MUSIC: The Rite of the Proms
Yet more betrayal from the BBC?
Handel’s Saul, Gabrieli Consort, conductor Paul McCreesh, August 24th
London Philharmonic Orchestra, conductor Mark Wigglesworth , August 27th
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra , conducted Sir Simon Rattle, August 31th
It is one of music’s ‘urban legends’ that the bassoonist at the premiere of Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring’ in Paris in 1913 had a nervous breakdown whilst preparing the extraordinary solo, in high tessitura, of the work’s opening. If however he had mastered it in rehearsal, only to have in interrupted in performance after the first immaculate phrase by the inane doodling of a mobile phone ringing, he might well have gone out and shot himself. Fortunately the Berlin Philharmonic, and Sir Simon Rattle, are made of sterner stuff than those emotional Frenchies. The baton snapped down and a baleful glare was directed, to the warm approbation of the audience, at the culprit from beneath the wire-wool explosion that serves Sir Simon in place of hair. It was an H. M. Bateman moment. Then after a moment of silence in which we could recover ourselves, we were off once more, from the beginning.
And what a performance it was! Immaculate in ensemble, exquisitely graded in dynamics, masterfully sequenced climaxes and interludes — no British orchestra, alas, comes anywhere near this level of presentation these days. By comparison, the performance a few days earlier of the London Philharmonic, of which more later, in Berg’s ‘Seven Early Songs’ was a miserable shambles, ragged, utterly lacking in confidence and bloom. True, the BPO’s ‘Rite’ came over as utterly heartless, but then, so is the music itself, a glossy romanticized version of a primal scream, scored by a smart young man who adroitly anticipated his century’s voraciousness for colour and rhythm, the surface over the substance.
The clinical tradition of the BPO is of course closely linked to Rattle’s predecessor, von Karajan. I am one of Sir Simon’s greatest admirers — have been since he was 12 and I was 16, when meeting him made me realise what true musical genius was like — but he has yet to demonstrate perhaps the raw emotion in communication which could clinch his claim to greatness. That absence was more marked, understandably, in the far more humane music of Bartók which began the concert, the drably entitled ‘Music for Percussion, Strings and Celeste’ which is however one of the composer’s warmest evocations of his native Hungary. The reading and performance, once again, could not be technically faulted — but where was the heart, the touch of schmaltz, the tingling sweetness of a tokay, or even the brittle dryness of a szamorodny (— you can tell that Mrs. B. and I are just back from Budapest). That final swoop of the last movement — surely it should come with the svelte elegance of the roué baritone of a Kalmann operetta? I so wanted to feel the ‘yes!’ that you get at the end of Fritz Reiner’s classic recording with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra — but it just wasn’t there.
The other offering of the evening, the Violin Concerto of György Ligeti was another example of how Hungarians are — well, different. I can’t help thinking that the EU doesn’t quite know what’s going to hit them when the Hungarian psyche interfaces with homo brusseliensis. Ligeti’s five movement work is a real concerto, a properly thought out intercourse between soloist (the very impressive Tamsin Little in this case) and orchestra, employing to the full the fiddle’s capacity for both melody and filigree in a variety of contexts, from the expository style of the first movement, through cantilena, scherzo and passacaglia to the impassioned last movement which climaxes with a cadenza (written by Ms. Little). And we all enjoyed the ocarinas and slide-whistles en route. A great, if not quite legendary, concert.
The Rattle/BPO concert is typical of the Proms tradition, but I have to say the season as a whole looked, and has turned out to be, less than inspiring. Let us set aside the aberrations such as ‘The Nation’s Favourite Prom’ (including trash from my bête noir Khachaturian), and the tepid rag-bag set before the Queen in ‘The Royal Prom’; let us pause briefly, perhaps, to shudder at the grotesque waste (which has not taken place at the time of writing) of bringing over the Vienna Philharmonic to play a Classic FM-style programme including the conductor singing (sic) one part of a Vivaldi concerto for two cellos. We can I suppose pass over as not too heinous the supposed ‘theme’ of Greek myth which served as an excuse in the prospectus to link music in different concerts ranging from Rameau and Purcell via Mendelssohn to Xenakis. Apart from that, there seem to be vast acres of opera in concert-performance, to which the Albert Hall is not really suited, and standard ‘sandwich’ concerts in which fairly trusted standards enclose, typically, a dull BBC or Euro commission being given its sole outing.
Not that these performances are without merit, but too often they just don’t engage. Take for example, the rendition of Handel’s Saul. Great soloists — especially Andreas Scholl as David, Neal Davies in the title role, Deborah York and Jonathan Lemalu — Handel in assured if not supreme form, nicely played, packed and attentive audience — but the Albert Hall was just not the right place for it, stripping it of a dimension; I would have been better off listening on the radio, where Handel’s depiction of the descent of Saul into paranoia, necromancy and death might have been gripping as well as affecting.
Or let’s consider the LPO concert mentioned above. Firstly, clunky programming; Wagner’s Tannhäuser overture is a reasonable starter, but what is the point of playing it with the Venusberg music as an addendum? I can bore for England on Wagner — have been known even to outdrone Michael Portillo [another victory for ERO — Ed.] on the topic — but the fact remains that the Venusberg stuff which Wagner wrote under sufferance for his Paris audience is just a long, loud, low-grade piece of musical masturbation. Then the Berg lieder — surely what may people came for, with Christine Brewer as the resplendent soloist. But this music needs placing and style; when Brewer’s ‘Nightingale’ was flying, the orchestra behind her seemed to be ploughing through a heavy sea with oil-slicks. This was bitterly disappointing. Some consolation came with Brahms First Symphony in the second half by which time Wigglesworth and the orchestra had got their act together and gave a reading which, if unusually swiftly driven in the last movement climax, was convincing.
I am getting the feeling that, having been in the danger zone for some years, the BBC is now finally losing grip of its role as defender of art music. For all that has been said against it in the past — its favouritism and petty vendettas for and against artists and composers — the BBC has in general been an invaluable ally of the great tradition of which I wrote in my recent article for ERO. The Proms remains a great and unique concert series, but it seems to be gradually and insidiously becoming debased and crassly ‘curated’. Elsewhere, the Corporation is also giving way to the forces of Philistia, (and I don’t just mean Orla Guerin); the BBC Singer of the World Competition in Cardiff now only merits a broadcast of the final concert, whereas we used to get the heats as well; and the Corporation has decided not to bother broadcasting any more the Sainsbury’s ‘Choir of the Year’ competition, with the result that Sainsbury’s can no longer justify sponsoring it. With the outlying forts becoming abandoned, the risk of an attack on the heartland increases. I await next year’s Proms programme with some hope, but with more trepidation. Meanwhile, I am off for a week or two to Moscow to ensure that I avoid the VPO’s singalong with Tony Vivaldi.
Allen Buchler, September 3, 2003 01:39 PM