Prevailing westerly winds ensure that the climate in the British Isles is a bit like the ideal Goldilocks principle: not too hot and not too cold. This part of the world is not normally given to extremes. While listening to Edward Gardner conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra in the Symphony no. 1 in C minor by Brahms, I did wonder whether this meteorological phenomenon was also affecting the musical weather. Nevertheless, the performance was distinguished by some very fine playing, not least from the four woodwind principals, with the slightly reduced string complement and secure brass producing a compact body of sound.
Clean lines and contours were much in evidence. Coming in at 46 minutes, complete with exposition repeat, this was in no sense indulgent, yet it was almost as though Gardner was wary of allowing any eruptions, any outpouring of warmth, anything in fact which might have unnecessarily raised a comfortable ambient temperature. You noticed it in the way the timpani strokes at the start were steady rather than portentous; you noticed it in the gentle and soft-edged playing during the third movement; you noticed it in the very soft pizzicatos which opened the Finale without the slightest degree of dramatic edge. Aimez-vous Brahms? Well yes, Gardner seemed to be saying, but let’s not get too excited about it.
There has to be a sense of struggle in the outer movements. It took Brahms a very long time to produce this work: the pregnancy seemed never-ending. As Jane Austen puts it, “To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.” These expectations though were ultimately rewarded: it is a gigantic work, the longest of his symphonies. Which is why, as C minor turns into glowing C major at the end, there has to be a palpable feeling that adversity has been overcome, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Even though Gardner avoided the unmarked rallentando in the coda which others frequently parade, full emotional release was kept firmly in check. Westerlies often blow across the North German plains and Brahms’ homeland, but this symphony was composed in Vienna. It doesn’t always have to be about craggy architecture, but a pulsating spirit is never far from the musical landscape.
Mendelssohn’s The Hebrides, with which the concert opened, is really more of a tone poem than an overture as such. Here too, there was no suggestion that the Scottish coastline might have been assaulted by perilous seas. The waves came rippling in, prominent trumpets seemed to be issuing greetings rather than warnings, the skies remained frosty-clear rather than occluded.
Looking even younger than his 23 years, Johan Dalene is a picture of focus and intense concentration, demonstrating complete composure, his head often bowed, his limbs gently swaying. There is nothing flashy about his playing; the sound is never forced. He had a very individual approach to the Violin Concerto in D minor by Sibelius, with minuscule agogic variations in the cadenza-like sequences of the opening movement that always maintained forward momentum without breaking the evenness of line. He tickled and teased his instrument, yet commanded a rich throatiness in its lower register. It was often like stroking a big, fluffy pussycat and hearing the soothing purring of contentment. In the Finale he took a fairly brisk approach, negotiating the tricky cross-rhythms and furious double- and treble-stopping with aplomb, yet still finding those moments of whimsical playfulness which also characterised his encore. Here his virtuosity was married infectiously to a sense of fun, playing the second half of Kreisler’s Recitativo and Scherzo-Caprice. Now here was a proper Romantic!
