MUSIC: From the Not-So-Frozen North
Music in St. Petersburg
‘From the Avant-Garde to Today’ (Maly Zal, 15th March);
Denis Matsuyev (Maly Zal, 16th March);
St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra (Philharmonic Hall, 19th March).
Few things are quite so noxiously deliquescent as Russian towns at the end of winter. For the pedestrian, mud, slush and avalanches of ice from roofs are omni-present; in addition there is the serious risk of near-drowning in spray, as cars race through miniature lakes, for anyone bold enough to walk too close to the kerb in the main streets. Add to this the intrinsic treacherousness of the pavements themselves and the unpredictable height above ground-level of tramlines when crossing a road, and it is clear that walking around St. Petersburg at the end of March is an extreme sport that knocks bungee-jumping into a cocked-hat. Nonetheless your reviewer has braved these perilous conditions to bring you news of the concert scene in Russia’s cultural capital.
My first outing was to a chamber recital at the elegant Maly Zal (Small Hall) of the Philharmonia, one of a sequence of concerts celebrating avant-garde music of the past 100 years. This one was devoted to works published in 1927, with musicians largely drawn from the Philharmonic Orchestra, and cast its net widely to include music by Martinu, Webern, Ibert, Popov, Ravel, Mossolov and Miaskovsky. Of the less familiar pieces, Popov’s ‘Grand Suite’ for piano, played magisterially by the veteran Ekaterina Murina, began with an imposing ‘Invention’ which recalled Shostakovich in his austere mode, but alas outstayed its welcome by its second movement. ‘Three Children’s Scenes’ by Mossolov proved a surprise: I had known him only for his spectacularly noisy orchestral invocation of an iron foundry, but these (sung charmingly by Olga Bobrobeva) included a remarkable conversation with a cat, including some excellently variegated miaowing. The Webern was the String Trio, op. 20. I have never really been at ease with this music, which has seemed to me to offer little to hold on to; and even this performance, which was undertaken with an almost romantic gusto, has not moved my sentiment. We all left the hall with our feet tapping to the Charleston from Martinu’s ‘La Revue de Cuisine’ in which the sextet of piano, strings, woodwind and trumpet were red-hot: Neeme Birk on trumpet was the absolute star here.
A striking feature of this concert series is that, according to the programme, it is supported financially by one of St. Petersburg’s town councillors, a Mr. Gladkov. Surely Alderman Jabez Foodbotham, (according to Peter Simple, Bradford’s erstwhile Mayor and Permanent Chairman of its Tramways and Fine Arts Committee), would turn in his grave if he but knew. But Mr. Gladkov would certainly get my vote, if I had one here.
The next evening saw a piano recital at the same venue given by Denis Matsuyev. The first half consisted of Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Seasons’. These twelve pieces, which Matsuyev played nicely enough, sound rather dull to me, except where they evoke the idiosyncratic lyricism of Tchaikovsky’s teacher Rubinstein in the ‘Barcarolle’ (June) or the ‘Autumn Song’ (October). Otherwise they show little advance, musically or pianistically, on the work of the other composer represented in the recital, Franz Liszt. In 1841, when the Maly Zal was the Engelhardt Hall, Liszt himself gave recitals there and may indeed have included the Sonata ‘D’après une lecture de Dante’ of which Matsuyev gave a truly electrifying performance, which he followed by a rendition of the Second Hungarian Rhapsody in the most gratuitously barn-storming mode I have ever experienced. So eccentric were his rhythmic inflections in the closing passages that I really wondered whether he was improvising – maybe he was. The shock to the system provoked one to applaud vigorously at the time, and to feel ashamed only later. A sequence of encores followed in the same spirit – including someone’s transcription (Godowsky’s?) of Carmen – but, perhaps mercifully, I was forced to leave by the imminence of the departure of my train to Petrozavodsk. I recommend attendance at a Liszt performance by Matsuyev to anyone who wants to understand the difference between vodka and home-brewed samo’ugodny without the trials or risks of actually drinking them.
Now here is a useful traveller’s tip, by the way; the trains from Murmansk to St. Petersburg and from St. Petersburg to Murmansk pull in to Petrozavodsk at the same time in the afternoon, and with no apparent indication of which is which. So when you are travelling from Petrozavodsk be sure that you correctly distinguish them. I nearly didn’t, and the trip to the Arctic Circle would have been extremely long and tedious.
My perspicacity however enabled me to return to St. Petersburg in time for a concert of the Philharmonic Orchestra at its Large Hall to include music by Walton and Elgar, conducted by the young Mikhail Agrest, Valery Gergiev’s no. 2 at the Mariinsky Theatre. I wish I could have reported this as a success for English music, but alas it was not to be.
Partly this was a consequence of the choice of programme, Elgar’s ‘Cockaigne’ Overture and Walton’s Violin Concerto. These are pieces which require very careful preparation by the players (and perhaps also significant disposition to reception on the part of the audience). This is not simply a matter of the nature of the music. I have played the classic Elgar/Menuhin recording of Elgar’s Violin Concerto to Russians who fell in love with it instantly (and indeed asked me ‘whether I was sure that Elgar had no Russian ancestors?’). But ‘Cockaigne’, with its many switches of mood and impulse, needs to be played and understood as a stroll through Edwardian London. If its shifting perspectives become evident as so many changes of gear — if there is the slightest pause after a slowing down before the next phrase is launched, if the irruption of a brass fanfare is hesitant instead of confident — the audience is disoriented and the performance must fail. Agrest showed a clear sympathy for the music, the orchestral texture and the overall shape, but the piece is perhaps just not a natural for non-natives — Elgar knew as much when he dedicated the overture ‘to his many friends, the musicians of British orchestras’. There is of course a ‘mote and beam’ element involved here. It is easy to analyse what others misinterpret when they engage in our culture; all this should also lead one to reflect on what British orchestras might be ‘getting wrong’ in playing Russian music.
The case of Walton’s Violin Concerto is rather different; here there are intrinsic structural weaknesses, which it is almost impossible to conceal even in the best of performances. As with nearly all of Walton’s music written after ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’ (1931), the piece shows clear signs of strain and effort and only flashes of inspiration. Where it is good it disturbingly evokes memories of the greatly superior Viola Concerto of ten years earlier (1929). Otherwise the constant string of contrasts, effects without causes, speaks less of musical invention than the desperation of the composer seeking the easy flow of the vanished inspiration of his youth. The accomplished playing of the soloist, Arkadiy Gutnikov, was insufficient to redeem this problem piece.
Rather galling them for your reviewer to find us Brits comprehensively outgunned by Respighi’s ‘Pines of Rome’ in the second half — but then this very slick suite of mood music, with none of the hairpin bends of ‘Cockaigne’, is a godsend for a virtuoso orchestra. They purveyed it perfectly — for what that’s worth.
Of course no survey of music in St. Petersburg would be complete without a visit to the Mariinsky Opera itself under the baton of Gergiev, and I hope to report on exactly that in the next few days.
Allen Buchler is ERO’s music correspondent
Allen Buchler, March 22, 2004 10:00 PM