Prokofiev, Grieg, Mussorgsky: Lars Vogt (piano), Philharmonia Orchestra / Vladimir Ashkenazy (conductor), St. David’s Hall, Cardiff, 15. 1.2008 (GPu)

Prokofiev, Symphony No. 1

Grieg, Piano Concerto

Mussorgsky, Pictures at an Exhibition (arranged by Ashkenazy)


This was a concert with a real Pan-European quality to it. A Russian symphony which nods (and bows) to Viennese classicism; a Norwegian piano concerto (written in Denmark) steeped in what its composer had learnt in Leipzig and his indebtedness to Schumann; a Russian work for piano, heard in an orchestrated version (but a ‘Russian’ orchestration rather the one most usually heard, by a Frenchman); a British orchestra, with a Russian-born conductor, featuring a German pianist (who made his name when he was awarded second prize in the Leeds International Piano Competition of 1990).

But for all that, it would probably be fair to say that the dominant ‘language’ was Russian. Apart from Ashkenazy’s dominant resence, the programme began and ended, after all, with Russian works. And, it should be added, Ashkenazy’s arrangement of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition is decidedly more Russian than Ravel’s arrangement, which is the version we hear most often (I’d like to hear Sir Henry Wood’s arrangement one day. Perhaps the Proms could oblige?).

Prokofiev’s youthful first symphony, the ‘Classical’ dances, for the most part, to rhythms that Haydn or Mozart would have had no trouble recognising, but it does so with more than a few of those musical grimaces and pleasant deceptions that one has come to think of as characteristic of Prokofiev. The first theme of the opening allegro got a sparkling reading here, simultaneously bubbly and bracing, champagne and fiercely cold water at one and the same time, as it were. The second theme certainly danced, but employed some leaps and steps that would have startled any belated Viennese would-be participants. There was wit and vivacity, lightness of touch, a sense both of the surprising and the familiar in this performance. There was some real delicacy, a genuine sense of the music being ‘molto dolce’, in the larghetto which followed, a minuet elevated beyond all considerations of the ballroom. In the gavotte that forms the third movement one was made very conscious – but in a natural, unforced fashion – both of unexpected twists and turns and of an underlying charm and facility, like a box of chocolates with some surprising flavours incorporated. Ashkenazy’s ease in this music was everywhere evident, not least in the exuberant finale – very much molto vivace – impudent and elegant by turns. It was already clear that the Philharmonia were on fine form.

I have never been, I’m afraid, a great admirer of Grieg’s Piano Concerto (but then Debussy and George Bernard Shaw weren’t either). But Lars Vogt came quite close to persuading me that I had been wrong all along. He played it with great conviction, with appropriate power and appropriate subtlety, and Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia were very much in tune with him. It is a composition I have always felt to be full of effects but rather light on causes, rather too easily given to factitious gestures. But Vogt found in it a degree of poetry which was not merely sentimental or rhetorical and Ashkenazy drew from the orchestra playing of unashamed sweetness which always stayed just this side of the syrupy. Vogt is clearly – as one already knew from recordings – a considerable pianist; his playing here was perhaps a bit short on Norwegian folk overtones (the halling didn’t seem much in evidence at the beginning of the third movement, for example) but it had a romantic directness, a strength and lyricism which communicated powerfully. The Philharmonia was heard at something like its best at the opening of the adagio, full of gentle poise and beautiful autumnal colours; Vogt entered almost imperceptibly in a moment of considerable beauty. Here and elsewhere, it was clear that Ashkenazy’s familiarity with the work from the pianist’s perspective made him a very sympathetic and perceptive accompanist. There have perhaps been more intimate performances of this second movement, but this one had an impressive dignity without the slightest pomposity. It is the final movement that I have always found least satisfactory in this concerto and even Vogt and Ashkenazy didn’t finally make it convincing, didn’t finally persuade me out of my doubtless unduly grumpy feeling that it is rather a gaudy miscellany of over-easy contrasts, a movement which doesn’t adequately answer the questions, or fulfil the potential, of its two predecessors. But even as a doubter, I was very ready to admit that this was a performance that made out a very forceful case for the work, and that convinced me that there was more real substance in the concerto than I had fully realised before. I should say, in fairness – and perhaps as a comment on my own limitations – than the audience loved it, and many stood to applaud. I didn’t begrudge Vogt, Ashkenazy and the Philarmonia any of their applause; they well deserved it – but I could have wished that the impressive talents on display had been deployed on a different piece …

Mussorgky’s Pictures at an Exhibition has had many different orchestrators over the years, with Ravel’s version of 1922 remaining the benchmark. Ashkenazy’s arrangement was produced in the early 1980s. He recorded it, with the Philharmonia, and it is available on a two-CD Decca set, along with his own performance of the original piano score. This is not the place to attempt any kind of detailed comparison of Ashkenazy’s version with Ravel’s; suffice it to say that it is bolder and more given to extremes and contrasts; that it is generally heavier and darker (Russian rather than French?); that there are some striking changes of instrumentation (notably in ‘Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuyle’). The Philharmonia’s impressive brass section really came into their own in these Pictures, but the strings, too, were impressive and Ashkenazy’s fondness in this work (both as arranger and as conductor) for emphatic pauses and for dynamic contrasts made for a dramatic performance, full of a particular kind of Slavic intensity. He drew from the Philharmonia playing that was by turns lush and grandiose; only near the very end were there a few slight problems of ensemble. For the most part, whether in the solemn and macabre ‘Catacombs’ or the playful children of ‘Tuileries’ this was expansive and resonant playing.

 

Glyn Pursglove

Back to Top                                                    Cumulative Index Page