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Jean
SIBELIUS (1865-1957)
by the Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase
Here we have a bright and winsomely beautiful performance
of the Sixth Symphony (1923), as in the first movement, full of
fairy lightness and glittering sunlight. Indeed, the Lahti players bring
much light to a D minor symphony, something which I found very heartwarming.
The second movement opens nostalgically, with distinctively flavoured
orchestral colours despite the economy of the score. As usual, the Lahti/BIS
team is wondrous at revealing every intricate detail in the score, especially
with the shimmering strings and fluttering birdsong - like some magical
trip into a half-lit forest. (There is a story of Sibelius and his habit
of turning on the radio to full volume when his music was being played,
so that he could hear every single note.)
The third movement poco vivace includes a quaint
passage which I call a "march of the fairies" which is joyfully yet nobly
delivered here. Throughout this performance there is beautifully luminous
stringwork, including the harp. This is one of very few recordings I know
of where the harp sits comfortably in the orchestra, playing as an orchestral
harp sprinkling a field of sparkling stars over all, without screaming
out for attention.
This performance broke and healed my soul - it is the
most endearing Sixth I have ever heard. The CD is worth its price for
this alone.
As for the Seventh Symphony
(1924), I found the reading here rather cool, similar to the straight-faced
account by Blomstedt on Decca. With the Lahti strings singing in a soft,
glowing tone, there is a slow and noble buildup to the first appearance
of the great trombone theme. The orchestral soundscape is deep and sweeping,
like a great field of clouds surrounding the Alpine trombone peak. Like
the harp in the Sixth, the trombone soloist stays within the orchestral
picture without sticking out.
The central sections of the Symphony are performed relaxed
- it is almost graceful. The second climax in C minor is similarly expansive
and dark, but not really intense in the manner of Karajan. The buildup
to the last appearance is the most magnificent, with a long drawn-out
prelude. The 2nd and 3rd trombones weave into the principal's solo with
a powerful and grand choral effect. The ensuing section of bass rumblings
is surprising quiet. The high strings soar impressively into the heights
before introducing the horns; then a natural link to the quiescent flute
solo that preceeds the final Largamente. And here, the Lahti’ans
bring the Symphony to its grand conclusion with all due grandeur. The
final bars are concisely uttered, neither drawn out nor clipped. Generally,
I prefer it drawn out, but I guess this one makes its point.
*to be read with a foreboding
James Earl Jones voice.
There is an understatedly terrifying quality to the music
- not in the stereotypical relentless, noisy, "avant garde" style, but
in a deliberately quiet, brooding way, as of the Forest's eyes watching
your every move as you tread between the trunks, the winding roots of
his children. Vänskä has a way with the quick phrases - very sudden and
frightening flashes of terror. Yet he never dwells on these excessively,
rearing the vision of Tapio only long enough for you to catch a good look
- and shiver. His masterly moulding of tempi is very effective, every
shift like the undulating breaths and unseen movements of the Forest God.
In contrast to the (very sudden!) loud utterances of terror is the gloomy
chill of the slowly breathing, mist-enshrouded sections.
Scandinavian orchestras are experts at creating the chilly,
glowing, steely tone that fits the stark yet varied textures of this tone
poem. (A notable exception is the Berlin Philharmonic in Karajan's legendary
and spine-tingling 1984 recording on DG 413-755 or 445-518.) It is like
looking at the simple silhouette of a tree (canopy and trunk) - as shafts
of light stream through the canopy, you realize the immense intricacy
of the branches, the leaves, the grooves and cracks of the bark or even
the invisible root system embedded in the ground.
At 14'16", the orchestra suddenly disappears - the CD
goes silent. I know many listeners will think either the disc has ended
or "There goes BIS again, with their ridiculously extreme volume range."
This part of the score (between letters P and Q) is marked "dim(inuendo)
possibile" and pp. I am now convinced that the inclusion of silence
is deliberate. As in the conclusion of the Fifth
Symphony, there is meaning in silence (but I'm not refering to any
postmodernist idiocy regarding 4'33"). Those of you who might have walked
into the middle of a forest alone will understand.
Listen
on and you will hear the trickle of water somewhere, or the sound
of a leaf falling, forest sprites weaving their magic secrets. Listen,
and you will hear the sap of tree-blood coursing through the ancient
wood. Now you can even hear the orchestra. You can hear the
wooden limbs of trees moving ever so slowly, stretching with primeval
strength toward the light.
Finally,
you will hear Tapio himself breathe, his heart pulsating in the
Earth beneath your feet. The living wood of the string instruments
begin to sing of their true homeland, as they hymn the misty
final chords in the serene glow of B major... Then you know... for
you are in... Tapiola.
Dedicated to the lost forests of the Earth.
19.4.98. up.15.5.1998. up.27.11.2000 ©Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase Explore the Flying Inkpot They're
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INKTRODUCTIONS:
CD REVIEWS: The Lahti Symphony/Vänskä Cycle (BIS, 1996-99): Nos. 1 & 4 Nos.2 & 3 No.5 (original and final versions) Nos. 6 & 7, and Tapiola The Bournemouth Symphony/Berglund Cycle (1970s) The Iceland Symphony/Sakari Cycle (Naxos, 1996-2000)
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