The name of Pablo
Casals remains mythical as that of the man who put the cello
on the map. And yet, there were proficient cellists before him
while the generations which came after have surely produced
several who can do all he could if not more. In Rostropovich
the world has even found a cellist able to don something of
Casals’s moral mantle – which Stravinsky waspishly summed up
as “he is in favour of peace, against Franco and believes in
playing Bach in the style of Brahms”. Stravinsky may be forgiven
his unkindness since he had just turned on the television and
heard Casals and Kodaly discussing “the trouble with Stravinsky”.
Rostropovich, incidentally, is surely much less simplistic in
his political and moral stances, as befits our more complex
world.
I am not trying
to knock the legend, however, for it has a valid point: it was
Casals who developed a big tone which projected strongly to
the public. Records of cellists who had learnt their art before
the advent of Casals reveal a more wavery, if gentler sound.
The cellist we hear on this disc could well be a modern musician,
especially when the recordings, which I had remembered as sounding
rather dim on LP transfers, find a striking presence, the downside
of which is some strident orchestral fortes; but I am sure it
was right to concentrate on getting Casals to sound as good
as possible.
In spite of Casals’
inestimable influence as a cellist, he seems to have had surprisingly
little influence as an interpreter. If his Elgar tended to divide
opinion in its day, I doubt if things have changed very much,
for no one has really followed him along this particular road.
It is not just a question of slow tempi - the famous Du Pré/Barbirolli
recording is longer by several minutes - but his rubato gives
the first movement, in particular, a curiously meandering effect.
Boult no doubt had rather different ideas, but you would never
guess from his loyal support. It was and still is a performance
outside the mainstream, though it certainly deserves hearing
for its many beauties.
Closely analysed,
Casals tends to use more genuine rubato within the framework
of stricter tempi than is normal today – it’s so much easier
to play around with the tempi and call it rubato. Except that,
in the context of this basically rather disciplined approach,
he sometimes, in the Dvořák, takes a passage at a quite
different tempo. The upshot is that this, too, is a performance
that will sound a little odd to modern ears – faster than usual
in some places, slower in others, sometimes very free, sometimes
surprisingly rigorous. For all the fame of this recording, and
beautiful as the playing is, it has not inspired much emulation
- as Rostropovich’s performances, for better or worse, have
- and it, too, remains outside the mainstream. I wish, also,
that the Czech Philharmonic had been conducted by their chief
conductor Václav Talich, for under Szell’s taut direction it
is no longer the singingly Dvořákian instrument it normally
was and remained for at least another thirty years. The blandly
metropolitan sound of its (usually) pastoral woodwind is certainly
a demonstration of what a conductor can do to an orchestra,
but it’s a demonstration I would rather have heard applied to
other music.
Perhaps the piece
I enjoyed most was the Bruch, not a work that normally inspires
me greatly. Here the warmth and nobility of Casals’ playing
elevates it beyond what one might have supposed possible, and
the heartfelt warmth of Ronald’s very well played accompaniment
reminds us that this conductor perhaps deserves re-examination
on his own account, not just as an accompanist.
Historically-minded
listeners will certainly want to hear the legendary cellist
playing two of the greatest concertos for the instrument, but
it would be idle to claim that the less specialized will, by
sacrificing modern sound, acquire performances that surpass
all others.
Christopher
Howell