Symposium brought out a CD set devoted to the art of
Carl Flesch that contained some fabulous rarities – live recordings
from the 1930s, otherwise unrecorded, which opened up previously unexplorable
vistas into the breadth of his playing. And now these CDs dedicated
to one of Flesch’s most outstanding pupils, Max Rostal, has in its turn
acquainted us with much that might otherwise have been lost. In his
own turn Rostal carried on Flesch’s teachings and his responsibilities
as a soloist were balanced with those towards his pupils and the nurturing
of European string teaching generally. He became known prominently as
a teacher in London and later in Switzerland but in fact he had begun
much earlier, becoming the youngest professor at the Berlin Hochschüle
whilst still in his twenties. As a professor at the Guildhall School
he was as influential as his colleagues at the RCM, Albert Sammons and
Isolde Menges, and also that much neglected figure Rowsby Woof. For
all his many qualities Rostal never quite achieved the international
career that might have been expected of him. His early playing is surprisingly
engaged and fiery but as time went on it was refined into a more analytical
and tonally focused style. The earliest recording preserved here (the
Bernard Stevens) therefore finds him in his early forties, living in
London, and pursuing a career as soloist, sonata player – with Franz
Osborn and later Colin Horsley - and as one of the most significant
teachers in Britain.
Yfrah Neaman claims in his share of the sleeve notes
– in addition to which there are contributions from Radovan Lorkovic
and Rostal himself – that the Bartók was introduced to
Britain by Rostal but I always thought that Menuhin took that honour
in 1944. Irrespective of first performance privileges Rostal’s contribution
to contemporary music was profound, tenacious, eloquent and unremitting;
he advanced the causes of composers whom he believed to be part of the
evolving fabric of violin composition whilst baulking at the emerging
avant-garde. The performance of the Bartók No 2 dates from 1962,
the most recent of the preserved concertos. There is some obvious muddiness
in the sound but there is little to distract the ear from Rostal’s ardently
expressive playing. His tone is not of striking opulence but it is distinctly
personalized with an absolute core to its sound and is well attuned
to a work of this kind. His characterization of the violin’s volatile
line emerges with trenchant understanding and fuses well with the vivid
orchestration – the orchestral glissandi, the disruptive and passionate
rhetoric. If the first movement cadenza can sometimes seem unduly discursive
it is delineated here with Rostal’s characteristic intellectual rigour
though without any sense of academic or dry playing. His sovereignty
over a large architectural span can only be acknowledged with admiration.
In the second movement his "flattened" tone emphasises Bartók’s
quixotic writing and he is especially astute in his preparation for
the subsequent orchestral outburst at 5.10 – listen also to his high
lying playing after 10.05 with orchestral harps and shimmering strings
to accompany him. The last movement with its motoric impulse is in fact
a set of reflections and refractions of the first and as Rostal points
out in his notes is of exceptional complexity and not immediately recognisable
as such; tremendously played.
The Berg dates from 1953 and is conducted by
Herman Scherchen who had given the premiere, with Louis Krasner, on
barely an hour’s rehearsal after Berg had backed out. Again there are
the inevitable sonic limitations but the historical value of the performance
far outweighs the minor inconveniences inherent in the reproduction
– muddied balancing and some acetate thumping. Radovan Lorkovic speculates
in his notes that Rostal may have been influenced by the BBC Orchestra
and by Scherchen (the BBC had been the second to play the Concerto,
with Krasner and conducted by Webern, a performance miraculously preserved
by the soloist himself and for some years now available on Testament).
But that was a number of years in the past and he is far more likely
to have discussed tempo modifications with Scherchen which he felt engaged
with the concerto’s centrality of meaning. He is tonally of great clarity
and precision, tempi slightly at variance from the norm, with at times
an unexpected lightness far removed from more unremittingly solemn performances
and as a result the concerto emerges as more entirely whole. Rostal’s
vibrato usage is sparing and precisely graded. It’s not perhaps the
most emotionally convulsive performance but it is one that allows an
unimpeded view of a towering masterpiece.
Rostal believed in Bernard Stevens’ work as
he did in Benjamin Frankel whose solo sonata he’d recorded for Decca
shortly before making this broadcast performance of the Stevens Concerto.
I hope that Rostal’s reading of Frankel’s Violin Concerto, which has
been preserved, will be made available. It was Rostal in fact who had
suggested that Stevens write a Concerto and it was completed in February
1943. Violinist and composer met frequently to discuss the composition
and Stevens willingly accepted Rostal’s many suggestions and it seems
to have been a genuinely creative collaboration. Rostal edited both
Concerto and Stevens’ earlier Violin Sonata for publication in 1948.
This is the earliest performance in this set and is veiled in scratch
but the solo violin emerges very forwardly balanced, emerging brightly
and unduly spotlit, with the orchestra submerged in the aural perspective.
Rostal’s stentorian opening fusillade with brass interjection at 4’50
with horns emerging and a succeeding keening violin line is exceptionally
well done. He also lays strong emphasis on the troubled and powerfully
straining contours of the music, most explicitly perhaps in the cadenza
at 8.50, which one can feel Rostal relating specifically to the sense
of fracture and strain embedded in the syntax of the whole concerto.
His understanding of the adagio is matched by concomitant technical
address and this is playing of real involvement. If there is acetate
groove damage from 1.45 in the finale and the orchestra is distinctly
unhelpfully recessed here, to the detriment of the architecture, at
least one can concentrate on the solo violin’s traversal of the contrapuntal
movement and the fractious rhythmic material whose occasional lyricisms
are never quite enough. We can also admire the close of the work and
the beautifully benign final bars which whilst not untroubled are reflective
and interior and movingly realised by Rostal and Groves. Lest I’m giving
the impression that this is an unremittingly grey and bleak work the
Bloch influences are certainly present and the more one hears it the
more it gains in stature.
Expectant applause greets Rostal and Sargent for Shostakovich
No 1 from 1956. Sound is rather thin and papery and this does cause
some problems not least in orchestral elucidation – the fist movement
orchestral counter themes go for nothing here unfortunately. Nevertheless
we can hear Rostal’s expressive finger intensifications and the gradations
of his vibrato and its tactical deployment in the fabric of the score.
He is taxed but overcomes the rigours of the scherzo – his sense of
architectural line as ever most impressive and his tone becomes somewhat
astringent and wiry at times. There were moments in the great Passacaglia
that I found some somewhat tremulous playing, as if over vibrated in
response to perceived expectation, and not emergent from direct emotional
engagement with the music. There is also some fervently febrile playing
in this movement but for once I sensed an ultimate lack of cumulative
power, and the Passacaglia remained stubbornly remote and its ramifications
not fully explored. In the Burlesque finale there’s a little smeary
tone and the CD tracking has gone wrong – it should be track 7 but is
actually tacked as part of the Passacaglia. A small point.
This is a document then of real historical interest.
It’s a small but valuable legacy of preserved concerto performances
by a musician of stature. His association with Stevens is of outstanding
import; Scherchen’s involvement with the Berg is a commanding historical
detail; the Bartok preserves one of its earliest British performances.
Rostal may not have become the international soloist it seemed possible
he would but he more than discharged his debt and obligation to Carl
Flesch in advancing performing standards, embracing new repertory and
stimulating composition in a lifetime’s devotion to music.
Jonathan Woolf
Max Rostal violin with