Szeps-Znaider/LSO/Jordan - Mussorgsky, Szymanowski, and Tchaikovsky, 25 October 2018

Barbican Hall

Mussorgsky: Night on the Bare Mountain

Szymanowski: Violin Concerto no.2, op.61
Tchaikovsky: Symphony no.5 in E minor, op.64


Nikolaj Szeps-Znaider (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
Philippe Jordan (conductor)



I was about to say that the LSO excels in music such as this, but then it tends to excel in pretty much any kind of music, especially given the right conductor. Nevertheless, its trademark precision was vividly on display in a duly wild – controlled wild – performance of Night on the Bare Mountain. It was fantastical too, Mussorgsky’s obstreperous lack of development in a Germanic sense largely vindicated; there are other ways for music to unfold in time. (Yes, I know what that says about my sense of musical gravity, about my construction of a centre and periphery; so be it.) There was ‘Russian’ soul too, especially from the lower strings. Philippe Jordan seemed to relish, as well he should, this Rolls-Royce of an instrument with which to play. Does it all quite hang together, or did it on this occasion? I am genuinely not sure. It was fun, though.
 

The sound Jordan and/or Szymanowski conjured from the orchestra for the latter’s Second Violin Concerto was no less fantastical, but cooler, darker, less opulent: definitely a later Szymanowski than that of the First – and indeed of much of his most popular music. Its hard edges glistened, whilst Nikolaj Szeps-Znaider – he has reverted to the fuller version of his surname – spun a more typical, yet no less alluring golden thread. At least that was the early balance of play; one of the fascinations of this fine performance was the constant shift in such relationships, even in standpoints and perspectives. A different, later mode of definition endured: when those great washes of sound came, they were more golden than kaleidoscopic, more damask than magic carpet. This was a dramatic world born in the Tatras Mountains rather than Sicily. Earthy mazurka rhythms, spellbinding solo virtuosity, a languor closer perhaps to Lulu than to Pelléas, definitely of a world following King Roger: these were not mere incidental points of interest but crucial to the revelation of musical structure in time. It is a structure, a work sui generis and sounded as such. Szeps-Znaider’s Bach D minor Sarabande encore proved impressively variegated, even febrile: here was something still more vulnerable, with a little of the viola or even the cello to its musical soul.

 

Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony opened with a tone more rounded than that we had heard in Mussorgsky. That is, of course, partly a matter of writing, but also of performance. Superlative clarinet duo playing from Chris Richards and Chi-Yu Mo would not be the least of the LSO delights on offer here and throughout. Many thanks should also go to the telephone improvisation at the close of the first movement introduction. Jordan imparted a sense of urgency, of fate, to the exposition proper, the LSO cultivated and incisive. Soon, however, that drive tilted into the merely hard-driven, not helped by the congested Barbican acoustic. (How desperately we need a new hall!) If only his structural grasp or communication had been so unfailingly excellent as the orchestral playing. It was certainly not without merit, notably eliciting a fine sense of return at the onset of the recapitulation and true defiance in the closing bars. Nevertheless, the music found itself on several occasions driven or held back without evident reason: this in a Tchaikovsky symphony more in need than any other of a Brahmsian mind.

The slow movement’s horn solo (Guglielmo Pellarin) proved delectable, yet was ‘only’ first among wind equals. Save for a few passages of excessive moulding, Jordan shaped Tchaikovsky’s music well here. Had he let it sing more freely, it would have proved more moving still. The waltz was graceful, finely detailed, if not especially warm, although again the Barbican surely had a hand in that. There was no denying, however, the richness of the LSO string sound at the finale’s outset. Very much on the fast side, it nevertheless worked in a straightforward fashion. A little more relaxation might not have gone amiss, but this was perhaps the strongest of the four movements. If its virtues could have been read back into its predecessors, the first movement in particular, it would surely have been to the benefit of the whole.

 

Znaider/LSO - Mozart and Tchaikovsky, 18 December 2016

Barbican Hall

Mozart – Violin Concerto no.1 in B-flat major, KV 207

Mozart – Violin Concerto no.4 in D major, KV 218

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

Nikolaj Znaider (violin/conductor)

London Symphony Orchestra

Nikolaj Znaider and the LSO will be giving three concerts of Mozart (violin concertos) and Tchaikovsky (symphonies), of which this was the first. A recording of the concertos is in the offing; it was to have been conducted by that supreme Mozartian, Sir Colin Davis, but will now be directed by Znaider himself. I say ‘directed’, but Znaider was for the most part content to leave the LSO, here very much chamber size, to play without interference. There was, to both concerto performances, a fine sense of collegiality, of chamber music, Znaider certainly the soloist in the sense of having the solo line, but in no sense assuming any position of superiority. Occasionally, I felt the music’s darker emotions a little undersold, notably in the slow movement of the Fourth Violin Concerto, but for Apollonian Mozart, this would today be difficult to beat.

 

The first movement of KV 207 brought spruce, variegated playing from all concerned. Znaider’s conception drew one in rather than striving to impress. (What does he have to prove, anyway?) The bass line offered a firm foundation and occasional, winning nudges. Phrases were well-shaped without sounding moulded: I could imagine Sir Colin smiling benignly on the performance. Lightness of touch certainly did not preclude depth of feeling here. Every scale, moreover, perhaps especially in the orchestral strings, was full of life, no mere figure. The Adagio was taken relatively swift, and was light on its feet too, but not, I think, too much. There was much beneath the beguiling surface, that surface boasting wind chords from Elysium itself. What can sometimes sound rather slight material in the finale was simply treated musically, with no attempt, thank God, to do something to it. This movement emerged effortlessly as a cousin, an equal to Mozart’s symphonies of a similar vintage. It was characterful, all the more so for not being in hock to someone else’s character.

 

The Fourth opened just as fresh, if anything more so. Znaider and the LSO are clearly not in the business of offering generalised Mozart, for this performance was alert to the work’s specific character, its increased sophistication. Slight agogic accents made their point very well, quite without mannerism. The rapport the soloist had with other front desks would have been palpable, even if one had not seen the visual signs. (Violins and violas were, by the way, all standing, not a practice I can imagine Davis having adopted.) The slow movement, as previously mentioned, was certainly Andante, certainly cantabile, but lacked something in the way of Mozartian shadow. The finale, though, showed playing alert to Mozart’s rhetoric, without permitting ‘mere’ rhetoric to dominate. Hints of Gallic, courtly complication were welcome, the drones very much part of that world rather than an opposing force. Le Petit Trianon, perhaps, or Il re pastore?

 

Znaider’s good relationship with the orchestra was just as apparent in Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, which he conducted again from memory. It would be difficult to say that there was anything out of the ordinary with respect to interpretation, but he and they offered a brilliantly played ‘central’ performance, which only occasionally stood in need of a firmer helping hand. The LSO brass offered harshness of opening Fate, to be assuaged (a little, at least) by the warmth of string response. I liked the general solidity to the performance, which was not to say that it was inflexible, far from it. Some, however, may well have preferred something more mercurial. Znaider’s ability to find plenty of space for the music, to remain faithful to its spirit and letter, nonetheless made a welcome change for me. And what a glorious full orchestral sound it was, even if the Barbican’s acoustic reminded us poignantly of London’s desperate need, now denied by our political masters, for a new hall.

 

Depth of string tone, not always a strength of London orchestras, was again a great advantage in the second movement, as was woodwind colour. Kinship with ballet was apparent, without collapsing the symphony into something which it is not. There was some magical, hushed playing to be heard too, full of suspense, maybe even tentative hope. Predictably splendid pizzicato was to be heard in the third movement: not splendid for its own sake, though, for it was always directed, and kept on commendably tight (not too tight) rein by Znaider. The music actually sounded strikingly modern, which in many ways it is: consider Stravinsky’s love for Tchaikovsky. There was an equally splendid piquancy from the LSO woodwind, pointing towards Petrushka, the brass not irrelevant here either. It was Eugene Onegin, however, that came most strongly to mind, another kinship seemingly acknowledged and enjoyed.

Taken attacca, the opening of the finale brought a smile to my face, but not for long, for there remained darker forces at play. There was something, quite rightly, ambiguous about the rejoicing we heard – not unlike Tchaikovsky’s own conception, quoted in the programme: ‘If within yourself you find no reason for joy, look at others. Get out among the people … find happiness in the joys of others.’ Onegin was now in Petersburg. What was certainly not in doubt was the magnificence of the LSO’s playing – and not just when extrovert.

LSO and Friends - A Tribute to Sir Colin Davis, 18 June 2013

Barbican Hall

Strauss – Festmusik der Stadt Wien

Berlioz – Overture: Le corsaire, op.21
Mozart – Violin Concerto no.3 in G major, KV 216
Beethoven – Symphony no.8 in F major, op.93
Brahms – Nänie, op.82     

Students from the Royal Academy of Music and Guildhall School

London Symphony Chorus

London Symphony Orchestra

Patrick Harrild, Joseph Wolfe (conductors)

Nikolaj Znaider (violin/director/conductor)

Gordan Nikolitch (director)

 

 

And so, the London Symphony Orchestra gathered tribute to the late Sir Colin Davis. Arguably it was with this orchestra, still more so than with the Royal Opera, that Sir Colin was most at home; certainly the greater number of his appearances in recent years were here at the Barbican. But until the very end, he remained committed to music-making with the young, so it was meet and right that the concert should open with student musicians from the Royal Academy (where, as recently as 2011, I heard him conduct Béatrice et Bénédict) and the Guildhall. As Jonathan Freeman-Attwood, Principal of the RAM put it in one of a host of programme tributes, ‘Of the many distinguished conductors in British music over the last century, I cannot believe there has been anyone more committed to nurturing young musicians than Sir Colin. (I hope that these wonderful tributes will be made available online for all to read, if indeed they are not already.) Strauss’s 1943 Festmusik der Stadt Wien might then have seemed on paper an odd choice with which to open, but it allowed a goodly number of young musicians to assemble, and to offer a decidedly superior, eminently musical, fanfare to what was a celebration as much as a memorial.

 

Joseph Wolfe, Sir Colin’s son, then conducted Le Corsaire. It is doubtless unnecessary to remind anyone that Sir Colin did more than anyone for Berlioz either during or after the composer’s life. To ‘review’ these performance as if this were a ‘normal’ concert would be not so much to do something wrong as completely to miss the point. Wolfe may have taken the opening more hurriedly, and the following section more leisurely, than his father might have been expected to do – though, who knows, for this was not a musician to rest on his laurels? – but the last thing Sir Colin was was a megalomaniac, insisting that there was one ‘correct’ way to perform anything. (His courtesy and humanity proved far more lethal weapons against the monstrous regiments of ‘authenticity’ than any number of angry Adornian attacks from the likes of me.) Berlioz was honoured, as he was in Sir Colin’s final performance with the LSO and the London Symphony Chorus, a truly unforgettable performance of the Requiem. Palpable throughout was the electricity of commitment from an orchestra that had clearly loved a father-figure and above all a fellow musician.

 

Nikolaj Znaider, author of another moving programme tribute, joined the orchestra for Mozart’s Third Violin Concerto. He and Sir Colin had various concerts planned together; indeed, this evening was due to have offered a performance of the Mendelssohn Concerto and Schubert’s ‘Great’ C major Symphony. Amongst those plans had been exploration of Mozart. There were a few occasions when one might have sighed longingly, knowing that a tricky corner would have been deftly negotiated by the greatest Mozartian since at least Karl Böhm. But again, the point here was to rejoice in fresh musicianship. Znaider drew from the LSO a crisp and often affectionate response to Mozart’s vernal score, especially during an adorably sweet account of the slow movement, and his sensitivity as soloist was beyond reproach. The performance, however, was not without melancholy, at least in terms of response, for if we shall miss Sir Colin in Berlioz, we shall miss him even more in Mozart. Who, after all, now is left, fit to perform that most difficult and yet most crucial of musical tasks? Not many. To quote Znaider, ‘I am with one stroke without my mentor, musical father and best friend.’

 

In some ways the most astonishing performance of all came after the interval. The LSO, without conductor, led by Gordan Nikolitch, performed Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony, another work beloved by Sir Colin. The players were not so foolish as to attempt to replicate a Davis reading; his spirit, however, seemed present. Occasionally there might have been a moment of brusqueness unlikely to have occurred under his watch, but then a conductor-less performance can hardly be expected to yield as it might if someone – at least, someone who knew what he was doing – were on the podium. Charm, humour, strength, formal command: all of these were virtues of Sir Colin’s performances, and all were present here. As a tribute to what he accomplished with this orchestra, it would be difficult to think of anything more moving.

 

At least, that was, until we came to Brahms’s Nänie. Znaider led the LSO, now joined by the LSC, for a performance that was moving indeed. Its consolations, not easy but realistic, put one in mind of the German Requiem, apposite for an agnostic who was spiritual in the best, rather than the debased contemporary, sense. Brahms’s harmonies told of something numinous, and their organisation told of what we on earth might be able to accomplish. This is music we should hear far more often than we do, especially when performed with such distinction.

 

As an addition to the programme, Wolfe returned to conduct a tender account of Elgar’s Sospiri. It was a work Sir Colin had come to know shortly before his death. He had expressed the wish to conduct it, but had told his son that, should that not be possible, he should do so instead. The sweetness of the LSO’s vibrato, the passion and very English nobility of its performance more broadly, said all there was to say. After which, the LSO kindly invited us all to drink a wee dram of whisky – Sir Colin’s post-concert preference – to his memory. Not the least achievement of this tribute was to engender a true sense of community following the concert, as opposed to the usual sloping off into the concrete wilderness of the Barbican. In the words of Sally Matthews, ‘Colin will live on and continue to inspire.’

Anderszewski/LSO/Znaider - Mozart and Mahler, 4 April 2013

Barbican Hall

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.25 in C major, KV 503

Mahler – Symphony no.5

Piotr Anderszewski (piano)

London Symphony Orchestra

Nikolaj Znaider (conductor)

 

 

Two stern tests, very different, for any conductor: Mozart and Mahler. Nikolaj Znaider performed more than creditably, though his Mahler will doubtless be very different in ten years’ time, let alone forty. Perhaps most surprising was the revelation of a Mozartian spirit that eludes more than a tiny number of conductors of whatever degree of experience. The opening ritornello of the twenty-fifth piano concerto was crisp, majestically full-bodied, imaginatively coloured without being in the slightest fussy; Sir Colin Davis would not have been ashamed of the results. There was, the Almighty be praised, no nonsense with ‘natural’ trumpets or hard sticks on the kettledrums; there were none of those infuriating ‘effects’ employed to distract one from the sad reality that a conductor has no feeling for the harmonic rhythm of the work. And so the contribution from Znaider and the LSO continued. Piotr Anderszewski’s response was finely shaded, especially when conversing with the woodwind, who proved, without exception, their usual exquisite selves. Anderszewski’s playing was often characterful, though occasionally it could fall into the ‘neutrality’ that plagues many a performance of Mozart in C major. His left-hand trills were to die for, though, even if the patchwork cadenza – presumably his own – were not. The slow movement was serene, long-breathed, and taken at an unhurried tempo of which one might have lost all hope today. Crucial to its success was the ability to phrase, from all concerned. In short, it was a true slow movement, and not just in terms of tempo. (Sadly, the bronchially challenged, the leg scratchers, the jewellery janglers, the wristwatch alarm enthusiasts, and other terroristic forces were out in good number, but they annoyed rather than overwhelmed.) Anderszewski’s ornamentation was judicious both in style and execution. The finale again benefited from a well-chosen tempo, permitting of grace and ebullience. Some of Anerszewski’s playing was rather sec, even Gould-like, for my taste, but it was full of contrasts, never un-eventful. Once again, Znaider showed himself a highly sympathetic Mozartian, alert both to harmony and to rhythm, flexible too. The LSO woodwind soloists showed themselves once again at the top of their – and Mozart’s – game: ravishing!

 

If Mozart is the most difficult of all composers to perform, then Mahler’s Fifth Symphony is as difficult to bring off as anything by Beethoven. I was privileged last year to hear a truly great performance, from Daniele Gatti and the Philharmonia, but more frequent has been the experience of conductors, some of them highly esteemed indeed, having their fingers burned. (I shall resist the temptation to provide names and telephone numbers...) Znaider’s reading was not on the level of Gatti’s; no one could reasonably expect it to be. However, there was enough promise in it to suggest that this might stand at the beginning of an interesting Mahlerian journey, not a claim I offer lightly. It is perhaps worth noting that, unlike the Mozart concerto, the symphony was conducted from memory. Znaider placed the violins together on his left, but violas rather than cellos on his right.

 

The opening of the first movement was brash, cataclysmic, with superb playing from the first trumpet, Philip Cobb. More Bernstein than Kubelík, this was certainly exciting in its way, and commendably flexible too, with sharply drawn dramatic contrasts. As befits a violinist, there was considerable attention paid to the projection of individual string parts. And yet, there was something not quite ‘right’, at least to my ears, about the overall sonority, and that was not just a matter of the vibrato-laden brass. Perhaps it was more a result of Valery Gergiev’s ill-fated LSO Mahler cycle than of Znaider’s intention, or perhaps he has been spending too much time with the Mariinsky Orchestra. Sound and balances seemed at times closer to Prokofiev and even Shostakovich than to Mahler. It was never dull, but it was not always clear where this Mahler had come from: certainly not from Wagner, still less from Beethoven, Mozart, or Bach. The second movement was rightly taken quickly, as the conclusion of the first part of the symphony, though that did not prevent Coughers’ Awareness from renewing our communal awareness. Tension was less prone to sag than in the first movement, and again tempo fluctuations were considerable, though not unreasonable. Wagner now was certainly to be heard from the violins, with their Tristan-esque insinuations: excellent! If sonorities still sometimes sounding a little odd, especially in the case of the ‘Soviet’ barrage from brass and percussion, then that was less of a problem than earlier on. There was, moreover, some gloriously ‘deep’ playing from the cellos, and later on from the string section as a whole. And if the first appearance of that extraordinary chorale of frustrated promise sounded with more Technicolor than was ideal, Znaider and the LSO captured the right degree of hollowness, which ultimately is more important than any question of ‘accent’.

 

The scherzo opened most successfully, with splendid swing and real bite to its counterpoint, which offered premonitions of the Bach on acid of the Ninth Symphony’s Rondo Burleske. It was clear by now that this was not going to be Mahler as progenitor of Berg and Webern, yet, taken on its own terms, it was working increasingly well, certainly far superior to Gergiev’s bizarrely unidiomatic attempts. Tricky – a gross understatement! – corners were skilfully navigated. Above all, there was a sense of this second part to the symphony as equivocal pivot. And the conclusion – which is of course anything but – both thrilled and terrified, even though both experiences would have been heightened with greater preparation.

 

Znaider’s tempo for the Adagietto struck me as ideal: neither maudlin, nor aggressively ‘revisionist’. No ‘point’ was being made; the music was permitted to speak. And so it did, to great advantage, now that the orchestra was shorn of the ‘colouristic’ excesses of brass and percussion. Grave beauty emerged from Mahler’s variegated string writing. Moreover, Znaider never confused sentiment with sentimentality; the clouds began to clear in earnest. This movement proved well-nigh exemplary, quite an achievement for any conductor. Equally impressive was the conductor’s manipulation of connections through pitch and rhythm to ensure that the finale grew out of its predecessor, rather than simply following on. Counterpoint was for the most part clear, and at its best, the movement exhibited an almost Haydn-like sense of play. If the ‘accent’ once again wandered at times, and there were a few instances of a fuzziness perhaps born of tiredness, much of the spirit remained. Crucially, Mahler’s enigmatic quality endured; there were no easy answers.

Znaider/LSO/Honeck - Gynn, Schubert, and Brahms, 24 March 2013

Barbican Hall

Eloise Nancie Gynn – Anahata (world premiere)

Schubert – Symphony no.8 in B minor, D 759
Brahms – Violin Concerto in D major, op.77

Nikolaj Znaider (violin)

London Symphony Orchestra

Nicholas Collon, Manfred Honeck (conductors)

Eloise Nancie Gynn’s Anahata was the latest work to receive its first performance in the LSO Panufnik Young Composers Scheme. The best, alas, that could be said about it was that it was competently enough orchestrated, if relying far too heavily upon ‘eastern’ colour: bowed vibraphone, Tibetan singing bowl, and so forth. (Edward Said might never have existed.) Otherwise, the piece sounded akin to the sort of soundtrack one might hear on an average television programme: a few ‘effects’, which might have gravitated some meaning in conjunction with an external narrative, but with apparently zero musical justification. Tonal harmonies sounded rather more than shop-soiled. The work, one read, was ‘inspired by my [Gynn’s] exploration of spirituality through meditation. Finding a way through life and its obstacles and emotions; a journey inside, from the head and all its mental chaos, thoughts and “stuff”  ... into the stillness of the heart space, connecting to the peace within.’ I could go on quoting; on second thoughts, I am not sure that my stomach could withstand the effort. Nicholas Collon and the LSO seemed to give the piece a far more authoritative performance than it deserved. No matter; I doubt we shall hear it again.

 

I certainly cannot imagine that we shall hear it again in the company of the otherwise well-suited pair of Schubert and Brahms. Manfred Honeck, deputising for Sir Colin Davis, led a performance that for the most part convinced, though it sometimes went a little overboard in its pursuit of extremities, whether of tempo or of dynamic contrast. The opening cellos sounded dark, mysterious, yet controlled: just right. Perhaps the basic tempo adopted was on the fast side, but it soon yielded – arguably too much. Still, better to enjoy flexibility than Kapellmeister-ish straitjacket. Cultivated playing from the LSO alternated with furious eruption. It was the beauty of the softest playing, however, which ultimately lingered longest in the memory. Moreover, one certainly heard a good few of the harmonic seeds for Brahms, preparing the way for the second half. This was a musical landscape whose breadth tempted one to think of Bruckner, albeit with greater incident. Unwanted applause ensued. For the most part, the second movement flowed beautifully. ‘Beauty’, however, proved to be a slight problem, for however exquisite the opening of the second group sounded – and it certainly did – it sounded a little too much like an object of appreciation rather than a participant in a musical, indeed above all a harmonic, drama. It undoubtedly offered contrast with the outburst that followed, but the contrast seemed too much: an easy way out, however impressively controlled. That said, it was impossible not to warm to the echt-Viennese quality of Schubert’s Harmoniemusik: not just its exquisite tonal quality, for which the LSO players stood beyond praise, not only on account of its timbral differentiation, but also for its communication of the menace within the ‘heavenly’ material. With a stronger sense of continuity, this might have been a great performance. It is probably a good thing that I do not possess the vocabulary to describe those who applauded before the final chord had ceased to resound.   

 

Nikolaj Znaider joined the orchestra for Brahms’s Violin Concerto. The orchestra showed typically impressive symphonic heft in the opening, Znaider offering in response winningly-old fashioned silken sweetness, not that he lacked cleanness and precision. (Let us pass over the problematic cadenza.) Honeck proved an attentive ‘accompanist’, perhaps a little too much so, clearly following Znaider’s tempo fluctuations rather than emerging as an equal partner. As a whole, there was much to enjoy, but there is something a little amiss when Brahms sounds more ‘enjoyable’ than profound; I could not help but long for Menuhin and Furtwängler, or perhaps even Znaider and Sir Colin. The slow movement offered ravishingly beautiful woodwind playing, and not only from Fabien Thouand’s exquisitely turned oboe solo; once again, Vienna and even Mozart came to mind. When Znaider entered, he creditably sounded as first among equals rather than dominating soloist. With a flowing, uncontroversial tempo, this sounded as Brahms closer to Mendelssohn than to Schoenberg, but there is nothing wrong with that once in a while. The finale, however, proved somewhat awkward, a state of affairs that seemed more Honeck’s doing than Znaider’s. The ‘Hungarian’ rhythm of the principal theme was shaped with fine understanding, its rhythmic accent spot on. Alas, the music soon began to meander, for which Honeck appeared to over-compensate by bringing out an excessive, almost Tchaikovsky-like, array of primary colours as ‘interest’. Such vulgarity has no place in Brahms.

 

Znaider/LSO/Eötvös - Bartók and Szymanowski, 8 May 2012

Barbican Hall

Bartók – Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta
Bartók – Violin Concerto no.2
Szymanowski – Symphony no.3, ‘Song of the Night’

Nikolaj Znaider (violin)
Steve Davilsim (tenor)
London Symphony Chorus
London Symphony Orchestra
Péter Eötvös (conductor)


In this, the second of two LSO concerts in which Péter Eötvös replaced Pierre Boulez, one continued to feel the loss of the latter in his repertoire, yet one equally continued to value his replacement, very much his own man. Where the first concert had inserted Szymanowski’s Second Violin Concerto between Debussy’s Images and Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy, here Szymanowski’s Third Symphony, the ‘Song of the Night’ was preceded by two Bartók works.The Szymanowski symphony provided a fitting climax, and made for an interesting contrast with another recent London performance, from Vladimir Jurowski and the London Philharmonic Orchestra. In almost every respect, Eötvös’s performance proved superior. Eötvös’s, or rather Boulez’s, programme made a great deal more sense too. (There will, extraordinarily, be a third London performance later in the year, or rather two performances on 11 and 18 December, again from the LSO, conducted by Valery Gergiev.)

In the opening bars, Eötvös imparted a fine sense of purpose, of onward tread, which had often been lacking in Jurowski’s somewhat meandering account. Yet there was no loss of delight in sonority, nor of fantasy from an LSO very much on top form. Steve Davislim in his opening line, ‘O nie śpij, druhu, nocy tej,’ (‘O! Sleep not, my dearest friend, this night’) immediately announced himself more commandingly than Jurowski’s tenor, more fervent, even possessed, for there was here and elsewhere a fine sense of mysticism to the performances of all concerned. Where Jurowski had often skated over the surface and had misplaced one particular climax, here one truly felt that Eötvös knew where he was going, climaxes expertly prepared and executed. Orchestrally and chorally – for the London Symphony Chorus was on equally wonderful form – this was not just a magic carpet of sound; it was a carpet that took us somewhere. Eötvös was, in that typically Wagnerian dialectic, both more ‘symphonic’ and more ‘musico-dramatic,’ the one quality contributing to the other. Not only did he exhibit a fine command of rhythm, including harmonic rhythm; he also communicated musical ‘character’, whether or no Szymanowski’s ‘song’ embodies an actual ‘story’. The opening of the second stanza was again noteworthy for Davislim’s mystical yet commanding performance: ‘Jak cicho. Inni śpia.’ (‘How peaceful it is. All the world is sleeping.’) However, it was equally remarkable for the Nietzschean stillness (hints of Also sprach Zarathustra, both in Nietzsche’s and Strauss’s versions, perhaps of Mahler’s Third Symphony too) from the orchestra and a duly awestruck chorus. Orchestral memories of Tristan und Isolde soon verged upon the overwhelming: this is Night, after all. And the chorus sounded explosions in the heavens. Yes, contra Nietzsche, one can, indeed must, transcend, even if only momentarily. And was that an echo of another transfiguration, Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht, in the orchestral conclusion?

Bartók’s Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta had found the LSO’s strings and percussion on fine form too. I very much liked the questing opening, violas going so far as to evoke the stirrings of Mahler’s Tenth Symphony. There was a true darkness to Eötvös’s performance, almost Romantic, but avowedly of the twentieth century, a darkness that characterised both mood and trajectory, ‘fearful symmetry’ indeed. And how splendid it was to benefit from a full orchestral string section, with no half-way house of a chamber compromise. That certainly enabled a highly dramatic performance of the fugue to emerge, as enveloping, as arresting a drama, so it seemed, as Bluebeard’s Castle itself. The second movement benefited from the placing of the violins – crucial in this of all works – to the extent that one had a sense of versicle and response, properly ‘antiphonal’ (a word seemingly often employed by people not entirely sure what it means). Rhythms were sharp without a hint of showiness. The contrapuntal delights of both work and performance seemed to evoke Bachian ‘invention’ in more than one sense. (One could hardly fail to think of Mikrokosmos.) The slow movement was wonderfully eerie, ‘night music’ that suggested as much a menacing toy kingdom, a Nutcracker turned sour, as ‘mere’ Nature. And there was a Bluebeard-like sadness underlying the violence, a vale of tears that had no need of staging. The finale was taken at quite a lick, though there were a few tempo adjustments later on that did not entirely convince. For the most part, however, this was a performance secure in direction. Again, Bachian antecedents were to the fore: a Transylvanian Brandenburg Concerto perhaps?

Of the three performances, it was that of Bartók’s Second Violin Concerto that slightly disappointed, mostly on account of the first movement, in which soloist Nikolaj Znaider seemed curiously disconnected from the orchestra. Znaider is a musician I admire greatly, but here his approach seemed somewhat sectional, and lacked a real sense of interplay with the LSO, whose musicians could hardly be faulted. Perhaps it was telling that it was only really in the cadenza that Znaider’s first-movement performance ignited. What came thereafter, including the conclusion to that movement, seemed far more responsive, far better integrated, giving a sense of what might have been. The slow movement continued in that vein; the violin sang soulfully, nobly, but now sounded infinitely better ‘connected’. Its central scherzando material was sharply etched. The finale, though it had occasional reminders of earlier disengagement, proved highly successful in voicing the sheer range of Bartók’s thematic expression, in both solo and orchestral parts. Znaider’s tone was seductive, but never for its own sake. Here was a foretaste of the emotional commitment we should fully experience in Szymanowski.

Znaider/LSO/Davis - Mendelssohn and Elgar, 10 November 2010 (Centenary Performance of Elgar Violin Concerto)

Barbican Hall

Emily Howard – Solar (world premiere)*
Mendelssohn – Symphony no.3, in A minor, op.56, ‘Scottish’
Elgar – Violin Concerto in B minor, op.61

Nikolaj Znaider (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
Nicholas Collon (conductor)*
Sir Colin Davis (conductor)

First came a surprise: the latest in the UBS Soundscapes: Pioneers series, Emily Howard’s Solar, commissioned by LSO Discovery. Apparently, Howard’s piece, conducted with typical verve by Nicholas Collon, aimed ‘to create a musical image of our sun, our life-force’, deriving particular inspiration from the sun’s magnetic forces. It began high-pitched, strident, and very LOUD, and went on for a relatively brief amount of time, sounding rather like film music. I surmise the temptation to employ all of the LSO’s forces must be great, when handed such an opportunity. There was a quieter, ‘atmospheric’ section – again in a filmic sort of way – before the ending reverted to very LOUD, culminating in melodramatic bell-tolling. Throughout, the pulse was slow. The piece was a relatively inoffensive curtain-raiser, I suppose, but whatever happened to confronting the complacencies of a bourgeois concert audience? Might it not be possible to shake one’s fist, just a little? Moreover, though the format of the short orchestral piece might be considered constricting by some, just think of Webern…

Mendelssohn would seem ready-made for Sir Colin Davis’s gifts, though I am not sure that composer and conductor have been especially associated over the years. I am pleased to report that this account of the 'Scottish' Symphony was very fine indeed. The first movement’s opening woodwind evinced a gravely post-Mozartian resonance (perhaps no surprise, given the conductor), whilst the strings’ response to this opening Holyrood statement proved pregnantly dramatic. Then the Allegro un poco agitato opened just as Mendelssohn prescribed: beautiful, expectant, yet never unduly forced. Davis shaped the drama naturally and lovingly, though turbulence – in the Flying Dutchman premonitions, for instance – was certainly there, without ever resorting to cheap ‘effects’. Structure was clear and meaningful, line unbroken, Mendelssohn emerging as a true symphonist. What a relief, after Vladimir Jurowski’s recent fussiness with the ‘Reformation’ Symphony.

The scherzo opened light of touch, rhythmically precise, the LSO’s richly upholstered virtuosity – what a welcome change from ‘period’ fads – once again serving purely musical ends. Without a hint of indulgence, the Adagio was sung in warmly Romantic fashion, though its Klemperer-like tread generated considerable dramatic intensity, almost prefiguring the Elgar of the concert’s second half. As the reader may by now have guessed, symphonic drama was very much the key to Davis’s approach. The finale opened with a jolt but a musical jolt. Rhythmic momentum was crucial to the generation of almost Beethovenian purpose, though Bach of course was equally present in Mendelssohn’s contrapuntal working out. Romantic freshness could be heard without diminution to the performance’s grand scale: an object lesson to those who think one or the other must be chosen. The descent into Holyrood gloom proved duly evocative, mists and all. If even Sir Colin and the LSO at full throttle could not quite convince me in the final peroration – Mendelssohn’s sense of form seems oddly distended in this movement as a whole – theirs was a valiant attempt.

  
Nikolaj Znaider has devoted a good part of this centenary year to Elgar’s Violin Concerto, recording it with Sir Colin and the Staatskapelle Dresden, but also performing it in sixteen concert halls across the world. One hundred years to the day, Znaider returned the work to London, playing on Fritz Kreisler’s violin: that is, the very instrument upon which Kreisler gave the first performance. That is all very well and good, of course, but the proof of the performance is in the hearing. I am delighted to report that Znaider, Davis, and the LSO – an Elgar orchestra of pedigree and distinction – did Sir Edward proud. The orchestral opening was unusually purposeful: no lingering, though tempi proved eminently flexible where necessary. Znaider’s entry sounded darkly beautiful, almost viola-like in tone, vibrato and portamento employed at the service of Elgar’s solo line. It was – and this goes for the performance as a whole – Romantically impassioned rather than Anglo-reticent or ‘Edwardian’. Cobwebs were swept away with a conviction that led one to believe they had never been there in the first place. That should not be taken to imply a lack of tenderness, readily, movingly apparent in the second subject, yet Znaider and Davis ensured that this Elgar would not go gentle into whatever form of night it was that approached. The composer, quite rightly, emerged as the modern master hailed by Strauss.

Elgar’s Brahmsian inheritance came to the fore in the slow movement, though there could be no mistaking the nobility and magic as orchestra and soloist wove an utterly distinctive textural and motivic web. Znaider navigated what can be tricky corners with ease – unsurprising, perhaps, given that plethora of performances this year – yet there was not the slightest hint of complacency to conception or execution. This entire Andante was sung like a great aria, and I do not refer to the solo line alone. I was immediately impressed by the kinship announced in the finale between this concerto and its successor for cello – as well as the continuation of the Brahms connection. There was a touching, genuine innocence to the announcement of the second theme, but orchestral doubts chilled: again, no complacency. Even behind the most apparently affirmative music there lay uncertainty: Elgar the modernist? (I refer you to the excellent book written by my colleague, JPE Harper-Scott). Doubt may have been part of the conception, but there could be no doubt concerning the excellence of the performance from all concerned: the cadenza was simply spell-binding, and that goes as much for the gossamer orchestral ‘accompaniment’ as Znaider’s rapt delivery of the solo line. Happy Birthday!

Znaider/LSO/Davis - Elgar, Stravinsky, and Brahms, 24 May 2009

Barbican Hall

Elgar – Introduction and Allegro for strings, op.47
Stravinsky – Orpheus
Brahms – Violin concerto in D major, op.77

Nikolaj Znaider (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
Sir Colin Davis (conductor)

Elgar and his music have had a long history with the London Symphony Orchestra, indeed one that extends back to the orchestra’s first season, in which the composer conducted a concert of his own music, including the premiere of the Introduction and Allegro for strings, op. 47. Sir Colin Davis, now the orchestra’s president, has considerable form in Elgar’s music and here conducted a fine account of the Introduction and Allegro. A large string section played with a great deal of vibrato, consonant – for what, if anything, this is worth – with Elgar’s own practice, whatever the occasional weird fanatic might claim. The music undulated like the Malvern Hills, gentle but not uneventful. I thought the fugal writing very well handled, with welcome echoes of Die Meistersinger in its ‘busyness’. If the end result was just a little overblown, that seems to me a reflection of the music rather than the performance. I wish I could be more enthusiastic about this work but it has never really ‘spoken’ to me; nor did it on this occasion. There was a very odd claim in the programme notes: ‘Since Elgar’s time, the sound of a string orchestra seems to possess a peculiarly “British” flavour.’ Of course, there are British – or, probably better, English – examples of string orchestral writing after Elgar, but one’s perspective would have to be parochial in the extreme to listen to works by Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Bartók, Berg, Strauss, Webern, Honegger, Boulez, Lutosławski, Xenakis, et al., and discern ‘a peculiarly “British” flavour’.

I cannot summon up a great deal of enthusiasm for Stravinsky’s Orpheus either. Stravinsky is far too great a composer for there not to be passages of interest but I find that this particular ballet does go on a bit, not least on account of its almost unremitting ‘whiteness’. Moreover, this latter quality seems no longer to possess a polemical edge, as in some of the composer’s neo-classical scores; it is sometimes simply dull. That said, the opening sound of the LSO was most inviting: seemingly issuing an invitation to take a journey though several centuries of retelling of the Orpheus myth, rather as Birtwistle has done more recently. In the Air de danse, guest leader Zsolt-Tihámer Visontay’s solo was well attuned to Stravinsky’s peculiar use of the violin, reminding me a little of The Soldier’s Tale; the violin is after all supposed to represent here the Angel of Death. A pair of flutes also weaved some cold, diatonic magic. Davis conjured up an eeriness to the Interlude, in which Orpheus makes his way to Hades, skilful harp playing evoking Monteverdi. Later, a pair of oboes echoed Bach’s cantatas but also foreshadowed The Rake’s Progress, as would a subsequent brass fanfare. And the final apotheosis was gravely beautiful, if still very white. We are all accustomed to Stravinsky’s time-travelling but I am not quite convinced that on this occasion it ultimately adds up to something greater than the sum of some interesting parts. Perhaps a performance with greater bite might have convinced, yet I am far from sure.

However, it would be eccentric, to say the least, to entertain doubts concerning the stature of Brahms’s violin concerto. I have no intention of trying; this is a masterpiece, pure and simple, its stature amply confirmed by the present performance. I sensed a note of defiance in Davis’s ‘old-school’ opening to the first movement; it certainly set the scene for a truly titanic struggle. There would be no easy answers in this performance, for a great deal was at stake from the outset. Davis ensured that the minor mode was very much in the ascendant prior to Nikolaj Znaider’s first entry. Znaider’s flawless, silky tone impressed every bit as much as it had in his performance earlier in the month of Schoenberg’s violin concerto. His solo line throughout the performance was extraordinarily nuanced, which is not to say that in any sense it lacked vehemence, especially in the perfect accomplishment of his double-stopping. One could see and hear him engaging with the orchestral musicians; however, whilst his chamber technique proved invaluable, there could be no doubt that this remained a concerto performance. Znaider and Davis imparted a great dramatic thrust and breadth throughout the vast first movement, showing that one need not preclude the other; indeed, one heightened the other. Unwanted applause marked the pause before a sublime account of the slow movement. Davis’s Mozartian experience shone through in the opening Harmoniemusik, the splendid oboe solo first amongst wind equals rather than a competitor to the violin. Both soloist and conductor, the latter revealing a wealth of orchestral detail, ensured that the Adagio sounded as a continuation of the complex narrative initiated in the first movement, rather than a mere ‘contrast’. Znaider’s line exuded longing whilst never sounding maudlin or saccharine; here was the same rigour we had heard in Schoenberg, indeed the same rigour that so influenced Schoenberg. With the immediate attack of the finale there was finally a sense of release. After his initial solo, Znaider permitted himself a well-deserved smile but there was still much to do. The movement was urgent but never rushed, a cornucopia of endless melody, every line in every part being made to count. Urgency was imparted by implacable rhythm, which in no sense should be taken to imply inflexibility, a lesson many musicians should take to heart. This was a hard-won victory but unquestionably a victory.

Znaider/LSO/Gergiev - Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and Rachmaninov, 7 May 2009

Barbican Hall

Stravinsky – Symphony in Three Movements
Schoenberg – Violin Concerto, op.36
Rachmaninov – Symphonic Dances, op.45

Nikolaj Znaider (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
Valery Gergiev (conductor)

The idea behind this programme was interesting: an exploration of three works written by their composers whilst in exile, part of the broader ‘Emigré’ theme for a number of this season’s London Symphony Orchestra concerts. However, in practice, it did not really seem that the works either had much in common or a productive tension. Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements is strong enough to precede the Schoenberg violin concerto, although I suspect that the former might have seemed anti-climatic had it followed. Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances sounded hopelessly out of place and frankly inferior when heard in the second half, even though it was here that the best orchestral performance was to be found.

The opening of the Stravinsky ‘symphony’ – I find it difficult to discern what, other than mischief, he meant by entitling it so – was arresting indeed, the attack of the LSO precise, vigorous, and invigorating. How the orchestra manages to follow Valery Gergiev’s beat, I have no idea, but it does. The woodwind section was delightfully – or should that be repellently? – pugnacious, with the piano part expertly dispatched by John Alley. The passages that come closer to proto-Dumbarton Oaks came off a little less well, with a little too much neo-Tchaikovskian sweetness, likewise certain sections of the slow movement. I should not wish to exaggerate, but the tension slackened, where all should remain rigid and impervious. The con moto finale again sounded splendid, the fugal passage utterly removed from Bachian example – just as it should be. Those who wish to find antecedents for post-war ‘sewing machine’ Baroque may do so here, but there is a dramatic, polemic point being made. Stravinsky, with typical cleverness, gave programmatic explanations before stating ‘the Symphony is not programmatic’. Booklet annotator David Nice described the composer as ‘disingenuous’, but the reality is more interesting than that. Schoenberg wrote of Œdipus Rex: ‘all [is] negative: unusual theatre, unusual resolution of the action, unusual vocal writing, ... [etc.] without being anything in particular.’ That is unfair and untrue, but it partially characterises Stravinskian neo-classicism, perhaps more so here than in the opera-oratorio. On the other hand, one might say that the Austrian composer is utterly wrong; far from not ‘being anything in particular’, Stravinsky’s music is declining to become, certainly in a symphonic sense, in order simply to be. At its best, this performance gave a good impression of the conundrums Stravinsky presents; sharper definition in the chugging ‘neo-Baroque’ passages might have made this a very special account.

It was, though, for Schoenberg’s violin concerto that I had made my journey – and I was not disappointed. This is a work that still acts, even more so than many others of the composer, to put off audiences; quite a few left – disgracefully – during the performance. I am not being disingenuous when I say that I do not understand why; of course I can hazard a few suggestions, but a fine performance, such as this was, ought to have made converts. Sadly, many in the audience appeared not even to be listening. My reservations concerned Gergiev and to a lesser extent the LSO. The conductor was attentive to the score, perhaps a little too much so, since he appeared, if not quite to be sight-reading, then hardly to have it in his head. He could have encouraged a greater dynamic and colouristic range from the orchestra, though I have heard Schoenberg sound greyer. (In this respect, as in so many others, Schoenberg is like Brahms. What might seem dull is only so in the way that an unimaginative person might miss the array of colours and the teeming life in a garden pond, water lilies and all.) What Gergiev did impart, which was of great value, was a strong rhythmic profile to all three movements, to which Nikolaj Znaider was well able to respond; indeed, one could see as well as hear him doing so. The percussion section of the LSO was given great opportunity to shine, reminding me of Schoenberg’s Bach orchestrations and the Variations for Orchestra, op.31. But this was really Znaider’s show. Many have spoken highly, even ecstatically, of Hilary Hahn’s recent recording; I have not heard it, but cannot imagine that her reading could have been better than Znaider’s. (I can well imagine, however, that Esa-Pekka Salonen might have been more closely attuned than Gergiev to the demands of the score.) There could be no doubt as to the cruel technical demands placed upon the soloist, but they were all surmounted, not just with musical meaning – although that is achievement enough – but with seductive tone, even Romantic ardour. The third movement cadenza, here extremely well ‘accompanied’, had to be heard to be believed. And then it remained unbelievable. This was an excellent performance and, immediately it was over, I wanted to hear it again, to take in more of what I had heard, but it would be invaluable to hear Znaider with another conductor. Perhaps Boulez? Or Barenboim?

It is not entirely Rachmaninov’s fault that, after this, even an expert account of his Symphonic Dances would sound conventional – and prolix. Gergiev clearly relishes the score, as does the orchestra. This is, after all, André Previn’s old stomping ground. I was unsure about the principal tempo for the first movement. Admittedly, it is marked Non allegro, which is clearly intended as a warning, but the dances sounded rather galumphing. It was probably at least as much a matter of stressing too many beats as of tempo as such, but the effect was to make one wonder whether the fault lay in the latter. The waltz fantasy of the second movement was nicely evocative of Berlioz (the second movement of the Symphonie fantastique). Great virtuosity was unleashed in the final movement; I doubt whether any orchestra could do better. Yet it sounded distended; what Andrew Huth, in his programme note, described as ‘virtually a life-against-death struggle’ came uncomfortably close to bringing death by attrition: ‘just one more time...’. After the extraordinary achievement heard in Schoenberg’s writing, Rachmaninov began to sound false. I do not think that he is, but the air of this planet, let alone planet Hollywood, seems rather stale once one has breathed that of another.