Month: June 2014

Great start to NZSO’s Beethoven festival with the first three symphonies

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

New Zealand Symphony Orchestra conducted by Pietari Inkinen

Beethoven: Symphonies No 1, 2 and 3, in C, D and E flat respectively

Michael Fowler Centre

Thursday 12 June, 6:30 pm

Here is the third in Pietari Inkinen’s great symphonic cycles, following Sibelius and Brahms. This time, of course, the greatest such creations in the whole history of symphonic music.

It was interesting to hear Inkinen’s conversation with Eva Radich on RNZ Concert in which, as far as I know, not having caught all of it, neither remarked that simply to tackle this music is to make a statement about the world-class character of the orchestra, as well as to suggest something about the conductor’s feeling about his own readiness to undertake such a grand and formidable project.

Even in the decades immediately after Beethoven’s, it has pleased many critics to dismiss the first and second symphonies, in comparison with the later masterpieces. To so judge them is to overlook the fact that by 1800 when the second was composed, no existing symphony could come anywhere near them, apart perhaps from Mozart’s last three. How ridiculous it is to compare a composer’s relatively early works with more complex and profound music that might have emerged later.

To play these three in the same evening was in fact to allow us to hear the clear kinship that they share. The stately and confident character of the opening of the C major symphony announced at once that Beethoven had absorbed and surpassed, at least in adventurousness, the models of Haydn and Mozart.  Though one must be careful not to confuse those elements that might represent ‘progress’ (a dangerous notion) with inspiration and creativity involving the expression of profound human truth.

The latter exists in roughly equal measure in Josquin, Tallis, Palestrina, Monteverdi, Handel and Bach, Haydn and Mozart, Schubert and Berlioz, Verdi and Wagner, Bruckner and Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Mahler, Strauss, Debussy…

Inkinen’s input could be heard in the careful energy that he projects, civilised by discretion and precision, but given dramatic character by the vivid dynamic shifts, readiness to allow flexible rhythms and to make arresting changes of tempo.  The slow movement, in triple time, opens with attentive fugal treatment of the unpretentious theme and it’s a sudden pianissimo that enlivens it. The Menuetto, indicated ‘allegro molto e vivace’ seems like a contradiction: it must be one of the fastest ever – I’d hate to try dancing to it; it’s really a scherzo in disguise.

The true heart of the symphony is the last movement, starting with the repeated, playful attempts to play a scale; here Inkinen gave the orchestra licence to burst the seams, very fast, employing quite simple material adventurously and without too much attention to orchestral proprieties.

The second symphony, in D, set alongside the first, reveals a confidence and discursiveness in the longish Adagio introduction which seems to merge more organically into the Allegro.

The performance seemed to relish the chances to disappear into pianissimi occasionally, suddenly to burst out afresh. There are repeated conversations between strings and winds – clarinet, then bassoon, flute, horn… Here, and often in this and in the Eroica, Inkinen seemed to cherish beautifully executed wind playing. And in the Scherzo, one felt a scarcely contained impulse to flippancy. But it’s the finale where it was possible to sense the emergence of a more versatile and dynamic composer, the music taken at some speed almost as if pushing players beyond their limit.

There seemed a much shorter distance between No 2 and the great Eroica than is suggested by many commentators.

Two commanding chords take the place of the Adagios that introduced the two earlier symphonies. I might have hoped for a slightly more fearsome impact but these were a good enough announcement of a composer for a revolutionary era.

You could have argued that the full-sized orchestra used in Nos 1 and 2 was larger than is kosher for essentially classical works (strings were 16, 14, 12, 10, 8), but the numbers were right for the Eroica.  Though scored for three horns, compared with two for Nos 1 and 2, we had four offering more flexibility; otherwise the orchestra was of the same size.

Here, as in the earlier pair, Inkinen’s stamp consisted, rather than through any radical interpretative revelations, in paying striking attention to dynamic and tempo markings which were sufficient to hold the audience in a semblance of trance throughout. For example the emphatic, thudding wind accompaniment to the lyrical strings; but more than anything, there was constant delight in the many solo wind phrases or passages from flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon and of course horns and trumpets. Though this orchestra’s strings are incomparable, it’s the clarity and beauty of the winds (horns have recovered their form) that lends any performance special piquancy, and these are all available.

No Eroica can survive without a Marche funèbre (again, nearly 20minutes long like the first movement) that is masterly and profound. This performance had weight from the great body of cellos and basses, as well as transparency, emotional impact, slow, treading tempi and a knack of subsiding into anguished pianissimi from which it seemed almost impossible to recover.

The justification for four horns became clear in the Scherzo: joyous, sanguine, life-affirming, and then the Finale filled the auditorium with energy, achieved through fugal writing, high-lighted by sudden breaks, sustaining an expectancy and excitement that built to the grandeur and triumph of the Coda. That, I am loath to confess, sounded just a little less thrilling than my hopes had been (certain performances, early in life, sometimes raise expectations that are impossible to erase). Nevertheless, in all, this first concert exceeded reasonable hopes, and confirmed both the orchestra’s excellence and the conductor’s vision, sense of structure and his awareness of the importance of refinement and detailing, not to mention pure excitement.

The next three evenings are bound to be among the year’s most memorable.

 

 

 

Tawa’s orchestra tackles substantial programme under lively young conductor

Posted on by Lindis Taylor

Tawa Community Orchestra conducted by Andrew Atkins and Laura Barton (violin)

Mozart: Symphony No 25 in G minor – first movement: Allegro con brio
Wieniawski: Violin Concerto No 2 in D minor, Op 22
Tchaikovsky: Romeo and Juliet Fantasy-Overture

Tawa College Hall

Sunday 8 June, 2 pm

There are several community, amateur orchestras around Greater Wellington; their major role is probably to enable local musicians to get orchestral experience; not to lay any claim to offering dazzling musical revelations. Most of the audience no doubt comprised friends and family members. Many of those have a genuine interest in music of the classical kind, and no matter the level of accomplishment, it is always interesting, sometimes pleasantly surprising, to be at such concerts.

My connection was as family member, but I was more than a little interested to hear how the players would cope with pieces that were one hundred percent solid classical repertoire.

The first movement of Mozart’s ‘Little G minor symphony’, No 25 (distinguishing it from the other one, No 40) would have resonated with many, as the urgent music, with arresting syncopation, that opened the film Amadeus. While the opening bars were an interesting exhibition of the meaning of ‘balance’, demonstrating the challenge of getting an integrated sound from the varied instruments of the orchestra, which are by nature so incompatible. More striking however was the energy that the young conductor, Andrew Atkins, a graduate student at the New Zealand School of Music, brought to the job. He imposed a professional tempo and sense of momentum on the performance that to a good extent masked any weaknesses of ensemble and technical competence in the players. Nevertheless, the real Mozart showed through, the spirit and the melodic genius.

It was the next piece that had me intrigued. While the Mozart employed a fairly limited orchestra – horns the only brass instruments – Wieniawski, writing about a century later, called for the full Romantic orchestra, double woodwinds, horns and trumpets, three trombones and timpani.

Here too the presence of several guest players, including many from the School of Music, strengthened strings and brass, in particular.

Though I knew both Wieniawski’s violin concertos, I cannot recall hearing either played live, though it would be surprising if the Michael Hill Violin Competition had not thrown one of them up at some stage. The concertos of instrumental virtuosos tend to be denigrated or ignored, though Paganini’s, Vieuxtemps’s and Wieniawksi’s remain in the repertory. However, this one is well-wrought, melodic, interesting; but it would hardly have survived an amateur performance without a pretty competent soloist.

Violinist Laura Barton is a student at the New Zealand School of Music.  After getting through the formal and not uninteresting orchestral introduction, with a certain tentativeness, Barton’s first phrases sounded as if she was feeling her way, but she very quickly hit her stride, playing without the score in front of her, though there remained, very understandably, a degree of tenseness. But if the audience still had to be convinced of her credentials, the first movement cadenza demonstrated an accomplishment that banished any doubts.

The gentle second movement, Romance, demonstrated an unsentimental lyricism and true musicality in the violinist. While Barton despatched the last movement, with its exciting gypsy rhythms, with an aplomb that not only confirmed a fine violinist in the making, but an orchestra that did not disgrace the performance.

The last work was even more of a challenge, written about the same time as the concerto, a product of Tchaikovsky’s early years, it is a colourful and vivid symphonic poem after the manner of Liszt, depicting three episodes of Shakespeare’s play.  No one could have expected a particularly polished performance from the orchestra, yet the energy and zest that young maestro Atkins drew from it, the poignant, lyrical music of the love scene, produced a performance that was quite engaging. There was a palpable feeling that the entire orchestra was giving more than they might have believed possible, and they as well as the audience were being rewarded accordingly.

 

Requiems and delights à la Francaise – Duruflé and Fauré

Posted on by Peter Mechen

Choirs Aotearoa New Zealand Trust presents:

DURUFLÉ – Requiem
Bianca Andrew (mezzo-soprano) / Christopher Hillier (baritone)
Michael Stewart (organ) / Jane Young (‘cello)
Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir
Karen Grylls (conductor)

FAURÉ – Requiem
Jayne Tankersley (soprano) / Christopher Hillier (baritone)
Michael Stewart (organ) / Matthew Ross (violin)
Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir
Orchestra Wellington
Karen Grylls (conductor)

Wellington Cathedral of St.Paul, Molesworth St.

Saturday, 7th June, 2014

Big and ungainly though it can seem, the Wellington Cathedral of St.Paul is a remarkable music-making space for the “right” kind of repertoire. It’s repeating something of a truism to suggest that most of this would be church or sacred music, though Wellingtonians were fortunate enough to experience, two weekends previously, a performance of Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony featuring an impressively-augmented Orchestra Wellington conducted by Marc Taddei. It was music that resonated most positively with the acoustic, which more than made up for a small loss of clarity with oceans of sheer tonal splendour.

Even more “hand-in-glove” a match of music with the venue was provided by the present concert, featuring two of the most beautiful choral works in the repertoire. On paper the idea of having two Requiem Masses butted up against one another in the same concert might appear too much of a good (!) thing – but each of these works, though having certain things in common with the other, makes a markedly individual impression on the listener.

Though both French-born there was little other direct connection as such between the two composers of these Requiems – Fauré wrote the first version of his work in 1887, one which was first performed the following year (other versions appeared in 1893 and 1900); whereas the much younger Duruflé, whose student years centered around Rouen, and the Gregorian plainchant tradition fostered at the cathedral school, completed his Requiem in 1947. Duruflé, like Fauré, produced a number of versions of his work, one for orchestral accompaniment (the composer’s favorite), followed by a version with organ and ad lib. solo ‘cello, and then a “reduced-orchestra” version.

Duruflé undoubtedly based his Requiem on the older composer’s in terms of structure – the text is largely the same as Fauré used, with the “Dies irae” sequence (used by Mozart, Berlioz and Verdi) all but completely omitted. The younger composer’s work is similarly non-apocalyptic, though both occasionally allow moments of anxiety and fear to darken and dramatize the textures, albeit briefly (Duruflé’s “moments” are a tad more explicit than those of Fauré’s).

Where the composers part company is with their compositional style – though Fauré drew inspiration from Gregorian plainchant in the Mass’s recitative-like moments, his work is late-Romantic in its expression of melody and harmony – for instance, I love the unashamed tribute made to the Wagner of Die Walkure at the beginning of the Lux aeterna, following the Agnus Dei.

Duruflé, on the other hand, drew his inspiration from his early studies of plainchant, incorporating into each section of his work corresponding chant-like sequences from the sung Latin Mass for the Dead, and building on these figurations with harmonies and extended melismas, though nothing too florid or wide-ranging. The work to my ears sounded paradoxically at once more modern and yet older than Fauré’s – and as such, the two pieces made well-nigh perfect and complementary companions.

For the performance of Duruflé’s work conductor Karen Grylls judiciously opted for the organ-accompanied version (with ad.lib.’cello obbligato during the Pie Jesu movement). Presented alongside Fauré’s particular version of HIS work which featured an ensemble with strings and brass as well as organ, I thought the contrast between the two sound-worlds was stunning, and worked entirely in favour of each piece’s distinctive character.

From the outset of the Duruflé, the superb focus of the Voices New Zealand Chamber Choir was evident, their tones set off to perfection by the brilliant playing of organist Michael Stewart. But it seemed the opening Requiem was more floated by the choir than sung, an impression which in various places throughout the work returned, shining and glistening like silver-tapestried thread.

After a radiant Kyrie, the music darkened, and the vocal lines beseeched, calmly at first, but then with great urgency and impassioned attack, the organ excitingly joining the fray – “Libera eas de ore leonis!” (Save them from the lion’s jaws!), with the baritone soloist, Christopher Hillier, sonorously raising his voice for the “Hostias” by way of offering sacrifice and prayer for the sake of the departed souls – wonderful, heart-stopping moments!

I loved the rippling organ and the angelic tones of the opening of the Sanctus, relishing all the more the gloriously contrasting irruptions of energy for the “Hosannas”, and then savoring to the full the rapt, devotional ardor of the Pie Jesu which followed, mezzo-soprano Bianca Andrew and ‘cellist Jane Young singing and playing like angels to Michael Stewart’s beautifully-sculptured accompaniment.

How beautifully the choir managed the wordless accompaniments to the melodic lines in Lux aeterna – the singing and playing quite superbly setting off the sudden angst brought about by the organ’s clarion call, followed by the choir’s and the baritone soloist’s strongly-projected agitations. Though brief, the appearance of “Dies illa, dies irae” caused further choral combustion, culminating in one of the few Fauré-like moments in Duruflé’s work, the heart-easing, melodic unison reiteration by the choir of the “Libera Me”.

And what a wondrously rarefied, even austere world is that of the In Paradisum  sequence! – such a marked contrast to the older composer’s setting! – something that here evoked the “unknown” so potently that we sat in the midst of its wonderment for a long time afterwards before marking our appreciation of the performance with rapturous applause.

I confess to experiencing some anxious moments myself during the interval, arising from sudden doubts and fears regarding the Fauré work’s pending performance. By this time I’d noticed that the printed programme, through some vagary or other, had omitted the names of several of the orchestral musicians, including those of the horn players! My relief was great when, in due course, the instruments in question made their appearance – the thing was, the two previous performances of the work I’d heard recently were both with organ-only accompaniment, and….. yes, I expect organists will possibly sniff and smart at my none-too-subtle inflections surrounding that “organ-only” usage – but anyhow, I’ll further explain below…..

Karen Grylls chose the 1893 version of the work to perform, here – the composer’s original 1887 version featured only five movements (no Offertory and no Libera Me),  later adding the extra movements and a baritone soloist. There has over the years been a degree of “creative agglomeration” practiced upon this work in performance, the situation due partly to the later, 1900 edition of the score which featured an extended orchestration entrusted by Fauré to one of his pupils, and which, according to choral-conducting doyen John Rutter, is filled with both printers’ and editorial errors.

But here we were, about to hear an authentic performing edition which called for a goodly number of instrumentalists on the performing platform – including horns, and also a solo violinist! – along with the choir, soloists and conductor, and the organist ready in the loft. The opening was spaciously and dramatically sounded, with the silences “surging softly backwards” after each cadential pause. At first I though the orchestral tones too fulsome for the voices – the tenors had a lovely plangency which seemed, however, in danger of being submerged within the acoustic in places, but things seemed to refocus with the great cries of “Exaudi” and “Orationem” – and thereafter it seemed as if I could hear everything.

Gorgeous string tones introduced the tenors and altos duetting at “O Domine”, making a lovely sound and building each repetition of the opening words upwards and towards the string modulations which prepared the way for the baritone’s entry with “Hostias”. Christopher Hillier here wasn’t particularly honeyed in tone, but his voice was perhaps instead more appropriately textured with vibrant strands of supplication. And the choir’s reprise of “O Domine” would, I swear, have melted hearts of stone with such celestial ascending lines.

Came the Sanctus, and with it, for me, one of the work’s great moments, but to my ears invariably and frustratingly muted whenever the performance is simply organ-accompanied – yes, you’ve guessed it! – those great horn fanfares which introduce and reaffirm the “Hosannas”! Well I have to register some disappointment mingled in with my delight, here, as I thought Karen Grylls didn’t encourage the horn-players to sufficiently roar out their notes with truly joyous exuberance! The singing was splendid, though, short of an “Anything you can do I can do better” kind of scenario, I simply wanted ALL of the sounds to ring out through those vast spaces, just for a few seconds! I should mention the solo violin playing as well, Matthew Ross’s instrument making a suitably sweet-toned sound, the intonation not entirely blemish-free, but certainly creating the desired cherubic effect.

Another truly memorable sequence was the Pie Jesu (so different an effect to that of Duruflé’s setting!) – of course, nothing less than the voice of an angel was needed, and soprano Jayne Tankersley touched many of those tingling stratospheric places with some beautifully-floated sounds. Though perhaps not ideally serene, not as uniformly pure of tone as I expected, she nevertheless inflected the words with real feeling – but I did wonder, having enjoyed her vibrant, engaging (and invariably spectacular) singing of Monteverdi’s music so much over the years, whether her voice as naturally took to this music’s cooler, far less-inflected lines of relatively chaste expression.

The Agnus Dei and the Libera Me have the work’s darkest moments – Karen Grylls got a particularly wonderful “floating” response from her voices for the Lux aeterna  sequence, though I would have liked the horns once again to have interjected in more baleful tones just before the reprise of the opening Requiem aeternam. Christopher Hillier’s lean, forceful tones had an almost operatic intensity when delivering his Libera me, one which conductor and singers took up with ferment and gusto at the words “Dies illa, dies irae”, and carried over to the reprise of “Libera Me”, horns beautifully darkening the voices’ beseeching phrase-ends, before allowing the baritone to join in with a final, exhausted plea for deliverance.

Having done with anxieties and fears, voices, solo violin and organ then turned their attentions, most affectingly, towards the prospect of eternal bliss, with the beautiful In Paradisum – and though I wanted organist Michael Stewart’s arpeggiated accompanying figurations to oscillate rather more brightly and forthrightly, the singing was appropriately angelic, and the soaring solo violin line a delight. The sounds of the voices blended with the instrumental tones towards the end and then with the eternal silences…….as with the Duruflé’s conclusion, we registered the gradual disappearance of those affecting sounds before showing our appreciation of the music and performers’ efforts – including those of Michael Stewart, who was somehow stranded on one side of the platform at the end, away from all of the others!

But very, very great credit to conductor Karen Grylls and to her soloists, instrumentalists and singers, for a splendid  and long-to-be-remembered pair of performances!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aspects of nature, life and love, from the NZSM Orchestra

Posted on by Peter Mechen

Te Koki New Zealand School of Music presents:
RURAL ROMANCE

LILBURN – Overture “Drysdale”
FAURÉ – Pelléas et Mélisande
BEETHOVEN – Piano Concerto No.3 in C Minor
DVORAK – Symphony No.8 in G Major

Jian Liu (piano)
Kenneth Young (conductor)
New Zealand School of Music Orchestra

St.Andrew’s on-the-Terrace, Wellington

Wednesday 4th June, 2014

It was the sort of programme I would have travelled miles and miles, over hill and dale, thru fog and storm, and braving accident and ambush to see and hear – with distance lending enchantment, as is often the case. But even without the distance, the enchantment remained – this was music by turns exciting and evocative, so very typical of each composer’s work, even the relatively early Overture by Lilburn, but still, as were the other pieces, treasure!

To my great delight, the bringing about of it all by these youthful players and their conductor had many magnificent moments, for most of the time triumphing over the difficulties posed by the venue. The chief problem was the “in-your-face” character of the St.Andrew’s acoustic, which gave the performance sounds an insistence which wasn’t altogether the doing of the players.

It underlined and set in bold the importance for Wellington of having the Town Hall restored to its former glory as soon as possible, with both performance venues in that building currently out of circulation and sorely missed. I recall over recent times a number of youth orchestra performances in the main auditorium of the Hall whose qualities were underlined by the acoustic’s warmth and focus, a marked contrast to the somewhat overbearing, almost raucous immediacy of the St.Andrew’s sound.

My thoughts regarding the performance of the engaging Drysdale Overture of Lilburn’s were thus coloured by that acoustical context. I found a lot of the playing in what was otherwise a splendid performance lacked dynamic variation – the “great waves of sound” referred to in my notes regarding the piece’s opening gestures scarcely abated during the more vigorous working-out of the different motifs in the composer’s “sunlit rondo”.

Fortunately, the sounds did give space for the various appearances of  the “nostalgic theme”, and the unanimity and focus of the strings in places such as their sudden reprise of the opening figure, just before the final sequence. But this was due as much, if not more, to conductor Kenneth Young’s control and the skills of his players, the oboist in particular delivering the lovely melody with all the feeling for its context that the composer might have wanted.

Thanks to Fauré’s (or rather, his pupil, Charles Koechlin’s) somewhat gentler scoring, three of the Pelléas et Mélisande exerpts from the composers’ s incidental music for Maeterlinck’s play made a lovely impression throughout – Young and his musicians didn’t hold back the emotion, the string-playing in the Prelude having plenty of juice, and the clarinet work outstanding, really making something of the sequence just before the strings’ final phrases.

Fauré’s music doesn’t have the astringency of Sibelius’s for the same subject, and nothing like Schoenberg’s evocations of unease and darkness in his 1903 symphonic poem, also inspired by the play. This feeling was underlined by the exclusion of the fourth piece from the suite La Mort de Mélisande, leaving the lovely Fileuse (Mélisande at her spinning-wheel), depicted by whirling strings and a charming, winsome oboe solo (a different player to that in the Lilburn Overture), and finally the Sicilienne, a graceful dance composed by Fauré for an earlier, unfinished work, and used here again to beguiling effect, with its piquant oscillations between major  and minor. Here the harpist was able to shine, with a nicely-judged accompaniment of winds and then strings.

The Beethoven concerto featured a much-awaited appearance by that fine pianist Jian Liu, whose recital and chamber work I’ve so enjoyed over previous seasons. He didn’t disappoint with this, Beethoven’s darkest and most austere of the composer’s concertante works. Young and the players gave him an opening tutti which “spelt out” the journey in no uncertain terms, tense of mood and sharply-focused in articulation. Again the acoustic tended to narrow the dynamic range of the playing, but this music could easily deal with whatever sonic vagaries were brought to bear on the performance.

From his very first, commanding entry, Liu caught us up with his overall focus, his feeling for dynamic contrast, and his quicksilver responses to the music’s volatilities – as well as commanding the piano part (as with the cadenza) he was able to play “chamber music” with the orchestra in such passages as the rather misterioso section leading up to the recapitulation, dovetailing his cross-rhythmic triplets beautifully with the orchestra’s wind players, and bringing our the “gothic-like” touches to the writing just before the movement’s end.

The slow movement had a kind of Hellenic beauty at the start, its eloquence in Liu’s hands beautifully matched by the wind-playing that brought about a lovely sea-change to the soundscapes, as well as the beautiful dialogues with which the lower strings engaged the pianist at a later point. Only some slightly hurried turns of phrase in some of the exchanges prevented total pleasure – but the coda reinstalled that sense of rapt beauty which continued right up to a slightly misread wind entry at the end (which probably went swimmingly by comparison, at rehearsal – them’s the breaks!).

The finale’s attaca broke the spell, the pianist launching the argument with a real swing, taking the music at a fair lick and rendering some of his figurations as a whirl of notes – very exciting! But again from Liu was this lovely “accompanying” instinct in places, supporting the winds as they took over the melody. I loved the “fierce dance” character of the music during the tutti just before the clarinet tune, brought out with a will by Young and the players. But the contrast with the clarinet’s entry was also magical – fine playing, here – and the string fugue continued the excitement, leading up to the music’s martial element being hurled across the canvas with gusto.

After this, the coda was just right – a proper release of boisterous high spirits, kept pent-up for so long and here given full expression, by both pianist and orchestra. A pianist friend with whom I sat was also lost in admiration for Liu’s playing – “gossamer”, “agile”, “forthright”, and “energizing” were the words that were bandied about between us during the interval!

The recommencement brought out what seemed like the full band for the Dvorak G Major Symphony, surely one of the most adorable works in the romantic symphonic repertoire – and certainly one of its composer’s sunniest creations. Only in the second movement do the clouds gather for moments of anxiety and doubt – and Dvorak had that ability, shared with Schubert, to smile through tears and keep his essential spirit indomitable. And so it is with this symphony.

The outer movements – particularly the opening one – are both rhythmically tricky beasts, and I thought here in particular, throughout the first movement, that the orchestra didn’t manage to exude quite enough energy to really “kick” the music along. It always seems to me, with student and amateur orchestras, that not enough attention is paid to the rhythmic character of difficult pieces – and if the rhythm is tentative, unsure, or sluggish, then no amount of in-tune or note-accurate playing will save or properly enliven the music.

I once heard Ken Young, when rehearsing a difficult piece of contemporary music with the NZSO, telling the players, “Don’t count the music – FEEL it!” With Dvorak’s music, there’s that constant need to feel the rhythmic “kick”, to activate the dance element that’s in so much of his work. It’s not a question of speed or even tempo – but of “pointing” those rhythms, of stressing both beats and/or off-beats where appropriate. Accurate and eager though the playing was, here, I thought the first movement needed a touch more nervous energy overall, and sharper attack on some of those rhythmic beats. With this composer’s music in particular, a strongly-characterised rhythm beats the hell out of merely playing the right notes.

Still, I did think the performances of the middle movements of the work of a particularly high order, here – Young and his musicians revelled in the multifarious changes of mood in the second movement. bringing out the charm and lyricism and, indeed, romance of the opening, but fronting up to the theatrical darkenings of texture and tone brought by forceful wind,brass and timpani at key points – the timpani, in particular, was spot-on in its many rhythmic underpinnings and textural colourings. And the third movement similarly disarmed, with its bright, eager, slightly tense waltz-tune, put across with gorgeous string-tone (even with a touch of portamento in places!). Both the Trio and the sprightly Coda kept the music’s charm to the fore, nicely underlining the contrast with the finale’s declamatory opening.

Though sounding in places a bit of a raucous riot in this venue, the finale had plenty of thrills augmented by one or two spills. Everybody managed to kick up heels at some point or other during the wild dance-sequences (the horns had a great time with their trills, as did the trombones with their hoe-down-like shouts of encouragement!), and the contrasting lyrical variations featured, once again, lovely clarinet work and flute decorations that got the spirit, if not quite the letter, of the music right. And what a barnstorming finish!

I didn’t have miles and miles to go, nor hill and dale to contend with, when returning home – but this concert’s music and its performance still had just enough magic about it to both enchant and content.