Shostakovich’s Symphony no. 4 in C minor has a lot of history: the work withdrawn in the wake of the composer’s fall from blue-eyed boy to pariah, the manuscript lost, the premiere only given a quarter of a century later, the piece later disparaged by Shostakovich himself (although in the Russia of Stalin and Krushchev, who knows whether his comments are reliable). It’s all too easy to get caught up in the history and forget what an incredible piece of music it is, an emotional roller-coaster so full of invention that you can barely catch your breath – particularly when played as compellingly as Sir Simon Rattle and the London Symphony Orchestra did last night.
Like Mahler, Shostakovich wanted to show a whole world in music. But unlike Mahler, his world is a terrifying, erratic dystopia. The militaristic march of progress is there, with huge volume of sound pounded out in jack-booted rhythm by a very large orchestra – but it never proceeds for long before some flute or clarinet pops up to thumb its nose. Shostakovich can produce swoon-inducing lushness with the best of them – but little snare-drum rolls under the surface remind you that the military is lurking somewhere in the background. We can shift to a waltz that can be almost Viennese – but somehow, there’s a sleazy touch to it.
Rattle cut a Tiggerish figure on the podium, his countenance beaming with enthusiasm and radiating love for this music. His trust in his musicians was clear: the captain basically happy that things were on course, jollying his crew along and making only small trims to the sail, not a hint of micro-management to be seen. And without question, his trust was well placed. This is fiendishly difficult music demanding the precision of a Swiss watch and that’s exactly what it received. Particular plaudits go to the nine-strong percussion section for the innumerable moments where a short, horribly exposed, phrase was right on the nail. The oboe solos of Olivier Stankiewicz were remarkable for their colour, the bassoon solos of Daniel Jemison for their injection of character. The skirl of four flutes and two piccolos were a constant presence to shift the mood hither and thither. Perhaps the most breathless moment of all was the incredible fast string passage close to the end of the first movement, played at breakneck pace with extreme attack, running us ragged. As the symphony nears its end, a huge fanfare comes out of nowhere – the LSO’s brass thrilled as they had done all evening.
Before the interval, the orchestra were joined by Isabelle Faust for the Brahms Violin Concerto in D major. It’s a work whose Romantic sonic soundscape is rather more limited when set against with the exuberant variety of the Shostakovich, but none the less, the LSO demonstrated lovely richness of sound and extreme precision; you couldn’t fit a hair’s breadth between the strings, most noticeable when they played perfect sforzandi.
But I’m unconvinced that Faust was a good match for this orchestra. Her playing was extremely refined: you could see the most relaxed of right wrists and hear a superb legato, lovely sweetness of tone, elegant phrasing. It was all a little bit swamped by the muscularity of the orchestral sound; things were perhaps not helped by Faust playing from a score and therefore having little interaction with Rattle or the other musicians.
In short, this concert belonged to the orchestra and to Shostakovich – one of the most thrilling performances of a symphony I’ve heard in a long time.
