RPO/Petrenko - Messiaen, 23 April 2026

Royal Festival Hall

Turangalîla-Symphonie

Steven Osborne (piano)

Cécile Lartigau (ondes Martenot)

1927 Studios (animation)

Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

Vasily Petrenko (conductor)

Images: Andy Paradise

Messiaen was never one to do things by halves. We might think his Turangalîla-Symphonie offered enough in sensory overload without adding further to it; we might have good reason for doing so. Yet, for one night only, in the particular setting of the Southbank Centre’s Multitudes ‘multi-arts festival powered by orchestral music’, it gained – doing things by doubles rather than halves, one might say – a silent film and narrative from 1927 Studios. Their work may be familiar from a Magic Flute and Petrushka/L’Enfant et les sortilèges double-bill for Berlin’s Komische Oper during its Barrie Kosky years; it is inventive, witty, and absorbing. Here, a film engaging with some varieties of ‘love’ – ‘whatever that means’, as once upon a time a prince might have said – accompanied or, perhaps, was accompanied by a performance of Messiaen’s irresistible, outrageous exploration of still more of those varieties, from the human physical to that of the universe itself (in whatever sense you can imagine). 

As the film, beautifully, intricately put together and acted, starring Jake Cecil as a dashing Tristan-ish knight and Esme Appleton as his tragic, Isolde-like bride, unfolded, so did its soundtrack ‘live’. Of course, that has problems from a purely musical perspective. I began to feel guilty about the lack of attention, or perhaps better the divided attention, I was according the performance ‘itself’. But would I feel that if it were an opera? (There is an LPO Wozzeck to come this weekend, though I shall not be attending.) Does it matter? The two did not merely mirror or follow one another, but for the most part they complemented. And when I decided to focus my visual gaze on the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and Vasily Petrenko, I could still do so and hear what was a fine, tautly conceived and executed Festival Hall performance. 

Petrenko, moreover, gave a well-judged, engaging spoken introduction to the event, as well as making a knowing, winking cameo as the wedding’s music director on film. Messiaen in any case, was still very much there, in all his multicoloured, synaesthetic, infectious craziness. No one will have failed to feel the motor rhythms, the repetitions and variations of figures, the confrontations between different conceptions of time, nor have been seduced by the array and interaction of harmonic and timbral colour—whether from the RPO, Steven Osborne’s titanic, all-encompassing interpretation (this was no mere execution) of the piano part, or the soaring presence of Cécile Lartigau’s ondes mardenot. There were passages of extraordinary magic, the cool blue and hue lingering glances at sleeping bodies in the ‘Jardin du sommeil d’amour’ finding music and animation in perfect complement. The crazy flower-(power)-love of the preceding ‘Joie du sang des étoiles’ may never quite be the same again, though whenever is it? No artwork stands still in a world of performance; nor should it. This was a journey to the cosmic such as one could imagine Stockhausen dreaming, albeit with a little – just a little – more self-control. 

Messiaen doubled, then, or halved? Both are a little extreme as perspectives. Having seen and heard Turangalîla like that, I should probably rather do so on its own, ‘neat’, next time. (Or perhaps, I should rather have done that first, ‘progressing’ to the ‘augmented reality’ of this evening’s show.) No one, however, is claiming that I should do otherwise. This was, by its nature, a one-off, even if it finds itself repeated elsewhere—as I suspect it will be (and probably should). I loved the Stravinsky-Ravel double-bill nine years ago, whilst feeling circumspect about the Magic Flute than many. Nothing will be for everyone; more to the point, works will always survive and usually grow from such encounters. So, we should hope, will audiences. This was not simply an outreach exercise, but a fascinating experiment in its own right; if it has worked as the former too, we shall all be the better for it.

Osborne/LPO/Gardner - Coleridge-Taylor, Tippett, and Elgar, 25 January 2023

Royal Festival Hall

Samuel Coleridge-Taylor: Solemn Prelude (London premiere)
Tippett: Piano Concerto
Elgar: Symphony no.1 in A-flat major, op.55

Steven Osborne (piano)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Edward Gardner (conductor)

Image: London Philharmonic Orchestra

Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s B minor Solemn Prelude was written, at Elgar’s recommendation, for the Three Choirs Festival in 1899. It then went unperformed until a revival, likewise at Worcester Cathedral, for the same festival in 2021. It has now finally reached London, Coleridge-Taylor’s own city, in a fine performance from the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Edward Gardner. Its opening, in melody, harmony, scoring, and indeed the LPO’s performance sounded rather Tchaikovskian: surely a case of influence, though at the same time not to be reduced to that. Indeed, it was Russian symphonism more generally that came to my mind, Borodin too, than say the ‘solemnity’ of Wagner or Bruckner, one progression’s passing resemblance to Parsifal notwithstanding. It certainly qualifies as solemn, though, albeit in an amiable sort of way: a thoroughly professional piece of writing, that merits performance, especially with string sheen and generally rounded orchestral tone such as was heard here. 

Michael Tippett’s Piano Concerto followed: a welcome outing for a piece rarely heard, yet likewise worthy of revival. Gardner, the LPO, and soloist Steven Osborne took us immediately to an imaginary landscape, in an imaginary (quasi-dramatic) context. Its first movement sounded very much as if a scene from an opera without words, yet not necessarily without action. The Midsummer Marriage naturally came to mind, but it was a world of its own we heard, inviting and full of fantasy. The piano part is anything but easy, yet rarely if ever showy; this is not the conventional (post-)Romantic battle of piano against orchestra, and did not sound that way. One delighted instead in the scene painted, almost as much by woodwind and celesta as by the undeniably brilliant soloist, celesta and piano almost equals in the cadenza. The slow movement was equally well-shaped, playing out in a related yet different world, as if a scene that followed. It was darker, a notturno given with an apt air of mystery, even ritual. Bearing in mind Tippett’s inspiration for the work as a whole, Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto (which he heard Walter Gieseking rehearse), it was difficult not to think of Tovey’s evocation of Orpheus taming the Furies. The finale meanders at times, perhaps, but I doubt anyone minded much. It was sharp, bright, ultimately decisive—and it danced. 

The onward tread to the opening to Elgar’s First Symphony, hesitant then sure(r), ever imbued with ineffably Elgarian sadness and nobility, can be traced in many ways. Gardner’s way convinced, as did the response to it. A degree of Brahmsian sentiment could be perceived through a related yet different orchestral kaleidoscope; crucially, sentiment was never confused with sentimentality. Passages of hushed inwardness, especially in this first movement, combined with wounded swager to captivate and propel. If an occasional rough edge intruded, as with Tippett, it was nothing of importance. Far more important were liminal passages of an almost Straussian, yet more subtle phantasmagoria—and where they took us. The second movement’s opening material, somewhere between diabolical and furious, was followed by a lifting of clouds closer to the new vistas of Mahler than one might have expected. Music between these poles combined their tendencies as well as having them do battle: a matter of performance almost as much as of composition. A rich, even ripe Adagio was perhaps a little indulged for my, arguably also for Elgar’s, taste, yet it was difficult to resist the glorious LPO sound. Inflected by other material that yet did not deflect the music from its path, there remained much to admire here. Ghostly unease and lost recollections laid bare the compositional mastery of the finale. It was a turbulent journey, in search of a home that was perhaps never quite reached. The ‘cyclical’ qualities of Elgar’s writing were vividly communicated here by Gardner, bringing it closer to César Franck than often one hears. Was it ultimately a little hard-driven? Perhaps, but arguably it held to its own logic.

Gerhardt/Osborne - Debussy, Schnittke, Messiaen, and Beethoven, 5 March 2015

Wigmore Hall

Debussy – Cello Sonata in D minor

Schnittke – Cello Sonata no.1
Messiaen – Quatuor pour la fin du temps: ‘Louange à l’éternité de Jésus’
Beethoven – Cello Sonata no.5 in D major, op.102 no.2
Beethoven – Cello Sonata no.4 in C major, op.102 no.1

Alban Gerhardt (cello)

Steven Osborne (piano)

 

The Wigmore Hall’s ‘Alban Gerhardt Focus’ is most welcome, both in principle and, on the basis of this recital, in reality. His partnership with Steven Osborne offered an excellent, wide-ranging programme, and it was only in the Beethoven sonatas that Osborne’s relative reticence slightly disappointed, Gerhardt’s wholehearted commitment pretty much compensating in any case.

The opening of the Debussy Sonata was stunning: talk about the shock of the new! This was a well-nigh neo-Classical Debussy, though not a Stravinskian one; indeed, I am not sure that I have heard the work sound so close to Ravel. At least, that is, until a series of chords from Osborne left us in no doubt as to the identity of the pianist-composer. Gerhardt employed intense vibrato but his intonation remained perfectly centred. It was almost worth having attended for the movement’s final double-stopped notes alone. The ‘Sérénade’ likewise sounded almost as much ‘post-war’ – which of course it is not – as ‘of the Great War’: the political and the æsthetic have a more complex relationship than simplistic biographical correspondences would allow. The Parisian Prokofiev seemed more than once to beckon. Gerhardt’s repeated notes in the finale simply had to be heard to be believed; it was a passionate account we heard from both musicians.

Schnittke’s First Cello Sonata, dedicated to Natalia Gutman, has been recorded by Gerhardt and Osborne, though I have not heard the recording. If it approximates to this performance, it will clearly be worth hearing, even by those, amongst whom I count myself, who are rather less than Schnittke enthusiasts. Gerhardt’s opening cello solo sounded duly bleak, but it was striking how fully achieved was what one might call his ‘variegated bleakness’ throughout the first movement. The second movement, marked ‘Presto’ and certainly heard as such, had the immediate virtue of contrast, superlatively realised in technical and musical terms, insofar as the two may be distinguished. I do not recall anyone eliciting a louder, more clangourous sound from a Wigmore Hall piano than Osborne did at one point. The transition to the closing slow movement was very well prepared, the mood of that movement unerringly captured.

 

Messiaen’s ‘Louange a l’éternité de Jésus’ followed without a break, making the most of the juxtaposition of slow movements, but equally importantly, announcing a very different compositional ‘voice’. Gerhardt’s tone in particular was sweeter. The performance rightly spoke of faith, of devotion, Osborne’s chords voiced as perfectly as the eternal presence of the second person of the Holy Trinity would demand. Messiaen’s long melodies were of ‘heavenly length’ indeed, the serenity of the lengthy close verging upon the beatific.

The two op.102 Beethoven sonatas were heard in reverse order. Again, a different voice was proclaimed in the D major work. Not aggressively different, but meaningfully so. This was decidedly ‘late’ Beethoven, without sanctimonious labouring of the point. The radical nature of the first movement’s concision was powerfully conveyed, likewise the unity forged from its dialectical tensions. There was a different yet equal variety of intensity to be heard, especially from the cello, in the slow movement. Gerhardt’s playing was as rapt as one could have hoped for, capturing and holding the attention throughout. The dialectical quality to the performance of the finale was stronger still than in the first movement. There was clarity to the counterpoint, but also direction, although the latter might have been a little stronger from the piano. (It certainly would have been, had we heard, say, Daniel Barenboim at the keyboard, though there may well have been less accuracy to that putative performance.)  Nevertheless, this was a performance that for the most part fought the good fight vis-à-vis the extraordinary disintegrative tendencies of Beethoven’s material.

The C major Sonata’s opening might sound, on the surface, closer to Classical models – not that there really are any, pre-Beethoven, for the instrumental combination in question. However, there was nothing of the mere surface to this performance. I was struck anew by the disorientation of Beethoven’s modulations: Haydn significantly extended, one might say. The lyricism of the Adagio section to the second movement was perhaps a little plain-spoken, but better that then sentimentalised. Thereafter, tension quietly mounted, to be relieved in playful yet disciplined fashion: just what was required.

 

LSO/Nott - Beethoven and Messiaen, 29 June 2014

Barbican Hall

Beethoven – Symphony no.2 in D major, op.36

Messiaen – Turangalîla-Symphony

Steven Osborne (piano)
Cynthia Miller (ondes-Martenot)
London Symphony Orchestra
Jonathan Nott (conductor)

 

Try as I might, I found it impossible, whether before, during, or after the performance, to fathom the idea behind programming Beethoven’s Second Symphony with Messiaen’s Turangalîla-Symphony. I suppose it showed two highly contrasting approaches to the idea of the symphony, but Messiaen’s example is such a thing-in-itself that comparison verges upon the meaningless. In the end, it was probably better simply to take the concert for what it was; at least that is what I had to do.

 

Jonathan Nott led the LSO in a decent account of the Beethoven, which is certainly not something to be taken for granted, especially in an age characterised largely either by perverse ideas about Beethoven or a manifest lack of ideas about him. That the introduction to the first movement began anything but promisingly was, however, no fault of the performers. Some unutterably selfish member of the audience decided to indulge not once but twice in flash photography; I hope that his or her name will have been taken and the culprit will never darken the doors of the Barbican Hall again. Thereafter, there was considerable relief to be had from a sensible tempo and excellent sense of line, which heightened, indeed engendered expectations. The exposition was on the fast side and might have yielded more – characteristics of the performance as a whole – but there was nothing objectionable to what we heard. Orchestral playing as such was alert, precise, cultured: beyond reproach really. The development section benefited from a sense of exploration, though the approach to the recapitulation was curiously throwaway. However, the great coda blazed as it should.

The slow movement flowed with grace, even if it lacked the profundity, the search for necessity and meaning, which characterise a great performance – such as we might have heard from, say, the late Sir Colin Davis, or today might still hear from Daniel Barenboim, surely the greatest Beethovenian alive. There was greater affection, though, here than elsewhere, and an admirable combination of clarity and warmth. Minor-mode passages had a proper sense of darkness to them. The scherzo was brisk, brusque even, but not in extreme fashion; the trio had an appealing lilt to its woodwind passages. It was difficult not to register a certain feeling of disappointment with respect to the finale. Very well-played though it was, it was probably taken too fast. At least that was how it seemed, with no opportunity to smile or indeed to deepen.

 

It is no tall order to follow a performance of a Beethoven symphony with something on the scale of Turangalîla. For that alone, and despite very occasional evidence of tiredness, the LSO deserves great credit – but its performance was highly estimable in its own right, the distinctly unhelpful acoustic of the Barbican notwithstanding. This Introduction went un-photographed (although the person whose telephone rang for what seemed like at least a minute during ‘Développement de l’amour should summarily have been shot). Either my ears or the orchestra, or both, took a little time to adjust to that problematical acoustic; for once, the Royal Albert Hall might have been preferable. But the congested sound experienced at the beginning was no real impediment to the expository function of the movement, ‘expository’ certainly not being understood in a Beethovenian fashion. String swooping in tandem with Cynthia Miller’s expert ondes-Martenot playing, a portentous brass ‘statue’ theme, a glittering piano entry from Steven Osborne, contrast aplenty with the demure brace of clarinets portraying the ‘flower’ to the brass’s ‘statue’: all made their point in an atmosphere of madness, delirium even, which yet remained musically grounded in rhythmic and melodic insistence. ‘Chant d’amour 1’ sounded somewhat too frenetic at first; again, that may have been as much an acoustical as a musical problem, and again the point should not be exaggerated. The saccharine theme from violins and ondes possessed a suitable combination of naïveté and sheer weirdness. Messiaen’s technique of juxtaposition came across very clearly: perhaps too clearly?

 

At any rate, the first ‘Turangalîla’ movement provided some respite. (The fastidious Pierre Boulez could never quite bring himself to conduct the symphony as a whole, but conducted the ‘Turangalîla’ movements.) It is – and in performance, was – less blanat, sounding imbued with mystery that could claim to be genuinely spiritual, if that shop-soiled word has not entirely lost all meaning by now. Moreover, elements of the music seemed to look forward to the 1950s, the 1960s, even beyond; there is surely a glimpse of Stockhausen to be had here. Perhaps it was not surprising, however saddening it may have been, that some members of the audience rudely began to depart during this wonderfully sphinx-like movement.

 

The second ‘Chant d’amour’ had a splendidly perky woodwind opening. Its clockwork craziness – presentiments of Chronochromie? – increased when the section was joined by other instruments, leading unerringly into the ‘response’ of the love theme. Nott’s shaping here was exemplary. The movement ended in frankly sexual fashion, but that was as nothing compared to the ensuing ‘Joie du sang des étoiles’, its performance unabashed with respect to what we might call its cosmic silliness. I found myself wondering whether the inhabitants of another planet, or indeed an étoile somewhere, might already play this music. Goodness knows what acts it would accompany or presage…

 

‘Jardin du sommeil d’amour’ answered that question in no uncertain terms. Or at least such was the experience in a performance of great languor, even ‘insistent languor’, which apparent contradiction was suggested by Osborne’s piano commentary. As elsewhere, the pianist’s contribution was exemplary in its scintillation, quite the equal of a Pierre-Laurent Aimard. The second ‘Turangalîla’ movement was again welcome in its almost alien inscrutability after that spell in the garden of earthly delights. Now was the time for the LSO’s percussion truly to shine, and it did. Joy was felt in the combinatory aspects of the movement. There also seemed to be a welcome acknowledgement by Nott of its unhinged quality.

 

That telephonic interruption aside, ‘Développement de l’amour’ offered blazing climaxes which left little to the imagination. If not quite a cold shower, the third and final ‘Turangalîla’ movement at least presented a contrast of relative subtlety. Instrumental combinations fascinated, as did the notes ‘themselves’. It was beguilingly curious, and curiously beguiling. Musical processes were readily, revealingly apparent. The finale really had the sense of being a conclusion. It could hardly have been more exultant than some of what had passed before, but it certainly seemed imbued with homecoming, wherever this strangest of homes might be. This was a wonderful – in every way – conclusion to the LSO’s season. The final, prolonged, glowing chord sent shivers down the spine.

 

Edinburgh International Festival: Steven Osborne piano recital, 28 August 2008

The Queen’s Hall

Debussy – Children’s Corner
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.21 in C major, op.53, ‘Waldstein’
Messiaen – Vingt regards sur l’enfant Jésus: excerpts

Steven Osborne (piano)

This was originally to have been a recital by Ivan Moravec, with an entirely different programme. The great Czech pianist, however, was indisposed and Steven Osborne took his place at very short notice.

His Children’s Corner suite steered a middle way between modernist clarity and (post-) impressionist haze, not that there was anything of a compromise about this. The performance sounded truly as if performed an instrument ‘without hammers’, a fine touch aided by skilful, atmospheric, but never indiscriminate pedalling. Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum had an apt quality of the curtain-raiser to it, both in terms of the suite and the recital as a whole. Each piece was subtly characterised yet made to serve its place in a greater whole. Tempi were judiciously chosen, and the deployment of rubato was exemplary. Jimbo was treated to a charming lullaby; the snow truly danced, yet remained snowlike. Golliwogg’s Cakewalk was taken with a nice swing, never at the cost of rhythmic precision, and the Tristan joke was all the better for not being laboured.

I found the Waldstein sonata less successful, which is not to say wholly unsuccessful. The first movement fared best, exhibiting a strong sense of forward momentum, although it could be a little unyielding. This did not apply to statements of the second subject, whose melting chords Osborne voiced with clarity and with feeling. The modulation to E major had a sense of magic not so evident in the rest of the sonata. The Introduzione is marked molto adagio, and I am usually the last person to take a musician to task for slow tempi. However, this was not only molto adagio but also rather plodding. Phrases were not always sustained as they might be, leading to an unduly ‘broken’ impression. Part of the problem was an apparent inability or neglect to listen through the rests. The Rondo likewise sounded somewhat laboured to start with, although it improved as time went on. A greater shortcoming was the increased tendency, present to some extent in the first movement too, to treat Beethoven as if he – of all composers! – were thinking, like Debussy, of an instrument without hammers. The harmonic shifts of the changing trills were thus undersold, although the effect was beautiful in itself. One needs to guard against the prospect of harmonic monotony, given the preponderance of tonic and dominant in much of this movement. Details need to tell more than they did, both in themselves and for their structural import. Still, the coda brought matters to an exciting conclusion, although I entertained the impression that it was not so hard-won as it might have been.

When it came to the five excerpts from Messiaen’s Vingt regards sur l’enfant Jésus, I had no reservations whatsoever. This was superlative pianism and, more to the point, superlative musicianship. Osborne performed no.1, Regard du Père; no.8, Regard des hauteurs; No.14, Regard des anges; No.19, Je dors, mais mon coeur veille; and no.10, Regard de l’esprit de joie. I have not heard his Hyperion recording, but I can certainly now understand why it is so highly regarded. The whole gamut of pianistic expression, from the chordal serenity of the opening regard to the post-Lisztian pyrotechnics of no.10 was covered here. Especially striking was Osborne’s response to Messiaen’s utterly characteristic harmonic language. His understanding of where the music was to lead through its harmonic implications could hardly have been bettered. Nor could his technique. In no.19, we seemed to have all the time in the world, without the slightest danger of boredom; nothing could have been more apt for the evocation of one’s heart watching during sleep. My only complaint was that we could not have heard more; a complete performance would clearly be an occasion of great note. Osborne followed this triumph with a Gershwin transcription. He savoured the idiom, although he could not convince me that this was anything more than café music. Still, this was a recital to treasure for the Messiaen.

Messiaen and Bach, DSO Berlin/Metzmacher, 21 March 2008

Philharmonie, Berlin

Messiaen – Les Offrandes oubliées
Bach – Cantata: ‘Weinen, klagen, sorgen, zagen’, BWV 12
Bach – Cantata: ‘Christ lag in Todesbanden,’ BWV 4
Messiaen – Trois petites Liturgies de la Présence divine

Julia Kleiter (soprano)
Angelika Kirchschlager (alto)
Andreas Weller (tenor)
Alfred Reiter (bass)
Steven Osborne (piano)
Valérie Hartmann-Clavérie (ondes martenot)
Rundfunkchor Berlin
Simon Halsey (chorus master)

Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester Berlin
Ingo Metzmacher (conductor)

This was the first in a series of four concerts combining works by Bach and Messiaen over the holy weekend. Messiaen’s Les Offrandes oubliées is an early work, written in 1930. Although one could hear the influence of Franck and perhaps Dupré, that most personal of voices was nevertheless clearly apparent. In the alternation of very slow music with eruptions of joy, this was also typically Messiaen. The orchestra sounded surprisingly ‘French’ in tonal quality, especially the strings. Occasionally, I wondered whether in the very high notes at the end, a little less vibrato from the violins would have helped intonation, but this was barely a problem. This early ‘méditation symphonique’ provided an excellent curtain-raiser for an impressive concert.

The first Bach cantata took a little time to settle, although the oboe soloist was first-rate even in the opening sinfonia – and also as obbligato in the alto aria, standing to perform, as a participant in an unfolding drama. Angelika Kirchschlager, here described as an alto rather than a mezzo-soprano, was so expressive in her recitative that it almost sounded like arioso, leading into that wonderful aria, ‘Kreuz und Kronen sind verbunden’. Her imploring tone upon the words ‘Christen haben alle Stunden/Ihre Qual und ihren Feind,’ was deeply moving. The rock-solid continuo of ’cello, double bass, and organ should also be commended. Alfred Reiter, in the bass aria that followed, sounded ever so slightly dry, but this should not be exaggerated. His diction was superb. Andreas Weller suffered a little from a catch in his throat, but nevertheless handled Bach’s unsparingly melismatic writing well. The trumpet chorale accompanying his aria was plangent but steadfast in the surety of faith: perfectly judged. By the time of the closing chorale, the choir sounded in better shape than its somewhat tentative opening chorus had suggested, fuller in tone though able to scale back where necessary.

Christ lag in Todesbanden sounded brighter than it often does, which is not inappropriate for what is after all an Easter rather than a Passion cantata. Here the strings sounded more at ease than they had during the previous cantata, less afraid to use vibrato and even some longer bows. The brass both underpinned and crowned the texture. Kirchschlager and Julia Kleiter shone in their beautiful duet, as did Kleiter and Weller in theirs, imparting an almost Handelian lyricism to Versus 6. Whatever slight problems had troubled Weller in the previous work had now vanished, as was also proved in his mellifluous solo. Likewise Reiter had lost his hint of dryness, and sounded almost Sarastro-like in his solo. The choir handled both homophonic and contrapuntal sections with aplomb, marking a fine performance all round.

Messiaen’s wonderfully bizarre Trois petites Liturgies had the second half to itself, and received a splendid performance. The slight inhibitions some of the orchestra had exhibited during the first half were banished. Augmented by very fine percussion, the DSO Berlin was on very good form. So were the ladies of the Rundfunkchor, who even had a reasonable stab at sounding French. Steven Osborne was luxury casting indeed on the piano, but this definitely paid off. His command of rhythm and colour was dazzling, helping to make this a memorable performance indeed. Equally fine was Valérie Hartmann-Clavérie: the ondes martenot was far more audible than can sometimes be the case, and this really helped to express Messiaen’s ecstatic response to the presence of the Lord. Her glissandi and vibrato were especially notable. At the helm was Ingo Metzmacher, whose guidance had unsurprisingly been more at a remove in the Bach works. Metzmacher clearly has a strong feeling for Messiaen’s music, and revelled, as he had in the first work on the programme, in its moods and colours.