Even by Messiaen’s standards the
Turangalīla-Symphonie is a weird and wonderful work. Mystico-spiritual it also delights in
rhythms and sonorities that are very much of this world. Indeed, I remarked
on its ‘shrieks and farts’ in my
review of the Bergen Philharmonic/Juanjo Mena performance, which was one of
my Recordings of the Year in 2012. Listening to it once more in preparation
for this review I was seduced – nay,
ravished - all over
again. It’s a big, bold and, most important, an impassioned reading
that sweeps all before it. There are no weak links – Steven Osborne
on piano and Cynthia Millar on the
ondes deserve special praise
– and Hyperion’s recording is top-notch too.
The early Super Audio recording of
Turangalīla - from
Riccardo Chailly and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra - is still available,
albeit at inflated prices. However, the much cheaper CD or download
will do just fine. Whatever the format Lintu and his team are up against
some stiff competition. Apart from the Mena I've also assessed a fine
but comparatively civilised account from Yan Pascal Tortelier and the
BBC Philharmonic
(review).
And then there's André Previn and the LSO's highly charged recording
from 1977 (EMI/Warner). In the delirium that accompanied my Mena review
I described the latter as ‘pallid’ by comparison. With hindsight
that’s a little unfair; Previn could only offer the original score
- Messiaen revised it in 1990 - but he still understands the composer's
soundscapes better than most.
Turangalīla encompasses the earthly-erotic and the lofty-contemplative,
and for it to work these elements need to be fused into a rapturous
whole. Previn certainly achieves that, although the standard CD is not
one of EMI’s best. No, if you want to revisit this classic I’d
suggest you seek out the DVD-A, released in 2001. Frankly it’s
a revelation, for the re-mastering has lifted the grime that masked
the original LP's panoply of sounds colours; the astonishing detail
and tonal variety that emerge confirm this as one of the finest
Turangalīlas on record. Mena and Chailly are probably the
best of the 1990 versions; the latter, somewhat analytical but always
propulsive, is blessed with some terrific percussion and a fabulous
bass drum.
So, Lintu and his players must deliver an exceptional performance – and
that goes for the sonics, too - if they are to catch up with, let alone
overtake, the frontrunners. The
Introduction should explode
with energy, a thrilling precursor of what is yet to come. First impressions
are that this newcomer, quite closely recorded, has plenty of heft and
dark, rasping sonorities; that’s no bad thing, but what I miss
already is the elemental surge, the barely controlled voluptuousness,
that makes other readings seem so vivid and visceral. Some may prefer
the less flamboyant style of Tortelier and Lintu, but I like my
Turangalīla played with a sense of risk and abandon.
The drenching start to
Chant d’amour I sounds splendid
here, with formidable drum thwacks and a suitably sinuous
ondes;
that said, I find Lintu’s precipitous pauses before the latter’s
entries very irritating indeed. Clearly this isn’t going to be
a seamless performance, more a collection of contrasting episodes, and
that rather undermines the epic, cyclical nature of the piece. The woodwind
playing in
Turangalīla I is very accomplished
though, and those downward
pizzicati are nicely articulated;
however, Hartmann-Claverie’s mewling
ondes – it's
not the most ingratiating instrument at the best of times - is faintly
risible compared with the strongly projected sounds of Loriod, Millar
and Harada (Previn, Mena and Chailly respectively). All three avoid
the clichéd whoops and whines one associates with sci-fi movies
of the 1950s; in so doing they ensure the
ondes is part of
the orchestra, not a distracting adjunct to it.
Angela Hewitt’s lucid but somewhat cool contributions - intellect
is her forté, after all - reinforce a sense of proficiency at
the expense of passion. Michel Béroff (Previn) and Steven Osborne
(Mena) throw themselves into the music in a way that their rivals don’t;
this collective thrill is what makes their participation so memorable,
and what renders those performances so satisfying, so
complete.
With Lintu there's a whiff of of caution, perhaps borne of relative
unfamiliarity with the score; the less than fluid rhythms of
Chant
d’amour II are a case in point. Also, when it comes to Messiaen's
crowning epiphanies Lintu simply can’t match the soaring intensity
of his finest rivals.
That’s the nub of it; for all its virtues this new
Turangalīla is just too prosaic, and that’s anathema in a work as unbridled
and poetic as this. I daresay multi-channel enthusiasts will be only
too pleased to hear the symphony in 5.0 surround, but in SACD stereo
at least there's not as much extra presence and power as one might expect.
Similarly, Lintu's
Joie du Sang des Étoiles lacks the
febrile quality that Previn, Mena and Chailly bring out so well. Moreover,
theirs are genuinely strong and cumulative performances that unfold
with an implacable logic, an inexorability, that Lintu and his committed
players can’t begin to emulate.
Moving on, Hewitt needs more brilliance in
Jardin du Sommeil d’amour and
Turangalīla II – Béroff is
scintillating in both – and there’s little of the evanescence
others find in that strange arboreal setting. Once again I’m left
with the impression that Lintu’s is a meticulous but ultimately
safe performance of this most volatile work. Soundwise it all
seems a bit dry and balances aren’t always natural; for instance
the animated cello in
Turangalīla II is too close, although
the bass drum and percussion are splendid.
The Finnish orchestra acquit themselves well, even if the brass in
Développement
d’amour sound a tad weary at times. I really don’t
care for Hartmann-Claverie’s playing of the
ondes though;
she was far more imaginative for Tortelier. Now the instrument sounds
wiry and insistent, calling attention to itself in a way that I can’t
imagine the composer intended. Not surprisingly Jeanne Loriod is the most beguiling
ondes player of them all; she has a sure sense of what’s required at
the work’s nodal points. Millar and Harada are also more subtle
and varied, and that enhances the symphony’s already exotic colour
palette.
Lintu’s
Turangalīla III and the
Finale certainly have their moments – the interplay of instruments and
rhythms in the former are superbly realised – but that’s
simply not enough in an immersive and closely knit piece such as this.
The yelps and squeaks of the
ondes in the closing movement
are ill-judged; here, as elsewhere, one feels like a bemused onlooker
at, and not an active participant in, this great and gaudy celebration.
The frankly orgasmic culmination of Previn’s
Turangalīla has to be heard – no,
experienced - to be believed, especially
on that DVD-A. Indeed, his vintage performance has it all; punch, passion
and a proselytizing zeal.
If you’re addicted to
Turangalīla you’ll
have several versions on your shelves or on your hard drive; Kent Nagano
and the Berliner Philharmoniker on Teldec, Seiji Ozawa and the Toronto
Symphony on RCA (
review)
and Chailly (Decca) should be among them; that said, there are aspects
of the latter – Jean-Yves Thibaudet’s sometimes splashy
pianism and Chailly's occasionally odd-sounding perorations - that I
find disconcerting. None is perfect, but each brings something special
to the feast. I'm sure Lintu will find favour with some listeners, but
in such distinguished company - and for the reasons listed above - I
must exclude him from the table.
Not the
Turangalīla I’d hoped for; Previn, Mena
and Chailly are still tops.
Dan Morgan
http://twitter.com/mahlerei
