London Philharmonic Orchestra Perform León & Britten at Carnegie Hall

Details

Parent Category: Film and the Arts

Category: Reviews

Published on Wednesday, 23 October 2024 14:13

Written by Jack Angstreich

Photo by Marco Borggreve

At Carnegie Hall’s Stern Auditorium on the night of Saturday, October 19th, I had the great privilege to attend a superb concert presented by the London Philharmonic Orchestra under the distinguished direction of its Principal Conductor, Edward Gardner.

The evening began splendidly with a confident account of Benjamin Britten’s extraordinary Sinfonia da Requiem, from 1940, which was a highlight of the event if only because it’s so seldom performed. In a useful program note, Keith Anderson provides some interesting background:

The Sinfonia da Requiem was written in response to a commission in the autumn of 1939 from the Japanese government for a work to mark the 2,600th anniversary of the founding of the imperial dynasty. The occasion was to include new compositions by Richard Strauss, Jacques Ibert, and Sándor Veress, but Britten's symphony was rejected by the commissioning committee, who took exception to the nature of the work and its apparent Christian content, although it had initially received approval. Britten had, in any case, resolved to write a composition imbued with as much of the spirit of pacifism as was possible. The official concert duly took place in Tokyo, with Britain unrepresented, and Strauss at his most bombastic. In the event, the Sinfonia da Requiem, dedicated to the memory of Britten's parents, had its first performance in March 1941 here at New York's Carnegie Hall, with the Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra conducted by John Barbirolli.

The initial, solemn Lacrymosa movement opens portentously and maintains a sense of drama throughout, building to a powerful climax before seamlessly transitioning to the intensely turbulent Dies irae and the gentle, affirmative Requiem aeternam, which has a quiet close.

An impressive soloist, Patricia Kopatchinskaja, then entered the stage for a compelling rendition of Dmitri Shostakovich’s striking Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 77. According to the annotator, Gavin Plumley, the composer was inspired by violinist David Oistrakh, “to whom the Concerto was dedicated and who gave the premiere”; he adds, “That first performance in Leningrad had to wait until 1955, however, after the deaths of both Zhdanov and Stalin, though the Concerto was soon performed elsewhere, including in New York, where Oistrakh made a crucial recording with The Philadelphia Orchestra and Dimtri Mitropoulos.”

The Nocturne, marked Moderato, that begins the piece, starts very lugubriously with an extreme gravity that is sustained across the entire movement and ends softly. The Scherzo that follows, an Allegro, is characteristically playful but paradoxically also deeply serious; it acquires a whirling energy before finishing suddenly. In the most beautiful of the movements, the succeeding Passacaglia, an Andante, the mood of sobriety continues even as the music becomes more forceful; a more subdued passage ensues, leading to a virtuosic cadenza. The propulsive, pleasurable, and ultimately dazzling finale is more celebratory in tone and ends abruptly.

The second half of the concert was even stronger, starting with an assured realization of Tania León’s intriguing Raíces. The program reported that:

Raíces was co-commissioned by the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Concertgebouw Brugge. The London Philharmonic Orchestra under Edward Gardner gave the world premiere on March 6, 2024 at London's Royal Festival Hall. 

Below I reproduce what the composer said about it in a conversation with Paul Griffiths from February 2024:

The title of this work is a Spanish word that means “roots” or “origins.” I prefer “origins,” because it's more general. It's also a word I've used before as a title, in my Origines for brass and percussion, which I wrote in 2012. In the case of this new piece, the origins are partly mine and therefore very mixed, for, like many people in Cuba, where I come from, I have quite a lot in my heritage: Spanish, Cuban, Chinese, and French. Like a jambalaya. That's why I'm not threatened by any culture; in fact, I'm very curious, and I want to learn. Living now in the US, there's a lot I have absorbed, to the point that when I go back to Cuba they think I'm from Arizona!

Every time I read a book by Gabriel García Márquez it's like going back home to my childhood. I grew up in a poor neighborhood and there was always a tapestry of sound in the background; somebody always had a radio on. Also, in Cuba, and indeed all over Latin America, we have a very strong dance element in our culture, and that's how I grew up: dancing—Cuban, Spanish, even Scottish dancing. You'll certainly hear dancing in this piece. And then there's a touch of Latin America in the orchestra, including an instrument that I'm using for the first time, which is a chime made from animal nails. It's found in various areas of Peru and Colombia.

The piece is in three main sections, but first of all there's a short introduction, which I've marked “Calm.” It's scored for the strings, playing harmonics, and it has an internal character. It's a state I try to find in myself: contemplative. Even when the music is much more active, this contemplation is going on behind the scenes. Towards the end of the second section it comes right forward. When the introduction has come to a stop there's a pause and then the big first section comes in, with the marking “Jovial.” It's a dance-inspired movement that explodes. This is where I really went ethnic, especially in the transition at the end, where the piano and percussion continue but in the strings, especially the basses, you immediately recognise a Cuban style of syncopation. And then it totally disappears and goes into the second section.

This is really for the woodwinds, under the heading “Enchanted,” it's like a forest. And then the brass come in, like the wind, that pushes things. I didn't use the trumpets so much here, because I was reserving them for the finale. It's like a walk through a forest. It always impressed me tremendously, something I heard as a child, that Beethoven used to walk through the forest to gain inspiration. Whenever I have the opportunity, I do that. Also, I owed a lot to Hans Werner Henze, and when we first met, and were discussing how we composed, we did so as we walked through a forest. He invited me to come and see him in Castel Gandolfo. He sent me a fax, and I thought it was a prank until I telephoned him. We spoke in Spanish, and he asked me to be on the jury at his Munich Biennale in 1992. From then on he became like a father to me in Europe.

The last part of the piece is very upbeat. It's a conversation between Latin American influences and jazz influences. It's a way of questioning everything that I have become. And it's a way of leaving the stage.

Raíces begins impressionistically, even inchoately, and finishes inconclusively. León entered the stage to receive the audience’s acclaim.

The pinnacle of the event was reached with its closing selection: a sterling version of the titanic, enthralling Symphony No. 5 in E-flat Major, Op. 82, from 1915, of Jean Sibelius. As the work was forming, the composer wrote, “In a deep mire again, but already I am beginning to see dimly the mountain that I shall ascend, God opens his door for a moment and his orchestra is playing the Fifth Symphony.” In a program note by Andre Mellor, he remarks that “on April 12, 1914, Sibelius witnessed a sight that would affect him profoundly and write the Fifth Symphony's main theme for him. It was a flock of 16 swans, soaring upwards from the Järvenpää lake for their migration.” The composer recorded in his diary, “One of my greatest experiences, the Fifth Symphony's final theme … legato in the trumpets.” 

A stirring, stunning opening, marked Tempo molto moderato, ushers in a somewhat amorphous, extended section that eventually coalesces into music with a driving rhythm and an understatedly exultant quality, before long attaining a dynamic ending. This precedes the slow movement (Andante mosso, quasi allegretto) which is lighter and more charming, again employing seductive—here almost waltz-like—rhythms, with highly lyrical moments. The sensational finale has an insistent, forward momentum and quickly soars into an atmosphere of celestial majesty, diverted by some more terrestrial interludes and passages of pure Romanticism; the music at last ascends to an epic grandeur before its surprising conclusion. Enthusiastic applause elicited a magnificent encore: the glorious “Nimrod” section of Edward Elgar’s classic “Enigma” Variations.

• < Prev
• Next >