Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte, in its original
version for piano, was composed in 1899. The Piano Concerto in
G major, completed in 1931, was almost his final work. This collection
therefore spans almost his entire creative life, and may thus
be seen as a comprehensive introduction to the composer.
Karajan’s Berlin
performance of Bolero also appears in a remarkable EMI
collection of sixteen CDs entitled Twentieth-Century Masterpieces,
a review of which will appear shortly. It is one of the few
duds in that collection, and I feel no differently having listened
to it again for this review. The opening flute solo is so languorous
that it might be Debussy’s faun wandering in, and the super-refined,
homogenised sound of the rest of the winds fatally undermines
Ravel’s meticulous control of colour. The reading doesn’t grow,
and there is no shock at the short-lived change of key just
before the end. One longs for something less comfortable and
plush.
Michelangeli’s
G major Concerto is a classic of the gramophone and most Ravel
collectors will already own it. Not having heard it for many
years I was pleased to be reminded of its qualities. The playing
is magnificent, limpid and mercurial by turns, the pianist nonetheless
retaining a coolness, a certain magisterial distance not at
all at odds with the composer. The sound is showing its age
and the unsynchronised hands in the slow movement bring to the
reading a dated feel too, but the orchestral playing is generally
very fine – a particularly touching cor anglais solo in the
slow movement – and the understanding between soloist and conductor
is exemplary. It would be a pity, though, to buy this collection
and then be discouraged from acquiring the original disc – now
available in the Great Recordings of the Century series – on
which the Ravel is coupled with an even finer reading of Rachmaninov’s
Fourth Concerto.
A similar coolness,
though without the distance, is maintained in Jean Martinon’s
beautiful performance of the Pavane. Certain of the wind
soloists sound so French that one might have thought the recording
to be of an earlier vintage. The same orchestra sounds just
as French for their founder-conductor, Charles Munch, in the
second suite from Daphnis and Chloé. This is a fine performance
on its own terms, and one which will not disappoint, but others
have found more rapture in the birdsong-filled daybreak of the
first tableau, and more delirious excitement in the final dance.
Notable amongst these, and the compiler might conceivably have
chosen it, contractual considerations permitting, is Guido Cantelli’s
performance with the Philharmonia Orchestra, recorded by the
same company in the mid-1950s, and last seen on Testament.
I listened to
Alborada del gracioso assuming that Karajan was conducting
the Berlin Philharmonic. When I read that it was, in fact, the
Orchestre de Paris once again, I was so surprised that I returned
to it straight away, fearing that my reaction might be based
more on prejudice than on serious analytical listening. But
no: by some sort of alchemy, Karajan managed to transform the
French orchestra into something resembling himself for these
sessions. There is about the performance a feeling of luxury
casting. Everything is brilliantly played, but little of the
irony or the darkness of Ravel’s vision seems to find its way
into the mix, and even less, it had to be said, of any Spanish
feel.
Another orchestra
which has lost – or is losing – its own, particularly French
sound, is my local one, the Toulouse Capitole Orchestra. In
a story rather like that of Barbirolli and the Hallé, the orchestra
was more or less created by Michel Plasson, and achieved under
his direction a very high standard indeed. After his departure
it was without a permanent director for some time, but now,
under Tughan Sokhiev it is playing better than ever. There is
excitement in the air in Toulouse just now, and fire in the
playing, but the sound has been transformed, and I find that
a pity. Sadly, the two Plasson performances in this collection
are both disappointing. He is a very expressive conductor, so
it is not surprising to hear him broadening the tempo for the
short, lush violin passage in the Tom Thumb scene from Mother
Goose, nor when the main theme returns just before the end
of the final movement, The Enchanted Garden. In truth,
though, he is too free with tempo and pulse, too ready to pull
back and enjoy the moment at the expense of the longer view,
and the reading as a whole is short on charm and magic. Even
so, he seems relatively restrained here, at least in comparison
with his reading of La Valse, where he misses no opportunity
to pull the tempo about unmercifully, often to quite crude effect.
I imagine his aim is to bring out the grotesquery of the piece,
but Ravel’s music doesn’t need that kind of help and the conductor
only succeeds in getting in the way. The musicians seem to be
going through the motions in two scores they must know almost
off by heart.
The Melos Ensemble
recorded Ravel’s exquisite Introduction and Allegro for
L’Oiseau-Lyre in 1961, on an LP which has graced countless French
music collections since then and ever since. This performance
dates from 1967, and Osian Ellis was once again the harpist.
There is nothing to choose between the two performances: they
are both absolutely marvellous.
Andrei Gavrilov’s
Gaspard de la Nuit was first released coupled with his
performances of Ravel’s two concertos conducted by Simon Rattle.
I never heard that disc, but this Gaspard makes me want
to seek it out. It is positively sulphurous in the virtuoso
passages, the climactic bars of Scarbo bringing playing
of quite extraordinary power. I don’t think I have ever heard
Le Gibet quite so gloomy as this: one almost shivers
at the hopelessness of it all. I checked on Martha Argerich
(DG) as a comparison, and found Gavrilov to be fully her equal.
I’m not sure that I don’t even prefer his reading.
And then there
is Shéhérazade, the one Janet Baker performance from the
1960s which featured in my student LP collection and which I have
never acquired on CD. And what a pleasure it is to hear this performance
again! Accepted wisdom, then as now, was that Régine Crespin was
supreme in this work. Well, maybe. But Baker is wonderful, all
breathless impetuosity one minute, rapt contemplation the next.
Listen to how she floats her top G flat, pianissimo, on the word
“Asie” about a minute into the first song, and all this without
a mention of that glorious voice, so instantly recognisable and
always used with such intelligence and good musical and dramatic
sense. As for the accompaniment, Barbirolli is, as always, wonderfully
at one with his soloist, affectionate and convincing. Ansermet,
for Crespin, is only efficient by comparison.
William Hedley
Berlin
Philharmonic Orchestra/Herbert von Karajan (Bolero)
