I knew our music would allure him…

Sometime during last weekend, I came downstairs to find The Good Lady Bard transfixed by a recording of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue on Classic FM – a piece much discussed (and played) in this household (as on this blog): especially the difference (on the soloist’s part, at least) between good and bad performances.

This was neither. In a nutshell, it was astonishing – the composure and control of the pianist far excelling any previous experience of this work (and with orchestral accompanists of the same impressive calibre). As TGLB said: even amongst all the virtuoso passages, and the swagger, the performer “sounds like they have all the time in the world”; adding that “they seem so relaxed: as if this is well within their capabilities; that they’re not being stretched, at all…” – and I had to agree. All those dense notes; and what could have been a struggle (or a muddle) rendered crisp, and yet remarkably heartfelt. Whoever was playing was at the top of their superlative game… – but this was not a version either of us had encountered before. I laughingly remarked that, in the more lyrical sections, it reminded me of either Martin Roscoe or Peter Donohoe playing Mozart; however, I was not aware – having listened to many (extremely different) recordings, whilst carrying out research (for the two concerts linked to, above) – of either of them having recorded this.

As thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears…

Admittedly, my taste in music is broad (and, I would like to think, deep) – but, even so, occasionally (and only occasionally), I chance upon a concert so perfectly-programmed that I wonder if my thoughts have somehow leaked out into the stratosphere to be captured by some propitious musical genie (with snazzy multi-coloured socks, perhaps…). And then I remember that not only are the works themselves immaculate, and impeccably-aligned, but the performers are also from my happiest, most aspirational dreams. (It’s as if someone’s gifted me my own personal orchestra!)

So it was that I entered Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – and still in daylight… – with the most gormless grin plastered on my face. No, not Brahms, Elgar, or even Vaughan Williams; but, yes, congratulations to those of you who yelled out “Shostakovich”! In this case, his First Piano Concerto – and wait, it gets better… – performed by Peter Donohoe (above)! And bookended by my favourite Mozart symphony (No.29, K201) and piano concerto (No.12, K414) – both in the “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… 

This key includes declarations of innocent love, satisfaction with one’s state of affairs; hope of seeing one’s beloved again when parting; youthful cheerfulness and trust in God.

– Christian Schubart (translated by Rita Steblin): Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst

…and I think all these properties could be said to be present – not only in the golden, warm, and sunny Orchestra of the Swan – but especially in the symphony, which opened the evening. (The concerto, I feel, is more meditative – an aspect that was beautifully illuminated by Donohoe: who appears to have such a gracious affinity with Mozart that the music always sounds fresh, yet considered, in his hands… – but more of that later!) Additionally, to my ears, in both works it sounds as if the young Wolfgang has found his wings – and is making sure that everyone knows he can fly!

Eric Blom, in Ralph Hill’s The Symphony, describes Symphony No.29 as “this slender but extremely appealing work of 1774” – but adds that it “takes the foremost place in one’s affections [because] the youthful musician took fire from his inspiration and wrote for his own satisfaction”.

It may be an early work for Mozart (he was eighteen): but its ingenious string writing, with its gossamer strokes, foreshadows the serenades of the late nineteenth century. Such accomplished orchestration is often superimposed – throughout the work – with characteristic (on some occasions, extremely) sustained notes in the oboes and horns (demonstrating the Orchestra of the Swan’s wind section’s magnificent collective lung capacity). But it is that glorious leaping, ascending first subject of the Allegro moderato that grabs your attention – sung so radiantly by OOTS’ skilful strings… – as well as the sudden, electrifying changes of dynamic and mood (especially in the first repeat) which follow. And, for once, the floating oboes (Victoria Brawn – page-turner par excellence… – and Louise Braithwaite) and insistent horns were perfectly balanced and transparent. (It can be so easy to overwhelm them with too many strings… – but never here.) Bliss!

Blom says of the following Andante that “Its peaceful atmosphere is that of a sunlit garden and its finely balanced shape suggests that the garden is one with trimmed hedges and symmetrical vistas.” The muted strings, here – with the, at first, timorous descant-like counter-melody in the first violins; and the building layers of oboe and horn – wandered through the greenery with plangent, sometimes whispered, delicacy; the second subject just as beautiful and affecting as the main theme of the Tchaikovsky that followed after the interval. Not one blade of grass was flexed or folded. David Curtis, conducting, needless to say – with occasional balletic sweeping gestures, subtle body language, and a marvellous range of encouraging facial expressions… – let the music breathe: with profound moments of gentle rubato. We bathed in the orchestra’s warmth; and all was well… – well, until the wind’s salute in the spine-tingling Coda. Not a rude awakening as such: but a fanfare to signal the following Minuetto was on its way.

Blom describes this as…

An extraordinarily vigorous and original movement. The octave unisons for the oboes and horns… at the end of each of the two parts of the main section are a daring innovation, and the immediate mocking imitation of it by the strings at the opening of the second part is irresistibly humorous.

Look out, Shostakovich, you have competition!

As the pleasing programme note – by Christopher Morley – implies, this is hardly music to dance to, with its “less than courtly energy of Beethoven scherzos”; and yet there are hints of a Tchaikovskian waltz in the Trio. More originality – this time tinged with fun (and the smiles of a happy band)!

The final Allegro con spirito is well-known for its status as a “conductor’s nightmare, with its [oft-repeated] rushing upward unison scale beginning off the beat… this sky-rocket…”. However, Curtis had apparently not even glanced inside the programme’s pages: the violins were always perfectly, brightly, joyously synchronized! What stood out for me, instead, was the superb horn playing from Francesca Moore-Bridger and Craig Macdonald.

With its octave jump, the rising initial theme, here, takes us back to the first movement – one of the many signs of Mozart’s burgeoning maturity – which, as Blom states, “is used imitatively with great skill in the working out”. He then adds an aside to his description of “the very pretty second subject” that follows – which, I believe, sums up the whole symphony (if not the complete works…):

The word ‘pretty’, by the way, though it happens to be the right one here, should not be taken to confirm the far too widespread view that Mozart is the ‘dainty’ composer, not only of the popular fancy, but even of the imagination of many musicians, especially of the nineteenth century, who ought to have known better and seen deeper. He could achieve prettiness incomparably well simply because he could express anything whatever that came within the range of the technical resources and the aesthetic conceptions of his time.

…and I simply could not have put it better (although Donohoe certainly did, in the too-short pre-concert talk…). Read a Mozart score (including this one), and his genius leaps from the page – the effects he achieves with “only the normal small Salzburg orchestra of two oboes, two horns, and strings” are remarkable. His music may sound ‘pretty’ – but underneath the tranquil waters of the Avon, that swan is pedalling with all its might: a picture of effortless, exuberant perfection. And in its undoubted element.

Both the Shostakovich and Mozart concertos (the latter ending the concert) are known for including quotations from other composers (and, of course, in Shostakovich’s case, himself…). I think they also share a dark inner voice – already hinted at in the symphony’s inner movements. Whereas, there, it was the strings who butted in; here, in Shostakovich’s First Piano Concerto, it is nearly always the trumpet – given emphatic, argumentative articulation by Hugh Davies (stupendously producing some of the greatest, almost jazz-club-like playing: akin, for me, to the legend that is Miles Davis…) – which supplies the interjections.

Years after he wrote the work, Shostakovich recalled that he had initially planned to write a concerto for trumpet and orchestra and then added the piano to make it a double concerto. As he continued writing, it became a piano concerto with a solo trumpet.

– Wikipedia: Piano Concerto No.1 (Shostakovich)

That sums the work up quite pithily – but does not go far enough in hinting at the mayhem that Shostakovich’s mastery somehow knits into a cohesive whole (and a jolly entertaining one, at that – if your idea of entertainment is as masochistic as mine… – although it must be fiendishly hard work for both soloist(s) and orchestra). For one thing: I am not convinced that the trumpeter has the same perspective as the pianist. Anyway…

The first movement, Allegro moderato, immediately wakes you from your Mozartian reveries: pulling you away swiftly and cruelly from those sunlit uplands; with Donohoe issuing a startling challenge of runs and a creepy, creeping, resonant bass motif (above). This develops into what I can only describe as ‘typical Shostakovich’ – a pointed Allegro vivace, with infrequent trumpet commentary. Although the strings, with Curtis’ precision guidance, try their hardest to calm things down, as the pace slows (marginally) to Allegretto – and just as it looks as if everyone is going to play nicely together, at the transformation to Allegro – Donohoe careers off expertly with yet more of that trademark, jagged sarcasm.

The strings will not be defeated: and try again, with an episode of deep introversion, low, low down. But that skulking bass figure, and its accompanying open theme, return; and…

…well, we’re suddenly thrown into the deep end of a transcendent, piercing beauty that, again, could only be by Shostakovich: almost a slow-motion mazurka – here, revealing Curtis’ increasingly deep immersion in such movements: expressed ethereally in the upper strings. Eventually, Donohoe joins in – reticently, almost, as if scared to intrude… – but the crystalline melody he conjures up just adds to the tension: especially when underwritten by a hint of “that skulking bass figure”, again, momentarily; before a simple tune and accompaniment. You know it can’t last for long…

…but, somehow, it does; and further evolves into supreme, Rachmaninoff-style gorgeousness. Of course, this is when the façade comes tumbling down! The man just can’t resist! And off we go again, Più mosso, with an intense, short burst of a cadenza, underlined with some heavy martial bass chords from Donohoe. The strings reciprocate… – and we are drawn back into the haunting world of the Fifth Symphony: “the brass-less Largo, which ‘is the work’s emotional core’ – ‘one of the most despairing pieces of music ever written, a memorial for Mother Russia and all those sent to the labour camps’.” Even the solo trumpet now sings muted and mournfully – sensational, plangent playing from Davies: well-deserving of Donohoe’s approbation and gratitude at the end… – before holding hands with the piano for a moment; which then leads us on, as the strings return for a heartbreaking descent into hell, whilst Donohoe soars almost imperceptibly heavenwards.

¶

The Moderato third movement is really just a short skip and a step from being the introduction to the final Allegro con brio. As if to acknowledge where he left us – sobbing into our handkerchiefs – Shostakovich breaks us in gently with some twinkling work for Donohoe (and that remarkable, ineffable, deftness of touch). But the strings seem to want to pull the music back to that soul-shaking slow movement. And yet, you just know that the proprietary spikiness will return, eventually…

… and so Davies interjects yet again: with Donohoe trying to overwhelm any other instrument in hearing with massive torrents that build to what I can only describe as an almighty bunfight between the two soloists.

I’m not sure you could say that order is then restored, as such. It never is. It’s not a compromise, either; nor a handshake – more a licking of wounds – and yet, the piano reneges on whatever Machiavellian bargain was made, and again asserts its supremacy.

But Davies’ gleaming trumpet has a trick hidden up its valves – and all Donohoe can do is punctuate its swagger with one annoyed fortississimo chord: slamming the door and storming out. So cocky, now, is the trumpet, that it even sings a repeated burst of “I’m H‑A‑P‑P‑Y” (seriously); and the strings join in with the fun, before – of course! – Donohoe tries to barge back in. Unperturbed by this rudeness, everyone else just keeps going, before the trumpet finally gives in, widely opens the door, and in flies Donohoe, tails trailing, with the most manic, gathering, swinging storm of a cadenza. Gosh, that man can play! (Which may well be the understatement of the century.)

The trumpet’s return is impudence personified. Both soloists want to have the last word. And they do. And we cheer and stamp, and applaud: knowing that intense magic was worked – but not quite knowing how. (I’m beginning to think Curtis must have some Soviet blood in him.) Stupendous, on all counts! (And not a surprise – considering the immensely-skilled, interrogative punishment it received – that the piano needed a quick retune, afterwards.)

[Reading this back, I find that I am struggling to do both the work and the performance justice. Just take it from me that it was formidably astounding… – or, perhaps, astonishingly overwhelming… – and then mix those thoughts in with the rest of my underachieving prose….]

¶

I don’t know about anyone-else: but I also required a retune after that. And maybe, then, to follow, a nice gentle massage…?

Call me a mushy romantic – “Tysoe: you’re a mushy romantic!” – and I shall be happy to agree. The Tchaikovsky Andante Cantabile that followed (an arrangement of the slow movement of his first string quartet – usually for cello and strings – and music now recommended for funerals, would you believe…?!) is just an outpouring of the purest beauty – and therefore ‘gets’ me every time. It speaks – nay, it sings – to me….

Some may consider it ‘sentimental’ – but, to me, it feels like a distillation of regret; albeit with a teensy smidgen of hope. It was the perfect antidote to the Shostakovich; and definitely massaged my soul.

All I need say is that Curtis and the OOTS strings played this simpler, warmer adaptation (not quite the one above…) – paced perfectly, with some agonizingly pure poignancy – as if their lives depended on it. (The solo from David Le Page, as always, was considered and touching: utterly representative of the rest of the orchestra.) This was controlled catharsis of the most ravishing kind. I felt truly cleansed….

The closing Mozart concerto never quite lets go of this more maudlin feeling – despite being in that “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… – not even, I feel, “in the genial rondo finale marked Allegretto”.

There is some wonderful orchestral writing before the piano is finally invited to join in. Donohoe seemed to be enjoying the rest, though: observing Curtis and the orchestra with a keen eye and matching smile – perhaps, wondering, like me, with only oboes and horns added to the core strings, how they were making such rich music! But his entry (above) was fabulous: as if he had just heard these wondrous themes for the first time; absorbed them; and was extemporizing on them. No-one plays Mozart like Donohoe: there is such fluidity; apparent spontaneity; and yet great thought (you know that every single note has been scrutinised and weighed-up with his well-developed wisdom and expertise). He honours the music with so much grace; so much meaning; that it is as if he has clothed himself deep within it.

He wears it lightly, though; and never grandstands. He is a truly collaborative performer (despite his justified quarrelsomeness in the Shostakovich) – especially with Curtis “at the front, waving his arms around” – and he and the orchestra’s members are genuine equals. Thus, even the first-movement cadenza was simply a demonstration of his wonderment at Mozart’s brilliance. No fireworks, as such – just clear illumination of genius.

His playing in the Andante – entering with one of Mozart’s most beautiful piano themes – was thoughtfully subdued. It flowed slowly, affectingly, out of his fingers… – although I thought I detected just a hint of menacing Shostakovich in the short cadenza… – all the way to that transcendent ending. (Do not doubt that this is Romanticism of the highest order – up there with both Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.)

Even the final movement’s cadenza was ruminative – allowing Curtis to pause the orchestra, take deep breaths… before a final flourish from Donohoe; and a compact climb to the pinnacle of… – actually, I really don’t have the words for such… beauty. (Just let’s say that I could probably listen to Donohoe play Chopsticks on an endless loop – preferably accompanied with his and Curtis’s commentary – and still find it compelling.)

And then, just when I thought this was an evening that could not be improved upon, the gentle, generous soul that is Donohoe – who had thanked everyone on the stage several times, as is his wont, with modest graciousness… – spoke a few quiet words to the audience; entranced us, transported us, with an encore (Shostakovich – of course… – his Prelude and Fugue No.7 in A major (the great man tells me…)) that seemed to encapsulate all that had gone before….

¶

And so it was that I departed Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – in darkness… – with the most gormless grin (still) plastered on my face; but with tears yet drying on my cheeks. My heart was full… – thanks to some of the most wonderful music and musicians. What else could one desire…?

Postscript

Well, if, after all that – and my failure to praise it duly… – you’re looking for even more of OOTS’ patented, emotive yumminess: then, on Friday, go grab a copy of the CD, below…! (And, be warned: Donohoe and the orchestra also have a recording of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto out, hopefully later in the year; matched with yesterday’s recording of the First…! Watch this space!)

On Naxos’s new album of the English composer’s work, the Stratford-upon-Avon-based Orchestra of the Swan, under their music director David Curtis, perform arrangements of some of Ireland’s finest inspirations.

     The Downland Suite, arranged from its brass-band original by the composer himself, is in the best English pastoral tradition.

     The passionate Cello Sonata, written in the Twenties, when Ireland was in the throes of an affair with a much younger man, has been transcribed for cello and strings by [OOTS cellist] Matthew Forbes, and is brilliantly dispatched by cellist Raphael Wallfisch.

     If you didn’t know, you could think it was originally composed as a cello concerto.

     A really good introduction to Ireland’s art.

– David Mellor: Daily Mail (26 March 2016)

More information here and here.

This above all: to thine own self be three…

The unabashed melodiousness of Brahms is without apology.

– Steve Spice

I like to imagine Brahms wandering around Europe – or even just the Red Hedgehog Tavern – almost permanently singing. Strangely enough, his gruff baritone sounds exactly like mine! (Probably because his figure is not dissimilar.) Seriously, though: I can think of no other composer who wrote such gorgeous, memorable, all-encompassing melodies – not even my beloved Elgar (who, it could be argued, is Brahms’ natural successor).

All week, therefore, in anticipation of last night’s Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra concert in the Town Hall, the opening horn call (delicately wafted into the air by Laura Morris – and subsequently recapitulated perfectly by Kelly Haines) of his Second Piano Concerto – and all its ensuing high-contrast, explosive variations and developments – has been echoing through my head (as well as bouncing off the walls of the Bardic halls). This tune is, essentially, a short, simple thing (appearing as a rising tilde in the score) – which is where its power indubitably lies. But what the aging (‘mature’) composer does with it is nothing short of miraculous: not least the initial arpeggiated, ascending response from the piano (played warmly by the inimitable Peter Donohoe).

However easily lulled you may be by that gentle beginning, you are soon awoken by a cadenza (already! at bar 11!) manufactured from some of the most turbulent, breathtaking Sturm und Drang I can think of. (All those octaves in the right hand I think explain Donohoe’s comment, below.) Although this detonation soon recapitulates the main theme as a short-lived ground bass – and the orchestra then takes over – it is not long before the thumb-bashing returns: albeit after a few fortunate pages’ rest!

So – believe me: I tried and failed to learn to play it; and it nearly killed my hands (and the rest of me) – even though the work has been described as “really a symphony with principal piano” – this is, I think, one of the most outrageously challenging pieces in the solo pianist’s repertoire: “the perfect fusion of inspirational fire with… encompassing technique” – which, thankfully, of course, Donohoe, genial genius, has in abundance. He makes it look (relatively) easy – even those infernal, eternal trills. (Although I suspect he is actually the owner of an extra pair of hands – which may well really belong to Martin Roscoe – such is his wizardry.)

It was the last work Brahms added to his repertory as a pianist, and for someone who had long given up regular practicing to get through it at all is amazing.

– Michael Steinberg

Some of the orchestral tutti chord sequences in this first movement even foreshadow those of Shostakovich (see below) with their impudent might – although this may just be a trick of consistent orchestra-scape and canny programming – and yet this is truly beautiful music: albeit with a heart of sharpest diamond. And there is nothing playful at all, either, about the second movement (which tonight featured a breathtaking stop-on-a-sixpence moment from the violins…). “It is a tiny, tiny little concerto with a tiny, tiny little scherzo” wrote Brahms. (Ha‑ha.)

But the work never stops punching you in the guts with its emotional impact, aided by Donohoe’s majestic, ringing, virtuousic keyboard playing. His partnership (which it truly was) with conductor David Curtis and the CSO rendered it a monumental spiritual assault. And, like the Shostakovich that followed – after the well-needed interval – it features a killer third movement: “the slow movement that Rachmaninoff tried all his life to write” – where, temporarily, the cello (beautifully, hauntingly bowed by Andrea Harries: who received rapt, delighted attention from the generous Donohoe) takes the limelight: with what would later become the song Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer (‘Ever gentler grows my slumber’). Personally, I think Brahms constructed this movement so that the pianist would at least have a few moments in which to plunge their hands into a bucket of ice; or for the trainer to come on to the pitch with a magic spray and a few plasters. (Donohoe is too noble and gifted to require such things.)

[By the way, if you want to know just what a “challenge” this work really is (and not just for my clumsy paws): then I would suggest that you read this tremendous account by Stephen Hough – one of the greatest (and most modest) performers I have been lucky to witness – as well as this marvellous interview with French pianist Philippe Bianconi.]

The last movement – regardless of what anyone-else may tell you; and despite the hint of Hungarian dance rhythm and final march (again heading towards Shostakovich territory) – superbly controlled by maestro Curtis – completes the concerto perfectly. It is what the preceding three movements insistently lead to – it is what is needed… – a romantic, rhapsodic meditation on all that has gone before. It may not contain quite the huge number of previous fireworks: but there are moments where the piano’s bass pulses through the soles of your feet, before the treble gives your heart and head a damn’ good work-out. You have to cheer – especially with a performer as subtle and powerful as Donohoe… – as you really, really wanted to do at the end of the Allegro non troppo and Allegro appassionato, of course. You simply have no option.

And here he rewarded our enthusiasm – demonstrating his finely-tuned prowess once more – with a highly intelligent, but deeply soulful, engrossing encore: exhibiting what I know to be a rare (and valuable) combination of insight and fluid technique. [For the life of me, although I recognized it, I cannot dig deep enough into my fading brain to retrieve its composer or title. If you know, please get in touch! Thank you. (I have now been informed – by a certain Peter Donohoe… – that “The encore was Mozart's Fantasia in D Minor K397”. Many thanks! This was genuinely beautiful playing….)] He also crept into the audience after the interval – a rare and thoughtful act….

The B-flat Concerto dates from the start of Brahms’ ripest maturity, the period when his fame had reached a peak throughout Europe and his physical image as we know it best was fixed: bearded and corpulent.

– The Los Angeles Philharmonic

Whilst the Brahms – one of the greatest Late Romantic ‘symphonies’, by last night’s reckoning – can prove hazardous for the piano soloist; Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony provokes and questions the abilities of each and every member of any orchestra that dares confront it. Here, though, these readily-tarnishing challenges were transformed into golden opportunities – and the CSO explored the very heights of proficiency, authority and exultancy – giving rise to one of the greatest orchestral performances I have experienced. (And I write this – humblebrag alert… – having been around the world; and having witnessed many of the greatest musicians of the last fifty years….)

This is no extravagance; no overstatement. The music breathed. And therefore every single person who contributed to tonight’s astonishing achievement should be immensely proud of themselves. This was musicianship of the very highest order – from the conductor to the clarinets; the brass to the bass drum; the piccolo to the piano. (It is just so sad that the hall was only half-full. I am pretty sure we all knew how utterly blessed we were, though….)

From the symphony’s opening battle between the lower and the upper strings and its soaring melodies, to the sounds of hopeless oppression and finally to the triumph of the human spirit, Shostakovich brilliantly captures the conflicting moods of a time, place and people.

– Marin Alsop: Power And Struggle In A Soviet Symphony

It would be all too easy, at least on the surface – especially considering the (parodic) startling re-entry of the triumphal (but threatening) brass in the last movement (with a rising three-note motif that echoes Brahms’ welcoming call – although this time in the minor: depressing that final note…) – to believe that, in writing his Fifth Symphony, Shostakovich had capitulated to Stalin’s directives in producing grandiose music to support his evil dictatorship: demonstrating the supposed superiority of the mighty Russian Bear during the godawful ‘Great Terror’. However, there is – right from the warlike get-go; its call to arms – and at its deep, deep, lyrical, tortured heart – what Peter Gutmann describes as “the clash between stifling ideology and irrepressible creative impulse”:

According to Stalin, music had to inspire and unite the Soviet people with uplifting messages. His taste was simplistic, but his power absolute. The Pravda party newspaper… branded Shostakovich an enemy of the people and condemned his work as chaotic, vulgar and perverted…. He was snubbed, performances of his works were cancelled and his career seemed over. Yet, he soon found a constructive cure for his pain…. He plunged into work on a new, more traditional symphony. There would be no mistaking its purpose. Shostakovich titled it “An Artist’s Creative Response to Just Criticism” and announced its program as “the stabilization of a personality of a man with all his experiences”. He proclaimed: “There can be no greater joy for a composer than… having assisted by his works in the elevation of Soviet musical culture… to contribute to the growth of our country”. When presented in celebration of the 20th anniversary of the Revolution, it was acclaimed a masterpiece, embracing the soul of the Russian people.

The composer initially described the finale as “resolving the tragically tense impulses of the earlier movements into optimism and the joy of living”. But, later, he rechristened it “a false optimism created under a threat” – akin to the “sadistic torture of being forced to smile while being beaten” – and implied that Stalin was “too dense to see through [his] parody and satire”: not realizing the “deeper and sardonic musical truth” (which, surely, to modern audiences – with the symphony’s industrial, weaponized brass section; satirical marches; and pleading, lyrical melodies – is so blatant that it cannot be ignored…).

I think it is clear to everyone what happens in the Fifth. The rejoicing is forced, created under threat, as in [Modest Mussorgsky’s opera] Boris Godunov. It’s as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, “Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing”, and you rise, shaky and go marching off, muttering, “Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing”. What kind of apotheosis is that? You have to be a complete oaf not to hear that. People who came to the premiere of the Fifth in the best of moods wept.

– Solomon Volkov: Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich

The crux of that weeping, for me (and, I suspect, for many others), is the brass-less Largo, which “is the work’s emotional core” – “one of the most despairing pieces of music ever written, a memorial for Mother Russia and all those sent to the labour camps”. And, although this exquisitely-scored lament uses themes from the preceding two movements, I think it is as close to the surface, and as close as you can get, to reading Shostakovich’s true intent: his fear and agonized despondency – even his hatred.

I agree: “there are no words” for last night’s rendering of this. All I need write is that I closed my eyes; and let the music immerse me in the inevitable purity of sorrow; the inescapable sobs gently washing and wracking my face…. The pace was perfect; as were the dynamics. I will jump to the end, therefore, and just say that those concluding ethereal harmonics from the harp are tough enough – for both audience and orchestra – without the following building Blitzkrieg chord from the full forces of the brass, woodwind and timpani which set off that last, knife-twisting lurch toward death. Thankfully, Curtis paused.

Here, in the coda, he then once more showed his shrewdness – and fulfilled his desire to “always tell a story” with the music – in finding a middle way between the ‘traditional’ fast and triumphal European dash to glory; and the more Russian, slow, tragic and disintegrating weariness. What we experienced was therefore no victory parade – hollow or otherwise. On the weekend of the Stop the War protests and the Climate Change March, these hammered, screaming, repeated chords felt like a forced procession to the scaffold for the whole of humanity.

Like the Brahms concerto that preceded it, this confrontational, testing symphony could be by no other composer. (The works share an expertise in orchestral technique and exploitation – for want of a better word – that is almost unsurpassable. And yet they are Germanic chalk and Soviet cheese in their differences: despite their parallel, emotive appearances and similar dynamic oscillations.)

Pardon my Cyrillic: but Shostakovich’s Fifth, with its gradual, initially deceptive, relentless urge – especially in this performance – builds to such a ball-kicking climax that it is sometimes hard to breathe. (The Brahms achieves such damage in a markedly discreet and more riverlike way.) As it progresses, the symphony swings from gentle massage to such exquisitely-timed assault that you may also find yourself – as I did – almost panting with the inflicted pain. It is tragedy of the most heart-piercing kind – a “long arc… of a bittersweet, aching intensity” – and I do not envy those who have to perform it – although the CSO, under the tight helmsmanship of an obviously emotionally-wrought Curtis – were sensational in their pure and sure commitment.

At least we in the audience had the release of tears, and the comfort of our handkerchiefs. All these poor musicians could do was play on through the terrifying, harrowing, inferno. (Even when Shostakovich appears to be lightening up a little – or even taking the mickey – he is nothing less than intensely serious in his aims and methods. And it shows. (I think the same can be said of Curtis, below, by the way.))

Earlier in the week, Curtis had said to me that “after the Shostakovich, I’ll need a stiff drink”. (Only one…?!) And so did I. This was music that really, really hurt – but in a good, masochistic, cleansing sort of way. (Oh, the power of a good tune…!) But, although he headed homeward for “a stiff gin and tonic” (there must be a musician’s punchline in there, somewhere…!), a thick, dark coffee had to suffice for me (albeit tinged with brandy) – otherwise this review would simply have been one very sharp, climactic expletive.

By the way (just to lighten things up a little): the concert began with a warm-up overture – again, as the programme notes told us, “Three arresting brass chords open the piece… they symbolize a vow of vengeance” – by some obscure ‘Joe Green’ bloke. (Thank you, Dad!) I’ve never really liked Verdi – apart from the heavenly Requiem (it’s great to sing; and features some muscular timpani and bass drum parts…) – but this was entertaining enough!

What it did achieve – seriously and melodiously – was to set the stage for the themes of agonizing tragedy and false triumphalism – the magnificent and dramatic “forces of destiny” – which followed. If Brahms paints paradise, Shostakovich hollows out for us the horrors of hell on earth. Both of which have left me utterly wrecked. Wow.

The moon emerged from behind the earlier storm-clouds to guide me home. I did not want the glow of my iPhone to compete; nor the sound of anything to disturb the now-Russian melodies entangling themselves in my overwhelmed brain. This music of “thought-provoking programming” and formidable skill will stay with me for a very long time. And yet I still must luxuriate in its vigorous freshness. For as long as I possibly can. Thank you; and good night….