I remember reading
a review of the Brian Violin Concerto
when it was first issued on Marco Polo
that claimed it was the greatest such
British work ever written – bar none.
Out with Elgar, Walton, Britten, Delius,
Stevens, Frankel, Moeran, Dyson et
al but in with Brian’s 1934 effort.
I took it not so much as (insane) critical
judgement but more as relief that this
Concerto had finally been accorded a
commercial release and that adherents
no longer needed to listen to their
off-air tape of heroic Ralph Holmes
in his solo-modified and somewhat solo-simplified
performance. And now, as Marco Polo
releases appear with such pleasing regularity
on Naxos, the constituency for it and
its disc-companions should be greater
still. We can deflect our thoughts from
the long promised symphonic cycle for
a moment to savour this re-release from
1993.
The soloist is pitched
in right from the start and almost immediately
we reach a second subject of delicious
lightness and almost insolent simplicity,
one that gathers lyrical sweetness.
Whatever you may have heard about Brian’s
knotty writing in this work don’t for
a moment underestimate its sheer lyric
generosity, its many moments of expressive
reprieve and the touching delicacy of
a lot of the writing. Brian’s reputation
as monolithic could not be farther from
the truth here even in the rather Hindemith-like
moments that run as a spine through
the first movement; toughness and sweetness
in close consort. There are superb moments;
that hieratic brass call – Scandinavian
– and the accompanied cadenza that ends
the first movement with tough bowing,
craggy writing and malicious sounding
fingering for the soloist Or try the
soft lento theme of the slow movement
and its subsequent unfolding passacaglia
tread, powerful tuttis and the violin
lightening the pressure with exquisite
tenderness. Some Elgarian influence
can be felt throughout and as the slow
movement ends (track 12) some Delian
textures in the orchestral writing are
audible as well. The finale begins with
an Elgarian march but the most singular
moments are those when the orchestral
pizzicati thrum behind the folkloric
yearn of the solo violin – or when Brian
pushes the soloist ungratefully high
in subsequent passages. It imparts a
misterioso element to the music, kaleidoscopic
and, as ever, Brian’s centre of musical
gravity is constantly shifting; his
tectonic plates in permanent motion.
The finale is especially commanding
and virile with its virtuosic cadenza
and resurgent orchestral calls full
of brass blare and accelerating drama.
Coupled with the Concerto
is the Comedy overture – The Jolly Miller.
This is tinted with comedic light music
strains and with flecks of the baroque-folkloric.
But Brian doesn’t stint some bold percussive
comment and his variation form schema
is both knowing and successful. The
Eighteenth Symphony dates from 1961.
It’s a compact, fourteen-minute work
of implacable and driven surety. Even
the Adagio is quite terse and tense
in a forward moving way – and pits a
solo viola against low brass and tolling
percussion. Timbres and sonorities are
never opaque. The last movement of the
three embraces a brassy march and slower
more decisively withdrawn material.
Once again Brian unleashes percussion
and brass – occasionally at wearisome
levels – but the ambiguous mid-air ending
compels attention – and deserves retrospective
probing in the light of what has gone
on before.
So it’s a warm welcome
to this bargain price reissue. I’ve
not yet mentioned the performances.
Marat Bisengaliev proves as remarkable
as one had remembered in the concerto,
bringing intimacy and daemonic control
throughout, warmly and sensitively accompanied
by Friend and the forces of the BBC
Scottish Symphony Orchestra. No caveats.
Jonathan Woolf
Marat Bisengaliev (violin) 
