I’ve always had a soft spot for Bruckner’s Symphony no. 3 in D minor for one simple reason. Here was a composer, known to be poor at conducting, who was looking forward to the premiere of his new work which had been entrusted to a friend, but whose sudden death meant he himself had to take over at the last moment, and who then had to face not only the ridicule of the Vienna Philharmonic but the laughter and catcalls of the audience. Such was the disaster that Bruckner stopped writing for an entire year. How does a composer recover from a humiliation on this scale? The 1877 second version (the 1873 original version was quite a different piece) was then subjected to the controlling influence of the Schalk brothers, which led to the third and final version of 1889.
It was this version that Paavo Järvi chose to conduct with the Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich, concluding their short residency in the Elbphilharmonie. Järvi delivered a glowing, luminous account, imbued with youthful spirit. With a hushed opening, graced by a solo trumpet emerging gently from the distance, this was full of individual instrumental delights yet within firm structural control. Saturated string tone in the second movement and a ripe, absolutely secure horn section showed the quality of this orchestra. As so often in Bruckner, Järvi is very good at projecting the inner drama of each movement, knowing when to apply motivating pressure and when to provide release through relaxation.
He certainly likes his Brucknerian Scherzos. They always go with so much vim and va-va-voom. He has an equally assured way with the Trio sections: this one went with an enchanting swing, a sense of elevation and exultation. The polka theme in the Finale too had plenty of character and charm before Järvi gathered the individual threads and wove them into a triumphant close in the major key, rounded off by fat, emphatic chords.
Fazıl Say is highly regarded in some quarters for his playing of Mozart, whom he is said to revere. He is an unorthodox presence at the keyboard, slightly hunched and often restless, with questioning looks at members of the orchestra, the score of the Piano Concerto no. 23 in A major in front of him, the piano without a lid. He frequently conducted himself with a spare hand, fingers being jabbed outwards to underline critical points. All this wouldn’t have mattered in the least if the playing had been Apollonian and characterised by what Alfred Einstein called “the transparency of a stained-glass window” in Mozart’s treatment of this key. Sadly, this was not the case. I frequently missed an evenness of line and sparkle in the opening Allegro, the left-hand dominant, pedalling heavy, the phrasing nubbly, the tone cloudy, with some unusual syncopations in the cadenza (Mozart’s own!). The concluding Allegro assai displayed plenty of strong gestures. Throughout, Järvi provided a crisp and spirited accompaniment.
To open this concert there was Arvo Pärt’s Fratres, in the words of the Quaker poet, “O still, small voice of calm”. The composer himself has described music as “a cloth with which to dry the tears of sorrow”. I find the overall effect of this eleven-minute piece, played in the version for full string complement with metal claves and a bass drum, utterly mesmerising. Järvi started from near-silence and moved in a long-breathed arc through the nine repetitions of the basic melody, the seamless and incremental increases in dynamic levels reaching a compelling central climax, only to subside gently once again into near-silence. This was soul music in an age of soullessness.
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