchestral balance, the brass often drowning out or at least unduly subduing the strings. Then came a very slow section, the contrast being overdone, to put it mildly. Berlioz is fully able to withstand – indeed, it might well be argued that he invites – a less Classical approach than that of Davis, but the stop-start, sectional nature of at least the first half of this performance dragged him down to the level of the Italian repertoire he so despised. I had the impression that Elder had Verdi in mind, a comparison that might please many, but not me. Nevertheless, during the slower passages, the strings of the Hallé – when did it stop being the Hallé Orchestra? – sounded unusually rich for an English orchestra. Once Elder had settled down a bit, there was an impressive command of line to be heard, but it was too late. This performance did not add up to more than the sum of his parts; I cannot imagine that it would have converted any of the still numerous Berlioz sceptics out there.

La mort de Cléopâtre was another matter altogether and could be accounted an unqualified success. The presence of Susan Graham certainly helped. By turns imperious, deranged, wistful, and devastated, her effortless command, both of the French text – almost if not quite always audible – and of Berlioz’s tricky vocal lines ensured that one truly understood and experienced the fate of that most alluring and tragic of heroines. That Cleopatra was the last of her line, the shame she therefore felt at her actions, could hardly have been more palpable, likewise the inexorability of fate. A similar figure, Cassandre from Les Troyens, beckoned as life ebbed away in the final stanza. But here, as elsewhere, the orchestra was an equal partner in the tragedy, the desolation of the final few bars truly worthy of the life and line extinguished. Such had been apparent from the very opening, in which orchestral turbulence plunged us in medias res. Thereafter, the alertness of the Hallé’s and Elder’s response to Graham was impeccable. The crucial transformation of atmosphere at the opening of the Méditation was established forthwith, from the pizzicato strings and funereal trombones. Later, plangent woodwind joined the ominous triple-time rhythmic tread. Fate could not be stopped; nor, so captivated had one become, did one wish it to be.

Mendelssohn’s second symphony, the Lobgesang, has not been blessed at the Proms. According to the programme, it was last performed forty years ago, by Rudolph Schwarz and the Philharmonia, and before that, one had to go back to the turn of the century for no fewer than three performances under Sir Henry Wood. Fashions change, of course, and this is a work that lends itself to be tainted with suspicions of Victorianism. I sensed an eagerness on Elder’s part to dispel such suspicions; however, I was far less convinced by the way he went about it.

The first section of the opening Sinfonia was brisk, to put it mildly, and bright rather than grand: a strange understanding, at least to my ears, of the instruction, Maestoso con moto. The following Allegro sounded more like a Presto and, crucially, ended up sounding breathless. Even fast music, indeed often fast music in particular, needs space from time to time to breathe. One might argue, I suppose, that Mendelssohn’s own practice warrants a hurried approach. Certainly a passage in Wagner’s wonderful essay, On Conducting, suggests this. Concerning a Dresden performance of Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony, Wagner remarked:

I told Mendelssohn that I believed I had convinced ... [the conductor that he should] take the tempo slower than usual. Mendelssohn perfectly agreed with me. We listened. The third movement began and I was horrified to hear precisely the same old Ländler tempo; but before I could voice my annoyance, Mendelssohn smiled and pleasantly nodded his head ... I thought myself standing before an abyss of superficiality, a veritable void.

Wagner was quite right about the tempo of that minuet, though modern practice has largely disowned his advice. However – and this, I realise, might be considered a controversial twist – a better way to absolve Mendelssohn of unfair (Wagnerian or otherwise) accusations of superficiality than aping Mendelssohn’s own preferences or manners, even if it were possible to establish them, might be to hear a little more Wagner in Mendelssohn. Flexibility of tempo, a sense of drama and occasion: these go a long way to rescue the composer both from hidebound Victorian pieties and from superficialities either of the composer’s own time or ours. Karajan understood this, at least instinctively, and recorded a truly commanding version of this symphony. I could not help but wish that Elder’s reading had resembled that recording, or at least that of Claudio Abbado, a little more.

For there clearly was something of an ‘authenticist’ agenda at work here, and not just in the tempi. The strings – with one notable exception later on – were permitted vibrato, but very short bow strokes were the order of the day. One definite advantage was splitting of the violins, however, permitting one to hear fully the delightful antiphonal exchanges between the two violin parts. Nevertheless, and despite the large orchestra, an apparent ‘lightness’ was insisted upon, akin to that which is often, misguidedly, inflicted nowadays upon another ‘early Romantic’, Schumann. Both composers end up sounding short-breathed and foursquare. (Perhaps this is partly what was going on in the Berlioz overture, though certainly not in La mort de Cléopâtre.) The Allegretto un poco agitato was graceful within its short-breathed confines, but again did not help Mendelssohn escape accusations of elegant superficiality. Woodwind solos, however, were ravishing: straight out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Adagio religioso was taken at quite a flowing pace, yet it sounded pleasingly unaffected, like a Song Without Words. Again, the woodwind provided additional pleasure, but the strings seemed uncertain whether to opt for Romantic warmth or ‘period’ inhibition.

With the advent of the chorus – or rather, choruses – matters improved considerably. I have nothing but praise for the Hallé Choir and Hallé Youth Choir, both clearly impeccably trained by their chorus masters, James Burton and Gregory Batsleer. A full yet clear choral sound announced itself from the very first entry. The clarity of the counterpoint made Mendelssohn, quite rightly, sound more Bachian than is often the case, and yet with no sacrifice to weight of tone. Orchestral mannerisms were less apparent, though not less present, during the choral movements. It was also a delight to hear a full contribution, here and elsewhere, from the organ. In the chorus, ‘Sagt es, die ihr erlöset seid,’ the choral singing was nothing short of superlative: dramatically characterful in the fashion of the Bach Passions and Handel’s oratorios, and demonstrating triumphantly that large forces need not entail fusty piety. The a cappella first stanza of ‘Nun danket alle Gott’ – that echt-Lutheran chorale – approached perfection, every word and every note audible and meaningful, as if we were hearing an outsize College choir.

Steve Davislim’s tenor contributions were generally of a high standard, especially in the flexible recitative – at last some flexibility! – of ‘Saget es, die ihr erlöst seid durch den Herrn’. The following passage, ‘Er zählet unsre Tränen,’ was also well sung but let down by gingerly treated orchestral parts. If only the Hallé’s musicians had been allowed to sing more. When, at last they were, in the second stanza of ‘Nun danket alle Gott,’ the effect was undeniably powerful – and moving. (I should, however, note an excellent horn solo in ‘Ich harrete des Herrn’.) I felt extremely sorry for Sally Matthews in her solo following the first chorus. Taken at an utterly breackneck speed – Mendelssohn marks it Molto più moderato ma con fuoco – she sounded and looked rushed, harassed even, which may help to explain some very odd vowel sounds. In that cruelly exposed solo turning-point, ‘Die Nacht ist vergangen,’ she was almost, but not quite, there in terms of intonation. (Having lauded Karajan’s recording, I should perhaps note that Edith Mathis is further away there.) During the extraordinary – indeed rather Wagnerian – tenor lead-up to this moment, Davislim was variable. A darker orchestral sound would have helped, but he also on occasion proved over-rhetorical, breaking up the musical line on the first call of ‘Hüter, ist die Nacht bald hin?’ (‘Watchman, will the night soon pass?’) Having said that, he improved upon its repetitions, bringing a sense of eagerness to the coming of the day: in this work, allied to the advent of the printed word.

Elder continued, however, to provide jarring orchestral contributions, most notably of all in the horribly emaciated sound of the lower strings in ‘Drum sing’ ich mit meinem Liede’. It could have been a slightly augmented viol consort we heard. An exultant opening to the final chorus provided some compensation, but this was to an extent vitiated by the return to an excessively fast tempo for the final lines. I suppose he had to do so, since it is marked Maestoso come I, but the come I part of the instruction negated any sense of majesty. There were, then, good things in this performance but, like that of the Berlioz overture, there were many aspects that neither convinced on their own terms nor complemented each other.