It has taken several decades for the Britten Violin Concerto, Opus 15 (1940) to establish its place in the repertoire. Premiered in New York (Barbirolli, Antonio Brosa, and the New York Philharmonic) it is full of wild bravura and haunting melodies. Its structure is discernibly influenced by Prokofiev (Violin Concerto No. 1) and its slow lamenting finale seems to connect with Bridge (Oration – Concerto Elegiaco) and the Walton Viola Concerto, but it develops its own scarifying intensity, particularly in the second movement, which is both brilliant and frightening, lashing out with deep anger. There is a peculiar tension - febrile - embedded across the entire piece: the soloist is always on call.
The sound world is extremely felicitous with the first thematic utterance on timpani – a la Beethoven – that returns to haunt the violin solo. The vaguely sensual Mediterranean ambience of the first movement (Moderato con moto) hints at an Andalusian sound world. Recollections of Spanish guitar and habanera abound but are often undercut by militaristic trumpets and foreboding drums, heightening the emerging lament that tugs beneath the brilliance. Britten’s visited Spain in 1936 and this works is a distilled response to the horrors of the Spanish Civil War – that precursor playground for fascist atrocities.
The orchestration of the work is a marvel that prefigures some of the darker sonorities that Britten engineers in his Cello Symphony (1964) - the outer edges of the orchestra spot lit, particularly the tuba, while the integration of woodwinds and percussion is imaginatively achieved. James Judd ensured all the spectacular dovetailing of instruments was well judged.
Andrew Haveron does not have a huge tone, but his sound carries, particularly when the works seems to be hushed in prayer. Moreover, he can deal with all the pyrotechnics that are demanded, as the violin rises high and higher – soaring on beauty and anger - before it rests in the lament of the trombones and the beginning of a slow-moving catharsis (Passacaglia). The dance of death rhythms of the scherzo (Vivace) were decisively tackled as were the difficulties of the exposed cadenza – all double stop harmonics and strumming.
In the final movement, he led us to the heart of despair and hope, with a cantilena that hints at the call of the Muezzin (Moorish chant) or even the Sephardic Jew. Here the soloist seems to both beg for peace and pray for the dead. This slow framed anguish was exquisitely modulated by the soloist and orchestra.
Janine Jansen has said that this is one of of the great unknown concertos of the 20th century. Let us hope Australian audience can get to know it better.
Preceding the Britten was a new work by David Stanhope, Ocean Planet, a brief seven movement piece that drew some extraordinary sounds from the large orchestra with its augmented percussive forces. The work displayed some nice contrasts. The opening “Ice Shelf” delivered a thematic that returns across the work, a slow-moving summoning call (like a whale song), while there was a decided playfulness and energy in “Strange creatures”. The work is expertly scored – harp glissandi and percussive responses particularly delectable - and hints at a suite from an imagined film. “Collapse” seemed to usher in mystery and regret – the oboe and subsequent flute solos lamenting and reviving – all within a tolling framework. The finale was interesting – with a bluesy beginning that morphed into a fanfare with querulous tones, ultimately harbouring the return of the summoning deep bellied call that commences the work. Within its fractured and small-scale ambience, there is an arc of invention and orchestral skill that requires further listening.
The Planets, Opus 32 (1918) is Holst’s best-known work, much to his diminutive chagrin. It consumed his fame and blotted out his other achievements beyond its late romantic terrain. The performance conducted by James Judd was beautifully articulated, unsparing in the rigours of “Mars”, the bringer of war, and deliciously pointed in the soft afterglow of “Venus”. Yet this is troubling music, even in in its brightest incarnations, as soft shimmering sounds wake us from too music giocoso. The sound world of “Saturn” brings an obsessive nagging quality, as though the living have exhausted their musical pulse and now summon forth a bleak resentment that ill health should dampen the invention that a creative life must unfold. Here lurks searing anger, ushered forth by the disturbing brass, sharply phrased by this orchestra. In such moments, Holst and Britten are deeply aligned.
The scherzo like movements were built on delicious wind playing and a pulse that traced the mercurial with a sure hand. The final movement became a blest integration of sirens and strings as the off-stage voices of the Ladies of the Philharmonia Choirs led us onwards to the spiritual realms that Holst was to explore in his later works (Hymn to Jesus; Ode to death): onward, to an injunction of enchantment and death where “The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know”.
Though one can discern French influence in the work - Dukas, Debussy – what is most striking is the force of the orchestral invention across a wide emotional range. Though the boy Britten complained that the writing for percussion was excessive, he surely learnt from its deft touches and the dovetailing of major orchestral forces. At its most mercurial, this score moves with agility and wit – sharp at the bends – no faint English pastoralism at work.
Holst was angry when individual movements of the suite were performed. How right he was to insist on the integrity and rigour of his invention and its dazzling, satisfying orchestral arc, and how wrong the Germans were about “Das Land Ohne Musik”, given the evidence of these dazzling masterpieces from two diffident English composers.
Sydney Symphony Orchestra –Concert Hall, Opera House Sydney – December 7, 2022
Gar Jones
The sound world is extremely felicitous with the first thematic utterance on timpani – a la Beethoven – that returns to haunt the violin solo. The vaguely sensual Mediterranean ambience of the first movement (Moderato con moto) hints at an Andalusian sound world. Recollections of Spanish guitar and habanera abound but are often undercut by militaristic trumpets and foreboding drums, heightening the emerging lament that tugs beneath the brilliance. Britten’s visited Spain in 1936 and this works is a distilled response to the horrors of the Spanish Civil War – that precursor playground for fascist atrocities.
The orchestration of the work is a marvel that prefigures some of the darker sonorities that Britten engineers in his Cello Symphony (1964) - the outer edges of the orchestra spot lit, particularly the tuba, while the integration of woodwinds and percussion is imaginatively achieved. James Judd ensured all the spectacular dovetailing of instruments was well judged.
Andrew Haveron does not have a huge tone, but his sound carries, particularly when the works seems to be hushed in prayer. Moreover, he can deal with all the pyrotechnics that are demanded, as the violin rises high and higher – soaring on beauty and anger - before it rests in the lament of the trombones and the beginning of a slow-moving catharsis (Passacaglia). The dance of death rhythms of the scherzo (Vivace) were decisively tackled as were the difficulties of the exposed cadenza – all double stop harmonics and strumming.
In the final movement, he led us to the heart of despair and hope, with a cantilena that hints at the call of the Muezzin (Moorish chant) or even the Sephardic Jew. Here the soloist seems to both beg for peace and pray for the dead. This slow framed anguish was exquisitely modulated by the soloist and orchestra.
Janine Jansen has said that this is one of of the great unknown concertos of the 20th century. Let us hope Australian audience can get to know it better.
Preceding the Britten was a new work by David Stanhope, Ocean Planet, a brief seven movement piece that drew some extraordinary sounds from the large orchestra with its augmented percussive forces. The work displayed some nice contrasts. The opening “Ice Shelf” delivered a thematic that returns across the work, a slow-moving summoning call (like a whale song), while there was a decided playfulness and energy in “Strange creatures”. The work is expertly scored – harp glissandi and percussive responses particularly delectable - and hints at a suite from an imagined film. “Collapse” seemed to usher in mystery and regret – the oboe and subsequent flute solos lamenting and reviving – all within a tolling framework. The finale was interesting – with a bluesy beginning that morphed into a fanfare with querulous tones, ultimately harbouring the return of the summoning deep bellied call that commences the work. Within its fractured and small-scale ambience, there is an arc of invention and orchestral skill that requires further listening.
The Planets, Opus 32 (1918) is Holst’s best-known work, much to his diminutive chagrin. It consumed his fame and blotted out his other achievements beyond its late romantic terrain. The performance conducted by James Judd was beautifully articulated, unsparing in the rigours of “Mars”, the bringer of war, and deliciously pointed in the soft afterglow of “Venus”. Yet this is troubling music, even in in its brightest incarnations, as soft shimmering sounds wake us from too music giocoso. The sound world of “Saturn” brings an obsessive nagging quality, as though the living have exhausted their musical pulse and now summon forth a bleak resentment that ill health should dampen the invention that a creative life must unfold. Here lurks searing anger, ushered forth by the disturbing brass, sharply phrased by this orchestra. In such moments, Holst and Britten are deeply aligned.
The scherzo like movements were built on delicious wind playing and a pulse that traced the mercurial with a sure hand. The final movement became a blest integration of sirens and strings as the off-stage voices of the Ladies of the Philharmonia Choirs led us onwards to the spiritual realms that Holst was to explore in his later works (Hymn to Jesus; Ode to death): onward, to an injunction of enchantment and death where “The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know”.
Though one can discern French influence in the work - Dukas, Debussy – what is most striking is the force of the orchestral invention across a wide emotional range. Though the boy Britten complained that the writing for percussion was excessive, he surely learnt from its deft touches and the dovetailing of major orchestral forces. At its most mercurial, this score moves with agility and wit – sharp at the bends – no faint English pastoralism at work.
Holst was angry when individual movements of the suite were performed. How right he was to insist on the integrity and rigour of his invention and its dazzling, satisfying orchestral arc, and how wrong the Germans were about “Das Land Ohne Musik”, given the evidence of these dazzling masterpieces from two diffident English composers.
Sydney Symphony Orchestra –Concert Hall, Opera House Sydney – December 7, 2022
Gar Jones