Prom 57: Pires/COE/Haitink - Schubert and Mozart, 28 August 2015

Royal Albert Hall

Schubert – Overture in C major, ‘in the Italian Style’, D 591

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.23 in A major, KV 488
Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944

Maria João Pires (piano)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

Images: Copyright BBC/Chris Christoudoulou

 

 

Bernard Haitink and the Chamber Orchestra presented what will surely be remembered as one of this season’s finest Proms. Not perfect, although it certainly was not far off in the second half, but an experience of such unforced and unshowy, wise and lively musicianship that only someone predisposed not to do so would not have come away buoyed by that experience.

 

Schubert’s C major ‘Italian’ Overture – there are two, the other in D major – is not amongst his finest works, but it has enough that is characteristic and indeed enough that is fun to merit the occasional outing. Above all, it is what it says: an overture, a genre which seems to have become strangely unfashionable. (In part, that is a consequence of a welcome rediscovery of other ways to programme an orchestral concert than overture-concerto-symphony; that seems, however, to have left some with the idea, triumphantly refuted in this concert, that overture-concerto-symphony is no longer an option, or is somehow intrinsically unimaginative.) The introduction took us quickly from Mozart to Rossini (well, sort of: that can be exaggerated) to Schubert. Ersatz Rossini reinstated in the exposition proper reminded me of the work of both Claudio Abbado and Maurizio Pollini with this wonderful orchestra in its early years, although, especially in Haitink’s hands, Schubert could not help but shine through. Harmonies, key relationships, even rhythm (looking forward to the ‘Great’ C major Symphony) announced kinship clearly, an not only with the composer’s ‘Italianate’ Sixth Symphony. The COE proved spruce, vernal; woodwind playing, unsurprisingly, offered many highlights. And yes, there was more of a sense of the theatre than one tends to find in Schubert’s own opera overtures.

 

Haitink opted for a very small orchestra for Mozart’s twenty-third piano concerto: eight first violins down to three double basses. Especially during a slightly bland first movement, I could not help but wish for a little more, not least given the notorious acoustic of the Royal Albert Hall. Occasional ‘period’ mannerisms intruded, but only slightly: over-emphatic slurring of quavers from the violins, for instance. Compared to most of what we must put up with nowadays, it was almost nothing, but it seemed a pity, allied to slightly thin string tone in the opening tutti. The orchestra sounded fuller following the entry of Maria João Pires. She offered beautifully shaded playing: never fussy, let alone mannered. There was great clarity too, not least, crucially, when it came to her left-hand. And yet, beautiful though this was, the performance, in this movement anyway, never quite seemed to engage with Mozart’s greatest emotional depths, all of which are where. It was not all surface, by any means; but nor did it move to tears, at least in my case.

 

 

Mozart’s unfathomable depths are perhaps still more readily apparent in the slow movement. Here, both soloist and orchestra were much readier to explore them. The COE’s Harmoniemusik was exquisite, with the lightest direction – yet one imagined it made all the difference – from Haitink. Pires treated the music as if it were an aria, that ‘as if’ crucial: a singer can hardly sing an aria as if it were one, but a pianist can suggest with her playing, and did. Her evenness of tone was a thing of wonder. So were, for example, the bassoon duets which, more than once, caught my ears. Ineffable sadness, lightly worn, characterised the close. Papapeno put in a guest appearance, as he must, in the finale. Again, the COE woodwind were simply ravishing. That treacherous bassoon line at the opening – I remember a bassoonist in my college orchestra unsuccessfully pleading with me, as soloist, to take the movement even a little slower – was despatched as if the easiest thing in the world. Mozart must never, but never, sound difficult. Episodes had their own character and were seamlessly integrated, as if without effort. There were, perhaps, times when a little greater dynamic range would not have gone amiss, but this was otherwise quite delightful.

 

I was fortunate enough to hear a great Schubert ‘Great’ from the Vienna Philharmonic and Daniel Barenboim earlier this year. Ultimately, if I had to choose, I should opt to experience that again, but that is more a matter of Furtwänglerian personal taste than of æsthetic judgement. I can safely say that I have been privileged to hear two great performances in 2015, that art is not, thank God, yet subject to ‘league tables, and that I should thus count myself doubly fortunate. Whereas Barenboim had opened in unforgettable, darkly Wagnerian fashion, Haitink’s first movement introduction – more to the point, perhaps, his first horn, Chris Parkes – had no hint of the portentous; indeed, that opening was almost, but not quite, fragile. The COE, as one would have expected, fielded a smallish orchestra, albeit larger than that for the Mozart: strings, I think, 12:10:8:6:4. This was a performance which certainly did not avoid the darker corners of Schubert’s score, but nor did it dwell upon them. Balance was perhaps the watchword, offering a conception of the composer which perhaps placed him, rather than Beethoven, as Mozart’s most obvious heir – or rather, the most obvious heir of a particular conception of Mozart, such as we had heard earlier. The life we heard in the inner parts was reason enough to celebrate such a conception; brass gently yet unmistakeably reminded us that life necessarily entails death. And, wonder of wonders in these ‘authenticke’ times, although Haitink’s initial tempo had been on the fast side, there was an accelerando to come to the exposition proper. (The idea of anything approaching ‘authenticity’ with respect to a work never performed during the composer’s lifetime is more than usually absurd, but let us leave such irrelevances where they deserve to be left.) Having made that Mozartian comparison, I should add that there were differences too. The strings were far more willing, rather as I wish they had been earlier, really to dig in, often belying their numbers, whilst retaining the transparency those numbers probably aided. Haitink’s development section was fresh with the spirit of adventure, always so keen with this orchestra, and, in the quieter passages, harmonic mystery too. The recapitulation sounded, quite rightly, as exploratory as if it were formally a second development. The coda did not – could not – have the cataclysmic import Barenboim and the VPO had brought to it, but proved triumphant in its own, more modest, way.

 

 

The slow movement – yes, I know some people do not like it to be called that, but who cares? – was as fresh as expected, without downplaying stern intrusions, which truly exuded menace. The world of melancholic song was never far away either. Indeed, as mentioned, above, balance, in an almost Abbado-like way, seemed to be Haitink’s watchword. Lengths were truly heavenly; I wished it might have gone on forever. Style, vigour and, yes, song characterised the scherzo, equally well balanced between such apparently competing tendencies. There was a sense of conversation between the musicians such as one might have expected from a great string quartet. By the same token, the movement’s stature, which one almost inevitably, however misleadingly, is tempted to call Beethovenian, shone through. So, however, did feather-light, yet equally goal-orientated Mendelssohnian presentiments. We could dream, even after Midsummer. The sheer scale naturally also had one think of Bruckner, although Bruckner could surely never have summoned up such lightness and ease. The trio was just as lovingly detailed, very much with its own character, all too easily categorised as ‘rustic’. Not that there was nothing ‘Austrian’ to it, but it should not, could not, be reduced to the realm of the Heuriger, however inviting. Haitink unfailingly shaped and communicated the contours of the finale, having one almost believe that the music was speaking ‘for itself’; as ever, art concealed art. There was much that so poignant in melody and harmony, perhaps all the more so for the lack of heavy underlining. That pair of oboes brought a tear to my eye, as did moments of Mendelssohnian magic – put to other ends. The final blaze of glory was, again, quite different in character, as it had to be, from that which Barenboim had engendered. There was, of course, no need to choose. Magnificent!    

Pires/Orchestra Mozart/Haitink - Beethoven, 1 October 2013

Royal Festival Hall

Overture: Leonore no.2, op.72a

Piano Concerto no.2 in B-flat major, op.19
Symphony no.4 in B-flat major, op.60

Maria João Pires (piano)

Orchestra Mozart

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

  

The ‘back story’ to this concert almost requires a chronicle to itself, though mysteries remain; indeed, almost the only thing that is clear is, sadly, the ill health that led Claudio Abbado to absent himself. Quite how Maria João Pires, who had withdrawn many months previously, citing ‘scheduling difficulties’, somehow managed to return to the fold once Abbado had withdrawn has not been explained. (A squabble is a possible explanation, but the apparently level-headed Pires does not seem the most likely candidate for such behaviour.) Much to the astonishment of those of us who had bought tickets – I had done so on the day they went on sale to the public – Martha Argerich had been announced as a substitute; she presumably withdrew on the grounds that her long-standing musical partner was no longer able to participate. Yet again, a hope that I might hear Argerich in the concert hall was confounded. By the time that Bernard Haitink was announced as a replacement for Abbado, the original programme, nicely composed of Haydn and Mozart – as it would happen, hardly foreign territory to Haitink – had been replaced with an all-Beethoven listing, though I think the precise nature of the programme may have undergone yet another alteration. (My memory has become a little hazy, and the tale is a little too convoluted.) Constant, however, was the participation of Abbado’s Orchestra Mozart, in what I believe – though I should happily be corrected – to have been its London debut.

 

The problem and fascination I have with Beethoven’s two earlier Leonore Overtures is that I tend to hear them as ‘deviations’ from the third, so seared is that masterpiece, more a symphonic poem than a mere overture, into my consciousness. Yet the freshness of the Orchestra Mozart’s performance and Haitink’s musical integrity conspired to have me soon hearing Leonore II as groping towards its successor and eventually to hear it more or less as a thing-in-itself. There was real orchestral tumult; this was not a performance that condescended towards Beethoven. Woodwind delicacy, a hallmark of the entire concert, was equally remarkable, likewise the translucent quality that spoke of this as Abbado’s orchestra. It was a variegated performance that yet did not lack (relative) weight. Moreover, the trumpet call sounded as though it meant something, contrasting strongly with memories of Leonore III at ENO’s recent Fidelio, Edward Gardner there having harried the overture so that in musical terms it went for little. The end sounded a kinship with the Siegessymphonie from Egmont – a kinship which, so it happened, would be renewed at the end of the concert.

 

The orchestra emerged smaller for the Second Piano Concerto, first violins reduced from seven desks to a mere five, and so forth. As the first movement began, it sounded wonderfully spruce, but it took a little time, once Pires had entered, for balance to be achieved. To begin with, she sounded a little insistent, even heavy-handed, though the problem was soon rectified, but for much of the movement, rather to my surprise, she sounded more soloist than collaborative musician. The cadenza was certainly projected on a grand scale, seeming to want to associate itself, understandably, with a later, less ‘Mozartian’ – protest the typology though I might – Beethoven than Haitink and the orchestra were providing. (And I do not think that was only a matter of the admitted stylistic disjuncture that Beethoven’s cadenza, written later, already tends to suggest.) Any tensions, however, seemed fully resolved by the gravely beautiful opening to the slow movement. Haitink ensured that it was a slow movement in the truest sense, a matter of character as much as of tempo; he and Pires proved equally adept at maintenance of the long line. Neither for the first time nor the last, we savoured the delectable quality of the orchestral woodwind. The finale was nicely pointed throughout, woodwind offering true enchantment. What I missed was the sense of risk, which often though not always pays off, Daniel Barenboim brings to this music.

 

The first movement of the Fourth Symphony benefited from a similar level, if anything heightened further, of musicianship, both from Haitink and the orchestra. An expectant introduction exposed Beethoven’s building-blocks even before the exposition proper, which thereby proposed a change of register, of impetus, whilst undoubtedly remaining cut from the same cloth. This performance was detailed without pedantry, urgent without being unduly driven. The development section sounded both wondrously, thrillingly concise and yet directed towards its goal, the recapitulation then registering as necessary and newly-minted. I might have preferred something bigger-boned, but there were compensations, not least of which once again was the woodwind section, which here and elsewhere seemed to evoke the world of the Pastoral Symphony. The slow movement flowed in a good sense – as opposed to ‘flowing’ as a euphemism for being taken far too fast. Haitink, as it happens, took it at a relatively swift tempo, but made that work, not least through his communication of line. A buoyant scherzo communicated understanding that rhythm and harmony must work together, indeed become one. The finale once again proved eminently musicianly and offered in that respect a well-nigh perfect realisation of perpetual motion. What I missed here and to a certain extent throughout the symphony was a sense of struggle and ultimately the hard-won quality of victory. (Again, Barenboim is one of the few conductors alive still able to have us believe in that.)  It was, ultimately, a performance which, whilst undoubtedly Haitink’s, seemed to a certain extent accomplished through Abbado’s means.

 

In that context, the encore, the Egmont Overture, offered something of a surprise with its darker, weightier character. All of the virtues of the rest of the concert were present, but more seemed to be at stake. The two extra horns certainly made their mark, but so did the entirety of this excellent orchestra. When the moment of triumph sent a shiver down my spine, I realised that to have been the first such occasion of the evening. Beethoven’s spirit at last was fully realised.

Pires/LSO/Haitink: Britten, Mozart, and Beethoven, 12 February 2013

Barbican Hall

Britten – Four Sea Interludes from ‘Peter Grimes’, op.33a

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.17 in G major, KV 453
Beethoven – Symphony no.7 in A major, op.92

Maria João Pires (piano)

London Symphony Orchestra

Bernard Haitink (conductor).

There is not a great deal of Britten orchestral music, so this anniversary year will doubtless hear a good few outings for the Four Sea Interludes. I doubt that any will come better than this scorching – drenching? – account from Bernard Haitink and the London Symphony Orchestra. The opening strings of ‘Dawn’ managed to sound both translucent and brilliant, answered by woodwind marine fantasy and grave foreboding from the brass. The movement was as dramatically pregnant as I have heard, perhaps still more so: what we have lost in Haitink’s continued absence from the Royal Opera House, and what, during that period, the LSO has gained! Britten is at his best when his music is evidently ‘constructed’ – think of The Turn of the Screw, surely his masterpiece – and constructed is just how ‘Sunday Morning’ sounded here. Its building-up of fourths put me distantly in mind of Schoenberg’s First Chamber Symphony and of Bartók. Again, Britten is at his best when rescued from parochialism, likewise the festival he founded at Aldeburgh. Even if some of the movement and much of the ensuing ‘Moonlight’ sounds uncomfortably close to the banalities of Shostakovich, Haitink shaped them very well indeed. The conductor unsurprisingly schewed easy histrionics in the ‘Storm’ in favour of structural integrity, always a Haitink watchword. The LSO brass were in fantastic form, but so, to be fair, was the entire orchestra. It was then a pity, to put it mildly, that a man seated across the aisle from me started to snore loudly; it was also astonishing, given the decibel and voltage levels. Would that his neighbour had taken the trouble to awaken him, both here and in the Mozart concerto that followed.

 

The G major Piano Concerto, KV 453, opened with a well articulated, resolutely unsentimentalised tutti. Perhaps, though, Haitink might have allowed the music to smile a little more; Sir Colin Davis would have done. Nevertheless, Haitink’s command of structure remained something for which to be grateful. Maria João Pires’s playing was immaculately turned, her ear for phrasing unerring. Ultimately, though, this first movement never quite displayed the ravishing Mozartian pleasure that it ought. Matters improved in the slow movement: Haitink did not prove too brisk, as he has sometimes done recently. The piano part was poised throughout, Pires exhibiting a touch to die for. Strings were beautifully veiled for the minor mode section, the interplay between them and Pires beyond reproach. Whatever had been missing in the first movement was now certainly present. This was serious, as it should be, but never ponderous. Haitink hit upon just the right Papageno-tempo for the finale; far too often one hears it taken as an Allegro rather than Allegretto, having the late change of tempo result in a mere scramble. Again, Pires’s phrases were exquisitely shaped, though no more so than those of the LSO woodwind. The fathomless profundity of Mozart’s chromaticism effortlessly registered, as did the operatic joy of diatonic release.

 

The last time before this I had heard Haitink conduct Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, it had been in the very same hall, though with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. In many respects this LSO account proved very similar – sadly, including the problematic nature of the finale. That said, there was much to enjoy earlier on. The introduction to the first movement demonstrated that precision and weight were anything but antithetical. There was a profound sense of inevitability, of something set in motion that would take some time to resolve. A Vivace of almost Brahmsian satisfaction ensued. No ‘points’ were being made; Beethoven’s melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic invention seemed simply to speak for themselves, art concealing art both in composition and performance. How refreshing for an age in which the more extreme the perversity inflicted on Beethoven – it did not start with Harnoncourt, and he is not the worst offender, yet he remains emblematic – the more loudly it will be hailed in fashionable circles. If much of Haitink’s recent Beethoven has proved oddly driven, here at least he seemed to have taken a step back, and attained the sort of implacability one associates with Klemperer. There were incidental pleasures, for instance the backward recapitulatory glance towards the Pastoral offered by the LSO woodwind, but structural integrity was again the overall determinant. A grinding coda bass line was a case in point, never exaggerated, and thus all the more telling.

 

The slow movement – and yes, I know describing it as such is a red rag to certain bulls – was not undersold; well, not grievously, anyway. It retained considerable darkness of tone and the sense of a processional despite the swift tempo chosen by Haitink. After recent lamentable Beethoven performances in London from the likes of Esa-Pekka Salonen and Vladimir Jurowski, this came as a considerable relief, perhaps particularly given the quibbles one might have had with the performance if considered in the abstract. This flowed in the best sense, even if it remained somewhat earthbound when considered in the light of Daniel Barenboim’s astounding Proms performance last summer. The scherzo veered towards the unduly driven, but for the most part retained a degree of freshness. Haitink permitted a slight relaxation for the trio, though, Romantic that I remain, I could not help but wish for a little more. The LSO woodwind managed nevertheless not to sacrifice all sense of the Mozartian serenade: impressive indeed, at such a tempo! However, the finale, as in Haitink’s Concertgebouw performance, proved relentless, the drive imparted antithetical to Beethoven’s humanity. Orchestral weight remained, but this was a hectoring account: clearly Haitink’s present conception, but one which, despite a breakneck tempo, lumbered rather than danced.

 

Pires/LSO/Haitink, - Purcell, Mozart, and Bruckner, 14 June 2012

Barbican Hall

Purcell-Steven Stucky – Funeral Music for Queen Mary
Mozart – Piano Concerto no.23 in A major, KV 488
Bruckner – Symphony no.7 in E major

Maria João Pires (piano)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

More Purcell and Mozart in the second of these two LSO concerts with Maria João Pires and Bernard Haitink, with Schubert now ceding to Bruckner. I was intrigued by aspects of Steven Stucky’s re-creation – I am not quite sure what the right word would be – of Purcell’s Funeral Music for Queen Mary, but remained in two minds. Written in 1992 for wind, brass, percussion, piano, and harp, it was intended ‘to regard Purcell’s music, which I love deeply, through the lends of 300 intervening years.’ The opening march came across somewhat oddly, neither fish nor fowl, some of the woodwind sounds in particular a little too reminiscent of Sir Hamilton Harty’s Handel. Drum thwacks had a visceral, emotional impact somewhat lacking elsewhere, despite Haitink’s insistence upon solemnity and security of tread. I felt that I should rather hear either the ‘original’ – a loaded term, I know, but I am sure the reader will have a sense of what I mean – or something more re-creative. As we travelled through the funeral anthem and the closing canzona, the latter increasingly took over, the refraction of Purcell putting me in mind of the spirit of some of Berio’s transcriptions, including one of a Purcell hornpipe. Here there was much more of a sense of historical layering. Perhaps I should feel differently about the opening, were I to hear it again; I should certainly relish the opportunity. And please, more Baroque music from both the LSO and from Haitink!

The A major piano concerto, KV 488, has always been one of my very favourites, not least since it was both the first I recall hearing and, for that very reason, the one I chose as the first I should play in public myself. I wondered whether Haitink’s – Pires’s? – tempo in the opening tutti was a little on the swift side, or at least whether the music might have been dug into a little more probingly, but either things settled down upon the pianist’s entry or my ears adjusted. Once again Pires proved far more the chamber musician than the ‘soloist’; if that is to err, and I am not at all sure that it is, then it is certainly to err on the right side. True, she might have projected her line a little more strongly at times, but the way she drew one in to listen, both to her part and to the orchestra, especially the wonderful LSO woodwind, proved more than sufficient recompense. The siciliano rhythms of the slow movement were beautifully, meaningfully judged, alert to those extraordinary shifts of harmony – the opening theme presents what is surely a text-book example of the Neapolitan sixth – without any need for undue exaggeration. There was a noble simplicity to this that once again put me in mind of the LSO’s work with Sir Colin Davis. The balance between delicacy and boisterous good spirits, so typical of a Mozart concerto finale, was well struck on this occasion too.

Haitink showed once again – I was privileged recently to hear him conduct the Concertgebouw Orchestra in the Fifth – why there is no greater Bruckner conductor alive; indeed, there is arguably none to match him. Indeed, whilst, at the time, I had found much to admire in Daniel Barenboim’s recent Royal Festival Hall performance of the Seventh Symphony, Haitink retrospectively put Barenboim’s more impetuous, arguably more ambitious, yet ultimately less satisfying, account firmly in its place. Perhaps unfashionably, this was the Nowak edition, allegedly 'controversail' cymbal clash and all. Bruckner performance stands, or at least it should, however, upon performance rather than edition, and there could surely be no controversy in that respect. Above all, Haitink’s unassuming mastery of the score stood upon his unfailing command of line. He had less truck with highlighting certain allegedly modernistic pre-sentiments than has become fashionable nowadays and, in the end, I think that is probably as it should be. They tend to jut out a little too much, to suggest a little too much desperation to connect Bruckner to the Second Viennese School. Here there were grace and singing tone I should be tempted to call Schubertian, were it not essentially more successful still than Haitink’s Schubert. Bruckner’s unfolding, especially in the first two movements, requires patience: not only patience, but patience nonetheless. Haitink has that in spades, without a hint, at least on this occasion, of the worthy or the routine. I was enthralled by the drama, rather as I have been with Boulez’s Bruckner, very different though it sounds, and, especially in the slow movement, was reminded of my life-changing experiences of Haitink’s Wagner. It is in that respect interesting that a performance so sure in its symphonic command should actually sound closer than many to the very different world of the music drama. Dialectics abond. One was aware, also in the scherzo, of the score taking its time, but never did it seem over-long. Quite the contrary, it seemed only as long as it need to be. (Would that could say that of all Bruckner performances.) The finale provided perhaps the greatest surprise of all. I do not intend to rehearse here my difficulties with the movement itself, but I cannot recall an occasion on which I came so close to being convinced that it worked. Indeed, had I been hearing it for the first time, I doubt that I should have had any concerns at all. The opening theme sounded, as it probably should, like a Romantic reminiscence of Haydn, but where often, given the weight of what has gone before, that character can tend to feel straightforwardly inappropriate, here it permitted of development, of interaction with what was to come in a fashion that I cannot help but describe as Beethovenian. It might not be the place, or at least not always the place, for a battle royal, but this sounded as close as possible to a fitting conclusion. The final bars crowned a magnificent performance, for which of course thanks at least equal must go to the superlative playing of all sections of the LSO. They clearly love playing for Haitink, and so they should.

Pires/LSO/Haitink - Purcell, Mozart, and Schubert, 10 June 2012

Barbican Hall

Purcell – Chacony in G minor

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.20 in D minor, KV 466

Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944

Maria João Pires (piano)

London Symphony Orchestra

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

Those of us who love the music of Purcell yet have not bought into the great ‘authenticity’ marketing scam – make the music sound as unpleasant and trivial as you possibly can, and you will garner bogus plaudits – do not have it easy. Time was when conductors as different as Celibidache, Barbirolli, and Boulez included this repertoire in their concerts. (Boulez, in the days when he drew liberally from the ‘museum’ regularly conducted Purcell, an intriguing, indeed mouth-watering prospect.) Nowadays, the prospect of but a few minutes of Purcell’s music on a concert programme marks a veritable red-letter day for us beleaguered souls, let alone the prospect of two concerts from Bernard Haitink and the LSO, both opening with music by England’s greatest composer. It is not, needless to say, quite so straightforward as that, in that the great Chacony in G minor was given in Britten’s wonderful arrangement for string orchestra, whilst the Funeral Music for Queen Mary will be given later in the week in a version by Steven Stucky. (A present oddity is that certain arrangements or transcriptions, for instance the odd Bach-Stokowski indulgence, are permitted by the ayatollahs of authenticity, though never the B minor Mass). Nevertheless, however much we might abhor the cliché, we by necessity find ourselves gather rosebuds whilst we may whilst declining to look gift-horses in their mouths.

And how splendid it was to hear both the LSO in this repertoire and Bernard Haitink. Haitink conducted the Chacony with an understated passion that was somehow characteristically both English and Dutch. (His Elgar is often underrated.) From the outset, one could not help but appreciate the life given to the performance by the voicing of inner parts, violas in particular. Quite different from Britten’s magnificent recording, this was a little more stately, insistent upon invariable tempo, for Haitink guided the progression of Purcell’s ground with impeccable understanding and communication of harmonic motion. Lullian grandeur and post-Dowland melancholy came together in alchemy that could only be that of Purcell. Careful dynamic shading was a hallmark, not only in some beautiful pianissimo playing but in a powerful crescendo a little before the end. Articulation from the LSO strings could hardly have been bettered, even if there were the odd occasion when I might have wished for a little more vibrato. The sadness at the end seemed almost to rival that of Dido and Aeneas. A forlorn hope, I am sure, but could we yet hope for some Rameau from Haitink? It would make a wonderful companion to his Ravel and Debussy.

Mozart’s D minor piano concerto completed the first half. The expectancy of the opening tutti was an excellent sign, attention to inner parts again a characteristic of Haitink’s balancing. It might seem odd to speak of spine-tingling pathos, but that is what we heard from the LSO. The first entry from Maria João Pires displayed exquisite touch, in a performance that would be careful in the best sense: certainly not dull, but attentive to the placing of every note. Nothing was imposed; everything gave the impression of immanence. The partnership of Pires and Haitink was well chosen, both musicians playing to each other’s strengths. Sometimes in the first movement I wished that Pires might let rip a little, yet sane musical values had their own reward. Her cadenza, Beethoven’s, combined the ruminative and the improvisatory (perhaps surprisingly so), intimacy and a heroism that had not hitherto been so overtly present, a true climax after which the orchestra sounded newly impassioned. The final bars proved both mysterious and heart-stopping.

Elegance, refinement, and heartfelt sincerity characterised the slow movement, both Pires and Haitink clearly communicating their love for Mozart. (How could one not love Mozart, one might well ask? Quite, but many performances suggest the contrary.) Command of musical line, both within and between episodes, was ever apparent, to an extent rare in either solo or symphonic music, let alone the give and take of a concerto performance. Silky strings and ravishing woodwind showed the LSO on Mozartian form as fine as that which they display for Sir Colin Davis. (It was, however, a little disconcerting to notice one critic snoring through much of the movement; it will be interesting to read the account of his dreams and their interpretation.) Pires took the finale attacca, succeeded by a tutti of well-nigh Beethovenian vehemence, which yet remained sensitive to the differences between Mozart and Beethoven. Cellos were especially important here with respect to the driving harmonic impetus they contributed. All proved equally sensitive to the moments of joy and, still more crucially, the sadness of Mozart in the major mode. Pires’s cadenza had certain Beethovenian characteristics but was more Romantically unstable, intriguingly if fleetingly so. The coda was an utter joy, all the more so for its ­echt-Mozartian subtleties of sado-masochistic ambivalence. A woodwind figure looked forward knowingly to Papageno, Haitink’s refusal to push the tempo providing its own justification.

In that context, but not, I think, solely in that context, the first movement of Schubert’s ‘Great’ C major Symphony proved somewhat disappointing, not in terms of the LSO’s excellent contribution, but Haitink’s interpretation, or rather lack thereof. The swift introduction was not the only point at which I missed Furtwängler’s incandescence. Continuity of tempo has its advocates, I know, but the lack of an accelerando into the exposition remains, at least for me, a problem. This was a brisk, no-nonsense account, without much if anything in the way of the daemonic, or indeed the drama of Schubert’s ebb and flow. The Andante was brisk, con moto indeed. Here, however, there remained space for unfolding, revelation even. Woodwind again excelled themselves: Christopher Cowie’s oboe, of course, but the entire band. Not that one should forget the warmly consoling strings, save for the fact that anger reminded us that consolation was at best half of Schubert’s story. Brass were frighteningly militaristic – shades of Haydn’s Mass in Time of War – but so was the drama as a whole. The scherzo was vigorous, weighty, and graceful, taken at an ideal tempo. However, it was difficult not to think that its trio, whilst possessing both grandeur and flow, would not have benefited from a slight relaxation of the reins. The finale possessed many of the same virtues as the scherzo proper, the sheer weight of the LSO’s orchestral sound here as crucial as the lightness that permitted a true sense of chiaroscuro. At the risk of undue repetition – the same charge used to be levelled at the composer – I really must credit the magical woodwind once again, as well as the Mendelssohnian agility of the strings. Trombones and the rest of the brass section were pretty fine too. Haitink’s sense of line never deserted him, but here, unlike the rather plain first movement, it seemed far more keenly married to communication of Schubert’s ebb and flow. If I had not been enthralled then, I certainly was by now. This was not Furtwängler, of course, but Haitink’s unshowy integrity was proffered in abundance.