Everyone tells me that Russians play Russian music better than anyone else, but no-one seems to be able to put their fingers on the mysterious quality of Russianness Russians are meant to produce when playing Russian. Whatever its nature, it pulls in the punters, and I was among them for the Moscow State Symphony Orchestra and conductor Pavel Kogan’s all-Russian appearance at Bristol’s Colston Hall.
Rimsky-Korsakov’s bizarre Introduction and Three Miracles from Tsar Saltan began the concert. The most famous music from this opera is The Flight of the Bumblebee, but the music presented here bore little resemblance to that familiar dizzying excerpt, though it was certainly flighty. In fact, it barely stayed still long enough to be able to pin down: a trumpet fanfare cut in whenever it started to settle, whether into a sprightly, wintry section with pizzicato strings, high winds and pitched percussion; a melting passage with slow harp arpeggios and long willowy wind lines; or gorgeously warm sweeping violin melody joined by a triumphant brass chorale. I grew rather to resent the trumpet, whose bossy motive kept announcing itself, spoiling the party like that loud, self-important guest no-one invited. Over-assertive fanfares aside, the orchestra produced a truly rich, luxurious sound that to be was the norm all night, except when it was impinged upon by less felicitous noises.
The next piece came as a slightly disappointing surprise. In place of Nina Kotova playing Shostakovich’s Cello Concerto, the programme read Tchaikovsky’s Roccoco Variations: an alteration unannounced by the traditional apologetic A4 printouts blu-tacked to every surface in the foyer before the concert. Quaint concert-hall imagery aside, this switch did have a profound effect on the balance of the concert by making it 80% Tchaikovsky. What’s more, it was a disappointing performance; the orchestra continued to make an extraordinarily luscious sound, but the soloist simply did not seem up for it. Kotova seemed ill at ease, especially in the more virtuosic passages (which constitutes quite a lot of Tchaikovsky’s Variations, as you’d expect), creating a nervous sound at odds with the orchestra. Even upon her return to the stage for the obligatory soloist’s encore, for which she played Bach’s usually intensely beautiful Sarabande from the Suite in G, there was little life, little interest, little engagement evident in the way Kotova performed.