What
might you expect from this combination? One of Europe’s
- if not the world’s - top orchestras being led in the
entire symphonies of Prokofiev by Russia’s most outstanding
conducting export of the last decade? The Guardian quote
on the back of the box sums it up well: ‘Valery Gergiev
is a born Prokofiev interpreter … he made the LSO sound
like the ideal musicians for this repertoire.’ I have seen
Gergiev at work often enough in The Netherlands, and he
almost invariably seems to be able to wring Russian-ness
from the orchestras with whom he works – in the appropriate
repertoire, of course. There is a fearsome intellect at
work with Gergiev which not only somehow manages to inhabit
the mind and intentions of the composer, but which also
lives and breathes the context and time in which the music
was written. Prokofiev’s symphonies demand extreme attention
to detail and an excess of commitment to be truly effective.
Not all of the music is the best you will ever hear, but
Gergiev’s mastery argues and convinces, overriding basal
criticism and always welcoming even the ‘weaker’ moments
into Prokofiev’s extended and profuse family of invention.
Gergiev’s
intentions on the opening of the “Classical Symphony” are
clear from the start. To me, it sounds like the beginning
of a long journey, and the treat we have in store is a
genuine cycle, not a sequence of performances related by
composer’s name alone. Treading the refined line laid
by Prokofiev’s deliberately Haydnesque (or is it Mozartean)
classical style, he emphasises the composer’s joy in finding
his solution to initiating a lifelong symphonic career,
and the clarity and transparent orchestration in the score.
There is plenty of time for revolutionary excitement later
on in the cycle, and this first Symphony is in many ways
the calm before the storm. So much of the music breathes
the country air in which Prokofiev worked on this piece,
and the whole performance exudes refreshing exuberance – right
down to the flutes, who are put through their paces and
only just survive the cracking tempo set for the last movement.
The
Second Symphony inhabits an altogether different world.
Inspired in part by Honegger’s Pacific 231, the
piece underwent a difficult creative process and was initially
criticised for being over-complicated. Prokofiev’s own
lack of confidence is betrayed in his comment on the first
performance, ‘[I had] complicated the piece to such an
extent that as I listened, even I couldn’t find the essence.’ In
fact, and certainly in this performance, the whirlwind
precocity of ideas and orchestral contrasts possess a steamroller
inevitability which simultaneously defy and confirm logic
in a uniquely individualistic statement. The strings dig
deeply, and brass and winds are solidly stoical. The fearsome
energy of the first movement is succeeded by the apparent
respite of the quiet opening of the Theme and Variations,
but Gergiev’s occasional vocalising from the podium show
how intensely he is drawing the orchestra through every
musical sentence. In some ways this is Prokofiev’s Rite,
with Stravinsky’s bulbous nose occasionally pushing through
into what remains an incredibly influential and modern
sounding movement.
The
Third Symphony has its origins in an operatic work based
on Valery Bryusov’s The Fiery Angel. With some debate
as to whether it should be called a ‘Symphony’ rather than
a ‘Suite’ derived from the opera, Koussevitzky hailed it
in its premiere as ‘the best symphony since Tchaikovsky’s
Sixth’ which is a definitive enough statement with which
to make that particular point. Operatic references certainly
give the music a programmatic feel, but with the strength
of the ideas and Gergiev’s stirring advocacy it is easy
to take this as purely symphonic music – albeit with a
great deal of added exoticism and explicitly illustrated
imagery. The Allegro agitato third movement has
some remarkable squealing string effects which come over
superbly: love themes existing in an edgy balance with
the ‘supernatural slides and thuddings’ mentioned in David
Nice’s excellent booklet notes. The compact finale is full
of grimly dark references and shivering, cinematic suspense-building,
and with the chiming of a heavy bell towards the end it’s
like the demonized spirits of Dukas and Berlioz in a life
or death struggle filmed in black-and-white on the Reichenbach
falls.
The
later 1947 version of the Fourth Symphony appears first
on this set, coupled with the ‘Classical Symphony.’ It
is the original 1930 version which possesses comparable
classical proportions, but its lengthier brother fills
a disc with the compact No.1 more satisfactorily. Lebrecht
describes both versions as ‘an unwholesome mess,’ which
does seem a little harsh. Take the work on its own terms,
and all of the lyrical and harmonically inventive Prokofiev
is present. What disturbs is the addition of new material
which seems deliberately aimed at pleasing Stalinists,
but no-one should forget the strength of post-war feeling
which can drive such decisions – you can certainly see
the caps flying into the air at the end of the final brass
led coda. It’s only when you compare the lugubrious excesses
of Op.112 with the sinuous and punchy directness of the
original that you genuflect in gratitude that we still
have both, and so listeners might prefer to take the later
version as a kind of appendix to this set. Gergiev always
has us in the palm of his hand in both versions however,
making us believe, removing any doubt that we are listening
to great music – or if not the greatest of music, then
certainly music worthy of respect conceived by one of the
greatest of composers.
The
Fifth Symphony is in many ways the crowning glory of Prokofiev’s
symphonic output, and if one is comparing individual versions
Gergiev is up against a serious club of competitors. I’m
a big fan of the energy which can be generated by live
performances, and Gergiev certainly raises the roof of
the Barbican hall. Prokofiev publicly stated that his conception
of the work was as ‘a symphony of the grandeur of the human
spirit.’ Gergiev is alive to the darkness inherent in the
composer’s situation – increasingly affected by the strictures
and dangers inherent in the political developments of the
time, but keeping something in reserve for the last two
symphonies. The LSO’s brass are true stars in this performance,
with a weight and richness of sonority which is truly excellent.
The sheer passion which Gergiev manages to conjure from
the strings in the Adagio is masterly, and the balance
which holds each layer in place in some of the more complex
textures is also stunning. The Allegro giocoso is
a thoroughly enjoyable gallop, with the horns driving through
rhythmically and some brilliant woodwind solos enriching
the gentler sections: and that ending has to be the ending
to end all endings!
The
Sixth Symphony tragic tones are compared to Shostakovich‘s
Eighth in the booklet, and it was soon blacklisted by the
Soviets as representing ‘the abnormal, the repellent and
the pathological.’ The melancholy of Prokofiev’s themes
is emphasised by a spareness of orchestration which develops
through some remarkable effects, including stabbing piano
chords and sustained waves of horns on one note. The second Largo initially
offers no relaxing respite from the stresses of the first
movement, pushing on with the drama of a lengthy melody
which contains a reference to Wagner’s Parsifal.
The uneasy development, full of nightmarish outbursts,
only relinquishes its grip temporarily in order to allow
the harp and celesta to bring contrast of colour and support
to the horns’ calmer nocturne. The forced jollity of the
final Vivace is constantly undermined by sardonic
countermelodies and musical replies which fling themes
around the orchestra like a set of soiled Frisbees.
Written
just one year before the composer’s all too early death,
the Seventh Symphony is superficially more approachable
than the Sixth. The deportation of his first wife Lina
to a Siberian labour camp had contributed to further health
problems in the winter of 1950, and the symphony is in
constant flux between nostalgic reflection on earlier works,
well travelled paths in terms of musical gesture, and the
search for expressions of profundity and emotional substance
within the constraints of the demands of the Soviet committee.
Prokofiev publicly claimed to have intended the work for
children’s radio, but there are few moments where you feel
this is being attempted at all seriously. The final gallop
is happy in the same way as the people of ‘Happy Valley’ are
happy – they have to be; they have no choice. Prokofiev’s
fixed musical grin has genuine built-in wit, but those
glazed eyes have a manic glint behind them. Gergiev has
wisely chosen to use his original, movingly shadowy close,
rather than end with the ‘tacked on twenty-two more bars
of gallop’ which would have provided the required committee-friendly
happy dispatch.
Gergiev
has a way of making Prokofiev’s permanently febrile musical
imagination coherent and consistent even in the more ‘difficult’ symphonies.
His ability to sustain the highest drama and tensions in
the slow movements are to my mind unsurpassed. There are
one or two moments when the strings are pushed to the limits,
but these recordings possess all of the energy of live
performances without any nasty bumps, bangs or resident
consumptives: the orchestra is on top form and the playing
is second to none, with the musicians clearly responding
110% to Gergiev’s leadership.
In
comparison with Shostakovich there are relatively few complete
Prokofiev sets. Naxos’ box with orchestras from the Ukraine
and Poland inevitably has the advantage of budget price – 9
CDs including all of the piano concertos as well. Neeme
Järvi and the Royal Scottish National Orchestra on Chandos
has been high on the list of choices since 1985, but no
version is completely perfect, and issues of woodwind balance,
transparency and volume/substance in the strings have been
raised. For sheer opulence there is Seiji Ozawa and the
Berlin Philharmonic on Deutsche Grammophon. Compared with
Gergiev his recordings are almost a rose-tinted view of
the works. There is a great deal of power and energy in
the performances, but few moments which will have you out
of your plush red sofa pacing the room with angst.
My
one reservation with this new set has nothing to do with
the performances or the recording as such. I must admit
that the Barbican Hall acoustic has always seemed to me
somewhat problematic – not so much as a concert hall (I
have been to many marvellous and memorable concerts there),
but as a recording venue. It is something to which the
ear adjusts of course, and such excellent performances
transcend location in a way which makes me hesitant to
complain. These works require so much elbow room however
that it sometimes seems almost an insult to restrict them
in any way, and one is left to imagine how the whole thing
would have sounded in a slightly more spacious setting.
Rich, resonant acoustics do however smack of Western decadence,
and with this set you are guaranteed ‘the full works’ in
terms of drama, excitement, sheer grit, pain and misery.
Gergiev holds such a powerful grip on this music that you
may find you have bitten your nails to the bone – even
(and sometimes especially) in the slow movements. There
is fun to be had as well of course, but for me Gergiev
brings Prokofiev’s symphonic achievement to a new level
with this set. Agreed, he was not a ‘natural symphonist’ in
the conventional sense, but his work echoes on in symphonic
compositions even today, and I found myself discovering
more pointers to later composers than I remember from other
recordings. There may be ‘cleaner’ recordings of the more
popular symphonies, but those of you who have avoided the
so-called ‘weaker’ symphonies until now might do well to
discover them in this context. I sense Gergiev arguing
against Prokofiev’s critics: ‘nix weaker – where is weak,
show me weak?’ This is a set with which you will be able
to live for a long time, and from which new things will
always emerge from each hearing.
Well,
what else did you expect?
Dominy Clements
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Symphony Orchestra/Valery Gergiev
