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Royal Theatre
February 29, 2016
"Brahms has two personalities: one predominantly of childlike genius...and the other of demoniac cunning which, with an icy surface, suddenly breaks forth in a pedantic, prosaic compulsion to dominate."
Joseph Joachim was one of the most important violinists of the nineteenth century; although early in his career he was a disciple of Liszt, he later broke with the "New German School" and it was his letter of recommendation which introduced the then-unknown Brahms to Robert and Clara Schumann.
Brahms wrote his Violin Concerto with the advice and guidance of Joachim, who wrote the cadenza. However, when Brahms took Amalie Joachim's side during their divorce proceedings, a breach opened up between the two friends.
Several years later Brahms composed his last orchestral work, the Concerto for Violin and Violoncello, universally known as his "Double Concerto", in part as a gesture of reconciliation. The work was premiered in October 1887 with Joachim and Robert Hausmann (cellist in the Joachim Quartet) as soloists.
Of the four Brahms concertos, the double is the least performed; the reasons are hard to understand, although early listeners were frequently unimpressed: Clara Schumann describing it as "not brilliant for the instruments"; Richard Specht called it "one of Brahms' most inapproachable and joyless compositions". (A second double concerto, which Brahms had begun to sketch, was destroyed in the light of such criticisms.)
It seems more likely, though, that the explanation is the work's requirement for two equally fine soloists each of whom, moreover is prepared to share the spotlight.
Perhaps it is no coincidence, then, that some of the finest performances have been given by soloists who are used to working together, either — as with Joachim and Hausmann — in a chamber ensemble or, as was the case here, as principals in the same orchestra.
Terence Tam and Brian Yoon were the excellent soloists in what may have been the concerto's first performance in Victoria in two decades. After the clean, richly-toned orchestral tutti they grabbed the music with both (all four?) hands, displaying considerable eloquence and, it scarecly needs saying, virtuosity.
The opening movement was characterised by some almost chamber-like textures and generally excellent communications both between the soloists and also with the conductor and orchestra.
The slow movement, in typically dark-brown Brahmsian colours, featured some delectable playing from all concerned. The finale, with its "Hungarian" overtones, danced its rhythmic way to its rousing conclusion.
A performance which was worth waiting twenty-odd years for.
As an encore, Tam and Yoon began by playing arguably the "obvious" choice — the Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia — but matters rapidly became almost frivolous, as Yoon doffed an eccentric wig (Tam later acquired headgear of his own, although it was delivered to him by another orchestra member) and the duo broke into what sounded as if it might be a tango (Astor Piazzola perhaps) but was in fact, as it transpired, "Enter Sandman" by Metallica (and I am pleased to report that I had to ask) before careening back into Handel-Halvorsen.
After the somewhat sombre Brahms, this came as a very welcome (and extremely well-played) interlude of light relief.
In March 1892 George Bernard Shaw attended a performance of Schubert's last symphony, the "Great" C major, D.944. "It seems to me", he wrote, "all but wicked to give the public so irresistible a description of all the manifold charms and winningnesses of this astonishing symphony, and not tell them, on the other side of the question, the lamentable truth that a more exasperatingly brainless composition was never put on paper".
Alas, it is usually only the final few words which are quoted, leaving the impression that "exasperatingly brainless" was Shaw's entire opinion.
A century and more later and the notion of repetition in music — whether enforced, like that of Holst, by the composer's increasing inability to hold a pen, or by choice, like the ostinatos and motor rhythms of Sibelius and Stravinsky, or the music of the Minimalists — is one to which we are far more accustomed (or inured, if you insist). The only people who still have a problem with Schubert's "heavenly lengths", as Schumann put it, are the performers themselves.
Bernhard Gueller closed the concert with an oustanding performance of Schubert's last symphony — written, it is worth remembering, when Schubert was two years younger than Beethoven was when he composed his first symphony.
The orchestral sound was full, textures were light and airy, rhythms well sprung and dynamics nicely observed. The all-important trombones were excellent throughout (I imagine trombonists must love this symphony).
The opening movement was magisterial, the andante jaunty but with an underlying sense of the tragic, leading to an almost cataclysmic climax, softened, after a long, pregnant pause, by the tender cellos and oboe.
The scherzo was lilting and bouncy with a suave and stylish trio. The finale, after an arresting opening, was seemingly unstoppable.
Although there were a couple of minor interpretive points at which I would demur — the late Sir Charles Mackerras established that all published editions were incorrect in suggesting that the introduction should be slower than the rest of the first movement, and, while the great unison-octave Cs hammered out near the close undoubtedly cry out for a slight tenuto (although none is marked) I felt Gueller's was somewhat exaggerated and tended to dissipate the propulsive momentum he had so carefully built up to this point.
But, as I said, these were minor points to set beside a first-class performance, both technically and artistically; a performance, moreover, which clearly came to terms with the symphony's vast structure.
An "astonishing symphony" indeed.
The concert opened with The New Voyager, Andrew Staniland's tribute to the pioneers who opened up this great country.
This proved, despite occasional reminders of Aaron Copland, Olivier Messiaen and National Film Board soundtrack scores, a most attractive work: from the busy-ness of the rhythmic string figures of the opening to the dramatic timpani solo — the excellent Bill Linwood on sparkling form — to the noisy, brassy close it held the interest throughout.
I trust, incidentally, that the person who uttered a quite audible "thank God!" at the end was not representative of the audience as a whole, whose reaction was far warmer and, in my opinion, appropriate.
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