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University Centre Auditorium
April 16, 2023
"Clarinet n. An instrument of torture operated by a person with cotton in his ears. There are two instruments worse than a clarinet—two clarinets.
Of course, we all know that in The Devil's Dictionary Ambrose Bierce "only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases", although one cannot but help but wonder whether he might have ameliorated his opinion had he been in the Farquhar Auditorium on Sunday to hear Camilo Aybar play Bernhard Crusell's Second Clarinet Concerto.
Crusell actually wrote three concertos for the instrument on which he earned his living and, while we tend to think of the great clarinet concertos (Mozart, Nielsen, Copland) as being "one offs" a surprising number of composers wrote more than one: the most notable example being Carl Maria von Weber, who wrote two, as well as a concertino, but there are many others (Spohr, for instance, always the overachiever, wrote no fewer than four) and even some who would really have upset Bierce by writing a concerto for two clarinets — and Rossini, even wrote two of them.
While I cannot imagine there would be many people who would place Crusell's concerto on a level with Mozart's in terms of profundity, in terms of sheer instrumental virtuosity it probably has few peers.
And Aybar was just the soloist for the music.
After a string opening — which, if I am being brutally honest was not quite perfectly in tune — the dramatic tutti led to Aybar's first, marvellously confident entry. His tone was most attractive and he showed himself capable of a superlative pianissimo, which is not necessarily something one encounters every day. This was most evident in the cadenza, which also allowed him ample opportunity for fireworks.
The slow movement opened with well-defined pizzicatos from the cellos; Aybar's playing was wonderfully lyrical and the whole thing was quite charming. Moreover, I see that, once again, I noted that he "knows how to play quietly".
The finale was perky and exuberant, without being overly so. I imagine that Crusell made some new friends and I am positive that Aybar gained a whole clutch of admirers.
There is a well-known story of an encounter between Edvard Grieg and Ferenc Liszt, during which Liszt sight-read Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor from the manuscript, playing both the solo and orchestral parts. As Grieg recalled: "A really divine episode I must not forget. Toward the end of the finale the second theme is, as you may remember, repeated in a mighty fortissimo. In the very last measure, when in the first triplets the first note is changed in the orchestra from G to G sharp, while the piano part, in a mighty scale passage, rushes wildly through the whole reach of the keyboard, he suddenly stopped, rose up to his full height, left the piano, and with big theatric strides and arms uplifted walked across the large cloister hall, at the same time literally roaring the theme. When he got to the G in question he stretched out his arms imperiously and exclaimed: 'G, G, not G sharp! Splendid! That is the real Swedish Banko!"
That was in 1870 and, insofar as I can ascertain, to this day nobody has the faintest idea of what Liszt actually meant. (We can forgive his "Swedish" as the union of Sweden and Norway was not dissolved until 1905, but that "Banko" remains a mystery.)
Nonetheless, Grieg was encouraged, particular by Liszt's final words: "Keep steadily on; I tell you, you have the capability, and — do not let them intimidate you!" ("Fahren Sie fort, ich sage Ihnen, Sie haben das Zeug dazu, und — lassen Sie sich nicht abschrecken!")
"This final admonition", said Grieg, "was of tremendous importance to me; there was something in it that seemed to give it an air of sanctification".
Tallulah Tam was the first-rate soloist in an unusually thoughtful account of (alas!) the first movement only of the Grieg concerto. This was clear from her opening cascade of notes, in which she eschewed the temptation, to which so many succumb, to demonstrate that she could play them as fast as possible, although she clearly does not lack in technique and I imagine she could have played it faster, but simply (and, in your humble scribe's opinion, wisely) chose not to.
There was an impressive lightness in the accompaniment of the main theme, Aloni was commendably attentive to her rubato and even the cadenza (the very first part of the concerto ever recorded, in 1903 by Percy Grainger for the G&T — Gramophone and Typewriter [sic] — Company) while it had its more overtly forceful and virtuosic moments, nevertheless was governed by that thoughtfulness which characterised Tam's entire performance.
The Grieg concerto is one of those piece which has been so familiar for so long, that I find it difficult to get excited about a performance in prospect. Tam's was both different and convincing and will linger in my memory; I hope one day to hear her play the entire work.
After a short break to change back into something rather less sparkly, Tam resumed her place in the first violins: clearly when you have a violinist father and a pianist mother, the only sensible solution is to become (more than) competent at both. If she is looking for a rôle model, she needs look no further than the great Arthur Grumiaux, who in 1959, thanks the the wonders of multi-tracking, made a recording of the second Brahms violin sonata in which he played both violin and piano parts.
Léo Delibes' ballet Sylvia was, I suspected, one of those works which I would recognise from having heard it many times on the BBC when I was a child, even though I would not have been able to put a name to it had I heard it without being told its identity.
In the end I was half right: the buoyant horn passages — extremely well played by all four — in the opening movement certainly rang a bell at the back of my mind, while the whole literally (and, of course, entirely appropriately) danced, propelled by Tristan Holleufer's pounding timpani.
The second movement is a charming waltz even if I did not recognise it, and was enlivened by very fine solos from oboist Kiara Hosie, flautist Eva Bradávková and clarinetist Aybar.
The third movement is actually entitled Pizzicati and certainly contained the best-known music of all. (And music which lives on in popular culture: oddly enough, a couple of days later we happened to be watching an episode of the BBC's children's programme Shaun the Sheep, made as recently as 2013, and during the scene in which one of the sheep danced with a pig — you had to be there — the accompaniment was an arrangement of precisely this music.) Aloni imbued the piece with some quite dramatic rubato, which was superbly controlled.
The finale featured some marvellous brass passages — four horns, four trumpets, three trombones and tuba — who were powerful without their tone ever harshening or becoming overbearing. The big finish was very well shaped by Aloni and brought the afternoon to a rousing conclusion.
For those who only know The Planets, Gustav Holst's A Somerset Rhapsody, which opened the afternoon, might have come as something of a surprise, occupying that same folk-derived territory as much of the music of Holst's greatest friend, Ralph Vaughan Williams, although Holst's harmonies are perhaps a little more acerbic.
The music opens with hushed strings beneath the oboe's playing the folk song "Rosebud in June" also known as the "Sheep shearing song" after its refrain: "and the lads and the lasses to sheep shearing go". (Nice to know that sheep shearing was an equal opportunity activity.) Aloni wisely did not over conduct oboist Hosie who produced such a beautifully rounded and mellow tone (which, believe me, not every oboist does) that for a while I was almost convinced that I was actually hearing an English horn (or, as the English insist on calling it, a cor anglais).
I have remarked before on Aloni's remarkable affinity for English music and that was once again in evidence, with the music leading inevitably to an exuberant climax, with excellent percussion, before finally subsiding back to the gorgeous opening melody.
A superb way for the GVYO to close their season.
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