Bartok, Kurtág, and Sibelius: Hiromi Kikuchi (violin), Ken Hakii (viola), BBC Symphony Orchestra, Jukka-Pekka Saraste (conductor), Barbican Hall, London, 16.12.2011 (CG)

Bartok: Dance Suite (1923)

György Kurtág: Concertante Op.42 (2002 -3) UK premiere

Sibelius: Symphony No. 6 in D minor Op.104 (1923)

Sibelius: Symphony No. 7 in C major Op.105 (1924)

This was the third in the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s series featuring works by Sibelius including the seven symphonies; we had Symphony no. 3 back in October, and a selection of Sibelius’s songs and his incidental music for Belshazzar’s Feast last week. Of course the BBC programme planners would never do anything as obvious as playing Sibelius’s symphonies in the order he composed them, which seems more than a little perverse; how interesting and educational it is to witness the development of this infinitely fascinating symphonist from one to the next. A number of different conductors will be taking part; after the opening concert, it was difficult to imagine performances more sympathetic than Sakari Oramo’s of the 3rd, but tonight we had Jukka-Pekka Saraste, who is one of the triumvirate of dedicated Finnish Sibelians along with Osmo Vänskä and Esa-Pekka Salonen, all of whom studied in the same class in Helsinki and are now in their 50′s. Saraste was making a welcome return to the BBC Symphony, having been their Principal Guest Conductor from 2002-2005.

The first half was, for some reason, Hungarian. Bartok’s Dance Suite, interestingly composed at the same time as Sibelius’s 6th Symphony, is one of his most immediately attractive orchestral works, drawing on Hungarian, Romanian and North African folk music to great effect, with the various sections being connected by a returning theme in changing guises. The brilliance of Bartok’s colourful orchestration came over well in the BBC SO’s performance, and the constantly varying tempi, a vital ingredient, were all fluently handled. There was plenty of rhythmic zap as well as some beautifully idiomatic solos, and it was all highly enjoyable – just the thing on this cold December evening!

The two major successors to Bartok in Hungary are Ligeti and György Kurtág, whose Concertante was next on the agenda. Kurtág won the 2006 University of Louisville Grawemeyer Award for Music Composition with this work, which has solo parts for the violin and viola with a very large orchestra. The soloists tonight have been playing the work around the world since the first performance in 2003 and have also recorded it. The programme note waffled about Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante, and references to Wagner and Magyar music, but if I was supposed to recognise any of these, I’m afraid I failed miserably. In fact I found this work altogether perplexing; the soloists are not soloists in the conventional sense, and their contributions often seemed inconsequential or inaudible. The music is also extremely discontinuous; at worst it felt like a random series of sounds and gestures, which although frequently interesting in themselves, were largely disconnected. There are welcome periods of greater energy, and some violent outbursts too, but overall this doesn’t make for coherent, let alone pleasant, listening. You may say there’s absolutely nothing wrong in that in itself, of course, but there’s a point at which incomprehension gets the better of me and I must admit to being pretty relieved when it was all over. Awful to say this, when the soloists, conductor and orchestra have worked their socks off – but maybe I’ve spent too many hours trying hard to appreciate things I instinctively just don’t like at all. I certainly prefer my Kurtág in his more typically shorter, more concise mode, and I found myself asking yet again why the BBC favours so many contemporary composers from abroad rather than the host of home-grown composers desperate for an airing.

It was brave to place the Sixth and Seventh Symphonies of Sibelius next door to one another. These very different works could have benefitted from this, one might have thought, but in reality they did not. Why? Although each is short by major symphonic standards, each is complete in itself and benefits from a period of reflection afterwards. So we could wander off into the night with the magnificent 7th ringing in our ears, but the more delicate and less overtly dramatic 6th suffered. Technically, these were both assured, efficient performances; I wouldn’t argue with the tempi chosen for any part of the 6th, but somehow the music refused to spring into life in the way it can, and too much of it felt – well – efficient. Despite some fine work from the BBC symphony Orchestra, I found myself asking where was the poetry? And although there was plenty of rhythmic verve in the scherzo and the last movement, didn’t things feel somewhat briskly mechanical rather than genuinely spirited? And while I have come to love this symphony, I also recognise that it’s a special case, needing specially sensitive treatment and programming; placing it just before the interval would have worked better.

The 7th was far more successful. Saraste maintained a tight grip on the formal shape, managing all the difficult tempo changes brilliantly. There was a satisfying inevitability to the unfolding of the drama, the emotionally charged string passages near the beginning pulling us forward irrepressibly towards the first great trombone solo, expertly judged by Helen Vollam; the way she rose above the orchestra with no semblance of force was just perfect. And I marvelled all over again at the astonishingly inspired orchestration that Sibelius dreamed up here; just one lone trombone against the whole orchestra – and yet you hear it clearly and gloriously. The remaining sections flowed effortlessly; the stormy sections were genuinely thrilling, with the brass and horns glowing in the winter sunshine, and the woodwind sparkling like freshly fallen snowflakes. I could have wished for a greater sense of heartbreak in the final pages, but nevertheless, Saraste’s interpretation was absolutely justifiable and it was impossible to leave without this, one of the very greatest of all symphonies, having made its mark yet again. Marvellous.

Christopher Gunning

Britten, Sibelius, and Walton: Gerald Finely (baritone), BBC Chorus, BBC Symphony Orchestra, Edward Gardner (conductor), Barbican Hall,  London,  10.12.2011 (CG)

Britten: Sinfonia da Requiem, Op.20 (1940)

Sibelius: Kom nu hit, död, Op.60 no.1 (1909 orch. 1957; Pä veranden vi havet, Op.38 no. 2 (1902 orch. 1903); Koskenlaskijan morsiamet, Op.33 (1897)

Belshazzar’s Feast – Suite, Op.51 (1906-7)

Walton Belshazzar’s Feast (1929-31, revised 1931, 1948, and 1957)

Britten, Sibelius and Walton sharing the same concert? The BBC Symphony Orchestra is subject to some strange programme planning, but the works tonight made interesting bedfellows. The connection between Walton and Sibelius is not difficult to grasp: Walton was a great admirer of Sibelius, and in his First Symphony showed just how strongly the Finnish composer influenced him. But Belshazzar’s Feast shows Walton in an altogether different light, and its juxtaposition with Sibelius’s work of the same name showed just how different the thinking of the two composers could be. And Britten? A near contemporary of Walton, of course, but with his own unique musical language and thought processes.

His Sinfonia da Requiem is about the nearest Britten ever came to writing a purely orchestral symphony, and it certainly demonstrates that symphonic processes were very much part and parcel of his modus operandi. It is a fine work, immediately impressive, and with unfolding drama and an ingrained seriousness that displays Britten at his anguished anti-war best. Composed in 1940, much of this music hints at the War Requiem to come much later; thudding timpani, tortured melodies, snarling brass, whirling woodwind, and all the time a sense of Britten’s outrage. There are echoes of some other composers here – Mahler, and perhaps even Sibelius? Yet the 26 year old composer was remarkably mature for one so young, and already had a sure control of form. The three movements, Lacrymosa, Dies Irae, and Requiem Aeternam, form a continuous whole, and individually have firm structures which carry the listener along a troubled route for twenty minutes or so, with only the last movement hinting at a degree of reluctant resolution. The commissioners of the piece, the Japanese Government, were not yet at war with Britain or the US, but rejected the piece because of its Christian connotations; ironic, then, that it has emerged as one of the most substantial of Britten’s works and the several other pieces simultaneously commissioned by the Japanese. Edward Gardner and his forces were in total command; the tempi felt just right, and with the BBC SO continuing to be at the top of its game this made for a powerful, committed and memorable performance; its sounds are still haunting me now, almost twenty-four hours later.

Gerald Finley was the soloist in three virtually unknown songs by Sibelius, which turned out to be delightful gems from the unmistakable hand of the master. Come Away Death, a setting of Shakespeare translated into Swedish, has simple muted strings and is bleakness personified. On a Balcony beside the Sea, to a text by Viktor Rydberg, has dark woodwinds and is imbued with a sense of isolation and desperation. The Rapids-Rider’s Brides (poem by August Ahlqvist-Oksanen) is larger in scale than the preceding two and hints strongly at the Sibelius of the early symphonies with its greater expansiveness and menacing brass, the latter even reminding us of Karalia. Finley was absolutely terrific, his vocal beauty enhanced by clear enunciation of every word, and Gardner was the most sensitive accompanist; this was exquisite music making of almost chamber music intensity.

Gardner continued to impress as a Sibelian in the Finn’s Belshazzar’s Feast. This music, the very antithesis of the Walton to follow, falls into four separate sections. The first, Oriental Procession, is a grotesque march. The second, Solitude, is a tiny but sweet miniature. The third, Nocturne, gave Michael Cox an opportunity to display some ravishingly expressive flute playing, and the fourth, Khadra’s Dance, seductive and delicate, reminded us what a fine clarinetist Chris Richards is. Sibelius opted for a whimsical, quasi Oriental, view of Belshazzar – as befitted pieces composed as incidental music for the play for which they were intended. What a contrast, then, to Walton’s monumental and exuberant cantata composed in his late twenties.

The gentlemen of the BBC Chorus got things off to a fine start with their opening declamation, and the full chorus followed, gently weaving their lines with wonderfully rich sonorities, to be joined by Gerald Finley in his plaintive “If I forget thee.” Once again combining noticeably fine diction with perfect intonation and sense of character, he took command of the proceedings with his long recitative and then we were plunged into sheer brilliance, as orgiastic and celebratory as you could want, for the rest of the piece. And you would have to be a real nitpicker to find any faults; the BBC Symphony Chorus sang with gusto and accuracy, the orchestra shot through the whole work with massive amounts of verve, and the brass, augmented by two groups up in the gods, were constantly thrilling. Gardner kept the tempi brisk, propelling things forward mercilessly. And, if I have to nitpick, the only thing I can find to say is that I wish this had been in the Royal Albert Hall, and it’s not often I’d say that! The Barbican hall, admirable though it is for such a variety of music, is just not quite man enough for music on Walton’s scale. Never mind. It was still a great evening, on this occasion narrowly won by the concert opener. That Britten – it really is a superb piece.

Christopher Gunning