Roussel’s oeuvre is
one of the more unexplored areas of
the repertoire and one of the most rewarding.
This reissue of Martinon’s 1968 recordings
brings back to the catalogue two classics
of his discography in performances not
easy to supplant, even given their (relative)
vintage.
The Second Symphony
took two years to complete and its premiere
occasioned the usual kind of indignation,
pro and contra. What one now hears in
it is the frequently pessimistic language
it promotes, the darkening colours,
hues predominantly brown, but also the
sense of energy unleashed that exists
both alongside and within that contrary
spirit. The brooding introspection is
also beset by the obsessively tart mockery
of the wind and brutal mechanistic trumpets
– each with their own very powerful
level of emotive engagement. The second
movement’s buoyant unease is interrupted
by shrieking winds and baleful lower
strings and an increasingly turbulent
stygian drive. Moments of relaxation
do arrest the increasingly taut narrative
but it’s never far away. The finale
strikes a kind of proto-Shostakovich
note with plenty of eruptive material
and some once more brutal brass interjections
before a coda of relatively – the qualification
is invariably necessary with Roussel
– peacefulness.
Festin de L'Araignée
(The Spider’s Banquet) was a ballet
premiered in 1913. Taking as its theme
the insect life in a garden the work
is saturated in gauze-like impressionism
stiffened with evocative narrative threads
– evoking Debussy and Ravel. The various
incidents are verdant or brassy and
Roussel shows unlimited amounts of irresistible
verve in depicting them. His control
of melody at a slow tempo and the rhythmic
aspects of the score are teeming with
interest, as is the light diaphanous
fragrance of his orchestration.
Notes are succinct
and the tapes sound excellent with one
passing exception at around 8.20 in
the Symphony where something’s gone
awry at a trumpet-led climax. Otherwise
the Martinon-Roussel reissues from Erato
continue to garner well-merited accolades.
Jonathan Woolf
see also review
by Rob Barnett