In its promotional material for this concert the London Symphony Orchestra had a ringing phrase, “The Thrills of Prokofiev”, and a nice line in alliteration, “Edgy. Epic. Elegant”. So how did the claims measure up to the reality? Gianandrea Noseda has been slowly working his way through Prokofiev’s symphonic canon, so his assay of the composer’s Fourth in its revised version of 1947 was keenly anticipated.
Prokofiev argued at the time that he had added so much new material (it is almost double the playing time of the original 1930 version) that it could actually be called his Seventh Symphony. A lot of what is new derives from earlier ballets, including The Prodigal Son. Noseda was very good at shaping the long lyrical elements which form repeated contrasts with all the angularity, asperity and astringency that immediately identify this particular composer. These elements included echoes of the Romeo and Juliet ballet as well as dreamlike impressions of moonlight in the second movement as well as a wonderful floating sensation at the close of the third with high-lying flutes set against a soft cushion of strings and piano.
Elsewhere, this symphony showed itself as a child of its time. Alongside the pounding motoric energy in the outer movements, I was often reminded of Mosolov’s Iron Foundry: Noseda conjured up a mighty industrial complex with whirring machines and steam issuing forth from tall chimneys. In the Finale, studded with blasts from the furnace, it was a case of “Workers, rise and shine!” The playing of the LSO was impressive throughout, secure in ensemble and instrumental detail, realising the heroic character of the opening Allegro eroico and the piquancy of colour in the many purely balletic episodes. In that sense the marketing alliteration was amply justified. What about the supposed thrills? There is a reason why this Fourth Symphony is a relative rarity in concert programmes. It lacks great and memorable tunes and the excitement is at times superficial, rather like the persistent flourishes common to Soviet-style circus music of the period.
One of Brahms’ friends, Theodor Billroth, described the relationship of his B flat major piano concerto to the D minor, which soloist Simon Trpčeski had played just a few days previously, as that of manhood to adolescence. In turn, the composer writing to Elisabeth von Herzogenberg described the work as “a tiny, tiny piano concerto with a tiny, tiny wisp of a scherzo”. I suspect Trpčeski mistook this self-deprecation for the true character of the piece: I have rarely been so underwhelmed by the opening movement.
To be fair, there are typical markings such as molto dolce e leggiero but also repeated references to ben marcato and crescendo molto. Trpčeski removed all the ruggedness and power. Even those moments which Alfred Brendel called “unsurpassable pianistic perversions”, when the listener should feel the notes being wrung with effort from the keyboard, were glossed over. The playing was consistently light, like thistledown in texture, the trills mere ornamental flourishes, the articulation at times a hazy blur. It all sounded extraordinarily playful, but no more than that.
Trpčeski was at his best in the slow movement, where his preference for soft dynamics was matched in the exchanges with solo cello, oboe and clarinet. However, at one point in the Finale his sudden scampering ahead caught Noseda off-guard. What bothered me just as much was the mismatch between full-blooded orchestra and anaemic soloist. I felt like I was partaking of a thick sirloin steak together with a rich beef-and-onion gravy while simultaneously being offered not a glass of berry-rich Shiraz but a very dry prosecco.
