Grosser
Saal, Konzerthaus
Beethoven – Violin Concerto in
D major, op.61
Franck – Symphony in D minor
Frank Peter Zimmermann (violin)
Vienna Symphony Orchestra
Jakub Hrůša (director)
What a wonderful surprise! It
was not that I had not expected something good; I should hardly have dragged
myself to another Beethoven Violin Concerto if not, still less to a performance
of a symphony about which I felt decidedly ambivalent (if not nearly so hostile
as many seem to). Frank Peter Zimmermann had given, with Bernard Haitink and
the LSO, what had been probably the best performance I had ever heard in
concert. Moreover, Jakob Hrůša had impressed me last year in Glyndebourne’s
Cunning Little Vixen, and I had
heard good things about him from others too. Nevertheless, to hear a
performance that exceeded my memories of the Haitink, not least on account of a
truly astonishing contribution from the Vienna Symphony Orchestra, and an
account of Franck’s D minor Symphony that had me wondering, at least until the
finale, whether all my doubts concerning the work had been misplaced, came as
significantly more than I might dared have hope.
The first movement of the
Beethoven was taken swiftly, but never harried (not unlike, indeed, Zimmermann’s
performance with Haitink, so I presume this must be his concept). What struck
me immediately was the cultivated sound Hrůša drew from the VSO; I really do
not think I am merely lapsing into some sort of ‘national’ stereotype when I
say that the sound reminded me of the Czech Philharmonic in its heyday, or
indeed one of Rafael Kubelík’s bands. There was something Bohemian, to be sure,
about the character of the orchestral playing, at least as I heard it; it was certainly
not sweetly Viennese, to resort to another caricature. The other striking,
indeed surprising, thing about the opening ritornello was Zimmermann’s playing
along for parts of it; I am not quite sure why, but it did not detract from his
official entry, since one never heard him individually. When that did come, his
playing offered a combination of the best of ‘old school’ tone with a
variegation that one does not always, rightly or wrongly, associate with some
of those hallowed performances of old. A simple – or not so simple – scale could
encompass great musical variety, with the emphasis on ‘musical’; this was not
variety, nor was it difference, for the sake of it. And all the time, Hrůša
emphasised, subtly yet unquestionably, the dynamic process of Beethoven’s
motivic working, its generative quality. Woodland woodwind sounded
heartbreakingly beautiful; one could almost see Beethoven on one of his
countryside walks, hear what he heard, transmuted into gold. Zimmermann’s
cadenza did more or less what one would have expected it to do, if not quite
always in the way one would have expected: different again, then, without that
difference being for its own sake. A coda as autumnal as Brahms offered one
brief, final blaze; as so often, at the close, Beethoven says just enough, no
more than that.
The slow movement proved the
most tender of songs, with multiple soloists, the VSO wind singing with just as
great distinction as Zimmermann, bassoon and horns as ravishingly beautiful as
any of those instruments more accustomed to the soloistic limelight. If
anything, I think these instrumentalists incited Zimmermann to still greater
heights. ‘Rapt’ is doubtless a word overused, not least by me, but it seems
apt, as it were, here. A masterly transition to the finale was Zimmermann’s
doing, of course, but the broader character of the finale was again as much Hrůša’s
and the orchestra’s doing as Zimmermann’s. Impish, exhilarating playing had one’s
ears on tenterhooks, in the best way. Once again, Hrůša’s subtle yet sure
tracing of Beethoven’s motivic dynamism provided the basis for everything else
that ensued.
The opening figure of Franck’s
D minor Symphony sounded full of Lisztian promise, with lower string tone
simply to die for. The violins’ response proved to be of equal distinction, as
indeed soon was that of the entire orchestra. Once again, the playing of the
VSO, and Hrůša’s conducting sounded – however lame this might sound on the page
– as if it were imbued with the very spirit of music. Even when the first
movement were driven hard, as sometimes it was, it grew out of what had gone
before; indeed, it made me wonder what Wagner from these forces might sound
like (not something I say lightly). Even the frankly vulgar passages in Franck’s
score made me smile, even shiver a little, rather than frown. This was
certainly a superior performance in every way to the over-praised recordings
from Leonard Bernstein (which may have done a great deal to put me off the
work). For there was delicacy, even tenderness, to be heard too, in a
performance that at the very least seemed to reach for Lisztian heights. I do
not think, indeed, that I have heard a performance, whether in the concert hall
or even on record, in which the music had so clearly been internalised by
conductor and orchestra (well, perhaps, Klemperer, but otherwise…)
The Allegretto was inexorable, yes, but charming too, with a wealth of
orchestral colour that had me think several times of Berlioz. I was able by now
simply to sit back and enjoy, quite convinced that any previous fault had lain
with me, not with the work. If I still did not feel that the finale quite came
off, it came closer than I could recall, uniting tendencies, not just material,
from both previous movements. It wore its workings on its sleeve, of course,
but does not Berg’s music, or Stravinsky’s, for that matter, too? There was much,
then, for me to think about after the event, even more for me to relish in the
moment. This was, in summary, a quite outstanding concert.
