Sunday, February 17, 2019

JÄRVI : PREMIÈRE INTÉGRALE DES SYMPHONIES DE SIBELIUS AVEC ORCHESTRE FRANÇAIS

resmusica.com
Jean-Luc Caron
17.02.2019

Grâce à Paavo Järvi, l’Orchestre de Paris a enregistré en concert public l’intégrale symphonique de Jean Sibelius. Un coffret de trois CDs publié par RCA rend compte de cette collaboration inédite. Comment se positionne-t-elle face à la concurrence internationale ?



Le chef estonien connaît intimement l’œuvre de Sibelius ; son pouvoir de persuasion et son enthousiasme ont eu raison des réticences françaises bien connues envers ce répertoire longtemps ignoré, voire dénigré. De plus, la compétition récente sur ce segment précis est rude. Si l’on met de côté les résultats mitigés de Simon Rattle (Philharmonique de Berlin, BP) et d’Osmo Vänskä (Orchestre du Minnesota, BIS), il faut compter, rien que pour les quinze dernières années, sur les réussites, aussi incontestables qu’embrasées, de John Storgårds (Orchestre philharmonique de la BBC, Chandos) et de Sakari Oramo (Philharmonique royal de Stockholm, Naxos), sans oublier les symphonies enregistrées par Alan Gilbert (New York Philharmonic). Paavo Järvi lui-même a enregistré sa première intégrale en 2009-2013 à la tête de l’Orchestre symphonique de la Radio de Francfort (RCA), un travail passionnant tant au plan de la qualité de la phalange allemande qu’à celui de la réflexion musicale propre.

Face à l’Orchestre de Paris, entre 2012 et 2016, Järvi, on le perçoit, a dû fournir énergie et détermination pour conduire l’orchestre parisien à une compréhension et une adhésion suffisantes pour justifier la concrétisation de la première intégrale assurée par un orchestre français. Les traits caractéristiques du chef se retrouvent avec ses tempos plutôt rapides, des articulations nerveuses et vives, des mouvements lents apaisés mais jamais languides. Son aisance dans les passages les plus dynamiques emporte l’adhésion, par exemple dans le Finale (4e mouvement) de la Symphonie n° 2. De plus, le cycle bénéficie d’une lecture analytique très instructive laissant entendre des instruments ou des sections le plus souvent étouffés par la masse orchestrale. De cette collaboration synergique, l’esprit de Sibelius souffle, tour à tour épique et intimiste, même si la perception d’un certain manque d’automatisme et de coulant idiosyncrasique est perceptible ici ou là.

Ainsi l’énigmatique Symphonie n° 4 figure au sommet du corpus avec sa profonde beauté et son langage unique impressionnant. L’éclat lumineux et les élans orchestraux irrésistibles caractérisent l’Allegro final de la Symphonie n° 2tandis que la suivante, engagée et entraînante, dévoile des traits rarement entendus dans les autres gravures. La plus célèbre du cycle, portant le numéro 5, inspire autant le chef que les pupitres de l’Orchestre de Paris au meilleur de leur forme. Leur exécution du fameux ultime mouvement mérite l’écoute. La clarté et la douceur, discrètement minées par une sourde menace, de la Symphonie n° 6 se trouvent parfaitement rendues par les protagonistes. Le septième et dernier volet de ce corpus, véhicule de tant de nouveautés et de profondeur, inspire l’orchestre et son chef et figure en bonne place dans la compétition internationale.

La qualité technique des enregistrements aurait mérité davantage de soins, ainsi les fortissimos de l’Allegro molto du premier mouvement de la Symphonie n° 2 pâtissent d’une saturation sonore incompatible avec l’exigence attendue. Les autres symphonies passent beaucoup mieux et le résultat paraît globalement de meilleure qualité, permettant l’intérêt et la bienveillance de l’écoute. Au total, un travail louable et très bien ficelé, convaincant souvent, mais insuffisant pour inverser la discographie à son plus haut échelon.

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

‘In the beginning, you always think you know everything’ – Paavo Järvi on becoming a conductor

classicfm.com
Maddy Shaw Roberts
12.02.2019

Paavo Järvi has been a conductor for over 30 years. Picture: Getty

We spoke to conducting legend Paavo Järvi about the process of becoming a conductor, being a mentor – and how important it is to have someone who believes in you.

Read our full interview with Paavo Järvi below.


What was it like when you were first getting into the classical music industry?

In the beginning, you always think you know everything. I teach conducting, and I’ve done it for many years because I think it’s an incredibly important thing to teach young conductors.

It’s a kind of enigmatic profession. If you’re a pianist, you can go to a piano and practise, if you’re a violinist you do the same – but if you’re a conductor, you can study scores but how do you learn how to conduct?

And then comes this curious thing that happens in your brain, where you convince yourself you’re a conductor – meanwhile, you’ve never been in front of an orchestra.

So, the theoretical understanding of a piece and the practical application of how to deal with the orchestra – not only as a bunch of musicians but also a bunch of human beings – is basically unknown.

What was the first thing you learned when you became a conductor?

The first shock a conductor has is that before you can even talk about your ideas to a musician, you have to gain a certain amount of human trust.

Musicians will be very grateful to you for a certain clarity – a certain ability to breathe, to show legato and to get off the fermata without explaining for two hours how to do it.

This is a basic professional basis, which is something that the majority of [conductors] today are not taught and don’t think is that important. They think you have to show your personality and musicality.

What’s the best advice you give to young conductors?


What I try to do is give them some vocabulary for situations that are inevitable in every rehearsal – how to make sure the winds and strings come in together, how to make a rallentando, a stringendo – how not to always wave with two hands at the same time so everyone will tune out immediately because it’s way too busy.

I try in my courses to be very pragmatic – we can’t do everything in 10 days, so it’s important to just pinpoint a few things.

Do you think it’s important to have a mentor?

Having a mentor is the most important thing. Having somebody who believes in you – and has something useful to say – is a gift. Someone who can be at your concert or rehearsal and give you useful pointers.

I’m one of the luckiest people in the world because I had this mentor in my house since I was born, and even before. And to this day, when he [my father, Neeme Järvi] sees something on YouTube, he says, “Paavo, if you want to do an accelerando, don’t get so much bigger, don’t use so much energy. This climactic moment, don’t rush through it!”

I’ve been conducting for 30 years and I love hearing a bit of advice because it helps you clean out the bad habits when you are constantly working and constantly in a routine.

Saturday, February 09, 2019

The week in classical

theguardian.com
Fiona Maddocks
9.02.2019

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Venerated by fellow pianists, the Romanian Radu Lupu has acquired mythical status. Now in his 70s, he no longer records, shuns interviews and rarely performs in public. The Royal Festival Hall was sold out for his date with the Philharmonia Orchestra to play Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 4, conducted by Paavo Järvi, in a concert that included a soul-baring, virile performance of Rachmaninov’s Symphony No 2.

Lupu’s upright chair rather than piano stool, and his lack of showy gesture, are hallmarks. He takes his seat, body relaxed, head tilted back a little, as if submitting to a barber. Instead he’s surrendering, as far as humanly possible, every vestige of self to become a vessel for the music. The solo opening of the concerto, hushed, poetic, sinewy, heralded an account of daring intimacy, dense with risk. Lupu allows nerve-shattering pauses. This has no connection with the missed notes or insecure passagework or, in one instance, a time lapse between soloist and orchestra. He has always played with an improvisatory quality, as if taking aural dictation from the ether. As a younger man, flowing black hair and beard, he seemed like someone from a Russian novel. Now he’s the hermit, frail beyond his years, down from the mountain bearing wisdom. Järvi, upright, like a bandmaster, yet responsive to line and phrase, was a sympathetic accompanist, the orchestra lithe, supple, unfazed by this familiar music’s new adventures

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Tuesday, February 05, 2019

Paavo Järvi on Sibelius

prestomusic.com
Katherine Cooper
5.02.2019

The Estonian conductor Paavo Järvi has championed the music of Sibelius throughout Europe since making his conducting debut with the First Symphony back in 1985, and was awarded the Sibelius Medal in 2015 in recognition of his promotion of this repertoire in France, where it remained far from mainstream until very recently. Issued on Sony on 18th January, the live recordings which he made during his six-year tenure with the Orchestre de Paris represent the first complete Sibelius cycle from a French orchestra as well as Järvi’s own first recording of works which he views as a special milestone for any Nordic conductor.

I visited him in London earlier this month to discuss the reception-history of Sibelius in France, the special pleasure of recording the symphonies with an orchestra relatively unfamiliar with his music, FaceTime musical discussions with his father, and why he thinks young conductors should stay away from core repertoire…


Transcript of the video interview

Over the last few years in particular, you’ve done a lot to raise Sibelius’s profile in France – I wonder if you could give me a potted history of the reception of his music there?

In France there was a very famous musicologist, composer and conductor called René Leibowitz, who was a similar character to the German musicologist Adorno - both of them thought that Sibelius was the worst composer ever! As a result all the young music-lovers, musicologists, music educators, professors and musicians in these central European countries were trained to think that Sibelius is not really worth anything. The reason this idea came into play is because these two men thought the direction the new music had to take (if it’s any good) was the sort of thing that ended up being the Second Viennese School and serialism; they simply disagreed with the direction in which Sibelius went, and he was considered first of all not very good in terms of form but also very old-fashioned in terms of the direction. They similarly dismissed Rachmaninov and anybody else who dared to write music that had a Romantic feel to it. As a result, Germany and France (especially France) had very little experience of Sibelius’s music; they all know and love the Violin Concerto, because the great soloists insist on playing that.

And it so happened that in all the years of the Orchestre de Paris (and indeed other French orchestras) there had never been a complete set of Sibelius symphonies recorded by a French orchestra – this is now the twenty-first century and we still don’t have a complete set, so when I was the music director there I thought it was something that I would very much like to remedy. So we started playing Sibelius, and one of the things that I noticed was how well this exceptionally good orchestra play this music; I realised that they had no tradition with it, which meant that they were following their instincts and reacting to the actual music that they were hearing. Even with the most enigmatic of the symphonies (like No. 4, which I think is genius), they didn’t dismiss it as something that’s difficult to understand, and somehow they were open to exploring – they had no preconceived idea that it was difficult or unusual or hard to listen to, or somehow less 'obvious' than others. They just said ‘Sibelius 4? Let’s play!’.

What I loved about this whole experience was how open-minded the orchestra was, and how much they brought this real old-world warmth: a sound that had enough room and space to breathe. That’s something that the Orchestre de Paris is well known for – the kind of sensuous and warm sound – and to me, when I heard that with them I thought: ‘This is exactly where we need to record these symphonies’, because otherwise I would need to spend most of the time undoing things and convincing musicians not to follow the old tradition. There’s nothing wrong with tradition, but sometimes tradition is just a series of bad habits, of gestures that are no longer believable because they’re simply programmed into an interpretation – they’re not organic, and they don’t make so much sense. So with Orchestre de Paris we rediscovered a lot of this stuff and let it go where it feels like it needs to go.

So tradition can sometimes become a handicap, something that people follow without actually thinking why - very often you hear very famous pieces played in a certain way over and over, not because it’s written by the composer but because they’ve heard a recording where somebody did a rallentando, and so everybody else now manufactures and does the same thing without thinking why. So it is a luxury to have been able to record these pieces and explore this music with an orchestra that does not have preconceived notions about it, and really follows their heart when they play it.

So did you consciously wait until a point in your career where you would have that opportunity to start with a tabula rasa, if you like, rather than working with an orchestra that had done this cycle three or four times on disc?

One of the things that I regret is recording a lot of standard repertoire when I was young: you want to do your Tchaikovsky or your Mahler and Beethoven, but my advice to young conductors is ‘Stay away from standard repertoire when you’re young!’. There’s plenty of good, interesting music that you should be championing as a young musician. Of course a Beethoven set is the defining set [for a lot of conductors], and for us it’s Sibelius – for a Nordic conductor (I'm Estonian) a Sibelius set is something that’s very special. Every Nordic conductor has recorded a Sibelius set: some, like Paavo Berglund, have recorded it twice, in fact even three times, and this is no joking matter. So for me to do this now was a very conscious decision because I didn’t want to do it too early and I wanted it to be special, and I found an orchestra that would be right for it, which was also a very unlikely orchestra. I like the fact that it was not an expected collaboration, something that made sense marketing-wise, like an Estonian or Finnish orchestra, or even a London orchestra for that matter (the English are great Sibelius lovers and English orchestras have a long tradition of Sibelius); coming from Paris, that’s really unusual and slightly suspect, and I kind of like that idea. I like that we present something a little bit different, a little bit fresh, and a little bit controversial. And by doing that I think that we will convince a lot of French musicians and French audiences to have a very serious second look at this composer called Sibelius.

Were there any particular traditions – either throughout the cycle or in specific symphonies - that you wanted to undo?

I grew up in a conductor’s family and recordings of Sibelius were played in our house all the time; of course Bernstein was the big influence, being one of the great Sibelius conductors. Then there are the famous Karajan recordings, plus Robert Kajanus, Berglund, Barbirolli, Beecham, Stokowski...everybody who has ever recorded Sibelius, we had! I grew up with these really old-world recordings – super-slow late Romantic, Richard Straussian interpretations, which were totally beautiful and convincing – yet as I grew older I felt that maybe Sibelius needs to have a little bit more of a straightforward approach, something that has more impulse and rhythmic vitality, not so much influenced by Wagner and Brahms and Tchaikovsky. And so in the beginning when I was starting to conduct the symphonies there was a little bit of exaggeration to the other side, where everything was fast, quite kinetic and hard-hitting, quite modern if you will.

But now after conducting this music for 25 years, I think the truth is somewhere in between: you need to find the rhythmic clarity, the impulse and the heartbeat that is clearly there, and still have room to breathe, and to really connect with that time. It was still an 'old' world: the sound-world that was expected and understood and was in the ear of composers like Sibelius was still an old-world, Germanic, lush sound-world full of colour, full of sostenuto, and a nuanced but rich sound: something that I find very difficult now to find in any orchestra. Of course the great German orchestras like Berlin can do it, but I find Orchestre de Paris can too: even in French music they have a string sound that’s full of rich colour and nuance and juice, something that I find Sibelius really needs. So I went from loving the Romantic performances to the exact opposite, to insisting that it has nothing to do with the Russian tradition, and now to understanding that probably somewhere in between is the right compromise.

Your father recorded these symphonies with Gothenburg: how much discussion do you have about interpretation of these scores within your very musical family?

Oh, there’s constant discussion about music! We talk very often, mostly on FaceTime or Skype, and basically when we talk we talk about music - about interpretations, about the musical world in general…But of course when you have the luxury of having such a master on the phone, then how can you not ask and discuss the important points? Because he has recorded and played Sibelius all his life, he has a wealth of information – and what’s important is not so much direct information as more kind of relaying the experience which he had, and one can learn so much from hearing the type of practical things that he suggests sometimes. So yes, we have a lot of discussion, and I still learn so much from that.


Sibelius: Symphonies Nos. 1-7

Orchestre de Paris, Paavo Järvi

Paavo Järvi's Sibelius cycle with the Orchestre de Paris was released on Sony on 18th January.

https://www.prestomusic.com/classical/articles/2470--video-interview-paavo-jarvi-on-sibelius

Lupu's London farewell?

jessicamusic.blogspot.com
Jessica Duchen
5.02.2019




The chairs were out for the returns queue at the Royal Festival Hall on Sunday night. Word was spreading that this might be the last chance for London to hear Radu Lupu play. He has long preferred to avoid the capital's concert halls - whether because of iffy acoustics, acidic critics or other reasons I could not say - and an appearance with the Philharmonia Orchestra and conductor Paavo Järvi for Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto looked almost too good to be true.

Lupu, 73, is tall and imposing on the platform, yet somewhat frail in gait and balance. His Beethoven came through in parts almost as a memory of the concerto. Yet the unique quality of his playing lies in the touch itself. It's the transparency of tone, the cushioned finesse of it, and the way he turns a phrase that, in a matter of a few notes, suggests a deep, empathetic humanity and a profound love for the music.

He uses a chair rather than a piano stool and sits at the keyboard almost as others might at a desk, as if making notes (in every sense, of course). He's thinking aloud with his hands. His playing is a form of writing, a direct channel from mind and spirit. And it is quiet, fabulously so. Rather than slamming out sounds to reach the back of the auditorium, he pulls the audience in towards him, forcing you to listen.


A few memory lapses were accompanied by a half-humorous dismissive gesture with one hand; and in the final movement's cadenza he wasn't above turning a pause into a joke, catching Järvi's eye as if to say 'OK, wait for it....' Järvi proved the perfect accompanist, deferring to Lupu but keeping everything gently on the rails, perhaps stoking up the orchestral energy if the solo line had wandered into the realms of introspection just before.

One hopes that the suggestion Lupu might be winding up his concert schedule this year is not true, but it wouldn't surprise me if it is. I'm sure I wasn't the only person present who listened to his exquisite encore of Brahms Op.117 No. 1 - the darkest of whispered lullabies - with a fearful lump in the throat.

(Please read this beautiful tribute to him by fellow pianist Kirill Gerstein, which appeared in the New York Review of Books for Lupu's 70th birthday.)

Järvi, having proved himself a master of managing energies, did so again in the second half, with a taut, glistening, impassioned account of the Rachmaninov Symphony No.2. It was the perfect cathartic finale for a rather emotional concert hall, and as an interpretation it had the glorious variety of a great epic narrative: the elemental fire of Tolstoy, the fantastical colours of Bulgakov and the aching passion of Chekhov. The Philharmonia played as if their lives depended on it.

https://jessicamusic.blogspot.com/2019/02/lupus-london-farewell.html

Fabulous Evening with Radu Lupu, Paavo Järvi and the Philharmonia

seenandheard-international.com
Colin Clarke
05.02.2019

United Kingdom 
Beethoven, Rachmaninov: Radu Lupu (piano), Philharmonia Orchestra / Paavo Järvi (conductor). Royal Festival Hall, London, 3.2.2019.


Beethoven – Overture, Coriolan, Op.62; Piano Concerto No.4 in G, Op.58

Rachmaninov – Symphony No.2 in E minor, Op.27

Visits to London by the great Romanian pianist Radu Lupu are rarer than hens’ teeth, so the queues for returns hours before the concert began were no surprise. The strength of Lupu’s pull is obviously huge; an appreciative (if sometimes bronchial) audience made its delight felt.

Before the Great Man’s entrance, though, Beethoven’s Overture Coriolan – for Collin’s 1804 play, not the Shakespeare. The performance was not absolutely 100% confident (that first unison with an ever so slightly early entrance from the first violins), winter colds scuppering each and every one of Beethoven’s usually pregnant silences. None of which was the major problem; it was Järvi letting the music sag in the more lyrical moments that took away any properly compelling qualities.

Not that anyone, I imagine, came for Coriolan, apt scene-setter though it can be (also, its strong minor-key stance sits in maximal contrast to the G major of the Fourth Piano Concerto). Lupu’s solo entrance in the concerto was marked by a luminosity rarely encountered from any pianist; Järvi’s gentle orchestral riposte expertly matched Lupu. Suddenly, everything seemed to come together leading to a reading from Lupu characterised by its gentleness. In the louder passages, there seemed to be zero chance of breaking the piano tone, even when the piano is asked to reply to heroic horns. Beethoven’s first movement cadenza (the first cadenza, the one that begins in the mid-range of the keyboard) was simply beautiful, the final trill preternaturally perfect.

The restrained aspect to Lupu’s playing worked perfectly in the solo/orchestra ‘Orpheus taming the beast’ dynamic of the central movement. Here, trills took on a powerful, proto-late period power of their own; the peace of the close could surely never be bettered. The finale contained humour as well as clarity. True, not everything was tidy (Lupu seemed to bat away one incident with the wave of a hand, as if swatting a fly), but the sheer integrity of the performance, the sheer weight of resonance between soloist and composer, was mind-boggling. Järvi was a superb accompanist throughout; in the programme he is quoted as saying ‘I have learned more from Radu than from any other musician’ and the care with which he led the orchestra was testament to that respect.

Brahms was the chosen composer for the encore: an exquisite E flat Intermezzo Op.117/1. Jarvi sat at the back of the orchestra, as enraptured as the rest of us.

There was more space in the hall post-interval; a shame, as Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony received a powerful performance. Järvi understands the ebb and flow of Rachmaninov’s thought processes, pitting the woodwind choir against those lush melodies in the first movement. The allegro had a beautifully flowing tempo with brass on top form (particularly the lower end). The brass made their mark also in the Allegro molto second movement (superb, strong and accurate violas here, too). It was Mark van de Wiel’s clarinet that shone in the famous Adagio, while Tom Blomfield’s keening oboe was also notable. The strings, plush but not over-upholstered, drove the build-up to the movement climax beautifully before the bright finale, rhythms on point, brought the work to a glorious close.

A fabulous evening. Lupu was the star of the show, but those that left prior to the Rachmaninov missed out on a vital part of the experience.

Monday, February 04, 2019

Philharmonia Orchestra, Cambridge Orchestral Concert Series, Cambridge Corn Exchange, Friday 1 February 2019

cambridgeindependent.co.uk
Jude Clarke
4.02.2019

Friday evening’s concert was the third in the 2018-19 Orchestral Concert Series at the Corn Exchange, and seems set to go down as one of the finest.

Leticia Moreno (6937276)

The Philharmonia Orchestra – unshowily but impressively led by conductor Paavo Järvi – gave wonderful voice to three wonderful pieces of music (plus bonus encore), in a programme that seized the imagination from the first note, and sustained it through to the very last.

Beethoven wrote his Coriolan Overture in 1807, at a time when his music was evolving into the stirring “heroic” style for which he is rightly revered. The piece opened in suitably dramatic fashion, and continued apace, with bags of light and shade interspersed with some beautifully pastoral and vividly romantic moments. As the overture drew to its end, the final strains had a subtlety and quietness that nevertheless still managed to resonate every bit as much as anything with more volume.

Violinist Leticia Moreno brought drama and vivacity to her interpretation of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, next, in the concert’s centrepiece performance. And it was a performance that really brought out the beauty and tenderness of the concerto - the tumbling cascades of notesPaavo Jarvi (6937312)

Violinist Leticia Moreno brought drama and vivacity to her interpretation of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, next, in the concert’s centrepiece performance. And it was a performance that really brought out the beauty and tenderness of the concerto - the tumbling cascades of notes perfectly showcasing the versatility of both the instrument and the musician playing it. Fabulous. Generously, Moreno even treated us to an encore, after having received rapturous applause for her performance: Bach’s Violin Sonata No 1 in G Minor.

After the interval we were treated to the glory of Rachmaninov’s Symphony No 2 in E Minor, all swelling romantic strings, wrenching tenderness and thrilling peaks. The glorious – and rightly celebrated – third movement was done full justice by this world-class orchestra, as was the entirety of the programme in this near-perfect evening of musical treats.

https://www.cambridgeindependent.co.uk/whats-on/review-philharmonia-orchestra-9060965/

Lupu, Philharmonia, Järvi, RFH review - concerto magical in parts, symphony stupendous

theartsdesk.com
David Nice
4.02.2019

Delicacy from the legendary Romanian in Beethoven while Rachmaninov electrifies


Paavo Järvi and Radu Lupu in rehearsal for Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto at the 2017 Pärnu Music FestivalAll images by Kaupo Kikkas


Pianists most often cite Radu Lupu alongside Martha Argerich and Grigory Sokolov as the greatest. So it was hardly surprising to see so many top musicians in a packed audience, buzzing with expectation for the 73-year-old Romanian's most recent UK appearance with a conductor he respects, Paavo Järvi. Lupu appeared at Steven Isserlis's 60th birthday event at the Wigmore towards the end of last year, but before that hasn't been seen here since 2014. I heard him then, but in Stockholm, giving a magisterial performance of Beethoven's Third Piano Concerto. Last night's Fourth was exquisite at times, not quite of this world, and not always in a good sense. But he has apparently said it will be his last appearance, so we had better treasure what was best about it.

The subtlety is what many seek in Lupu's playing; there's a Schumann disc including Kinderszenen which is really heaven on earth. Now, though, it's not so much wrong notes – no-one minds those, up to a point, when listening to a legend – as missing ones in what should be perfect runs: pearls on a line, but with some gaps. The magic was often there, especially in the rapt mystery Beethoven introduces at the start of the first-movement development,and there was some fascinating left-hand accenting. But the composer's own, longer cadenza needs moments of fierceness, and so does Orpheus, in pleading with the Furies of the central drama. While there was nimble wit in the finale, including a lovely moment of rapport with conductor and orchestra just before the end, you sometimes felt Lupu, for all his watchfulness, was playing to some inner rhythm that didn't always correspond with reality.

Järvi, hawk-eyed for every slight waywardness, made sure that the Philharmonia matched the soloist for ghost voices, and one of the finest moments in the performance came near the beginning, violins hovering ever so slightly in the air on the top note of the second theme. Clearly this is a long-term partnership which works, but now there's more give from the orchestra than from the pianist. Lupu's encore (the pianist pictured below at the 2017 Pärnu Music Festival) was the inward poetry of Brahms's E flat Intermezzo, Op 117 No. 1; I was ready to be moved, but alongside the private world Lupu conjured the pulse seemed to falter. The rapturous ovation, you felt, was more for auld lang syne, but a little sympathetic imagination could find its way through to Lupu's special incandescence.

Beethoven's Coriolan Overture kickstarted a standard programme with Järvistretching dramatic pauses between the lion's roars, but as the work stalked onwards, it became a bit of a distraction to find a cough planted in every one of the later silences. Rachmaninov's textures are more consistently lush in his biggest symphonic epic, covering the coughs, though to be fair the audience did seem to be perfectly still in the dying fall of the Adagio, violas fading to nothing before Järviheld the silence and plunged straight into the festival finale.

The Second Symphony is a work Järvi's recorded with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra; the Philharmonia also knows it well from Ashkenazy's several performances, and the present team had just been using it as a calling-card on tour. So one expected the polish. But how alive it all was in every phrase, Järvi's subtle rubato lending a special animation. Without the depth of sound and the humanity, it might have seemed a bit hard-pressed at times; but Järvi knows not to wallow in the many lush string melodies, and the one which comes on the heels of what was here an incredibly lively and focused main scherzo theme has never sounded more convincing in its place.

There was consistent richness, too, from the Philharmonia lower strings, a highly artistic timpanist, Antoine Siguré, and especially the horns, never better, revelatory in the low snarls that darken the canvas from time to time. Of course it depends on what Järvi the brilliant globetrotter wants to do in 2021 – he takes up a post as principal conductor of the Zurich Tonhalle Orchestra this autumn – but the Philharmonia is spoilt for choice of successor to Esa-Pekka Salonen between this regular visitor and principal guest conductors Jakub Hrůša and Santtu-Matias Rouvali. Exciting times, at least for our (threatened) musical world-within-world.

https://theartsdesk.com/classical-music/lupu-philharmonia-j%C3%A4rvi-rfh-review-concerto-magical-parts-symphony-stupendous

Limpid clarity: Beethoven and Rachmaninov from Lupu, Järvi and the Philharmonia

bachtrack.com
Matthew Rye
4.02.2019

London appearances of Radu Lupu are rare enough to make them major events in the musical calendar. His Royal Festival Hall concerto date with the Philharmonia Orchestra under the baton of Paavo Järvi was predictably a sell-out. The revered Romanian pianist may have aged since I last saw him about 17 years ago, losing something of that firebrand Rasputin look, but there’s no sense that he’s mellowed. He still defies good comportment by slumping back in his chair as he plays (no traditional piano stool for him) and only rarely gives anything away visually thanks to his almost perpetual stony face of concentration – in this performance of Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto, he did once allow himself a little sly smirk as he capped off a cadential phrase with a perky staccato, and also gestured a smile of sympathy towards the orchestra after a momentary fluff from the woodwind.

Radu Lupu
© Priska Ketterer

This intensity, and the insight of the musical results, made the performance a memorable one. No. 4 is, indeed, the least showy of Beethoven’s concertos, but Lupu and Järvi emphasised its conversational qualities, the pianist introducing the opening theme as if a gentle, convivial challenge to see what the orchestra could do with it. With any other pianist, his approach could have come across as sleepy, even introverted, but Lupu’s great skill is in drawing the listener’s ear into the heart of the music, a place where mere notes on the page become expression and where despite the limpid clarity, the delicacy even, there’s a steel core to the trajectory of the lines. His playing here was never forceful, but always sought out fresh ways of conveying familiar sequences of notes without distorting the musical intent, for instance in the way he gave added weight to some of his left-hand textures in the first movement.

The Philharmonia responded to Lupu’s exploratory approach with playing that had more Mozartian charm than we usually hear in mid-period Beethoven, something that also characterised its opening performance of the composer’s CoriolanOverture, an account that could perhaps have benefited from revealing more of Beethoven’s rougher edges. The overture’s dramatic pauses – somewhat over-emphasised by Järvi – had unfortunately been filled almost without exception by ill-timed coughing, but Lupu’s mesmerising pianism in the concerto miraculously managed to silence the winter colds, and his encore of Brahms’s E flat major Intermezzo from his Op.117 set was played with such captivating, lullaby-like fragility, that it seemed to leave the whole audience holding its breath.

There was nothing particularly unemotional about the music in this first part of the concert, but it was nonetheless a welcome move to pair it with a second half that unashamedly wore its heart on its sleeve, a performance of Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony. From the start, Järvi presented the symphony as a living, breathing edifice, adding plenty of rubato to the composer’s already febrile writing, and pulling the tempo around just a little too indulgently at times. Yet one could not dismiss the force and energy of the results. The scherzo was full of fire and devilish mischief, while the Adagio, introduced by Mark van de Wiel’s beautifully judged clarinet solo, and indeed the festive finale, each built up to searing and overwhelming climaxes in which we could bask in the sheer richness of the Philharmonia’s trademark sound.

Philharmonia Orchestra/Paavo Järvi – Coriolan & Rachmaninov 2 – Radu Lupu plays Beethoven

classicalsource.com
Ateş Orga
3.02.2019

The Lupu effect had the Royal Festival Hall sold out for the first half but somewhat emptier for the second. Those who left at the interval missed an involving, powerful performance of Rachmaninov's Second Symphony – uncut, if omitting the first-movement repeat, coming home in just under an hour.

Paavo Järvi stamped the music with authority and a feeling for style and paragraphing, his Baltic way less histrionic or firing on all cylinders than some of his Russian colleagues but none the worse for that. In the first movement he displayed a feeling for rubato and luxuriant weight and expanse that was persuasive, building up to a development section strong on theatre. The Scherzo, “music for Pushkin’s Demons”, was taken at a real Allegro molto, albeit with time for the cantabile melodies to soar. The fugato, kick-started by the second violins in strident voice (right of stage), was one of impressively high precision and synchronicity. If the Adagio seemed brisk for a metronome mark of crotchet=50, with an inclination to accelerate the long crescendo into the great C-major climax at figure 51, the aftermath of its second half was a sensually languorous cameo of particular beauty and interwoven colours.

The Philharmonia Orchestra was in starry form, the strings (16.14.12.10.8, double basses to the left) digging deep. Three bars in, the unanimity of the first woodwind chord – such a tricky entry to balance – arrested the attention; likewise the many set-pieces to for brass – invariably burnished and glowing. The woodwind principals, together with the leader, Zsolt-Tihamér Visontay, all showed their poetic side, expressive delicacy before routine being the order of the hour. Come the end of a long evening, a grand Romantic Symphony run its journey, one mused, incredulously, that Rachmaninov's skills as a creative melodist and orchestrator should ever have been questioned by his peers or successors. Eric Blom's Festival of Britain dismissal – contrasting what Brief Encounter audiences felt, not to mention knowing friends like Medtner and Moiseiwitsch – simply doesn't bear reading.

Rachmaninov and Beethoven are an old programming mix: the great man himself played the “divine” First Piano Concerto and his own Paganini Rhapsody in London with Beecham in April 1938. Using slightly reduced forces, Järvi opened with a sombre, imposing account of Coriolan, alert to pulse and attack, the fading of light and radically imagined disintegration of life at the end calculated to a nicety, the vision suspended into silence without exaggeration. Less clear, given the otherwise 'modern' context of the orchestral mix, was the reasoning for natural trumpets (adding nothing to the aural perspective) and period kettledrums (which needed to be on risers to avoid being muffled among the violas). Hard sticks were for the observing, but Antoine Siguré, unlike, say, Tristan Fry or Koen Plaetinck, was for once too much of a gentleman to make much impact.

So, to the draw of the night, a rare, much anticipated appearance by Radu Lupu, held in awe by a younger generation endowing him with the mystique of a Lipatti or a Michelangeli, cheered on and off by an audience of elders wanting maybe to recapture their adolescence and the magic of that young Romanian god from Soviet Moscow who seered across our firmament fifty years ago. I saw him last in Paris in early 2016, Järvi again on the rostrum, playing Beethoven Three, somewhat unsettlingly to my mind. I wanted, I willed, this Fourth to be legendary. But from the forsaken right-hand B before the closing caesura of the solo introduction, it left me puzzled, at worst distressed. What exactly was he trying to say, where had his articulation gone, why so many missed notes, approximations and uneven scales? Was his Steinway that badly prepared? Apart from the massive, shoulder-weighted final chords of the outer movements, he confined himself to pretty much a mezzoforte dynamic range, with little obvious attention to colour or register, particularly in the central Andante – Järvi and the Philharmonia, working hard to balance and join, keeping the beasts at bay with little calming for him to do. The cadenzas (the long one for the first movement) washed over me in the oddest, most indifferent way, that to the Finale venturing towards the eccentric in caprice and touch. I sensed this to be a performance dividing as many listeners as it united. There was certainly unease in the air.

What Lupu gave us most, perhaps, was a fireside sketch of the work, sitting at his piano, ruminating, improvising, etching in the outline of harmonies and melodies, stopping, starting. Occasionally (the lyrical second subjects) you'd glimpse a wonderful bar or two of gran espressione surfacing among the rocks and edgy accents. But then it was gone. His left-hand would sometimes turn to the players, he'd reach out to Järvi, he'd half-rise from his chair, then fall back, eyes closed. An old lion, a little worse for wear, remembering something, someone, somewhere lost in the frailties of a tired dream.

His encore, the first of Brahms's Intermezzos Opus 117, was plain. Yet its very ordinariness was debatably its strength. Mistily, he let the composer speak, he stumbled down a cul-de-sac before finding his way back, he held the last triad long, low E-flat resonating, as though wanting neither sound nor moment to die. Not trying to find too much, anything, he left one sighing. Tchaikovsky to Nadezhda von Meck came to mind: “That melancholy which comes to one in the evening when sitting alone at home, exhausted by work. A book slips from the hand, a swarm of memories fills the mind. How sad to think so much has been, so much is gone. And yet it is sweet to think of the days of one’s youth, to lose ourselves in the past.”

http://classicalsource.com/db_control/db_concert_review.php?id=16144

Sunday, February 03, 2019

Frischer Blick auf Sibelius

deutschlandfunk.de
Marcus Stäbler
03.02.2019

Melancholisch, dunkel und rau – so werden die Sinfonien des finnischen Komponisten Jean Sibelius oft charakterisiert. Dabei gibt es in seiner Musik noch ganz andere Facetten zu entdecken. Paavo Järvi und das Orchestre de Paris zeigen sie uns in ihrer neuen Gesamteinspielung der Sibelius-Sinfonien.


Paavo Järvi war bis 2016 Chefdirigent beim Orchestre de Paris (picture-alliance / dpa / Ingo Wagner)


Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 6, 1. Satz

Der Beginn der sechsten Sinfonie von Jean Sibelius. Sphärische Streicherklänge, wie eine Himmelsvision, vom Orchestre de Paris unter Leitung von Paavo Järvi schwebend gespielt. Keine Spur von der Düsternis, die man der Musik von Sibelius ja gern als Dauerzustand unterstellt. Es gehört zu den Vorteilen einer Gesamtaufnahme, dass sie ein differenziertes Gesamtbild ermöglicht. Paavo Järvi nutzt diese Gelegenheit, um mit dem Orchestre de Paris seine ganz eigene Sicht auf das sinfonische Schaffen von Jean Sibelius zu vermitteln. Sie weicht von vielen gängigen Klischees in Bezug auf den Komponisten ab und offenbart eine Frische, wie man sie in anderen Interpretationen vermisst. Zum Vergleich kurz ein Ausschnitt aus der vielgelobten Aufnahme mit John Barbirolli und dem Hallé Orchestra aus den 60er Jahren. Der Beginn der zweiten Sinfonie klang damals ziemlich dunkel und schwer.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 2, 1. Satz

Bei Paavo Järvi hat diese Passage einen ganz anderen Aggregatzustand. Sie wirkt flüssiger und lebendiger, weil Järvi nicht nur ein rascheres Grundtempo anschlägt, sondern dieses Tempo auch immer wieder ein kleines bisschen anzieht, um im nächsten Moment nachzugeben. Die Musik steht nie auf der Stelle, sie atmet und pulsiert organisch.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 2, 1. Satz
Glühende Intensität und fernab aller Routine

Paavo Järvi und das Orchestre de Paris mit dem Beginn der zweiten Sinfonie von Jean Sibelius. Das Schaffen des finnischen Komponisten gehört in Frankreich noch weniger als in Deutschland zum Kernrepertoire. Die neue Konzertaufnahme ist die erste Gesamteinspielung mit einem französischen Orchester überhaupt. Als Järvi die sieben Sinfonien zwischen 2012 und 2016 einstudiert und aufgeführt hat, während seiner Zeit als Chefdirigent beim Orchestre de Paris, konnte er also nicht an eine lange Sibelius-Tradition anknüpfen. Aber das war kein Nachteil, wie er selbst im Beiheft der Aufnahme betont. Dadurch, dass die Musiker hier Neuland betreten, ist die Begegnung mit den Sinfonien für sie eine aufregende Entdeckungsreise. Sie folgen ihrem Dirigenten hochkonzentriert und fernab aller Routine. In den frühen Sinfonien entfachen Järvi und sein Orchester mitunter eine glühende Intensität.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 2, 4. Satz

Die Musik wird im Finale der zweiten Sinfonie von einer drängenden Unruhe voran getrieben, wie man sie bei Sibelius gar nicht vermuten würde. Aber das sagt mehr über unsere Vorurteile als über den Komponisten und sein Schaffen selbst aus. Gerade in Deutschland wurde Jean Sibelius ja entweder gerne als Galionsfigur einer vermeintlich nordischen Reinheit und Naturkunst vereinnahmt oder als rückständiger Dilettant verspottet. Paavo Järvi steht über solchen ideologischen Hahnenkämpfen. Er hat schon bei seinem professionellen Debüt als Dirigent im Jahr 1985 eine Sinfonie von Sibelius aufgeführt und seither eine besonders enge Beziehung zu dessen Werken entwickelt. Diese Nähe ist der Konzertaufnahme mit dem Orchestre de Paris anzumerken. Sie wirkt tatsächlich wie eine Herzensangelegenheit. Durch die Hingabe, mit der Järvi den emotionalen Botschaften nachspürt, aber auch durch eine liebevolle Sorgfalt für die Nuancen. Hinreißend etwa, wie sanft der Dirigent und sein Orchester die Melodie im langsamen Satz aus der ersten Sinfonie schwingen lassen. Die Streicher scheinen ihre Saiten mit den Bogenhaaren zu streicheln, sie formen einen nicht bloß leisen, sondern zärtlichen Klang und finden noch innerhalb des Piano und Pianissimo viele Farbschattierungen.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 1, 2. Satz
Die Nummer eins unter den französischen Orchestern

Die Stimmen der Fagotte schmiegen sich geschmeidig aneinander, aus ihrem kurzen Duett keimt die Linie der Klarinette hervor. Einer von vielen Belegen für die Sensibilität der Aufnahme und für das exzellente Niveau des Orchesters. Das Orchestre de Paris gilt nicht umsonst als die Nummer eins in Frankreich und demonstriert seine Qualität auch in der Konzerteinspielung der Sibelius-Sinfonien. Paavo Järvi formt mit dem Orchester oft einen weicheren, weniger rauen Klangals man ihn gewohnt ist. Sein Sibelius kommt mitunter überraschend leichtfüßig daher. Hören wir als Kontrast noch einmal kurz die ältere Barbirolli-Aufnahme aus den 60er Jahren, diesmal mit einem Beispiel aus der dritten Sinfonie.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 3, 1. Satz

Das Sechzentelmotiv der tiefen Streicher ist hier eher gemütlich, um nicht zu sagen tapsig artikuliert. Bei Järvi verströmt die Passage tänzerische Eleganz, ein Hauch von Haydn'schem Humor weht durch die Musik.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 3, 1. Satz

Paavo Järvi und das Orchestre de Paris mit der dritten Sinfonie von Sibelius, die als seine „klassische“ gilt. Wie schon in seinen Brahms-Aufnahmen mit der Deutschen Kammerphilharmonie Bremen entschlackt der Dirigent den Orchesterklang auch bei Sibelius und macht ihn dadurch wendiger. Trotzdem bleibt er muskulös, wo es dem Geist der Musik entspricht. Gerade die Pauke entfacht in der Einspielung eine ganz eigene Kraft, wenn Järvi die Energie bündelt und in knackigen Höhepunkten entlädt.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 3, 1. Satz

Ein Weichzeichner ist Järvi nicht, die Wucht der Sinfonien tritt klar zu Tage. Aber er meidet die etwas teigige Trägheit, die man mitunter von anderen Sibelius-Interpreten hört und deshalb dem Komponisten selbst anlastet. Auch in der vierten Sinfonie, seinem vielleicht bedeutendsten Werk. In dieser Vierten aus den Jahren 1909-1911 schlägt Sibelius tatsächlich einen schwermütigen Ton an und gräbt sich oft in die dunklen Klangschichten des Orchesters hinein. Der düstere Charakter wird oft mit der biografischen Situation des Komponisten erklärt. 1908 wurde ihm ein bösartiger Tumor aus dem Hals entfernt, wie seine Überlebenschancen danach aussahen, war lange Zeit unklar. Gut möglich, dass ihm die Angst vor dem Tod auch ein Jahr später noch auf der Seele lag und in der vierten Sinfonie ihre Spuren hinterlassen hat. Aber die Musik entfacht auch ohne das Wissen um diesen Hintergrund einen starken Sog. Die ganz eigentümliche Polyphonie des Stücks erwächst aus einem Kernintervall, dem Tritonus, den Sibelius gleich in den ersten Takten einführt. Auch hier, in der dunklen Welt der Vierten, wahrt Paavo Järvi einen transparenten Orchesterklang.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 4, 1. Satz
Sibelius mit wachem Geist neu entdeckt

Die vierte Sinfonie von Sibelius, mit dem Orchestre de Paris unter Leitung von Paavo Järvi. Der Dirigent modelliert die Strukturen mit kammermusikalischer Sorgfalt. Aber er verbindet diese Disziplin im Klang und im Zusammenspiel immer mit der Suche nach dem Ausdrucksgehalt der Musik. Dabei erkundet er die vergrübelten Momente und die Seelenschwärze der Vierten ebenso empathisch wie den Überschwang oder das Schwelgen in anderen Werken. Auch die romantische Schwärmerei hat sich Sibelius ja bisweilen gegönnt. Besonders schön in der Fünften, seiner wohl bekanntesten Sinfonie. Im Finale schwingt sich das Stück zu hymnischer Größe auf, mit einem Thema, das nach Auskunft von Sibelius selbst vom Anblick eines Schwarms aus 16 Schwänen am Himmel inspiriert ist. Hier scheint die Musik auf breiten Flügeln abzuheben.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 5, 3. Satz

Selbst das viel gespielte und von der Popmusik adaptierte Thema aus dem Finale der fünften Sinfonie von Sibelius klingt wie neu entdeckt. Auch, weil der Effekt des des col legno in den Kontrabässen, die an manchen Stellen vom Komponisten angewiesen sind, die Saite mit dem Holz des Bogens anzuschlagen, so deutlich zu hören ist wie selten. Dieser wache Geist und die Frische prägen alle Konzertaufnahmen der Gesamteinspielung. Sie ist teils in der neuen Pariser Philharmonie und teils in der Salle Pleyel entstanden und bildet den Facettenreichtum von Järvis Interpretationen sehr fein und mit einem natürlichen Klang ab. Auch in der Siebten aus dem Jahr 1924, mit der Jean Sibelius sein sinfonisches Schaffen nach einem Vierteljahrhundert abschloss.

Musik: Jean Sibelius: Sinfonie Nr. 7

Das Ende der siebten Sinfonie von Jean Sibelius, gespielt vom Orchestre de Paris unter der Leitung von Paavo Järvi. Die Konzertaufnahmen aus den Jahren 2012-2016 sind auf drei CDs beim Label RCA Red Seal erschienen.

Jean Sibelius
Sinfonien 1-7
Orchestre de Paris
Leitung: Paavo Järvi
Label: RCA Red Seal
Bestellnr.: 19075924512


https://www.deutschlandfunk.de/paavo-jaervi-frischer-blick-auf-sibelius.727.de.html?dram:article_id=438672

Friday, February 01, 2019

Knackiger Beethoven, göttlicher Bach

welt.de
Peter Krause
01.02.2019

Elbphilharmonie: Das Philharmonia Orchestra London unter Paavo Järvi mit Zaubergeigerin Hilary Hahn

Erdig und urgewaltig dringen die drei ersten langgezogenen Orchesterschläge aus den Tiefen dieses imposanten Klangkörpers. Um ihre machtvolle Wirkung fast unmerklich zu steigern, spornt Paavo Järvi das Philharmonia Orchestra an, auf jedem Schlag noch ein intensivierendes Crescendo zu wagen. So lernen wir den trotzigen römischen Kriegsherrn Coriolan ohne Umschweife kennen, dem Beethoven mit seiner Schauspielouvertüre ein wuchtiges Denkmal gesetzt hat. In diesen prallen zehn Minuten Musik, mit denen Järvi sein Gastspiel in der Elbphilharmonie eröffnet, ist der Maestro so ganz in seinem Element.

Die gestische Musik des Wahlwieners aus Bonn gehört zur DNA des estnischen Dirigenten. Allzu gern lädt er seinen Beethoven in präziser Artikulation mit straffen Tempi auf. Klassikfreunde kennen und schätzen Järvis entschiedenen Zugriff aus vielen Konzerten mit der Deutschen Kammerphilharmonie Bremen. Der Vergleich mit einem großen Orchester aus London ist apart. Denn die Grundhaltung seiner Interpretation hat sich nicht verändert. Der stürmisch drängende Duktus stellt sich sofort ein. Die exquisiten Streicher des Philharmonia Orchestra aber demonstrieren ihre klangkulinarische Qualität allzu gern. Sie lassen sich zwar auf ein vibratoreduziertes Spiel ein, wissen dabei aber üppig zu blühen. Da sind Järvis Bremer im Vergleich das Orchester mit dem rhetorischeren Spieltrieb.

Es folgt der Auftritt der Stargeigerin Hilary Hahn als Solistin in Sergej Prokofjews Konzert für Violine und Orchester Nr. 1 D-Dur. Als eine der klügsten Geigerinnen muss sich die Amerikanerin in keinem Moment in den Vordergrund stellen. Gemeinsam mit Järvi sorgt Hahn für die wache Verzahnung mit dem Orchestersatz. Herrlich abgestimmt ist der auf Schostakowitsch vorausweisende ruppige Wahnsinn des Werks, fein ausgehört sind die Dialoge zwischen Solovioline und Flöte. Das Flüstern, das Singen und Meckern, das Hilary Hahn auf ihrem wunderbar tragfähigen Instrument wagt, rührt das Hörerherz direkt. Ihr Ton hat eine drahtige Körperlichkeit, sie spinnt unendliche Melodien, die Intonation der vertrackten Doppelgriffe gerät traumwandlerisch sicher. In der Elbphilharmonie gewinnt ihr Spiel magische Präsenz. Eine Zaubergeigerin verführt das Publikum. Und verschenkt als Zugabe ein Bach-Andante in göttlich entschleunigter Innerlichkeit. Damit ist an diesem Abend eigentlich alles gesagt.

Doch nach der Pause steht ja noch Sergej Rachmaninows Sinfonie Nr. 2 e-Moll mit ihrem spätromantischen Schwulst auf dem Programm. Das ist Musik, die wir so gar nicht mit Paavo Järvi in Verbindung bringen. Das Philharmonia Orchestra bedient die filmmusikalischen Qualitäten der Komposition mit Saft und Kraft. Nimmt Järvi so ganz ernst, was er da auf dem Dirigentenpult liegen hat? Das tut er sehr wohl, denn er federt das sinfonische Schmachten mit orchestraler Eleganz ab, zieht die Tempi an, bremst den Kitsch aus. Eine weise Entscheidung.