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University Centre Auditorium
November 10, 2019
Even at the best of times, the workings of the mind of a genius are opaque to the rest of us.
Consider, for example, the case of Jean Sibelius' Symphony No.5. Commissioned by the Finnish government to celebrate the composer's fiftieth birthday, on which day — December 8, 1915 — he conducted the first performance to considerable acclaim.
A lesser composer might have then left well alone and proceeded to compose his sixth. And it was not as if Sibelius did not already have several symphonic triumphs under his belt.
But, being the genius that he undoubtedly was, Sibelius considered that he could do better and so proceeded to revise the symphony, not once but twice. The first revision was performed in 1916, the second in November 1919, and it is this final version which is invariably heard today (the original version has been recorded once and the family has forbidden any further performance).
There are two quotes by the composer which are relevant here: during the composition, he wrote in his diary that "It is as if God Almighty had thrown down pieces of a mosaic for heaven's floor and asked me to find out what was the original pattern"; after the second revision he commented "I wished to give my symphony another — more human — form. More down-to-earth, more vivid".
And yet, listening to the two versions side-by-side, one is struck by several features. Firstly the famous fusing together of the original first two movements into one: the "join" is not where one expects (certainly not where I had imagined, for several decades, that it would be); secondly, those enigmatic chords which end the work were, in the original, far more comprehensible: Sibelius removed the "scaffolding", in the form of sustained string and wind chords, and turned a fairly conventional ending into the gnomic punctuation with which we are familiar.
There are other noticeable details: at the very beginning the horn call is missing in the first version; much of the the slow movement is resequenced in the final revision; and the finale, shorn of some 200 bars in the 1919 version, is far more concise. Clearly in reorganizing the "mosaic", Sibelius had converted a very fine symphony into a towering masterpiece.
It was with a very fine performance of the symphony that Christian Kluxen and the Victoria Symphony closed Sunday's concert. Which is not to say that there were not some details with which I would wish to quibble — the work's opening, for example, lacked the exploratory feeling which, for me, is essential: this performance was never in any doubt as to where it was heading. And I did feel that the tempo was just a little too quick, so that the wind detail was not as cleanly articulated as it should have been; and if the Victoria Symphony winds have difficulty articulating cleanly, then that, to my mind, is a definite indication that the tempo is too fast.
Having got that off my chest, let me concentrate on the performance's positive side: firstly the glorious sound of the orchestra, rich smooth strings, characterful winds and resonant brass — not forgetting, of course, the crisp timpani of Bill Linwood, so important in this music; the orchestra really are on the top of their form these days. There was plenty of excellent inner detail and the final section had a wonderfully unstoppable momentum.
The tempo for the slow movement was perfectly judged and once again the sheer sound was delectable.
The finale was once again taken quickly, but not, I felt, too fast this time. Kluxen brought out details I had never noticed before — such as the col legno (bowing with the wood of the bow) from the doublebasses — and I was swept away by the grinding inevitability of the closing pages, before those final chords brought the symphony to its close: finality, yes, but ambiguity also.
In the concert's first half we were treated to the second ever performance of Poul Ruders' Sound and Simplicity — Seven Pillars of Music for Accordion and Symphony Orchestra.
For such recent music, the audience was commendably quiet and attentive, although there were some harsh words uttered during the interval — I know this, because some of them were uttered to me.
I will not pretend that I enjoyed each of the work's seven movements equally, but I most certainly did both enjoy and admire the extraordinary playing of accordionist Bjarke Mogensen, for whom the work was written. Some of the music was extremely busy and here he seemed to defy the laws of physics with the speed and accuracy of his playing; at other times, such as the luminous Trance (the second movement) he displayed a lyrical beauty that probably few of us thought his instrument capable of.
The third movement, Haiku, was appropriately short, featuring the highest and lowest registers of the orchestra; Smoke took the form of a slightly demented waltz, complete with prepared harp (as in John Cage's prepared piano).
The final Wolf Moon (I readily confess that I should never have guessed the titles of the movements) began with a glorious "whoop" from the horns, featured a fabulously virtuosic solo part and a very (very) abrupt ending.
Perhaps (actually, there is no "perhaps" about it) it was not to everybody's taste, but it is good to see or, rather, hear the Symphony "boldly going". And the composer, who was present, seemed pleased with what he had heard.
The afternoon began with a Nordic Suite of Scandinavian folks songs, arranged by Rune Tonsgaard Sørensen, first violinist of the Danish String Quartet, for string orchestra.
There was much to admire here and not just the lovely tones the orchestra's string players produced. I was particularly taken by the slightly acerbic harmonies of the overture ("Ye Honest Bridal Couple"), the undeniably rustic feel of the scherzo ("Stædelil"); the spirited syncopation of the Hymn (not the first attribute one associates with the form) and the quick jig that was the finale ("The Dromer") with its abrupt tempo changes, extremely well managed, and the sudden appearance of a Scottish influence, in the shape of "Auld Lang Syne".
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