With apologies to those who get tired of me waxing lyrical about classical music… Just back from a tremendous concert at Symphony Hall, Birmingham, where we heard the St Petersburg Philharmonic play Tchaikovskys violin concerto in D and his sixth symphony, the Pathétique. I first heard this orchestra live twenty-something years ago. At that time it was called the Leningrad Philharmonic. It is Russias oldest orchestra and its most celebrated, and this evening it was easy to hear why. The evening opened with Anatol Liadovs Kikimora, a seven minute tone poem full of magic and mischief, in places reminiscent of Dukass Sorcerers Apprentice. This was fun, but it was really just a programme filler and a prelude to the serious stuff. Then came the concerto. This is a groundbreaking work in which Tchaikovsky pushed the boundaries of the concerto form, attracting criticism when it was first performed but later becoming one the finest and best-loved concerti in the repertoire. It is fiendishly difficult – indeed, the virtuoso violinist to whom Tchaikovsky dedicated it declared it unplayable, leading to a three-year delay before it received its first performance. Tonights soloist, 29-year-old Spanish maestro Leticia Moreno, gave a spectacular performance, demonstrating a dazzling blend of skill and soulfulness. And then, the symphony. What can I say about this masterwork of romanticism? Here again, the great composer threw aside the rule book and defied convention to produce a work of shockingly novel structure and profound emotional power. The first movement, after a bleak start, combines a searingly beautiful string ballad with the turbulent voice of fate so characteristic of Tchaikovskys last three symphonies. The 5/4 waltz of the second movement is a gem of poetic playfulness, yet still with a foreboding undertone. Then comes the third movement, which starts as an impish scherzo but builds into what is surely one of the most passionate and rousing orchestral marches ever written. Then, immediately after the stirring climax of the third movement, even as your heart is still racing, comes the exquisite anguish of the brooding final movement, in which love and life seem to run headlong into fate before giving way to the slow and tragic descent into the silence of death. Eight days after his sixth symphony received its first performance, Tchaikovsky was dead, in circumstances that will likely never be clarified. (The official story is that he died of cholera from drinking untreated water; the unofficial version, for which there is at least some evidence, is that he committed suicide.) Then, finally, came the icing on the cake. After returning to the stage three times to rapturous applause, the conductor finally bowed to the inevitable and agreed to an encore. To audible gasps of delight from the audience, he launched into a pitch perfect rendition of Nimrod from Elgars enigma variations, proving that this veteran Russian orchestra and its conductor know how to more than do justice to music from beyond their own borders. This evening was a treat for the ears, but more than that, it was a feast for the soul. As the players poured all their concentration and energy into the music and the sound rose and swelled, I couldnt help but imagine the Holy Spirit dance and spin, revelling in the sheer joy of it all… but also weeping in compassionate solidarity with those whose lives are tinged by darker music.
Posted on: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 23:11:47 +0000
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