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First Metropolitan United Church
February 13, 2015
The history of the cadenza in concertante music is a fascinating one. Originally it was expected that the soloist would improvise what is basically an excuse to show off. Some composers did write cadenzas for their own concertos - Bach's extended harpsichord cadenza in the opening movement of the Fifth Brandenburg for example. Mozart wrote cadenzas for those piano concertos he was not performing himself.
The case of Beethoven is (as so often) particular interesting and illuminating. His cadenzas for his first three piano concertos were composed some time later (and in at least one instance, the cadenza uses notes which were not on the instrument when the concerto was written). For the fourth he composed two sets of cadenzas. By the time of the "Emperor" concerto he was no longer able to perform in public and the cadenzas are written into the score.
The Violin Concerto is an interesting anomaly; although Beethoven initially wrote no cadenza, when he transcribed the solo part for piano (published as Op.61a) he did write a cadenza, which includes a part for the timpanist.
Possibly no other violin concerto has had so many cadenzas written for it by other hands - although the Brahms is definitely a contender: I know of at least twenty-four for the Beethoven and eighteen or so for the Brahms. Most soloists stick to the tried-and-tested Kreisler - more adventurous violinists might use the longer Joachim.
Müge Büyükçelen was the soloist in Friday night's exceptional performance of the concerto and chose to use the cadenzas of Alfred Schnittke, to which I shall return shortly.
Although for many Beethoven's concerto is simply the greatest ever written for the violin, it does present a clear and present danger to the performers: the first movement is Beethoven's longest opening movement and, at around twenty-five minutes, it can, in less than first-class hands, easily become tedious.
I am delighted - although hardly surprised - to report that there was no such danger in this performance. From timpanist Corey Rae's gentle opening strokes to the final chords this was one of the most gripping and coherent performance I've heard in a very long time.
Yariv Aloni adopted a good flowing tempo, the winds' playing of the principal subject was delectable, the cellos' accompaniment feline in its grace, and it all built to a rich, full-bodied tutti.
Büyükçelen's initial entry (a particularly tricky passage) was confident yet subtle; throughout the concerto she employed a most tasteful sense of rubato, which was followed closely by Aloni and his players. Balance and dynamics were very fine.
The opening of the first of the Schnittke cadenzas left nobody in any doubt as to the century of its composition. I understand that it quotes from concertos by (inter alia) Berg and Shostakovich, as well as the allegretto from Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. I'm afraid I only caught the last of these, yet my attention, like those of the rest of the audience, was riveted. Even a particularly noisy siren in the street outside could not break the concentration.
The key word for the second movement was "poise" whether from soloist or accompaniment. The string tone at the beginning was excellent, as were the clarinet and bassoon; the orchestral pizzicato towards the close was deliciously delicate.
After a truly first-rate transition, the finale bounced along joyfully, particularly the horns and flutes. Schnittke's cadenza for this movement involves not just the soloist and the timpanist but a number of the first violins as well, who provided a sort of rising "whoosh" before the cello pickup. I confess I found this cadenza less satisfactory than the first, not because of the playing which, it must by now be apparent, was top flight, but because it seems to spend much of its time (pointlessly) recapitulating the opening movement.
Regardless of my - or anyone else's - opinion of the cadenzas, this was a truly outstanding performance of a concerto which is far less easy to bring off than its reputation would suggest. Hats off to all concerned.
When I was younger, so much younger than today (to quote John Lennon) we were taught that Beethoven's music could be divided into the Apollonian - lofty and philosophical - and the Dionysian - rumbustious and extravert.
The Violin Concerto fell into the former category; the Seventh Symphony more or less defines the latter.
Carl Maria von Weber said that the "extravagances of Beethoven's genius have reached the ne plus ultra in the Seventh Symphony, and he is quite ripe for the madhouse." Moreover, Beethoven was frustrated by the first two performances of the symphony: at its first it was overshadowed by the frankly unworthy Wellingtons Sieg (aka the "Battle" Symphony); at its second it, in turn, overshadowed the eighth, which was being premiered. He was not amused.
But Beethoven would surely have been delighted by the thrilling performance delivered by Aloni and his orchestra.
The lengthy slow introduction was superbly intense and weighty and the transition to the main allegro deftly handled. The music was propulsive with excellent dynamics. True, the repeat was omitted, but this was one of those occasions when the forward momentum of the music was such that one hardly missed it.
The famous allegretto (even decades afterwards, it was not unknown for it to be substituted into performances of other Beethoven symphonies) opened with a marvellously rich statement of the theme by the lower strings (violas, cellos and basses). Again Aloni chose the perfect tempo and shaped the music beautifully. The fugato was very well managed and here the advantage of dividing the violins - firsts to the conductor's left, second to his right, as Beethoven would have expected - became apparent. There are many antiphonal effects which are simply inaudible when the violins are huddled together for safety, as is so often the case.
The scherzo bounced along, a true presto; tempo changes into and out of the trio (and its repeat) were nicely judged.
Having sown the wind, as it were, the Victoria Chamber Orchestra truly reaped the whirlwind in the finale. At first I wondered if Aloni hadn't begun the movement too fast, but (as, deep down, I realised all along) he knew exactly what he was doing and maintained a commendable level of tension throughout, culminating in the movement's climax, all whooping horns, blaring trumpets, and growling cellos and basses at the bottom end.
I think I have probably heard just about every orchestra in Victoria (and Sooke) perform the seventh. This may well have topped them all.
A truly inspired evening.
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