“Debussy – Ravel: Ballets” is what is written on the side of
the CD case. It is one of those two-CD compilations at which
EMI are getting very expert. I reviewed recently another Ravel
volume, as well as one of works by Janácek, and a glance at
the catalogue or any EMI advertisement will reveal many other
issues of this kind. They often draw on wide-ranging sources;
usually very well-planned. Most of the issues I have come across
are highly desirable. For established collectors there is the
irritating chance that one or more of the performances will
be duplicates. For this reason I think this kind of issue is
of most interest to beginners or at any rate, younger purchasers.
The discs under review gather together six performances from
the extensive series of Ravel and Debussy recordings made in
the 1970s by the fine French conductor, Jean Martinon. Perhaps
the other performances will appear in due course, but since
this collection centres around the theme of ballet, it doesn’t
feel like the first instalment of a comprehensive Martinon reissue.
Martinon’s reading of Daphnis et Chloé with the Orchestre
de Paris was particularly well received when it was first issued
and remains one of the finest available to this day. Ravel referred
to the work as a “choreographic symphony in three parts”, and
Martinon makes a particularly good case for seeing the work
in this light. The cumulative effect is powerful, to the extent
that Part 3, better known as Suite No. 2, comes over as the
natural culmination of all that has gone before. Martinon is
uninterested in surface brilliance, preferring a certain sobriety,
even what we might think of as Gallic detachment. This is not
to say that the performance is unexciting, but that one is more
aware than usual of the seriousness of the score and of its
overall structure. In spite of this, he never lets us forget
that the music was originally conceived for the dance. His control
of rhythm and pacing is immaculate, fleet-footed even in the
most powerful passages, never leaden or heavy. The orchestra
plays magnificently well, and the chorus, whose music must be
amongst the most ungrateful in the repertoire – arguably more
gratifying to sing, though, than the music for the women’s chorus
in the last of Holst’s Planets – is, like many French
choirs of the period, very characteristic in sound and pretty
much in tune pretty well most of the time. The famous sunrise
scene is magnificently done, immensely subtle in terms of orchestral
sound and balance, though without a trace of romantic excess.
There is nothing particularly distinctive about Martinon’s Boléro.
The Orchestre de Paris still sounded quite French in 1974, though
the movement away from that very particular French woodwind
sound was already well under way. Martinon keeps firm control
of tempo whilst at the same time achieving the rather remarkable
feat of screwing up the tension in such a way that you think
the music is faster at the end that it was at the beginning.
The trombonist could, I think, have injected a little more swing
into the glissandi in his solo. The opening of La
Valse is superb, mysterious and menacing, with the waltz
rhythms, when they emerge from the depths, languid and lazy.
The performance doesn’t really live up to this early promise,
however. There is some rather sour wind tuning at times, and
some odd balances too, with the trumpets sounding at one point
as though they are playing from the next room. Then there are
some oddly literal – and not necessarily very accurate – percussion
taps a couple of minutes from the end. Martinon’s way with the
piece brings with it a fair variety of tempo and pulse, searching
for authentic Viennese flavour without, I think, quite finding
it. The ending is noisy but there’s little excitement there;
it should be horrifying, but it’s just a racket really. La
Valse is a masterpiece, though not everybody would say so.
Many conductors have the measure of it on record, but none more
so, in all the performances I have heard, than Pierre Monteux
with the London Symphony Orchestra, recorded in 1964.
I love the five-movement piano-duet version of Ma Mère
l’Oye, as I also do its orchestral guise. When Ravel adapted
it for the ballet he added a prelude, an extra dance – the Dance
of the Spinning-Wheel – and some short interludes. There
are some lovely sounds in these extra pieces, and Ravel cleverly
anticipates the movements to come, but I’ve never taken to it
in the same way as the original suite. I think the interludes
break the mood and in any case the added music is just not of
the same magical quality as the five original pieces. Martinon
gives a fine performance of the ballet version, quite restrained
and cool for much of its length, but well played and convincing.
I wish he’d asked the orchestra to play a bit more quietly for
a bit more of the time, and some passages, Laideronnette, for
example, seem somewhat rushed. The crescendo at the end
of the work is finely controlled, but overall I find this reading
lacking a little in magic.
Debussy’s short tone-poem, incorrectly named “L’Après-midi d’un
faune” on the accompanying material, is only here because Diaghilev
decided to mount it as a ballet some eighteen years after its
composition. We tend to forget its revolutionary nature now,
but it was truly surprising, shocking even, to contemporary
audiences. This performance shows signs of scrupulous preparation
and masterly direction. Orchestral balance is impeccable, with
some harmonic and instrumental clashes made more evident than
usual, in one or two cases bringing out features I had never
heard before. The orchestral sound in general has an unexpected
opulence about it, and the fully scored chords in the early
minutes of the piece sound ravishing. The conductor’s pacing
is masterly, underlining the apparent absence of pulse for much
of the work, and he establishes a powerful atmosphere of heat
and indolence, making the faun’s erotic reveries all the more
credible. This is an outstanding performance of a well-known
work we tend to take for granted.
I’ve never been able to come to terms with Jeux. In spite
of several sumptuous moments, not to mention orchestral writing
of the utmost brilliance, the music never seems to get going,
nor indeed to arrive anywhere. The notes refer to “21 short
motifs”, so maybe that’s my problem, a poor reaction to a work
with little in the way of extended melody. I’ve never seen it
in the theatre, mind, and perhaps I should, but then I’ve never
really come to terms with ballet either. This performance came
as close to convincing me as any ever has. I think it is at
least partly to do with the actual sound of the orchestra of
which Martinon had been Chief Conductor for some five years:
textures are clean and crisp, with light passing through them,
surely as the composer intended. The pacing seems right too
(the scenario centres around a game of tennis.) Bernstein seems
overwrought in this music, but Haitink’s celebrated reading
is very fine. Otherwise, until this performance arrived, whenever
I felt like having another go with this work I tended to turn
to Serge Baudo on EMI. I think Martinon will be my mentor from
now on.
William Hedley
Chorus of the Paris Opera 
