•
Rating: Often neglected and dismissed by critics as a "minor" master, composer Max Christian Friedrich Bruch has vindicated himself directly on the field, into the ears and hearts of enthusiasts, invariably captivated, today as 150 years ago, by the heartwrenching charm of his masterpiece: Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 26. Born in Cologne in 1848, a precocious talent discovered by Ignaz Moscheles, Bruch developed a highly personal style focused on enhancing melodic inspiration, singability, and pathos, through a "conservative" insistence on diatonic simplicity and a rejection of the chromatic innovations and experiments of contemporaries Wagner and Liszt; he did not abandon these aesthetic-compositional canons until his death in 1920 in Friedenau. Author of various compositions for violin and orchestra (three concertos, the delightful Scottish Fantasy, and a Serenade), three symphonies, a single movement for cello and orchestra ("Kol Nidrei"), and an opera ("Loreley"), Bruch, however, ascends to the glory of fame and artistic dignity solely due to the astonishing Concerto No. 1: a work that blends, with an unrepeatable formula, stylistic-formal balance and moving melodic singability. Such a dazzling outcome inevitably overshadowed, by comparison, every other work of the German composer: indeed, in his lifetime, he had the opportunity, not without regret, to witness the enormous, overwhelming popularity of Concerto No. 1, against the lesser interest aroused by his subsequent works, albeit very valid, thoroughly enjoyable, and rich in interesting cues. By submitting this double CD Philips Classics Duo series to your attention, containing the complete compositions for violin and orchestra, I intend to offer a slightly broader overview of Bruch's work and do justice to an artistic production of still high level, as well as exquisite taste. However, for obvious space reasons, the review will be dedicated only to Concerto No. 1.
Max Bruch was not a violinist, but he fell hopelessly in love with this instrument: the violin, he said, "can sing a melody, and the melody is the soul of music". Thus, in 1864, he embarked on composing a work for violin and orchestra, perhaps originally a fantasy rather than a concerto. Bruch, moreover, had the opportunity to know and frequent some of the greatest virtuosos of the bow of the time, such as Pablo De Sarasate, Willy Hess, Ferdinand David, and especially Joseph Joachim, who was introduced to him by Clara Schumann. From each of these, he gleaned ideas, advice, and suggestions to infuse in his work. Completed in the spring of 1866 and finally set as a concerto, Op. 26 debuted in Koblenz, with soloist Otto von Konigslow, without particular enthusiasm. Disappointed, Bruch reworked it immediately, this time with the substantial contribution of Joachim alone. Several changes were made, many taking Mendelssohn's analogous concerto, thirty years earlier, as a reference model, many born from Joachim's imagination, like the cadenza and various phrasings in the transition parts. Eventually, in 1868, Violin Concerto No. 1, Op. 26, was released in its definitive version and was dedicated to Joachim himself, soloist on the occasion of the new premiere: the success was immediate and never left, even in the following years, this composition.
The Concerto is composed, in adherence to traditional canons, of three movements (two fast ones interspersed with a slow one), each in sonata form, connected without breaks in a single uninterrupted flow. The first movement, Allegro moderato, bears the subtitle Vorspiel (Prelude), a trace of the original indecision between fantasy and concerto mentioned above. The opening is entrusted to a slight roll of timpani and a melancholic phrase introduced by the woodwinds: in this sad atmosphere descends, very delicately, the poignant melody of the soloist. Then the woodwinds again. And again the violin, this time more assertively: the phrase is the same, but where there was resignation now there is determination, sadness gives way to anger. The last note produced by the violin seems to die out slowly, overcome by anguished silence. It's only a moment, and suddenly a magnificent orchestral tutti explodes, roaring a theme of majestic tragicity and overwhelming power. Immediately it's the violin again that returns to be the protagonist, with an incredibly passionate theme but exposed with brutal, fierce violence: the chords are bloody, pulsing like flesh ripped by bites, while the melodic line is spat out with passion and anger. Soon the episode fades into a section of celestial lyricism, played on the high register of the violin, with a series of trills punctuating the ascending progression of the melody. Immediately afterward, one enters the most emotionally charged section of the entire concerto. The soloist reintroduces the first theme, first elaborating it with obsessive and demonic fervor, dragging it down to where the flames of the underworld burn. Then, the register suddenly shifts and that same music that seemed to burn relentlessly now regains a blinding clarity, shooting up from the depths of Hades towards salvific heights. Once again, an intoxicating sense of dizzying ascent pervades the listener, reaching Bachian altitudes with the harmonic on the final trill: like a hand entering the chest and squeezing the heart until it bursts. Then it would be beautiful to let oneself go into the void. But to catch us is the entire orchestra, light and fast as the wind, solid as granite, in a nimble and powerful section like an August storm. As we return to the initial bars, the violin expands the initial phrase with a cadenza; then the orchestra is entrusted with the recapitulation and the coda that leads us to the second movement. This, in Adagio, is connected to the first thanks to a sustained note, as in Mendelssohn's equivalent; but whereas the Hamburg Master assigns the note to the bassoon, Bruch uses the entire section of the first violins. The Adagio is almost an aria for violin with two subjects, with an atmosphere of searing nostalgia, with a very strong emotional impact, but without any slip into sentimentality. A very brief pause brings us to the third movement, Allegro energetico. Here, after an orchestral introduction, the soloist leads us into a wild Hungarian dance, a tribute to the Magyar Joachim. The dance theme is followed by a section dedicated to the virtuosic display of the soloist, in turn followed by a great romantic melody. The development of this episode is entrusted with creating the artistic climax, through the repetition and transposition of the motivic material to ever-greater levels of intensity. The tight finale closes this exhilarating work, a superb junction between Mendelssohn's concerto, from which it was inspired, and Brahms', a decade later, in an ideal triad of gems.
In this performance, we find the impeccable Salvatore Accardo as the soloist. For my part, accustomed to hearing Accardo on a repertoire inspired by greater formal rigor (Bach, Mozart), I harbored some uncertainties about his performance in purely romantic repertoire, fearing a cold and impersonal performance. Never was a prejudice more mistaken: Accardo, in fact, bombards the listener with a varied range of fiery emotions and vivid colors, combined with his usual technical perfection. Equally impeccable are Kurt Masur and the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, in a performance marked by compactness and flexibility.
Loading comments slowly
