Jansen/COE/Haitink - Brahms, 29 November 2013

Grote Zaal, Concertgebouw

Violin Concerto in D major, op.77

Symphony no.2 in D major, op.73

Janine Jansen (violin)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

Two of Brahms’s greatest works in very fine performances in the Concertgebouw: a perfect choice for one of the hall’s 125^th anniversary ‘jubilee concerts’. Without being oppressively nationalistic – the Chamber Orchestra of Europe is, after all, by its very nature anything but – it could reasonably be seen as a matter of Dutch pride too: hall, conductor, and soloist representing the very best of the Netherlands’ cultural life.

 

Bernard Haitink, Janine Jansen, and the COE certainly made for a fine team in the Violin Concerto. There was little loss in what might have been thought the ‘restriction’ of chamber-size Brahms. For one thing, the orchestra throughout played with great fullness of sound and no preposterous scaling down, let alone elimination, of vibrato. That is, the size of orchestra – Meiningen or otherwise – was not the point; this was simply a manifestation of great musicianship. A translucency one would associate with the orchestra’s founder, Claudio Abbado, remained, but there were few occasions when anyone would reasonably have protested at a lack of body. The hushed moments, for instance, following Jansen’s exemplary account of the first movement cadenza, truly drew one in to listen with great intent, but that was not at the cost of due vehemence – minor mode passages in particular – elsewhere. Haitink’s command of the music’s ebb and flow, above all its harmonic rhythm, was enough to make a Schenkerian out of the most hardened Schoenbergian. Not that there was no sense of developing variation, either here or in the two following movements, but the work emerged as a ‘classic’ in a newly-minted yet time-honoured sense rather than a harbinger of what the twentieth century would bring. Jansen’s intonation was well-nigh perfect throughout, her tone perfectly centred, and her dynamic palette impressively varied without there being a sense of undue exaggeration. So much did her performance seem to emerge out of the capabilities of her instrument – and of course her artistry – that this seemed to be a concerto ‘for’ rather than ‘against’ the violin. The slow movement was songful, glorious in its evocation of Mozartian Harmoniemusik; it was not only the principal oboe who deserved special mention; so did the entire section, a veritable collection of serenaders. Jansen’s interaction with them was as first among equals rather than star soloist, expertly guided with a light yet firm touch by Haitink. The finale emerged with an utterly convincing balance between ‘Hungarian’ virtuosity – never for its own sake – and ‘German’ Urlinie. I could not find fault with a single aspect of this performance; nor should I wish to try.

 

The Second Symphony received almost as fine a performance, my sole reservation concerning the finale. Once again the COE’s playing was beyond praise, even though here there were times when one might have wished for a larger band. (Not so many of them, though, I have to admit.) All-too-easy summations of this as the ‘sunniest’ of Brahms’s works sounded as irrelevant as they are. Deeper undercurrents, again founded in Haitink’s harmonic understanding, were given their due: again permitted to emerge with an art that concealed art, apparently ‘natural’, rather than underlined. Indeed, the weight of the first movement registered to an extent such as one rarely hears, the exposition repeat fundamental to the musical conception rather than a formalistic nod. There are arguments either way, of course; the question is what works in any particular case. The special character of the inner movements was keenly observed. Once again, Brahms’s Viennese predecessors came to mind, and more importantly to the heart’s perception. Mozart and Schubert, rather than the first movement’s Beethoven, were very much present: benevolent, inspiring ghosts. The finale, however, I could not quite come to terms with. It was fast, indeed faster than I can ever recall hearing. Crotchets per minute are neither here nor there, but Haitink, as in some of his recent Beethoven, seemed intent on driving too hard. I can understand the desire to rid Brahms of ‘autumnal’ clichés, just as much as those of ‘summer’, but this music does not lose its true excitement if it is given time to breathe. There was much to admire, and the playing of the COE continued to impress greatly, but it did not – to me at least – seem a reading quite in the spirit of what had gone before.

Jansen/LPO/Nézet-Séguin - Prokofiev, 1 February 2012

Royal Festival Hall

Symphony no.1 in D major, op.25, ‘Classical’
Violin Concerto no.2 in G minor, op.63
Symphony no.5 in B-flat major, op.100

I have not been able to attend as many of the London Philharmonic’s Prokofiev concerts as I should have liked; indeed, I have only been to the first and the last. Whilst the former offered somewhat mixed results, the festival finale proved an unalloyed success. Returning to mainstream repertoire did not engender routine, quite the contrary: it enabled us rather to discriminate between ‘interesting’ Prokofiev, fully worthy of performance, and the composer at his best, which we heard this evening.

Yannick Nézet-Séguin showed in his performance of the Classical Symphony that he is a conductor fully capable of shedding new light on a work that in some hands can sound unduly familiar. A slower tempo than one usually hears in the first movement imparted a true sense of the neo-Classical to proceedings, whilst the gracious charm of a clucking second subject suggested Haydn of Beecham vintage (not inappropriate at all either to work or indeed orchestra). What a refreshing change from the mere showpiece into which this music can all too often degenerate. Notably, Prokofiev’s motor rhythm persisted throughout: this, we knew, was neo-Classicism. The second movement captured splendidly a stylised grace, not frigid, but somewhat akin to the ‘as if’ of Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, albeit in miniature and with the nagging, intriguing question, which certainly never arises in Mahler’s case, as to whether there is in fact a heart beating behind the music. Silvery violin lines suggested there might be, as if premonitions of Cinderella; or were they too dealing with masks? The minuet brought a winning sense of toy-soldier swagger, again at a slower tempo than is often heard, and all the more interesting for it. There was, though, nothing slow about the finale; it fizzed carelessly – in the best sense – like a young sparkling wine. It needs excellent playing and received it: the flutes especially, but also the LPO string section as a whole.

Janine Jansen joined the orchestra for the second violin concerto. Having had a few unhappy experiences with this work in concert of late (the worst of which were two truly dreadful performances from Viktoria Mullova and Chloe Hanslip), it was a true joy to welcome a violinist who not only brought flawless technique but musical understanding to the piece. It opened darker than often, a little more deliberate in pace, though tempi would prove to be flexible. The violin line was beautifully spun, yet never narcissistically so. (Much as I enjoy Itzhak Perlman in this concerto, Jansen was more interesting, suggesting that more was at stake.) The most challenging passages in technical terms were handled without difficulty, but more to the point, they sounded angry rather than merely virtuosic. It was a fine collaboration, too, the orchestra often sounding very much as the shadow of the soloist. At times, it sounded ‘Russian’ – for instance, properly soulful cellos – and at times more internationally ‘modernist’, penetrating to the heart of a conflict that pervaded not only Prokofiev’s music but his character too. There was pent-up aggression rather than balletic charm to the final pizzicato chords. The slow movement brought a piquant contrast between the soaring intensity of Jansen’s solo line and spiky LPO woodwind. That shadow was also present again from vibrato-laden violins. And later, there was splendid fairy-tale grotesquerie, not over-done, from the cellos. Some might have wanted more primary colours in this movement; I heartily approved of its subtlety of tone. The finale bit, but it also danced, if haltingly – a little like Prokofiev himself, if the tales be true. (Well, actually a great deal better than the notoriously poor ballroom dancer: interesting for a great ballet composer!) Jansen combined pinpoint precision with truth of expression. There remained, rightly, a relative, sometimes melancholy hollowness to the some of the orchestral writing. Nézet-Séguin left us wondering whether that was in itself a deeper, expressive truth, or whether we were dealing with Straussian masks.

The Fifth Symphony received an equally fine performance, if anything finer still. Nézet-Séguin again showed that he was not hidebound by tradition, taking the opening Andante at a more flowing speed – and character – than, say, Karajan’s classic, stentorian account from the 1970s with the Berlin Philharmonic. Not that that precluded orchestral weight, even if a little distance from that of the BPO; yet whereas Karajan presented Prokofiev as closer to Shostakovich – at least if Shostakovich had been a considerably better composer – then here perhaps we heard Prokofiev echoing Mussorgsky and indeed even Ravel, whilst nevertheless remaining recognisably the same composer. There were also, here and elsewhere, hints and often more than hints of Eisenstein cinema: both ‘dramatic’ and, in its way, ‘modernist’. Moreover, Nézet-Séguin’s reading proceeded with a definite spring in its step. If Karajan was utterly, chillingly, single-minded, Nézet-Séguin tended more towards variegation. It is not the only way, but it was a fully coherent way to open quite the best live performance of this symphony I have heard. There was no moderation to the second movement either: a biting scherzo that yet retained an apt sleekness, still pointing back – if only just – to the Prokofiev of the Twenties, albeit with considerably greater seriousness of purpose. What was perhaps most impressive of all, a highly catchy sense of swing notwithstanding, was Nézet-Séguin’s unbroken sense of line: this, we were never able to forget, is a symphony. The third movement brought a sense of germination, almost blooming, in a frozen (tundra?) landscape. It may be a far simpler – and, more importantly, entirely different – beast from The Rite of Spring, but in that respect, there proved perhaps a surprising degree of commonality. Nézet-Séguin retained, moreover, a quite contrasting sense of epic cinema, a difficult balancing act to bring off. The climax brought the Soviet machine to its most glorious – and chilling. We heard, in the opening of the final movement, Prokofiev’s ultimately unsuccessful striving towards Beethoven, and there was poignancy in that striving. A sardonic response was called for, and received, similarly a proper sense of melodic grace. And still, at times, the Prokofiev of Le Pas d’acier revealed himself, fleetingly. Let us not be seduced into simplistic Cold War narratives – from either/any side. Frankly, someone who does not hear any shred of ‘socialist realism’ undercut by the late turn to mechanistic solo instruments cannot be listening. We heard it and were chilled by it: not in a Mahlerian way, which would be absurd for Prokofiev – but in whatever elusive fashion it may be that forms the foundation for his essential voice.

Jansen/Rysanov/Philharmonia/Luisi - Mozart and Schubert, 9 March 2010

Royal Festival Hall

Mozart – Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major for violin and viola, KV 364
Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944

Janine Jansen (violin)
Maxim Rysanov (viola)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Fabio Luisi (conductor)

I did not enter the Royal Festival Hall with especially high hopes, feeling disappointed that Christoph von Dohnányi had fallen ill. His last-minute replacement, Fabio Luisi, had recently been lauded in certain quarters for his Strauss and Bruckner. I had rather admired his conducting of Die Liebe der Danae a few years ago in Salzburg, also, as it happens, replacing Dohnányi, yet more recently, I had been somewhat nonplussed by an Edinburgh concert with the Staatskapelle Dresden. Luisi must have been having an off-day – or perhaps I was – since his conducting of Mozart and Schubert proved excellent, and I think it is fair to say that nowhere am I less easy to please than in Classical repertoire…

There were two other stars for the Mozart Sinfonia concertante, of course – well, three, since the brightest-shining of all is the composer of this imperishable masterpiece. It speaks extremely well of Luisi and his two soloists, Maxim Rysanov and Janine Jansen, that their musicianship ultimately returned the spotlight to Mozart himself. Everything sounded right: tempi, blend, sonority, character. That is not to say that there is one ‘correct’ way, but rather that the performance did its job in convincing one of its rightness for as long as it lasted – and a little while after. For the music does not play itself; it needs to be performed. The Philharmonia strings were of a decent size (10.8.6.4.3), the orchestra providing clarity, warmth, and a weight that did not preclude lightness of touch where necessary, for instance in beautiful, unanimous pizzicato and truly ravishing woodwind passages. It is grossly unfair even to mention it, but the only thing I missed was that true Viennese sweetness now so indelibly associated – and justly so – with this music: think, for instance of one of Karl Böhm’s recordings. In the first movement, the tempo, as elsewhere, seemed just right: unhurried, but by the same token never dragging. The great opening tutti crescendo was flawlessly handled, in a way that would surely have impressed Mozart and the fine (considerably larger) Paris orchestra for which he wrote. In a concerto, however, one awaits of course the entry of the soloist(s), and from the outset, Janine Jansen and Maxim Rysanov impressed, not only attentive to each other, but with an obvious rapport; indeed, the frisson seemed almost sexual, by which I do not mean to imply anything beyond the performance, but performing with another musician always involved shared intimacy, at least if it is done properly. There was a clear contrast between violin and viola, but equally a fine blend. If anything, Rysanov’s part impressed all the more, if only because one is less accustomed to hearing a solo violist: I certainly was led to wish that Mozart had written a viola concerto, not least since he clearly adored the instrument.

The slow movement flowed, in the proper rather than the modern ‘fast’ sense, yet retained its dignity. Jansen’s opening violin solo sounded veiled, as if it were muted, yet it was not; Rysanov’s response was rich – in every sense – in melancholy, exquisitely voiced and shaped. When the major mode came, Mozart smiled through tears as only he can. Luisi’s role was crucial, in that he ensured an unbroken line from beginning to end, not in the sense of a lack of phrasing or articulation, but in the long-distance hearing (Furtwängler’s Fernhören) that makes of this movement a single aria. The ineffable sadness of the cadenza proved the emotional climax, its chromatic intensity almost unbearable; nothing could have been more distant than mere solo display. A truly Mozartian quicksilver change of mood was brought about by the Puckish finale. Fun can be beautiful – and beauty can even be fun; such is Mozart’s lesson, as taught to us here. Interplay between all musicians was once again exemplary. A fine performance indeed!

For Schubert’s ‘Great’ C major symphony, Luisi opted for a full, Romantic orchestra (strings: 16.14.12.10.8). Thank goodness for that! He had no truck with the modern trend towards an absurdly fast introduction to the first movement. Instead, Schubert, quite rightly, looked forward to Bruckner, without foregoing the composer’s particular grace and charm. Cellos were suave, brass full of foreboding, and the oboe solo (Gordon Hunt) simply enchanting. The transition to the exposition was thrilling and arrival was decisive, underpinned by martial rhythm. I felt a certain regret – both times, since the exposition repeat was taken – that Luisi did not yield for the second subject, but this was part of his intriguingly, and ultimately convincingly, urgent account. The lightness of the opening to the development, woodwind in particular, suggested Mendelssohn, but the Philharmonia brass soon supplied military muscle, the scene set for battle, as kettledrum clouds underscored. Before we knew it, the recapitulation was upon us, but had battle been enjoined or deferred? Schubert’s goal-orientation is generally more ambivalent than that of Beethoven, and so it was here. Ambiguity continued into the coda, which sounded grand but unsettling: an apt summation of the symphony as a whole. In a sense, one might think of Furtwängler, but with very different means. The slow movement was taken relatively swiftly, but never sounded remotely trivial. Subtle rubato was employed where necessary, but onward, even martial drive won out. Cellos and double basses were especially important here in underpinning the rhythmic menace, whilst woodwind entwined gorgeously above: again, an unsettling combination. Consolation was to be heard, but would not quite endure. The climax was shattering, almost Brucknerian; I was truly shocked. After that, the sadness of cellos and oboe shone through, aided by Luisi’s astute relaxation of tempo. Resumption of the initial tempo could not remove the shadow cast; the urgency pertaining to the last terrified. The scherzo continued in a similar vein: urgent and graceful; it stomped, but with charm. There were odd bars in which ensemble and control lapsed slightly, only really noticeable in the face of such excellence elsewhere. The scale and oh-so-Austrian quality of the trio registered, but I felt that such might have been emphasised a little more, the music occasionally edging towards the neutral.

What to do for a finale? Ever since the Eroica, at least, this has been a great problem for the symphonist. Luisi drew Beethovenian parallels but equally emphasised Schubert’s own path. Command of line was all-important here and the conductor did not disappoint. Where Bruckner in the Seventh Symphony so signally failed, Schubert was permitted to succeed, resolving tensions without avoiding them. A motivic insistence clearly born of Beethoven sounded, but Schubert was never made to sound ‘like’ him. The one thing I missed here was the last ounce, and I only mean an ounce, of orchestral weight, so as truly to overwhelm prior to resolution, but the low unison blows nevertheless struck a Brucknerian terror into one’s heart. A stylish and intriguing touch, which somehow avoided mannerism, was the subtle diminuendo upon the final chord. The time for easy victory, if ever it had existed, was long gone in this understanding of Schubert.

It is a pity, then, that the audience seemed lacklustre in its response. For me, this was an extraordinarily memorable concert. Dresden may have lost Luisi, but I hope that London will hear more of him.

Orchestre de Paris/Salonen - Richard Dubugnon and Mahler, 17 December 2008

Salle Pleyel, Paris

Richard Dubugnon – Violin Concerto (world premiere)
Mahler – Das klagende Lied (original version, 1880)

Janine Jansen (violin)

Melanie Diener (soprano)
Lilli Passikivi (viola)
Jon Villars (tenor)
Sergei Leiferkus (bass)
Members of the Tölzer Knabenchor (choirmaster: Gerhard Schmidt-Gaden)

Chœur de l’Orchestre de Paris (chorus-masters: Didier Bouture and Geoffroy Jourdain)
Orchestre de Paris
Esa-Pekka Salonen (conductor)

Swiss composer Richard Dubugnon’s new work was commissioned by Musique Nouvelle en Liberté and the city of Paris. It is dedicated to Janine Jansen and Esa-Pekka Salonen, who gave its world premiere at the Salle Pleyel. In his programme note, Dubugnon said that he had tried to reconcile the form and duration of the Romantic concerto with images, sounds, and colours from today, including some rhythms and harmonies taken from popular music: new wine into old bottles. The problem I had with much of this lengthy three-movement concerto – about three-quarters of an hour in total – concerned the wine itself. Frankly tonal, its harmonies were not only of the twentieth century, but of its earliest years. Various composers came to mind, including, in relatively conventional voice, Debussy, Bartók, and Scriabin, and, more interestingly in the slow movement, early Messiaen, but seemingly lacking an individual, let alone contemporary voice. As for the popular influences – ‘house’ and ‘funk’, according to the composer – these did not seem to go beyond odd rhythms, often repeated or recurring, rhythms which might equally well have had their origins in early or even ‘symphonic’ jazz. A few passages sounded as if they might have strayed in from a ‘Hooked on Classics’ sequence. The overall form was admirably clear; the old bottle did not leak. Nor, I think, would it have done, even if we had languished without Dubugnon’s comprehensive programme note. This is clearly a composer who can orchestrate, in an almost classically ‘French’ fashion, although Debussy or Ravel would never have relied so much upon stock combinatory effects. There was perhaps greater individuality in some of the writing for tuned percussion, although little that progressed so far as, still less beyond, Messiaen.

Salonen kept a tight grip upon proceedings and Jansen displayed great virtuosity and sensitivity. As a vehicle for her talents, the concerto worked well enough, some of the solo writing perhaps echoing that of Prokofiev, but I could not help thinking that there might have been better ways to show off her technique. One thing this definitely goes to show, however, is what nonsense are the malcontent attempts one sometimes hears to portray Pierre Boulez as some kind of dictator of French musical life. I think I can safely say that Boulez would never have been interested in such a work; its co-commissioning by the city of Paris itself signals a thoroughgoing musical pluralism.

It is not clear to me why Mahler’s Das klagende Lied was thought an appropriate companion-piece, or vice versa for that matter. For those who might have responded with greater enthusiasm to the violin concerto, it is difficult to imagine that they would have made many connections with Mahler’s first principal completed work, steeped in German Romanticism, yet also looking forward to his later symphonies, especially the First and Second, and even to Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder. Never mind; it was a relatively rare opportunity to hear Das klagende Lied, here given in its original, 1880 version, as submitted for the 1881 Beethoven Prize. There were good things to the performance, yet, as a whole, I did not feel that it quite came together, almost as if this were a rehearsal rather than the ‘real thing’. Barring a few too many lapses of ensemble, especially in some of the offstage music, the Orchestre de Paris played well enough. I did not find the orchestra’s sound especially Mahlerian; the strings and indeed many of the other instruments came across a little too brightly for that. Nor was there especial depth to the bass, although this may have been at least partly a result of the Salle Pleyel’s notoriously difficult acoustic. There were, however, some splendid orchestral moments, not least the ominous kettledrum role at the very opening of Waldmärchen and the solos of leader, Philippe Aïche. The rumbustiousness of the public scenes in the final Hochzeitsstück was ably conveyed too; Tannhäuser’s arrival of the guests and indeed Hagen’s call to the Gibichungs were not so very distant. Salonen guided the work’s progress with considerable care for clarity in the orchestral textures, yet I was rarely gripped by an inexorable narrative as I had hoped to be. Lengthy pauses between movements did not help in that regard, yet even those three movements themselves came across as a little diffuse at times.

The soloists, impressive on paper, proved a mixed bunch in practice. Melanie Diener has an attractive voice but the quality of her diction varied enormously. Jon Villars came in and out of focus with disturbing frequency; there were some splendid Heldentenor-ish passages, whilst others sounded tentative and muffled. Sergei Leiferkus’s best days would, on this evidence, appear very much to be behind him. But Lilli Passikivi impressed as a true contralto, especially in her eery, Erda-like passages from Waldmärchen. Whilst far from flawless, the two boy soloists from the Tölz Boys’ Choir – anonymous, but this tends to be the practice – exhibited most movingly the extraordinary treble tone we know and love. That ghostly quality which Mahler demands for the murdered knight’s accusation was thereby chillingly conveyed. The choral singing was varied too, again moving in and out of focus, although this was less of a problem in the Götterdämmerung-like passages from the Hochzeitsstück. Again, I wonder how much of that resulted from the acoustic. I also wonder whether a second performance the following evening might have melded the parts into a more satisfying whole.