'All a poet can do today is warn,' wrote Wilfred Owen,
whose poems form the basis of Britten's great anti-war piece, and his
words seem especially apposite today. Part of the War Requiem's unique
appeal is that it seems to speak to many who are not so greatly moved
by the equivalent masterpieces of, say, Mozart or Verdi, whose influences
on the present work are of course so profound. Perhaps it is the original
use made of English words, or the sheer melodic grace of much of the
music, or the operatic drama of most of the settings - or perhaps it
is just the nature of the piece itself, with its emotional connections
to last century's not-so-distant history.
This evening's performance gathered forces which were
in tune with the composer's wishes, in that a German baritone, Russian
soprano and English tenor comprised the soloists, and to further the
international approach, we heard an American conductor in charge of
the BBC Symphony Orchestra. The phrase 'in charge' applied here far
more than it often does. I have spent so many evenings in the concert
hall wondering either what the conductor was for, or speculating as
to exactly why the soloists appear to virtually ignore him, but Leonard
Slatkin gave every indication of being totally in command of his
considerable forces, without being at all dictatorial.
This was my first opportunity to sample the hall's
new acoustics, and what a difference they made. Visually, the new reflectors
resemble nothing so much as swathes of that sort of Laura Ashley three-coloured
taffeta material which covers corn-fed girls on their first dance, but
aurally they were far more dynamic, in that the old dryness in the sound,
and the previous cold echo, appear to have been eliminated. The sound
in general is still not as warm as that of, say, the superb Cité
de la Musique in Paris, but it is a vast improvement, and certainly
shows up the RFH acoustic. Why, I may even be tempted to endure the
ghastly journey into the boondocks, with the glimpses of St. Paul's
the only moment of pleasure on the way, the execrable food and the treat-you-like-dirt
parking arrangements, in order to experience more concerts here.
It was the Choir which benefited most from the new
sound, especially at the end of lines, where the sound closed incisively
instead of getting lost somewhere in the middle of the auditorium, although
the children's choir was not well placed. I found their music, though
accurately sung, too much inclining towards wraith-like faintness; some
ethereal sense is required, but this was going too far. Slatkin's management
of orchestra and choir was superb; climaxes were minutely judged, and
he obtained playing of the highest calibre from the orchestra, particularly
the woodwind and brass.
It was interesting to compare the performance of the
soloists with that of those in the LPO/Gardiner performance in May.
The baritone Thomas Mohr was well cast here, in that his voice
is sonorous when required yet lyrically apt for the more tender passages;
his very slight German accent is also right in this context, but he
did not move me as much as Maltman, since his voice is not as inherently
emotional or as dramatically magisterial as that of the latter. His
finest moment was during the duet 'Out there, we've walked quite friendly
up to Death' where his open tone and precise diction blended well with
the tenor's lines, and he also made much of the drama of 'None, said
the other..' and shaped the very challenging 'Even the sweetest wells
that ever were' with great skill.
I was disappointed in Elena Prokhina; I had
heard Melanie Diener previously, and had put her rather strident tone
down to lack of rehearsal (she was replacing Lott) but here, Prokhina's
singing seemed shrill and lacking involvement; perhaps I was expecting
too much after her lovely Tatiana, but the necessary smoothness seemed
lacking here - her phrasing was rather hectic, even for these lines.
The strongest contrast between soloists past and present
was that between Ainsley and Ian Bostridge; both tenors might be said
to be of the same type, that is, English tenors in their late thirties,
both of the Oxbridge tradition, both with lovely, if light, voices,
but as interpreters of this work, they could hardly be more different.
Bostridge sang with sweet expressiveness, highlighting the elements
of pathos and tenderness; he moved me to tears at many points, and did
not neglect the drama of the lines whilst doing so. Ainsley, on the
other hand, goes for the more angular, bitter style, spitting out lines
such as 'Was it for this the clay grew tall?' and his slightly astringent,
rather ascetic tone was ideal for the narrative passages, although the
higher notes found him a little uncharacteristically strained. His best
singing was heard in the moving directness of 'But where the lamb for
this burnt offering?' and the exquisite shaping of 'By whom the gentle
Christ's denied.' His diction is wonderful; someone once wrote of John
McCormack that you could almost see his consonants, and that remark
might equally well be applied to Ainsley, but if your Kleenex box needs
an outing then Bostridge is your man.
The final section was the highlight of the evening,
with the children's choir finally making its mark in 'In paradisum,'
and the male soloists giving a deeply moving account of 'It seemed that
out of battle,' with Mohr's 'I am the enemy you killed, my friend' being
received with the most rapt attention. A respectful silence and a warm
ovation greeted a performance which had achieved that elusive combination
of drama and tenderness, and which gained all the more for being heard
in the context of the newly spacious and welcoming acoustic of the Barbican
hall.
Melanie Eskenazi
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