TCHAIKOVSKY: Rococo Variations, Op 33; PROKOFIEV: Sinfonia
Concertante in E Minor, Op. 125 – Gautier Capucon, cello/Orchestra of
the Mariinsky Theatre/Valery Gergiev – Virgin Classics 50999 694486 0 7,
61:19 ****:
Recorded live in Saint Petersburg 23-25 December 2008, these collaborations with Valery Gergiev mark a special Christmas occasion for cellist Gautier Capucon, on tour with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra. The Tchaikovsky Rococo Variations, as is well known by now, remain in an edition heavily edited by Tchaikovsky’s contemporary Wilhelm Fitzhagen, who amended the concept of introduction, theme, and (originally) eight variations. The reduced orchestra allows for a serene clarity of texture, especially as the cello can show off its versatility in guises that move from French style gavottes to full ballet sequences–flute and cello pas de deux–and ariettas. The cello’s flute tune sings out, and Capucon’s ability to negotiate triplet 32nd notes proves deft, especially as much of his gorgeous sound resembles another fine Gallic artist, that of Paul Tortelier. The cadenza rasps and warbles in succession; then, accompanied by light pizzicati, the cello enters a state of poised nostalgic ecstasy for Variation VII, again with the flute’s assistance. The final variation moves lustily through a Russian dance with Capucon working the cello’s bridge and the full complement of bravura leaps in the strings, an acrobatic tour de force.
Prokofiev’s Sinfonia concertante (1950) recasts his Op. 58 Concerto in the same key for the virtuoso Mstislav Rostropovich. After an acerbic marcato opening, the plucked strings and arioso of the cello recall the D Major Violin Concerto, especially in the sense of autumn’s lyricism. A transition takes us to an harmonically diaphanous state – modal, folkish, heavy with fermentation. The martial elements that ensue and absorb the marcato rhythmic pulse clearly herald the Shostakovich of the E-flat Cello Concerto, Op. 107. The more melancholy strains evoke aspects of both the fifth and seventh symphonies. The heart of the music lies in the Allegro giusto, to which Capucon and Gergiev apply the broad brush, savoring the mercurial changes of affect. A sense of sarcastic caprice opens the movement, the witty syncopated harmonies reminiscent of Peter and the Wolf or the First Piano Concerto. For the exalted cantabile section Capucon is all mezzo-soprano, sweetly throaty and inspired. A side drum and raucous winds lead to an extended cadenza of muscular buoyant power. Though the latter part of the movement reprises the cantabile, a wicked irony–the woodwinds and snare reminiscent of the slashing antagonism of the Montagues and Capulets–suffuses the music, as though Prokofiev were mocking his own sincerity with infernal tormented wails and convulsive screeches.
The last movement combines theme-and-variations with loose sonata-form, in the manner of a (grotesque) divertissement. The cello–opening with a stately theme of noble power– joins partners from each of the choir desks, frolicking, careening, sometimes with intimations of a waltz or Viennese folk song. When colorful ceremony prevails, we hear Rossini, Mahler, parody Stravinsky, or caricatures of Elgar. Midway through the raucous proceedings, the cello establishes a nervous plateau reminiscent of the Strauss Don Quixote–here assisted by a celesta–only to relapse into the witches’ brew of furious revolt that marks Prokofiev’s days as the enfant terrible of the post-WW I generation.
–Gary Lemco
