I’ve been listening to this disc at the same time as the
reissued EMI double album of Ravel and Debussy conducted by Jean
Martinon. The two share not only some repertoire but also the
theme of Ravel and the dance.
Yannick Nézet-Séguin and the superb Rotterdam orchestra
- of which he became the Music Director some months after these
recordings were made - certainly have the measure of the second
suite from Daphnis et Chloé. The opening pages,
the famous “Daybreak” sequence, are characterised
by a subtle control of pulse, with the twittering of the birds
and the rising, sequential melody not always agreeing as to exactly
where the first beat of the bar falls. The effect is marvellously
atmospheric. Throughout this passage the conductor seems to be
of a mind with Martinon, more interested in clarity and transparency
of texture than in sumptuous sound for its own sake. It’s
certainly a valid way of playing this music, but something of
the rapture is lost. That said, Nézet-Séguin signals
the moment when the two lovers fall into each other’s arms
[3:36] by a more marked surge in tempo than we are used to. The
climaxes are superbly handled, but the timpani are too loud for
my taste in the final climax of all. The principal flute plays
the long solo in the second passage with a fair amount of rhythmic
freedom, suggesting that the conductor treats the player as a
soloist and accompanies accordingly. This is very successful.
The index point for the third section, Danse générale is
strangely placed, falling at a point where the dance is already
underway. This is very fast and efficient but to my ears lacks
some excitement, due, I think, to want of contrast and a rather
unvaried way with strong accents.
I have loved Ravel’s music since my school days, yet have
never quite got into Valses nobles et sentimentales. Few
composers were more successful at hiding their real feelings,
their human side, than Ravel. At least this is what I think when
I’m not wondering if Ravel didn’t really have much
in the way of a human side: people, after all, rarely feature
in his works. The mask slips from time to time, but rarely in
the Valses nobles. There is a moment in the fifth waltz,
I think, where it happens, and another, even more short-lived,
in the seventh. But quite what this music means in human terms,
what it is about - and I’m convinced that the question
is a valid one - is almost impossible to discern. Nézet-Séguin’s
is a fine performance, carefully paced to give an illusion of
unity, yet with all the necessary contrast. Boulez, at a similar
tempo, sounds less rushed in the first waltz, but the second
is beautifully wistful here, and the quiet, mysterious close
is superbly controlled.
Pierre Monteux, on a Philips disc, provides as satisfying a performance
of the complete ballet Ma Mère l’Oye as one
could wish for, magically evoking Ravel’s idea of the world
of childhood. Nézet-Séguin prefers the Suite, as
I also do, and his performance is a fine one without toppling
Monteux from his pedestal. The opening Pavane is nicely
classical in feel and Tom Thumb’s birds chirrup more convincingly
than I have ever heard them. There is also some exquisite storytelling
from the wind soloists. The Chinese tableau is taken briskly,
too briskly in my view, missing some of the charm, but most conductors
do this so I must be the one out of step. Beauty and the Beast
come to terms with each other as best they can after what seems
again to be a rather brisk waltz. The double-bassoon characterises
the Beast rather well, I think, but it’s a pity the player
is not more forwardly balanced when the two themes are heard
simultaneously. Martinon, at this point, arguably goes too far
in the other direction. The closing scene in the fairy garden
is nicely done, the strings sumptuous and the final crescendo
very well managed. The upfront playing of the string soloists
rather destroys the magic to my ears; Monteux coaxes a better
response from his players at that point. The timpani are again
too loud in the final bars. Two production matters need to be
raised. The order of the movements as listed in the booklet is
wrong, though the timings are correct. Then there is a fair amount
of extraneous noise in one of the movements, prompting suggestions
that it tells the story of Tom Thump. There are also some rather
strange clicks in the final movement, though this is less troublesome
and in any event these noises will probably only bother those
who are obliged, or prefer, to listen through headphones.
Comparing Nézet-Séguin’s performance of La
Valse with Martinon’s has been particularly interesting.
Nézet-Séguin plays the work straighter than Martinon,
with less variety of tempo and pulse, and his few gear changes
seem more natural and organically convincing than those of the
older conductor. It’s a fine performance, too, with a particularly
striking moment where the solo strings sound very authentically
Viennese without losing sight of the fact that this is Vienna
seen through the eyes of a quite unusual Frenchman, no mean feat
of orchestral alchemy. The end of the work is brilliantly played,
the sound much more under control than with Martinon, but quite
lacking in that horrifying wildness that should be present in
these pages, leaving one a little unsatisfied. Martinon’s
performance, then, is a bit rough round the edges, whereas Nézet-Séguin’s
is more disciplined and seductive. But neither performance can
hold a candle to that of Pierre Monteux who, on that same Philips
disc recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra less than six
months before he died in 1964, shaves almost a minute off the
timing of each of the later performances. He presides over the
musicians with a baleful stare, moving the music relentlessly
on to its inevitable, horrifying close.
William Hedley
Rotterdam Philharmonic
Orchestra/Yannick Nézet-Séguin 
