Trombonists have a hard time when it comes to concertos for their instrument. There are no rich pickings. One of the works written in the past century for the trombone which has happily established itself in the repertory, though its outings are still comparatively rare, is the 1956 piece by Henri Tomasi. It reminded me in this performance of his great French compatriot, Francis Poulenc, in displaying all those Gallic qualities of elegance, style and infectious playfulness.
The soloist was the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra’s own principal trombone, Matthew Gee, ably abetted by the conductor for the night, Domingo Hindoyan. Starting with a cymbal crash and a staccato note from the violins, followed by an immediate solo entry, there are several structural parallels with Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G major. Gee’s expansive treatment of the score, coupled with his glowing and supremely focused tone, demonstrated the full range of his instrument, from the powerful and assertive in the cadenza-like elements, to the gentle and beguiling in contrasting lyrical sections, pared down to a honeyed whisper at the close of the central Nocturne. Tomasi’s writing for the solo instrument but also for the always supportive orchestra shows an extraordinary awareness of colour and complexity. There were Chaplinesque moments that repeatedly caught the ear and captivating Cuban-style rhythms in the Finale which underpinned the capacity of the trombone to swing and sing with soulfulness. In some respects this concerto is a child of its time: as the work drew to a close, I found myself recalling the big Hollywood extravaganzas of the silver screen back in the 1950s.
Before the mature Josef Suk steeped himself in more serious matters, he tossed off a light-hearted burlesque, aptly called his Scherzo Fantastique, in which by his own admission he played with notes. We are used to symphonic scherzos that are entirely serious-minded. This is odd, since the term is simply an Italianisation of the German word for a joke. In its truest guise it frequently brings a smile to the lips, as in Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, written a few years before Suk’s piece, or the much earlier Scherzo Capriccioso composed by Suk’s own father-in-law, Dvořák. Suk’s Scherzo is full of colour and ardour, and Hindoyan drew out all its many rich and lyrical hues from an RPO on sparkling form. There is a waltz theme for the cellos which keeps reappearing like a merry-go-round and which immediately transports you to old-fashioned ballrooms graced with swirling silks and taffeta.
Tomasi once declared that “Music that doesn’t come from the heart isn’t music.” Having recently heard a performance of another Dvořák symphony in which the strings were battered into submission by the brass and any suggestion of rhapsodic warmth was surgically excised, it was a real treat to witness Hindoyan and his superlative RPO players doing full justice to the New World Symphony. Hindoyan knows what he wants and he knows how to get it too. The influence of his one-time mentor Daniel Barenboim was palpable in the glowing string sound, the eloquence of the woodwind section (with only a less than affecting cor anglais solo in the Largo a minor disappointment) and the brass used principally to crown the orchestral textures. There were ripples of nervous energy from the start, wonderfully soft and supple playing in the parts of the score where the Bohemian influence is at its strongest, and majesty allied to Romantic temperament in the Finale. It was like watching the conductor in a warm embrace with his orchestra and the orchestra in turn giving the conductor a succession of warm hugs.
