This Hallé programme had two knights of the realm on its title page: Sir James MacMillan, composer, whose Symphony No. 6 was given its world premiere, and Sir Stephen Hough, who appeared as soloist in Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto.
Principal conductor Kahchun Wong also treated his audience to Liszt’s Les préludes symphonic poem, something of a rare event in itself, to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the opening of the Bridgewater Hall.
It turned out that the idea of “preludes” was germane to the structure of the MacMillan symphony, in fact. He’s rarely known for adherence to convention in formal terms, and this one begins with four very short sections before a very long fifth movement – he calls them “a sequence of secret portraits… which get the symphony underway” – and that main movement recalls them all (in reverse order, as it happens).
Those “portraits” are of his own close family members who have died, and explicitly commemorate and mourn them each. And it is that aspect that gives the work its extraordinary impact and power. It’s one of the most immediately emotional pieces of orchestral writing I have ever encountered – with all the MacMillan virtues of clarity, impact and beauty, but also a passion and intensity of feeling rare in today’s so often cerebrally fashioned art music.
It needs a big orchestra. The Hallé used a platform extension to get everyone on (the piece had its own five timpani, and there were two other sets as well, one for the Liszt, and classical ones for the Beethoven – and MacMillan employs a large percussion section, piano, harp and also triple woodwind). But to begin with the textures are extremely simple: the first short movement has three flutes (one an alto) intoning a long-breathed melody, with the other woodwind alongside, bassoons in particular running up and down, and that theme is continued eventually by cor anglais.
The second portrait features percussion, tuned and otherwise (if you include piano in that group), making evocative sounds including upper-register fragments from the piano, and softly pealing bells. The third begins with muted brass in somewhat jazzy mode, scampering around in triple time before horns and tuba take up a quick march, followed by a very loud and affirmative climax. The last features cellos, basses and harp expounding a low-pitched, mournful melody, to which the higher strings are added in a passage of near-Mahlerian harmony, with all sections ascending in pitch, upper voices adding string crossing and gentle tremolandi to the cellos’ theme in a passionate climax, tonal and beautiful, before returning to the depths.
But the main event is still to come. The fifth movement opens with an explosion of sound – percussion, insistent strings, braying brass – and gets louder still, with a passionate song from all the horns and a big climax. Suddenly there’s quiet as piano and harp begin a simple, almost naïve tune, with solo violin added. There’s menacing brass, a thudding tread from the timpani, and a build-up to the sound of a siren (which takes its time to wind down and expire) and wailing flutes. Strings begin in gentleness but their theme develops to a climax of misery, trumpets and woodwind adding cascading sobs, and a new theme begins in the lower tones of the spectrum, coming to dominate before the naïve tune resurfaces.
There’s much more – MacMillan is referring back to material from his opening miniatures – but most striking is a plaintive cello solo, singing out over a cushion of strings and harp, which refuses to be silenced before the flute trio returns, as at the beginning (with the cor anglais again), almost like a lament for departed souls. There’s a massive crescendo and a final fade-out.
It’s a work that reminds you that music is really all about emotion that cannot be expressed in any other way. The solo cello of Rachel Helleur-Simcock was among those most appreciated in applause at the end, and Emily Davis led the orchestra and shone in solo playing also. MacMillan (pictured above acknowledging applause) said in a pre-concert interview that there’s a “secret element” to this music which is they key to its emotions, and that the four family members had been important to him both personally and musically… but also that the piece had become “something else” as it was composed. He’s not giving us much in the way of clues (no initials, as in the “friends pictured within” of Elgar’s Enigma Variations), but you can feel the intensity of what those people meant (and mean) to him.
Wong conducted Les préludes without score, and the Hallé gave him a performance in which the splendour of their sounding brass was most apparent, along with the exciting quality of their playing when in full cry. It’s a strange, episodic piece, with an ethereal, abstract kind of “programme” about life and death. A sniffy Mancunian critic of the 19th century, on first encountering his creations, opined that “If this is to be the music of the future, let us hope that the future will be long delayed” – but it makes a good showpiece, providing everything holds together.
The “Emperor” piano concerto, by contrast, was plain and obvious in its intent. Hough (pictured above) made it big and bold, perhaps even imperialistic, with the orchestral strings reduced by only one desk all round to balance him: I loved the imaginative detail of articulation he brought to almost every bar of the solo, often giving space and voice to aspects of the lower end of the keyboard we seldom notice. He likes a complete contrast of mood between thematic subjects, and clarity is uppermost (a characteristic echoed in the orchestral articulation, under Wong’s baton). The Adagio brought sweetly poised and eloquent string playing, and the finale was stirring stuff, at full force from the start and grander and grander as it continued. It may not have been the way Beethoven’s contemporaries could ever have heard it, with the pianos available in 1811, but it certainly sounds good today.
- To be broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on 9 October, available after that on BBC Sounds
- More classical music reviews on theartsdesk
