Lugansky - Schumann and Chopin, 12 October 2026

Wigmore Hall

Schumann: Three Fantasy Pieces, op.111; Faschingsschwank aus Wien, op.26
Chopin: Barcarolle in F-sharp major, op.60; Impromptus no.1 in A-flat major, op.29, no.2 in F-sharp major, op.36, in G-flat major, op.51; Scherzo no.4 in E major, op.54; Polonaise in A-flat major, op.53

Nikolai Lugansky (piano)

Nikolai Lugansky’s sold-out Wigmore Hall recital offered a classic, if never entirely predictable programme of Schumann and Chopin. There were no complaints from me, starting as the evening did with a rare opportunity to hear Schumann’s late set of Three Fantasy Pieces, op.111. The first, in C minor, seemed in its passionately Romantic mood to offer a recollection of the Intermezzo from Faschingsschwank aus Wien (to follow), exquisitely turned, with finely gradated climaxes. The second, A-flat major piece was noble of utterance, akin to a Shakespeare soliloquy as heard via the Romantic translations of Friedrich Schlegel and Ludwig Tieck, its central section, returning to the minor mode, offering Brahmsian contrast, albeit never overdone. Echoes of Schubert haunted the return to C minor in the third, inner voicing revealing throughout. 

Schumann marks the opening ‘Allegro’ of his Faschingsschwank (Carnival Jest) ‘Sehr lebhaft’. It was certainly very lively in tempo, though it might have smiled a little more readily, a slight reservation that held for much of the work. This movement was nonetheless mercurial, its freedom founded on keenly-sprung rhythms, as would be the case for the finale, ‘Höchst lebhaft’, Schumann’s sonata-like framing compellingly brought to life in an integrative performance by Lugansky. In between, the pianist leaned in just enough to confide a further soliloquy in the ‘Romanze’, pedalling unfashionably expressive and all the better for it. An otherwise plain-spoken Scherzino benefited from Beethovenian lilt. Keen etching of the Intermezzo rendered it all the more moving, heightening the connection with the first piece from the opening set.   

If the Schumann performances were excellent, Lugansky’s Chopin was still more involving. The Barcarolle expressed affinity with what had passed previously and still more difference. Waves lapped beneath a finely turned vocal melody, in a delectable yet muscular, and ultimately magical performance that took the breath away. The three numbered Impromptus followed. If the first is not my favourite Chopin, Lugansky again spun its line with a just degree of elegance. The second, a more surprising piece, combined elegance and Romantic ardour. The third instalment offered emotional depth and musical integration in form and harmony alike; Lugansky cherished it for the masterwork it is without suffocation. The Scherzo’s opening trajectory glanced back to Schumann’s Vienna before pursuing its very different path. It received an eloquent performance with the grandest of perorations—at least prior to the wounded pride, still dancing, of the A-flat Polonaise. 

I said the recital encompassed two halves, but we were then treated to a third section, of no fewer than four encores. Lugansky’s limpid Grieg ‘Arietta’ was never milked and thus moved all the more. The ‘missing’ Chopin Fantaisie-Impromptu followed in brazen, transporting, breathtaking defiance. It brought tears to my eyes, as did the different, yet kindred nobility brought out in Liszt’s transcription of Schumann’s ‘Widmung’, spun gorgeously, quite without narcissism, from fine Egyptian cotton. I was unfamiliar with the fourth, which I guessed might have been Rachmaninov, and so it turned out to be: an arrangement of the fifth of the composer’s vocal Romances, op.21: ‘Lilacs’. If I found it less musically compelling, it followed on well enough from Liszt and was here ravishingly despatched.

Lugansky - Schumann and Chopin, 12 May 2026

Wigmore Hall

Schumann: Kinderszenen, op.15; Humoreske in B-flat major, op.20
Chopin: Preludes, op.28

Nikolai Lugansky (piano)

The first movement from Kinderszenen announced, if a little stiffly, an absorbing recital of Schumann and Chopin from Nikolai Lugansky. We can all, to be fair, take a little time to get going. Thereafter, I had few, if any, reservations concerning playing that combined musical integrity and superlative playing to great effect. Indeed, recalling my previous most recent visit to the same hall, Lugansky’s performance was, if not necessarily superior to, certainly less wilful than Pavel Kolesnikov’s markedly different conception and execution last month. The relationship between pieces penetrated to the heart of opposing forces in Schumann’s music. Dazzling fingerwork in ‘Hasche-Mann’ seemed to enable, even to necessitate, yielding in ‘Bittendes Kind’, which in turn led to greater freedom in ‘Glückes genug’. ‘Träumerei’ dreamed, yet carried on, finely shaped without sounding unduly moulded, instigating an infectious response in ‘Am Kamin, that yet at the outset seemed possessed of an almost Mozartian sadness beneath the surface, albeit soon dispelled. For contrasting characteristics were certainly present within pieces too, as in ‘Ritter vom Steckenpfered’, indeed there almost disturbingly so. Changes of mood and complexity led us seemingly inexorably to ‘Der Dichter spricht’, blessed by touching nobility and considerable poetic depth. 

Humoreske furthered that kaleidoscope of moods, unfurled both within and between movements. The ambiguity of the first, for instance, suggested very much a knife-edge, which could go either way. Ultimately, it was Schumann’s poetic idea, once more, that held things together—an idea, of course, brought into being in performance by Lugansky. That Schumann was a Romantic and Romanticism was above all a literary movement that came to influence and shape other art forms may seem obvious points to make, but they can readily be forgotten; certainly not here, as a parade of characters and narrators made their presence felt. Voicing of lines unlocked many a door, to exultation as well as quandary. The work’s undeniable formal complexity was shown, ultimately, to rest above all upon questions – perhaps answers too – of feeling. 

Chopin’s Preludes followed, again very much a cumulative sequence, the C major opening succinct, laconic, Webern-like in essence if hardly language, a brief-curtain raiser to a further parade of characters, emotions, and more. Lugansky’s A minor Prelude captured beautifully both tension and ultimately marriage between hands: a technical problem (and opportunity) brought to étude-like musical life. Bright, gymnastic, liberated by the keyboard, its G major successor in turn necessitated both sadness and inner strength in its E minor counterpart. We heard and felt Schumannesque flickering in volatility, engrossing tumult, Bachian homage in harmony and counterpoint, and jet-black malevolence (as in the E-flat minor and F minor preludes). There was also plenty of time and space for reflection, the D-flat Prelude – ironically, given its ‘Raindrop’ nickname – clearing the skies magically, only for them to darken again in its ominous middle section, the close nicely ambiguous as to which had won out. If, in the end, blistering, tragic vehemence won out (G minor as well as the final D minor) then memories of much else, as in the Schumann works, persisted. There was no either/or. 

Nor, indeed, was there in three finely contrasted encores, at least taken as a whole. The A-flat ‘Duetto’ Song Without Words brought Mendelssohn closer still to Schumann, Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu no less magical, yet more overtly thrilling. I am not sure I have ever heard the latter better played. Likewise Rachmaninov’s C minor Prelude, op.23 no.7, sounding as the composer’s piano music always should: music for the Steinway.

Salzburg Festival (5) – Bronfman/Pittsburgh SO/Honeck: Rachmaninov and Mahler, 22 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto no.3 in D minor, op.30
Mahler: Symphony no.5

Yefim Bronfman (piano)

Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra

Manfred Honeck (conductor)

Images: SF/Marco Borrelli

Rachmaninov’s music requires a tight structural command, especially for a work on the scale of the Third Piano Concerto, to dispel suspicions of the rhapsodic, or at least to ensure that rhapsodic qualities contribute to a sense of a greater whole. Yefim Bronfman and Manfred Honeck are very considerable musicians, yet in this performance, the first movement did not quite for me cohere as it might. Its conversational opening, understated yet on the move, compelled, as if ‘recalling’ music whose origin was lost in the mists of time. The performance was swift, perhaps a little too much at times, though that is surely preferable to lapsing into sentimentality; it enabled one to listen to often kaleidoscopic harmonies coming together thematically, especially in the piano part, though the second thematic group already sounded a little distended. The development section was nicely exploratory and the recapitulation had a proper sense of return; only some sense, at times, of quite why we moved from A to B was at times lacking. If the lack of heaviness was welcome, Bronfman bringing out passagework affinities with Prokofiev as well as Liszt, there were times when Honeck kept down the Pittsburgh Symphony a little too much. 

The second and third movements redressed that relative imbalance, rhapsodic elements more properly integrated. Honeck and the orchestra were more willing to take the lead, strings properly allowed their head for the first time.  When the excellent Pittsburgh brass had spells in the limelight, featuring more prominently in a richly protean finale, the temperature rose further. To some extent, I think this was a performance conception, an expression of trajectory; in retrospect, it seemed a pity that the greater urgency – as opposed to mere speed – could not have been read back into the first movement. The audience, though, disagreed, seemingly acclaiming the performance without reservation. 

Mahler conducted the Rachmaninov concerto in New York in 1910, with the composer as soloist. It is difficult to think of any other obvious connection between the two works and also difficult to say the combination worked to Rachmaninov’s advantage. Nevertheless, the performance of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony experienced one major difficulty of its own, though not one for which the performers were in any way responsible. The opening promised excellent things, the Pittsburgh solo trumpet – as, subsequently, the brass section as a whole – spellbinding in his macabre opening solo. From the outset, this first movement sounded more grounded than its first-half counterpart, Honeck communicating a clearer sense of where it was heading. It felt like a funeral march, or rather set of obsequies, without in any sense being reduced to an implied programme. This was, as Mahler always insisted, music, not a musical rendering of something else. 

A further strength of Honeck’s reading was his strong sense of the symphony’s division of five movements into three ‘parts’, the second movement very much following on from and necessitated by the first. Here, the generative role of rhythm came to the fore. If there were occasions when I wished the strings might dig deeper, there was nothing especially wrong with the playing. In such music, one often, however unfairly, recalls favoured performances or recordings of the past; such recollections can be tinged by unreliable romanticism and perhaps mine were too. Brass nonetheless seized the initiative for a thrilling first rendition of the chorale. A certain harshness at climaxes seemed to be deliberate. What, then, was the problem? A strange noise to be heard above the orchestra, both in pitch and seemingly in location. Although it sounded like a giant mouse, I assumed it must be some sort of electronic interference. I was closer initially; it transpired a bat had come to the party and was voicing its appreciation. 

After a short pause in which the problem was somehow resolved, we heard a properly liminal, transitional Scherzo, its neo-Bachian counterpoint clear and directed. The Adagietto convinced similarly: a little slow by curren, fashionable standards, but there is no one way to perform this music, in which fashion is as unwelcome as in Bach or Mozart. It is perhaps unsurprising, given Honeck’s pedigree as a string player, that we heard chamber music writ large. He handled the transition to the finale with as great skill as the connection between first and second movements, the fifth movement then proceeding with welcome hints of the sardonic. I wondered at times whether it was a little lacking in sheer abandon, but all came together perfectly for the chorale, whose advent and jubilant aftermath imparted sense to much of what had preceded them. I say ‘much’ only because the flying rodent’s disruption to my experience had been severe: a great pity. It was almost made up for, though, in a splendid encore performance of Ochs’s waltz from Der Rosenkavalier, rubato judged in echt Viennese fashion.

Levit/Volodin - Schubert, Schumann, Mozart, Debussy, and Rachmaninov, 6 May 2023

Wigmore Hall

Schubert: Allegretto in C minor, D 915
Schumann: Arabeske in C major, op.18
Mozart: Sonata in D major, KV 448/375a
Debussy: En blanc et noir
Rachmaninov: Suite no.1 in G minor, op.5, ‘Fantaisie-tableaux’

Igor Levit, Alexei Volodin (pianos)

Two-piano repertoire seems, for reasons I do not fully understand, to appeal more to pianists than to general audiences. The Wigmore Hall was nonetheless full and greatly appreciative for this coronation-day recital from Igor Levit and Alexei Volodin. First, though, we heard two solo items: Schubert from Levit and Schumann from Volodin. 

It was Schubert, in the guise of the C minor Allegretto, who to my ears came off best. A wonderfully ‘sung’ opening phrase somehow managed to sound as if it were responded to by a piano ‘accompaniment’, and so forth, counterpoint proving the means through which the two ‘instruments’ were united. It was a startlingly rhetorical performance whose argument remained coherent, indeed gripping, throughout. And there was an undeniably Schubertian harmonic core to this well-nigh visionary opening. Volodin’s Schumann, the C major Arabeske, began in similarly promising, albeit more conventional fashion. It sounded immediately as one would expect, moments of robbed time and all. Points of detail illuminated rather than distracted. It was, moreover, good to hear the episodes played with due heart on sleeve. My reservations came, however, when they became more wilful, disrupting the overall line. Perhaps, though, that is more a matter of taste than anything else. 

Mozart’s Sonata for two pianos in D major followed. There was much to admire in it, not least a responsorial opening to the first movement that seemed to take off where Levit’s own responsorial Schubert had left us. Tricky balances between contrast and complement were well navigated. Ultimately, though, I found it somewhat unyielding, especially from Volodin, the very opening of the development section a welcome exception. The slow movement was taken with welcome seriousness and attentiveness, though here and in the finale a little more smiling would not have gone amiss. Subtle ornamentation nonetheless proved a welcome addition. There was on occasion a sense of fun to the finale, mostly from Levit, but warmth and affection were in relatively short supply when compared with, say, the hallowed likes of Daniel Barenboim and Martha Argerich. 

The duo captured well the abstraction of Debussy’s En blanc et noir, without neglecting the first movement’s more obviously ‘poetic’ passages, thereby thrown into greater relief. A due sense of mystery rose in all movements seemingly directly from the keys—and of course the fingers upon them. The dark malevolence of the second movement and a fine sense of aerial suspension in a nonetheless keenly directed closing Scherzando came close to the heart of Debussy’s enigmas, making this unusual work sound more characteristic than is often the case.

Crowning the  proceedings was the first of Rachmaninov’s two suites for two pianos. The opening Barcarolle conveyed from the outset an impression of settled idiom, such that occasional languor could register meaningfully within its bounds. Chopin and Liszt both lay behind the writing, yet one could never reduce what one heard to mere ‘influence’. The two pianists offered an intriguing sense of a more modernist sense of proliferation than that with which we might always associate the composer. Richly Romantic, without indulgence, the second movement was similarly well judged in shape and direction, permitting a sense of the fantastic it is difficult not to stereotype as ‘Russian’ to take flight and form. ‘Les Larmes’ built powerfully and subsided with equal care, founded on a deep-seated sadness that resists verbalisation. The closing ‘Pâques’ showed Rachmaninov in Mussorgskian vein, bells from Boris Godunov sublimated (perhaps not entirely without irony) into celebration of Easter.

BPO/Petrenko and Wood: Stravinsky, Zimmermann, Rachmaninov, and Grisey, 15 February 2020

Philharmonie

Stravinsky: Symphony in Three Movements

Zimmermann: Alagoana: Caprichos Brasilieiros

Rachmaninov: Symphonic Dances, op.45

Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Kirill Petrenko (conductor)

Grisey: Le Noir de l’Étoile

Raphael Haeger, Simon Rössler, Jan Schlichte, Wieland Welzel, Matthias Kessler, Laura Melero Beviá (percussionists)

James Wood (conductor)

Reviewing the Berlin Philharmonic and Kirill Petrenko in Mahler’s Sixth Symphony last month, I referred to the ‘monstrously metronomic’ quality of its opening march, ‘by design: of course’. I might almost have used the same phrase for the opening of Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements from the same forces, save for the implication of life in ‘monstrous[ly]’. ‘Brutal’ would perhaps be better here, for whatever humans were perpetrating the wartime images said to have inspired the composer’s musical gestures, they seemed to have become practically disembodied, automated in their robotic quality. Not only in this first movement, but certainly here, it was rhythm above all that had become dramatically generative, music thereby projecting its own motion picture. There was as much darkness, moreover, in the cracks between the music’s chamber dialogue and in its self-automated retransformation into fuller orchestral music. In what sense, however, is this a symphony, is this a symphonic movement? That, probably rightly, remained as unclear as ever. Balletic? Perhaps; it certainly had an iron structure that it does not always. The second movement was possessed of an uneasy yet – in its way – delightful interiority: another form of balletic self-automatic, Marie-Pierre Langlamet’s harp here as crucial as Majella Stockhausen’s piano in the first movement. A mechanistic brutalism that cannot fail to voice historical and political resonances once more characterised the finale, the goose-stepping soldiers of whom Stravinsky spoke coming vividly to death, all the more so for the music’s infernal catchiness. Desiccated woodwind clucking showed how an allegedly Haydnesque gesture could be transformed into something so dramatically lifeless. Repetition and even transformation, yet without development; the mysterious fugal combination, at last, of solo piano and harp: such were the Stravinskian riddles brought so vividly to our attention, yet rightly never solved.

Bernd Alois Zimmermann’s ‘ballet suite’ – actually a ballet in its own right, for there is no further material – Alagoanoa: Caprichos Brasilieros followed. The first of its five movements, the Overture, benefited from similar rhythmic precision, albeit precision which could now be bent, indeed swung – and its was. Delightfully grotesque yet ultimately seductive instrumental combinations shone through, Hendrik Heilmann’s harpsichord instructively, even wittily, quizzical. The following ‘Sertanejo’ likewise caught a fine balance between observation and involvement, all the while dancing – or being danced. More ‘human’ than Stravinsky, yet not necessarily less inscrutable, there was something undeniably chilling to its weird climax. Foreboding in the ‘Saubade’ was founded on, yet not restricted to, cello and double bass pizzicato. Repeated guitar figures; strange woodwind solos; percussion machinations, tuned or untuned: all contributed to an unease both general and specific. The ‘Cabachio’ was jazzier and relished as such, bass pizzicato once more put to excellent use, Wenzel Fuchs’s clarinet solo; yet compositional and performative control necessarily also emphasised distance, even alienation. A hallucinatory interlude seemed to foretell the suspense prior to brutal climax in the finale. Its fallout – this was, after all, music for the nuclear age – spoke both humanly and enigmatically. Die Soldaten lay just around the corner.

It was welcome to hear a performance of Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances that did not sentimentalise the score, though whether the music might sometimes have yielded a little more will remain mostly a matter of taste. Certain exaggerations will have overstepped the mark for some. At any rate, Petrenko seemed to understand rhythmic precision rather than harmony as the ultimate key, not only in the first movement but throughout. Even the string sound spoke with poignant alienation of a composer long in hopeless exile: familiar sounds, yet uprooted. The opening of the second movement had more than a hint of Debussy both to its brass fanfares and waltzing response. Some will perhaps have found the orchestral solos a little distant, but I rather liked the continuing sense of exile. Far better this, certainly, than the sort of muddy chaos one might hear from the likes of Valery Gergiev. Petrenko declined to coerce the finale into answering questions, thereby permitting it to ask a few more of its own. Materials, even the composer’s life and career, were once again revisited from a different standpoint: enigmatic and, like Stravinsky and Zimmermann, not without reference to a brutal external world.

There followed a bonus downstairs in the Philharmonie’s foyer. Six percussionists, four from the Berlin Philharmonic, two from the orchestra’s Karajan-Akademie, and James Wood performing Gérard Grisey’s Le Noir de l’Étoile. Inspired, as we heard from an introductory recorded text (Andreas Sparberg) by the 1967 discovery by a young astronomer of, to quote the composer ‘a rapidly varying radio signal, in the form of periodic impulses 1.3 seconds apart’, this performance, aided by simple yet powerful lighting and projection, seemed to tread a line between the initial suspicion that the irregularity betokened signals from an extra-terrestrial civilisation and the subsequent discovery of ‘a truth … just as surprising: the signals were being emitted by a pulsar, the fantastic compact residue created by the supernova explosions that long ago disintegrated the massive stars.’ We listened intent, following the signals, trying to make sense of them, making connections that may or may not have been there – not so very unlike what we had done in the evening’s earlier performances. Just as a pattern, be it rhythmic, timbral, spatial, emerged, it transformed itself so as to confound lazy and even informed expectations. There was an undeniably powerful sense of forces beyond our comprehension at play: like the gods of old, yet unlike them too. This was a vision, an experience, not so much without hope as beyond it. Our world would do well to remind itself more often of such concerns; that is, if it is not too late already.

Shani/Staatskapelle Berlin/Barenboim - Rachmaninov, Elgar, and Strauss, 15 October 2019

Philharmonie

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto no.3 in D minor, op.30

Elgar: Falstaff, op.68

Strauss: Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche, op.28

Lahav Shani (piano)

Staatskapelle Berlin

Daniel Barenboim (conductor)

The most German of all English composers, no one benefits more greatly than Elgar from rescue from the clammy, constricting embrace of ‘English music’. No conductor and orchestra perform that deed of rescue with greater conviction, insight, and rewards than Daniel Barenboim and the Staatskapelle Berlin. With this astonishing performance of Falstaff, they perhaps surpassed even themselves. Here, pre-empting Till Eulenspiegel, in danger of slightly overshadowing it, we heard a tone poem unmistakeably in Strauss’s tradition, albeit pushed still further, certainly not to be reduced to inheritance; yet equally unmistakeably, it spoke with Elgar’s voice, as if this were his true third symphony. Mordant yet affectionate, grand yet intimate, as thrilling as it was poignant, this performance, full of colour and incident, was, as much as any from Barenboim of Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, or Wagner, founded securely and dynamically on harmonic and motivic development. Counterpoint was dramatically, even riotously, as generative as any in Die Meistersinger. Barenboim’s expert shaping at micro- and macro-levels never felt unduly moulded; this was music-making without so much as a hint of narcissism. Conductor and orchestra alike nonetheless revelled in the sheer complexity and virtuosity of a work that has eluded so many; I certainly felt that it had eluded me as a listener until then, hearing it as if for the first time. String tone was glorious, yet never for its own sake; every part of the orchestra, every soloist – principal bassoon, cello, and concertmaster first among equals – came truly into their own, as if this were their core repertoire. Thanks to Barenboim, it is not far off becoming so.

It was fascinating, then, to hear Till Eulenspiegel in Falstaff’s wake, in a performance that shared many of its virtues and added others of its own. Infinitely flexible, where called for, it was equally secure in direction and equally vivid in narrative. Above all, perhaps, it smiled – through Strauss’s mastery’, Barenboim’s, and that of the Staatskapelle Berlin. Technique is, or should be, a supremely enjoyable thing; so it was here. It should be a moving thing too, when in the service of something worthy, which here was the case in every sense.

In the first half, we had heard Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto, with Lahav Shani as soloist. This is less obvious Barenboim territory, though he proved a wise, supportive accompanist to his protégé. In the first movement, depth and clarity alike characterised an often understated performance at swift tempi, not the only thing Shani’s approach had in common with the composer’s own. There was plenty of space nonetheless for pianistic reverie, for evocation of more than a few Lisztian sprites too. The second movement, arguably possessed of a broader emotional range here, sounded more in the line of Tchaikovsky. The piano part in particular proved more volatile, without loss to precision and pointing. There was no grandstanding to the finale, again taken swiftly, and none the worse for it. The turn to the major was especially well handled, Barenboim clearly understanding – and communicating – what was at stake. Harmony, then, once more.

Aleko (concert performance), Melos Sinfonia/Zeffman, 7 July 2014

 

St John’s Smith Square

Aleko – James Platt

Zemfira – Sara-Lian Owen

Young Gypsy – Luperci de Souza

Old Gypsy – Arshak Kuzikyan

Old Gypsy Woman – Nelli Orlova

Chorus (chorus master: William Cole)

Melos Sinfonia

Oliver Zeffman (conductor)

 

Aleko, the libretto by Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, after Pushkin, was assigned in 1892 to three members of Anton Arensky’s composition class at the Moscow Conservatoire. Rachmaninov’s setting, made at the tender age of nineteen, was the only one to be published (though not in full score until 1953) or performed, winning the young composer the ultimate prize of a gold medal. In truth, it needs all the dramatic help it can get, more a reflection upon the libretto, which amounts to little more than a succession of numbers rather than a real dramatic development, than upon the score itself. Nevertheless, even a concert performance is of interest. One hears the influences, as one always does in immature works. Tchaikovsky looms largest; he was so impressed that he suggested Aleko form a double bill with his own Iolanta. The choral writing echoes Eugene Onegin; the orchestral writing often echoes the symphonic as well as operatic Tchaikovsky. There are hints of the Mighty Handful too, certainly of the Liszt of the symphonic poems, and perhaps also of Wagner.

 

If there is little that suggests Rachmaninov’s mature voice, the writing is remarkably assured, and so it sounded in this generally excellent performance from the Melos Sinfonia and its artistic director, Oliver Zeffman. If there were a few rougher moments, the string sheen and the sheer power of the orchestra as a whole, brass and all, proved mightily impressive, with a splendid sense of idiom. Zeffman guided the score’s progress wisely: flexible, without a hint of stiffness. The chorus, trained by William Cole, sang very well too, as did most of the soloists. If James Platt as Aleko and Sara-Lian Owen as Zemfira took a little time properly to settle, it was only a little time. Their diction, dramatic commitment, and musical line were excellent, Owen had one believe more in the gypsy girl who transfers her affections – shades of Carmen, though it was Pushkin’s narrative poem that would have influenced Merimée – more than one might have thought possible, in a performance which increasingly yearned for the stage. Arshak Kuzikyan revealed a passionate, dark-hued bass voice as the Old Gypsy, his lines shaped intelligently throughout: his was a compelling performance indeed, having one wish that there was more to hear from him. Nelli Orlova’s brief appearance as the Old Gypsy Woman had one wish for more too. Only Luperci de Souza’s performance as the Young Gypsy for whom Zemfira falls fell flat, audibly strained, at times seriously struggling. Perhaps it was just an off-night; everyone has them.

 

At any rate, this marked a wonderful opportunity to hear a fascinating early work. The Melos Sinfonia will next be heard in September at the Grimeborn Opera Festival and the Rose Theatre, Kingston, in a coupling of Walton’s Façade and Peter Maxwell Davies’s Eight Songs for a Mad King, whose Russian premiere they well give in St Petersburg in November.

 

 

Demidenko - Chopin, Rachmaninov, and Medtner, 5 July 2014

Wigmore Hall

Chopin – Waltz in A-flat major, op.42; Mazurka in G-sharp minor, op.33 no.1; Waltz in A-flat major, op.34 n.1; Mazurka in D-flat major, op.30 no.3; Waltz in E-flat major, p.18 no.1; Mazurka in E-flat minor, op.6 no.4; Waltz in A-flat major, p.64 no.3; Mazurka in A minor, op.17 no.4; Waltz in C-sharp minor, op.64 no.2; Mazurka in C-sharp minor, op.30 no.4; Waltz in D-flat major, op.64 no.1; Mazurka in A minor, op.67 no.4; Waltz in A minor, op.34 no.2; Mazurka in A minor, op.posth.; Waltz in E minor, op.posth.

Rachmaninov – Variations on a Theme of Corelli, p.42

Medtner – Tema con variazoni, op.55; Dithyramb in E-flat major, op.10 no.2

Nikolai Demidenko (piano)
 

This was a puzzling recital, or rather its first half – actually rather more than a half – was. It sounded very much as though Nikolai Demidenko had done something unusual with the regulation of his Fazioli piano (an instrument for which I have never shared the enthusiasm expressed by some, but that is another matter). Tone often sounded oddly dampened, albeit with clarity. Whether that were actually the case, I cannot say for sure, but I cannot otherwise account for what I heard. And ‘why?’ remains another question again: a quasi-‘period’ approach, perhaps?

 

At any rate, the sequence of Chopin waltzes and mazurkas which made up the first ‘half’ generally had a good deal of sense to it in terms of tonal progression. This was rarely performance of a grand, public nature. Indeed, at times I wondered whether it had too much of salon charm, or at least not enough beneath the surface, especially in the case of the waltzes, though it might reasonably be objected that they do have quite a bit of the salon about them. The first A-flat major Waltz, op.42, opened the programme with insouciant facility and a seemingly effortless, ‘natural’ rubato. The G-sharp minor Mazurka, op.33 no.1, which followed, very slowly, offered contrast in its far greater metrical freedom, akin to a prose poem. And such tended to be the pattern of the waltz-mazurka progression, far from unreasonably. Light brilliance was certainly the hallmark of op.64 no.1, the so-called ‘Minute’ Waltz and the E-flat major Waltz, op.18 no.1. However, the C-sharp minor Waltz, op.64 no.2, suffered a surprising number of slips and hesitations.

 

The D-flat major Mazurka, op.30 no.3 was more forthright than many; it was certainly not a case of one-size-fits-all, at least within the generally muted approach. It managed, moreover, to retain its mystery. Its E-flat minor cousin, op.6 no.4, emerged splendidly persistent over its short time-frame, seeming almost to presage Bartók’s music. One of my favourite Mazurkas, op.17 no.4 in A minor smiled through its sadness; tears were conveyed both above and through its ambiguous harmonies. The C-sharp minor Mazurka, op.30 no.4, is on a grander scale than many, and sounded as such, Demidenko offering a rare instance of a more ‘public’ face. I found the ending to op.67 no.4 in A minor, too abrupt, but its sadness had earlier shone through, likewise the visionary, almost Lisztian quality it seemed to share with the following waltz in the same key. The final Mazurka to be heard, again in A minor, a posthumous work, registered both sameness of tonality and difference in the nature of its dance, even at the sublimated level Chopin’s inspiration had reached.

 

Rachmaninov’s Variations on a Theme of Corelli may well be his finest work for solo piano. Demidenko offered a committed performance, perhaps slightly detached, but not excessively so, and one which benefited from a fuller, richer piano sound. (Alas, not having been present in the hall during the interval, I cannot report whether anything had been done to the instrument.) Even from the theme to the first and second variations, there was a rightful sense of growing ‘involvement’. There was no doubt that this was characteristic Rachmaninov – indeed, the third variation frankly looked back to some of the Preludes – but there was also a hint of Neue Sachlichkeit. Echoes of Mendelssohn were to be heard in the ‘Allegro scherzando’, whilst neo-Lisztian vigour, perhaps also echoes of Schumann’s Faschingsschwank aus Wien, were to be heard in the eighteenth variation,. Dissolving chromaticism characterised its successor, a proper sense of final flowering, of opening out marking the coda to the twentieth and final variation.

 

It was fascinating to hear Rachmaninov’s variations followed by a set by Medtner, his op.55 Tema con variazoni. Demidenko’s performance was perhaps the highlight of the recital, revealing a strong musical mind beyond or rather behind what might superficially seem to be yet another piece of too-late-Romanticism. Structure and character worked together rather than standing awkwardly side by side, or even opposed. The E-flat major Dithyramb, op.10 no.2, sounded somewhat splashy by comparison. Demidenko certainly lavished full ‘Romantic’ piano tone and colour upon a piece which, in this context, assumed something of the character of an encore. It was interesting to hear it, but I should not rush to do so again.
 

Prom 68: Skride/Oslo PO/Petrenko - Tchaikovsky, Szymanowski, and Rachmaninov, 2 September 2013

 

Royal Albert Hall

Tchaikovsky – Symphony no.1 in G minor, op.13, ‘Winter Daydreams’ (revised version, 1874)

Szymanowski – Violin Concerto no.1, op.35
Rachmaninov – Symphonic Dances, op.45

Baiba Skride (violin)

Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra

Vasily Petrenko (conductor)

 

Some rather odd programming here. I am the last person to say that we should revert to the ‘bad old days’ of wall-to-wall overture-concerto-symphony concerts, but in this case, it might well have proved more coherent. Not that reworking of the programming would necessarily have rescued Tchaikovsky’s hapless ‘Winter Daydreams’ Symphony. I suppose it is worth giving such works occasional outings, if only to remind us why they are not more often performed, but when there is such a host of fine music that continued to languish in (concert, if not always recorded) obscurity, do we really need a Proms Tchaikovsky symphonic cycle?

 

Vasily Petrenko and the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra – despite, or because of the considerable number of female musicians in its ranks? – nevertheless did their best by the work. It opened with wonderfully alert, lively playing, perhaps especially from the woodwind section, whose colours veritably shimmered. Petrenko imparted a strong developmental sense to the music, if at times his reading sounded rather driven. (Tchaikovsky marks this first movement Allegro tranquillo, though what that might mean in practice is anyone’s guess.) It was enjoyable enough if ultimately quite lacking in structural coherence. The slow movement was songful, the Oslo woodwinds again offering especial delight: solo oboe (David Friedemann Strunck) first among equals, though the other lines gathering around his were in no sense inferior. Yet the movement soon began to outstay its welcome, not helped by the bizarre outburst from the horns (again, a criticism of the work, not its performance). The third movement came across with the proper character of a scherzo: often delicate, but with definite rhythmic drive; the trio evinced Romantic longing with considerable conviction. As for the finale, there was a splendidly lugubrious build up to what ultimately is little more than an incoherent succession of devices, contrapuntal writing in particular sounding quite unmotivated by the material. It was played with relish, but really...

 

What a relief then it was to turn after the interval to Szymanowski’s First Violin Concerto. Its single movement – a span concealing, or rather revealing, a multitude of sins – opened as if recollecting Dukas’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice, before Baiba Skride’s sinuous, erotically-charged violin line emerged as if from within. Tone was clean yet inviting, and could become richer when required, especially when playing sul G. (Again, I could not help but wonder how our unreconstructed conductor could maintain his concentration, yet somehow he managed.) The discontinuities that ultimately are continuities of Szymanowski’s radical form emerged just as strongly as Tchaikovsky’s forlorn attempts at coherence. Purpose was present throughout. Yes, the music is perfumed, yet that it is only a small aspect of the composer’s writing, revel though we do – and did – in the post-Debussyan, post-Straussian, and yes, post-Schoenbergian harmonies and colours. Petrenko shaped the great orchestral climaxes surely, but it was the silvery violin and delicate woodwind that lingered longest in the mind. Not, of course, that the violin does not have its more energetic, incisive moments, and they were splendidly despatched. Above all, there was a true sense of directed fantasy from all.

 

The last time I had heard Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances had been in a typically slapdash effort from Valery Gergiev. If the programming on this occasion were a little unsatisfactory, it nevertheless helped Rachmaninov more than Gergiev’s placing him after twelve-note Schoenberg had. It is difficult not to think a work such as this, written in 1940, a little retrograde – and not in the Bachian sense Schoenberg would have had in mind. Yet here at least Rachmaninov’s music was able to resound with integrity, ironically sounding far more a statement of exile than it had in Gergiev’s LSO series, allegedly organised around the idea of ‘exile’. One heard the composer grappling in so many senses with a New World: remaining himself and yet adapting, reluctantly or otherwise, to some aspects of modernistic common currency. Petrenko offerd a first movement as alert as anything we had heard so far, rhythm and colour once again equally to the fore. The saxophone solo offered not our last recollection of Ravel. If there were times when a little more orchestral weight might not have gone amiss, especially in the developmental music, Petrenko and his players offered in general a good balance between heart and wit. That balance was also well struck in the second movement, whose waltz music benefited from a gorgeous lilt. It was nicely elliptical too, no easy answers being offered. A life-long obsession with the Dies irae chant sounded genuinely revisited, refreshed, in the finale: a different variety of dance, yet a dance nonetheless. And, whatever one’s opinions about the backward-looking nature of Rachmaninov’s music, the ending, unlike that to Tchaikovsky’s symphony, convinced.

 

Shtoda/Gergieva - Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui, Rachmaninov, and Tchaikovsky, 10 June 2011

Wigmore Hall

Rimsky-Korsakov – The octave, op.45 no.3
The nymph, op.56 no.1
The clouds begin to scatter – op.42 no.3

Cui – Desire, op.57 no.25
The lilacs, op.54 no.5
The fountain statue at Tsarskoye Selo, op.57 no.17
The burnt letter, op.33 no.4

Rachmaninov – Beloved, let us fly, op.26 no.5
It cannot be, op.34 no.7
Sing not to me, beautiful maiden, op.4 no.4
Believe me not, Friend, op.14 no.7

Tchaikovsky – Prayer at Bedtime, op.27 no.1
Again as before, I am alone, op.73 no.6
The nightingale, op.60 no.4
Why? Op.28 no.3
Serenade, op.63 no.6
The fearful moment, op.28 no.6
In the midst of the ball, op.38 no.3
It was in early spring, op.38 no.2


This was an excellent recital. Perhaps it may not have boasted the most varied of programmes, but then it is not so often that we, at least in London, are offered a recital of Russian song. Even Tchaikovsky therefore becomes a relative novelty, however ubiquitous a few works of his may be in the offerings presented by symphony orchestras. Daniil Shtoda is clearly a tenor of distinction, never once straining his voice, nor indeed sounding any less than beautiful, nor obscuring the words. Larissa Gergieva’s performance belonged to a Russian school one might have thought dead; more than once, I was put in mind of Tatiana Nikolayeva. One might not necessarily want to hear such an approach in Mozart, though it might actually prove rather interesting; in repertoire such as this, however, vocal and pianistic contributions had a straightforward sense of rightness.

Rimsky-Korsakov’s three songs presented a chiselled classicism characteristic of some of his later work. From the outset, Shtoda displayed – though ‘display’ arguably gives a false impression – fine clarity of line and diction. Unobtrusive command of line continued into The Nymph. We found ourselves treated, moreover, to a notably beautiful head voice, whilst Gergieva captured with unerring rightness Rimsky’s aquatic rhythms and harmonies. The pictorial element was again to the fore in The clouds begin to scatter; I almost fancied that I could see the clouds do just that. César Cui’s selection offered, in its opening Desire, greater proximity to the operatic aria. ‘Soulful’ may be an overused word, but that and ‘ardour’ nevertheless seem mots justes when describing Shtoda’s performance. Pain of loss shone through without unnecessary underlining in The lilacs. Neither for the first nor the last time, I reflected, during The statue at Tsarskaya Selo, that Shtoda was able to present a song as if in a single breath. The burnt letter emerged as a miniature scena; if hardly Eugene Onegin, we were nevertheless treated to a beautifully shaded response to the Pushkin text.

Rachmaninov’s songs brought an intensification of the overtly dramatic, Gergieva showing, as if one might have doubted it, that no music is more obviously written for the modern Steinway than that of Rachmaninov. The piano figuration of Do not believe me, friend, proved utterly characteristic, not least in its backward glances to Liszt. This was a performance of splendid resonance, both vocally and instrumentally. Oh never sing to me again tempted one to think it a true heir to Onegin, perhaps to Lensky; certain harmonies underscored, as it were, the correspondence. Tchaikovsky’s own Serenade would continue such a train of thought, though here we sometimes seemed closer to the world of M. Triquet. Indeed, the Tchaikovsky songs received equally fine performances, length of breath again especially notable, enabling well-judged shaping of climaxes, such as that to Again, as before, I am alone. In the midst of the ball sounded just like its title; an impression was given of slightly sinister dance in the background, without detracting from the night and dreams that are the foreground material of the poem.

Prom 4: Trpčeski/RLPO/Petrenko - Schumann, Rachmaninov, and Tchaikovsky, 19 July 2010

Royal Albert Hall

Schumann (re-orch. Mahler) – Overture: Manfred, op.115
Rachmaninov – Piano Concerto no.2 in C minor, op.18
Tchaikovsky – Manfred: Symphony in four scenes after the dramatic poem by Byron, op.58

Simon Trpčeski (piano)
Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra
Vasily Petrenko (conductor)

Outstanding! I am tempted to leave it at that, but had better not. After my first two Proms (Mahler’s Eighth Symphony and Die Meistersinger), I was beginning to think that I must have been unduly harsh; perhaps I had not given due regard to the notorious vagaries of the Royal Albert Hall’s acoustic. This stunning performance from all concerned persuaded me that, if anything, I had been lenient, for there was a world of difference to be heard from the opening bar of Schumann’s Manfred Overture, as re-orchestrated by Mahler.

There is no need to become hung up on Mahler’s role here, though it is noteworthy that this orchestration was being performed for the first time at the Proms. Mahler sharpens up the definition a little, but this still sounds like Schumann. The overture opened dashingly; Vasily Petrenko’s more or less immediate downbeat announced silken string sound of an entirely different order from that served up on those earlier two Proms. I was put in mind of the Philharmonia under Christian Thielemann, though Petrenko’s reading pulsated with life whilst remaining highly flexible. (The Philharmonia/Thielemann recording of Schumann’s Third Symphony is first-rate, however.) Petrenko had no time for the latter-day nonsense of scaling down strings. That there were as many double basses (eight) as for the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s rendition of the Mahler was partly testament to their insufficiency; more importantly, the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic sounded like a full orchestra. How the cellos sang – and how sepulchral the trombones sounded! This Manfred was febrile, heroic, but always in the orbit of Beethovenian humanism, never driven too hard. There was also a loving tenderness that looked forward to Strauss’s Don Juan; Petrenko really made those Neapolitan sixths tell.

Petrenko and Simon Trpčeski then went on to impress upon me that Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto is merely over-performed – and over-performed at an insufficient level. For in this reading it sounded minted afresh. Trpčeski’s magical opening chords and crescendo showed that, if ever a composer wrote for the Steinway, it was Rachmaninov, but he needs a pianist equal to the task, which he found here. Trpčeski (almost) made it sound easy, but never routine. Petrenko’s orchestral part was the equal of any I have heard: well, perhaps not the Philadelphia Orchestra of old, with the composer himself at the keyboard, but certainly, for instance, Haitink’s Concertgebouw for Ashkenazy. Moreover, the partnership between Trpčeski and Petrenko was as tight as any I have heard, revealingly as much about integration as opposition. With touches of echt-Russian vibrato in the brass, this was a reading that drew upon tradition but also presented something new: an almost Mendelssohnian, elfin performance at times, nevertheless lacking nothing in weight when it came to the great climaxes. As for the intervention of a mobile telephone, I can only hope that the offending object was put to its proper use as rectal thermometer for its owner. The tender slow movement permitted Trpčeski to impart an interestingly Brahmsian quality to the placing and voicing of the piano chords. Nicholas Cox’s melting clarinet solo would rival any I have heard. For the most part, this Adagio sostenuto was restrained, but there was no doubting the genuine quality of the emotion bubbling beneath the surface – and occasionally over it. Such subtlety would of course have been impossible without absolute security in terms of understanding and outlining the music’s harmonic progression. Taking the finale attacca prevented applause from once again being sounded, though bronchial dissent was not to be stifled. Trpčeski unleashed a veritably Lisztian devilry in his pianism, complemented by a combination of warmth and sardonicism – snarling brass in particular – from the RLPO. Brahms was not yet vanquished, however, in the voicing of the chords; indeed, a battle royal between him and Liszt was not least of the musical excitements on offer. The fugato was likewise clear and exciting. Though I fancied myself weary of this music, I should eagerly have heard it repeated immediately in a performance of this quality.

If the Rachmaninov is oft-performed, one cannot say the same of Tchaikovsky’s Manfred Symphony. Petrenko and the RLPO have recorded the work, as indeed they have the concerto with Trpčeski; if either performance matches this concert, it should be highly commended indeed. Liszt once again came to mind with the opening, the hero’s theme surely a reminiscence of the questing Faust Symphony, likewise the unusual tonal instability. There was no mistaking, however, the utter Russianness of the RLPO strings’ interventions. Once again, their depth of tone put earlier performances to shame. Petrenko proved a sure guide – no easy thing in music that can readily meander – and imparted a taste of Swan Lake to the magnificent yet rounded climaxes. The scherzo, the realm of the Alpine fairy, brings hints of Mendelssohn, albeit with Liszt’s – and Berlioz’s – means. The lyricism, however, is all Tchaikovsky’s own; Petrenko revelled in both aspects. So did his crack players: the strings took us to St Petersburg, the trio of flutes proving equally beautiful of tone. And if the movement goes on a bit, there is only so much performers can do – but they did. Ravishing horn playing was one of many highlights in the Andante con moto. It flowed, but rightly took its time too, permitting the strings to sing. There were hints of the ‘Scène aux champs’ from the Symphonie fantastique, but rustic elements were given their due too, albeit without the hideous over-emphasis in which one can imagine some conductors indulging. Sterner moments looked forward towards the late symphonies. And the bells tolled atmospherically, inevitably reminding once again of Berlioz. The finale proved equally colourful, if more resplendently so, given its nature. I was again struck by how well-drilled the orchestra was, though never bureaucratically so. The fugato was despatched with flair, whilst a strong narrative sense emerged through the movement’s – indeed, the symphony’s – progress. There was, finally, a true sense of tragedy to the denouement. Graham Eccles’s organ contribution was properly grandiose: this may be hokum, but when done with such style, who can complain? It was, however, the orchestral subsiding, beautiful and noble, that lingered more stubbornly in the mind. On this showing, Petrenko and his orchestra are a pairing to match any resident in London.

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.