In an interview
published on Seen & Heard, Joe Duddell said that he wanted to compose
a concerto that reflected the ‘more lyrical side of percussion.’ Ruby
goes well beyond that, since it is not only the percussion that displays
a lyricism but the orchestration also. What one might have imagined
to have been a proto-anarchic approach to a work of this nature (especially
from such a young composer with a relatively radical classical background)
proves entirely counter to it; recent concertos by James MacMillan and
Joseph Schwantner are certainly not models to which Duddell has turned,
both of which are as much ‘visual’ concertos as they are ‘aural’ ones,
conceptually dramatic works rather than inherently poetic ones.
Neither is Duddell’s concerto
as radically virtuosic as those by MacMillan and Schwantner (there is
conspicuously less writing for four or more mallets, for example), even
if in structure it closely resembles the latter’s. Schwantner conservatively
gave his concerto’s movements linguistic parameters – ‘Con forza’, ‘Misterioso’
and ‘Ritmico con brio’ – which at least gave some indication to the
work’s wider synthesis, but Duddell, as with the titles he gives his
works – which are largely personal attributions – simply locates a measure
of time (and a suggestive one, rather than an absolute one) as an indication
to the work’s structure.
Yet, Ruby works because
its aspirations are so nearly fully achieved. Duddell has written of
the contrasting of un-tuned and tuned percussion and how the rhythmic
and kaleidoscopic properties of the former work collaboratively with
the melodic and harmonic possibilities of the latter in allowing the
soloist to interact with the colours of the orchestra. This is the antithesis
of many percussion concertos and the epiphany of Duddell’s work is that
percussion can be spontaneously lyrical and poetic. This works marvellously
in the central movement – where the orchestral string textures mirror
the diaphanous soundscape of Skempton’s Lento – and the haunting
marimba lines shadow the sombre pulsing of double basses and ‘cellos.
It also works beautifully in the fast third movement where the percussion
(amid some beautifully written parts for the vibraphone) works with
the solo trumpet, flute and double bass to form a mini ‘concerto grosso’,
each instrument mirroring the plangency of the percussionist. If the
music is usually doleful rather than blindingly aggressive it always
seems to have a musical purpose behind its composition, the only possible
exception being a drum-kit solo with orchestra near the beginning of
the final movement which seemed oddly out of place.
Colin Currie was an expert soloist,
with Marin Alsop and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra providing a
peerless accompaniment.
Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da
Rimini and Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra framed
Duddell’s concerto and both works were given utterly gripping interpretations
by the American conductor Marin Alsop. She is that rarity in Tchaikovsky
– a conductor who knows exactly how to pace these complex symphonic
fantasies. Francesca, as with Romeo and Juliet, can seem
interminable at the wrong tempo (listen to Celibidache, just after the
war, with the Berlin Philharmonic to hear just how wrong a performance
of Romeo can sound, for example) yet Ms Alsop took us on this
Dantean journey, if not briskly, then certainly dramatically. Like the
Japanese conductor Takashi Asahina, Ms Alsop achieves the broadest orchestral
sonority from the bottom up – in other-words, from the lower strings
- and the Bournemouth Symphony orchestra’s ‘cellos and double basses
provided the bedrock on which this thrillingly menacing sound was developed.
The orchestra’s brass – especially the horns – were often less than
secure but the woodwind playing was beautifully responsive throughout,
especially in their depiction of the howling of the souls of the damned,
and Francesca’s reappearance brought forth an evocative, almost over-tender
clarinet solo from Kevin Banks.
Her sense of pacing paid off perfectly
in the work’s conclusion, so often a calamitous ritual of hysteria.
The storm’s remorseless return, overshadowing everything before it,
gripped precisely because Ms Alsop didn’t accelerate her tempi, the
orchestral ferocity more shattering because of the unambivalent way
in which she held back, in ritardando, to allow the polyphony
of the conclusion to emerge with the wound up tension it should, but
so infrequently does. This was a simply spellbinding performance.
Almost as persuasive was her interpretation
of Bartók’s great Concerto for Orchestra. With an American
approach, reminiscent of Bernstein’s and Maazel’s before her, Ms Alsop
took a ripely romantic view of this work which, speciously or otherwise,
depended on a warmth of orchestral sonority you don’t often hear in
central European interpretations. Even the Bournemouth brass, so brittle,
and often frail, in the Tchaikovsky, here played with a near-precision
that suggested the roughness had all but been smoothed out, and the
rugged Hungarian-ness disseminated, even in the folk dances, to something
more trans-Atlantic in its scale.
It is a viable approach, although
only partly. The ‘Giuoco delle coppie’ suffered slightly from being
too clipped, the side drum being marginally rhythmically understated
and her tempo a questionable scherzo rather than a genuine one. In contrast,
her conducting of the ‘Elegia’ was profoundly dark, often impassioned
and fully aware of the subtleties of the composer’s impressionistic
writing. The ‘Finale’ brought with it a wondrous stillness to the tranquillo
section, but perhaps an over use of rubato made the perpetuum mobile
sections less thrilling than they might have been. Yet, this was a performance
which had an exceptionally wide emotional and expressive range, less
fierce and biting than many might be used to, but benefiting from an
imagistic use of colouring and atmosphere that was often a revelation.
It was a performance which amply
demonstrated the charisma of this conductor, and the progressive (and
positive) effect she has had on the Bournemouth orchestra. It is a partnership
I wish we could hear more of in London, a city that, despite having
its own orchestral excellence, seems to lack anything approaching a
vibrant partnership on this scale.
Marc Bridle
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