It was
Arcadi Volodos who provided the clear highlight
of this concert. Prokofiev’s Second Piano
Concerto is not for the faint of heart (it
boasts a distinctly limited playership), mainly
because of the almost impossibly long cadenza
in the first movement. But it includes moments
of playfulness along with powerhouse pyrotechnics
and it is a tribute to all concerned that
these came across fully characterised.
There
was no sense whatsoever of Volodos playing
himself in –from the very start, the left-hand
came projected perfectly with just the right
amount of pedal while the right hand was tellingly
inflected. The effect, interestingly, was
to invoke the world of the Eighth Piano Sonata
thirty years before its time – a very dark,
forbidding world indeed. If the return of
the initial theme was perfectly managed, the
moments of magic so far were as nothing to
the magnificence of that (in)famous cadenza.
It was not the technical feats that were the
really important thing here (jaw-droppingly
impressive though they were) rather it was
the sense of vastness that Volodos created.
There was an almost visceral sense of embarking
on a journey as he launched into this encyclopaedia
of challenges – amazingly, no matter what
miracles his fingers achieved, Volodos remained
perfectly still. He seemed to adore the climax,
though, the welters of notes seeming the most
natural, yet the most exciting, thing in the
world.
The
moto perpetuo second movement is just the
sort of thing Volodos thrives on. Yet it was
in the Intermezzo third movement that piano
and orchestra were as one. This is archetypal
Prokofiev. Brass chords were ominous, violins
spiky. Volodos’ chords had a perfect edge
to them, while his dynamic control of his
instrument was absolute. The opening to the
finale can easily sound sentimental, but here
it carried just the right aura of nostalgia
without undue indulgence. Staccato exchanges
between soloist and orchestra were exuberant.
Surely this performance must be a, if not
the, highlight of the present season …
Borodin
opened proceedings – the Overture to Prince
Igor (a work with much input from Glazunov).
It was a mixed account, with a very English
(ie markedly un-Russian) clarinet eschewing
anything remotely sensual and a horn solo
that started beautifully but then threatened
to teeter out of control. True, Ashkenazy
gave some sections the space they needed to
breathe, but is equally true that other parts
could have flowered more. The Philharmonia
on auto-pilot remains an impressive beast,
but it is the knowledge that they can give
more of themselves that remains unsettling.
I’m
not entirely sure Ashkenazy and Debussy make
good bed-fellows, perhaps an unfortunate turn
of phrase given the predominant eroticism
of that seminal work, the ‘Poème dansé’
Jeux. Despite some wonderful playing
(the wind chords at the start were so
beautiful), atmosphere, so vital in this elusive
work, was thin on the ground. Textures remained
resolutely un-fragrant. Much rehearsal time
had gone into the work’s technical difficulties,
but its essence was missing (one still marvelled
at Debussy’s forward-looking imagination,
though!)
Jeux
gave a good pointer as to what to expect from
Ashkenazy’s La mer. The first movement
(‘De l’aube à midi sur la mer’) presented
well-defined textures, but it was all far
too literal, leaving the climax to be loud
but insubstantial of meaning. ‘Jeux de vagues’
was more successful than Jeux and even
exuded a certain amount of grandeur; alas
‘Dialogue du vent et de la mer’ was generally
low-voltage. Some sterling trumpet playing
(Alistair Mackie) was not enough to offset
the minuses of an interpretation that is clearly
immature. In addition, Ashkenazy just looks
so stiff when he conducts – small wonder the
sense of flow was not all there. It is interesting
that the Philharmonia’s ‘rivals’, the LSO,
gave a far superior account of La
mer under
Sir John Eliot Gardiner in 2003 at the Barbican.
Colin
Clarke
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