Barber, Macmillan, Beethoven: Colin Currie (percussion), Marin Alsop (conductor), London Philharmonic Orchestra, Queen Elizabeth Hall, London, 10.02.2007 (AO)

Part of the charm of Samuel Barber’s music lies in its timelessness. His First Symphony, is really his “only” symphony as he destroyed the manuscript of the second. His genius lay in smaller forms.  There’s only a single movement in this symphony, but make no mistake – this is no Sibelius Seventh.  Alsop presents it on its own terms.  Her straightforward approach accentuates its innate muscular structure, so to speak.  It is an exercise in rhythm and tempi, built on a basic pattern of notes, repeated in variety.   This symphony probably doesn’t stand up to deep interpretation, so this robust, rambunctious performance illuminated its strengths.  There was some very fine playing, notably in the technically demanding oboe parts

Barber’s First was premiered in 1936, when Bartók was writing his Music for strings, percussion and celeste.  The contrast is even more interesting when heard with James Macmillan’s Veni, veni Emmanuel.  It is a concerto where percussion literally takes front stage, but its most inventive writing is for the orchestra.  Like the Barber symphony, it expands simple patterns: the two notes, referring to the words ve-ni, ve-ni, echo throughout, absorbed and expanded in complex chromatic patterns. This is no simple revamping of the ancient chant.  Macmillan creates an antiphonal discourse between the orchestra and soloist which in itself reflects the spirit of the original hymn.  It’s as if the percussion were calling, knowing that an “Emmanuel” will come, in much more elaborate musical form. It’s “Emmanuel” who is important, not the caller.  That’s the “text” implicit in the hymn, so no matter how accomplished the soloist, his or her role exists in relationship to the greater whole. This piece was written for Evelyn Glennie, who has performed it many times.  Colin Currie was very good, holding interest well, even though the balance is inevitably in favour of the orchestra.

The richness in the score comes from the cross currents and counter-rhythms which intensify the soloist’s cue.  Glimpses of the original tune dart past and are developed almost before they register. There are moments of superlative beauty, such as the long passage in which the strings sustain a shimmering, extended legato.  Within the line, violins give way to violas, then cellos, then basses, gradually darkened by woods and brass.   This lovely display of light and colour is spectacular.  Significantly, the soloist listens in silence, before emulating it on marimba and xylophone, played in sequence to stretch the sound range. In the fifth and final section, there’s a kind of synthesis, as Currie played the deeper-toned tubular bells while throughout the orchestra, musicians were playing that tiniest of percussion instruments, the triangle.  This is surprisingly “visual” music.  Currie was able to evoke the tolling of huge cathedral bells, literally towering above.  The glittering metallic pointillism of the triangles evoked the ringing of smaller, higher pitched bells heard at key stages during the ritual of the Mass.  Macmillan links concert music to a deeper, ancient tradition. 

Soon, big symphonies will return to the Royal Festival Hall, so it was good to hear Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in the much smaller Queen Elizabeth Hall, where the acoustics are more enclosed.  For me, the dynamic was also affected by having a seat ear level with the large brass at the back.  It was a good experience, because it meant a sharper focus on what they were playing, a perspective that doesn’t go amiss in this most familiar of symphonies.  Because the brass dominated what I was hearing, I could appreciate other details all the more.  For example, the oboes and clarinets seemed to fly above the solid mass of brass and strings.  Later, the solo violin seemed all the more plaintive and vulnerable.  There isn’t such a thing as an ideal listening position in live performance.  It’s relative to many factors, and part of listening involves understanding how it varies.

Alsop again took a no-nonsense, energetic approach, dispensing with the showy pauses between the famous opening motif some conductors exploit for effect. This wasn’t a Fifth milked for lushness and glamour, but more Spartan, and sinewy. In the third movement, the hushed pizzicato came over with sinister stealth, so that, when the tension was released, the music burst forth all the more exuberance. 

Anne Ozorio