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Prom 62, Beethoven and Sibelius: Nikolaj Znaider (violin), Gustav Mahler Jugendorchester; Sir Colin Davis (conductor). Royal Albert Hall, London 1.9.2008 (JPr)


At its première in 1806 Beethoven had to put up with the first movement of his Violin Concerto being separated from the last two by some popular virtuoso pieces, but of course that was the custom of the day. There seemed little interest in the work following its first performance, nor indeed for much of the rest of Beethoven’s life. It only began to become more frequently performed after 13-year-old Joseph Joachim played it during his London debut on 27 May 1844 at which the conductor was Felix Mendelssohn, a champion of neglected music. Joachim remained for several years virtually the only violinist to perform Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with any frequency. He composed cadenzas for the concerto which are still in commonuse but far more often these days,  it is the one by Fritz Kreisler that is included. So it was for this Prom with Nikolaj Znaider and the Gustav Mahler Jugendorchester.

Violinists of Beethoven’s time may have been put off by the work's unprecedented proportions; on its own,  the length of the first movement exceeds that of nearly every earlier complete concerto for the violin, as well as having a more serious character compared to its predecessors. The first movement, Allegro ma non troppo, follows the structure of an orchestral opening movement and begins with four solo strokes, as if calling the muses to order. This becomes a recurring motif transformed in various ways throughout the movement. It is heard as a thematic bridge between the first two themes and the first violins perform a series of narrow, little sixteenth-note turns at the end of the first theme before settling on four gentle A's, which proceed directly into the secondary theme. This is a delightful woodwind theme - like the sun appearing from behind clouds. Hearing it in performance, the end of the Allegro also seems to foreshadow the opening of Fidelio Act II.

Whilst the opening bars proclaim this first movement as expansive and dramatic, and the solo writing is extremely demanding, there is virtually nothing to show off the bravura virtuosity of the soloist. The soloist must however play, as Nikolaj Znaider did, with haunting lyricism and exquisite fingering. For me Kreisler’s cadenza brought a Hungarian/gypsy like quality to the music; something that Znaider’s ‘Kreisler’ Guarnerius violin with its shrill clean tone did nothing to dispel.

The Larghetto is beautifully calm and shows the composer delighting so much in his theme that he repeats it four times in a row, while asking the solo violin to craft the most delicate sounds in its upper register. It is essentially a romance in modified variation form that reaches far beyond the sweetness of the two independent romances Beethoven had earlier composed, to achieve a sublime level paralleled among his works only in his most intimate chamber music. Here the orchestra played very quietly - possibly too quietly for the upper reaches of the Royal Albert Hall - in accompanying Znaider’s delicate threads of sound.

The familiar Rondo begins immediately, and as if to make up for the wait that it had before being heard in the first movement, the solo violin jumps right in to deliver the melody with only the merest suggestion of accompaniment from the double basses. The volume is piano, but Beethoven instructs the soloist to play on the violin's lowest string to give a dark, resonant sound. This is immediately contrasts with a repeat of the melody, this time in the instrument's highest range and accompanied by the violin section. The pattern is the ‘hunting’ music found in the symphonic and chamber-music finales of Mozart and Haydn but in Beethoven's hands the solid, earthy character comes more to the fore with the music redolent of the Vienna Woods or an Austrian Ländler. Znaider’s performance throughout was a model of firm technique, balance and restraint though I thought his sound was slightly overwhelmed by the enthusiastic Gustav Mahler Jugendorchester at the conclusion of the concerto.

At the turn of the twentieth century, two things concerned Jean Sibelius — his country and his compositions. His home, Finland, was experiencing a surge of nationalistic pride which called for independence and recognition after centuries of domination by Sweden and Russia, and he enthusiastically lent his philosophical and artistic support to the movement. In 1900, Sibelius was given a specific way in which to further the cause of both his country and his music. In that year, the conductor Robert Kajanus led the Helsinki Philharmonic through Europe to the Paris Exhibition on a tour whose purpose was less to do with artistic recognition than meant as a bid for international sympathy for Finnish political autonomy. As Sibelius’s music figured prominently in the tour repertory, he was asked to join the entourage as assistant to Kajanus. The tour was a success: for the orchestra and its conductor, for Finland, and especially for Sibelius, whose works it brought to a wider audience than ever before.

A year later Sibelius was again travelling and was able to spend the early months of 1901 in Italy away from the rigors of the Nordic winter. Sibelius had made a good start on his new Second Symphony by the time he left for home. So successful was its première on 8 March 1902 that it had to be repeated at three successive concerts in a short time to satisfy the clamour for further performances.

Because of the milieu in which the Second Symphony was composed, there have been several attempts to read into it a specific, nationalistic programme, including one by Georg Schnéevoight, a conductor and the composer’s friend. As late as 1946, the Finnish musicologist Ilmari Krohn declared that the Symphony depicted ‘Finland’s struggle for political liberty.’ Sibelius however, insisted that such descriptions misrepresented his intention and insisted that it was his tone poems, not his symphonies, which were based on specific programmes. His Second Symphony, he maintained, was pure, abstract expression and not meant to conjure any definite meaning. As with any great work however, Sibelius’s Second Symphony can inspire many different interpretations, and the Finns have an understandable devotion to Schnéevoight’s patriotic view of the music: despite Sibelius’s words it is the piece most often performed at Finnish state occasions.

Like his First Symphony,  the influence of German and Russian music bears heavily on this one. Echoes of the works of Tchaikovsky and Borodin and, to a lesser extent, Brahms are frequent. However, the style is unmistakably that of Sibelius in its melody, timbres and thematic development. The first movement is modelled on the classical sonata form and by way of introduction, the strings present a chordal motif which courses through and unifies much of the movement. A bright, folk-like strain for the woodwinds and a hymnic response from the horns constitute the opening theme. The second theme exhibits some characteristic Sibelius with a long held note that intensifies to a quick rhythmic flourish. Towards the end there are repeated horn calls and delicate woodwind: we have clearly heard music from the forest and steppes of the frozen north.

The second movement is a series of dramatic paragraphs whose strengths lie not just in their individual qualities but also in their powerful juxtapositions. The opening statement is given by bassoons in hollow octaves above a bleak accompaniment of timpani with cellos and basses in pizzicato notes, which I find reminiscent of the scurrying footsteps from the opening of Wagner’s Die Walküre. The upper strings and then full orchestra take over the solemn lament, but soon inject a new, sharply rhythmic idea of their own which calls forth a halting climax from the brass choir that is almost Brucknerian. After a silence, the strings intone more mournful, almost funereal, music that soon engenders another climax. A soft timpani roll begins the series of themes again, but somewhat expanded for the whole orchestra giving it greater emotional impact; despite the fact I found this movement very episodic in Colin Davis’s reading.

The third movement is a three-part form (A–B–A) whose lyrical, unhurried central trio, built on a repeated note theme, provides a strong contrast to the mercurial surrounding scherzo. The slow music of the trio returns as a bridge to the closing movement, a most inspiring finale where the music finally seems to hind its ‘heart’ with an impassioned theme. The music rises heavenwards as a soul seems to begin its final journey and appears to get where it is going after a reprise of the earlier lyrical ecstasy and a final triumphant statement. The ending felt like the final bars of Parsifal re-orchestrated by Bruckner as the horns and timpani brought this great Romantic symphony to a close.

Throughout this Prom,  Sir Colin Davis’s baton never seemed to beat time but was used to coax wonderful playing from the young musicians (none more than 26 years old) in front of him. Now in his 81st year,  tempo changes were anticipated by more violent stick movements often accompanied by a shrug of Sir Colin's shoulders. At the end of the Sibelius Symphony he demanded every emotional ounce from his orchestra, emphasising the need for more rubato from the strings with his left hand. He seemed to embody the joy of performing such music and this obviously rubbed off on his players -  I shall long remember the twelve double basses swaying and playing. I had expected this Sibelius to be more driven, intense and even more passionate but apparently Sir Colin Davis has his own ideas about it: and who am I to say he is not completely correct?

Jim Pritchard

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