One of my favourite Edinburgh combinations is the Queen's Hall and the SCO. The venue is my concert-hall corner-shop, and it is the right size for the SCO's scale—even if the larger spaces make for better economics. Sure the seats are uncomfortable, the sightlines poor and the décor drab, but it has an honest, neutral acoustic that suits the evening's repertoire particularly well.
Having previously dwelt on the culinary theme, this spread is as solid a meat and two veg as you're going to get; as comfortably familiar as mum's home cooking. You can smell the gravy from the street. That said, Egmont is a bit on the surly side as entrées go, full of the kind of broody Romantic angst that one doesn't take too seriously. Louis Langrée shaped a nice, organic arc, opening the clouds and letting the sunny conclusion sparkle without overdoing the brio.
So to Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. It struck me that I don't remember seeing many live violin concerto performances. This one was so agreeable that I started to wonder why. I'm not a big fan of concertos in principle, but I've seen plenty of piano concertos over the years. Is it that piano concertos are just more popular with audiences? Is it that there are more of them in the repertoire? Is it just that there are more of them in the veg repertoire, by which I mean works from the classical/romantic era, where they are most closely associated with the idea of the flamboyant composer/performer? Whatever the reason, James Ehnes' performance made an eloquent case for giving the question further thought.
His appeared elegant on stage in an understated lounge suit and tie, and with the 'Ex Marsick' Stradivarius at his chin gave a reading to match. Where some players like to writhe like a sailor wrestling with an octopus during a storm, his demeanour spoke of discipline and control; perhaps not something you'd expect for the Tchaikovsky. In fact, one might be inclined to demand some sense of peril, but maybe that is one of the differences between a piano concerto and a string or wind concerto: with the piano, dropping the odd clam is nearly inevitable, and always audible. A slightly missed intonation on a melody instrument scarcely registers—I should stress that the observation is a general one, not one that arose from this performance. Ehnes made the first movement's cascades sparkle, the second movement's lyrics sing (I thought it mildly strange that he kept his mute in an inside jacket pocket, but that's of no consequence), and he brought friendly affirmation to the finale. The graceful authority of his performance received hospitable, engaged support from orchestra and conductor in a nicely-shaped reading.
After warm and prolonged applause, Mr Ehnes gave us an encore, generously given and gratefully received: a mellifluous rendition of the Allegro assai from Bach's third solo Sonata.
A lot of people like big-band Beethoven, where the big, lush sonorities of a full-scale symphony orchestra lock together like a well-oiled machine. I've come to prefer the craft-made sound of the smaller ensemble. The bite of bow on string has an individuality about it, the balance of sonorities between string and wind is somehow more dangerous, exposing unexpected timbres and chord dispositions. With the deep entelechy that separates Beethoven at his best from all but a few in the classical tradition, hearing an appropriately-sized ensemble perform is the aural equivalent of polishing the window. Connections and relationships are clearer, the scale more human. One thing that especially struck me, in this performance, was the way Langrée shaped the phrases at the beginning of the Allegretto, clipping each phrase and keeping the level to a whispered hush. It was I put this unexpected intimacy down to the clarity with which each individual instrument could be heard contributing to the ensemble.
The Seventh is justly renowned for its driving vivacity, not so much the 'apotheosis of the dance', as Wagner put it, as something both more mundane and more visceral. For the duration of the performance, one lives inside it, whereas you might just want to tap your foot in time to the Tchaikovsky. The elevation one experiences is not metaphorical, I believe, but real neurochemical physiology. It is understandable that people get carried away with the Dionysian angle, but the power of Beethoven's climax-building is in its metered euphoria. This is something that has to be managed in performance if the desired effect is to be obtained. If I was going to complain about anything in Langrée's reading tonight, it would only be that I felt he took the finale too fast. Those powerful upbeat pulses need that extra fraction of time to let their impact discharge, otherwise they just sound like some sort of weird reggae. Anyway, going faster really doesn't make the overall effect more exciting. But that's a small wag of the finger to set beside a fulsome tip of the hat—something that the final reception, barely short of raucous, bears out.
Photo: James Ehnes
Related articles:
Concert Review: Scottish Chamber Orchestra, 13 October 2008
Concert Review: Louis Langrée, Halle Orchestra, 26 January 2009
CD Review: James Ehnes plays Paul Schoenfield
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