What we have here is by my calculations Christian Tetzlaff’s third
recording of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, the first two under Michael
Gielen and David Zinman respectively. Having reviewed the latter in
these pages back in June 2006, I noted then that ‘the main
stumbling-block on so many rival recordings of this work is a sort of
romantic reverence, a trend challenged by Zehetmair, Kremer and others.
For all its many moments of profound repose, Beethoven’s Violin Concerto
is a forthright, heroic piece, with boldly militaristic first movement tutti
and a rollicking finale which Tetzlaff invests with numerous added
colours. Following on the heels of Zehetmair, Kremer and Schneiderhan,
[he] performs the violin version of the cadenza that Beethoven wrote for
his piano transcription of the work, a playful excursion and a snug fit
for his overall interpretation.’ This choice of cadenza has apparently
been Tetzlaff’s preferred option from the age of 15.
Little has changed during the intervening years, at least in
principle. Listening to Tetzlaff flying side-saddle through the Concerto
last November (when this superbly engineered recording was made at
Berlin’s Philharmonie), often with the utmost agility, reminded me that
at the work’s premiere the composer’s violinist colleague Franz Clement –
who was sight-reading Beethoven’s hastily finished solo part – is said,
by some, ‘to have interrupted the concerto between the first and second
movements with a solo composition of his own, played on one string of
the violin held upside down’. Now do hear me out on this point. Tetzlaff
may at times excitedly rushes his fences, but in collaboration with
Robin Ticciati and his alert Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester Berlin, he
transforms aspects of what so many have treated as a sort of Holy Grail
(ie loftily reverential) into a beer tankard, the sense of unhinged
inebriation gaining most froth in the outer movements’ playful cadenzas,
which run wild in the first movement and ratchet up extra excitement
for the finale. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more excitable
account of that closing Rondo. Here, as Tetzlaff himself says in a
fascinating booklet interview, ‘the seriousness or solemnity sometimes
surrounding the work is [also] completely suspended’. Of course, viewed
as a whole the Concerto still emerges as the mighty edifice that it is,
but it’s good to have a dose of typically Beethovenian rough-and-tumble
thrown in as ballast.
The first movement’s serene central section (played in tempo) allows
for a welcome spot of repose and elsewhere Tetzlaff’s sweet, delicately
spun tone contrasts with, or should I say complements, Ticciati’s
assertive, occasionally bullish accompaniment. The Larghetto is
beautifully done, its effect underlined through the sheer energy and
character of the outer movements. There’s never any doubt that what
you’re listening to is a real concerto, a battle of wills, more in line
with Zehetmair and Brüggen (who use Wolfgang Schneiderhan’s cadenza with
timpani) or Kremer and Harnoncourt (a cadenza incorporating piano) than
with the likes of Perlman, Zukerman or Kennedy. Who knows: maybe this
is roughly what Beethoven originally had in mind? It’s possible, even
probable. One thing’s for sure: never before has this indelible
masterpiece sounded more like a profound precursor of Paganini.
If Beethoven’s Concerto emerges as uncompromisingly provocative,
Tetzlaff’s Sibelius also errs on the side of danger. As risk-taking
performances go, this one will have you clinging to the sides of your
seat. Comparing it with his Virgin recording with the Danish National
Symphony Orchestra under Thomas Dausgaard is especially instructive: in
the finale’s opening, the ever-attentive Ticciati follows Sibelius’s
wishes by cueing a gradual diminuendo before Tetzlaff enters, whereas
Dausgaard carries on pounding at full throttle. Then again, in the
passage leading to the second subject (from around 0'44"), under
Ticciati Tetzlaff sounds as if he’s clinging on for dear life. Sibelius
throws down the gauntlet by requesting a very fast tempo and Tetzlaff
rises to the challenge. I shan’t pretend that the effect is entirely
comfortable (the Dausgaard option sounds marginally safer) but it’s
undeniably exciting. The Concerto’s opening is candidly emotional, with
imaginatively deployed varieties of attack (a Tetzlaff speciality) and
Ticciati again engaging his soloist with the utmost intensity, lunging
fearlessly at Sibelius’s dynamic writing, whether the deafening growl at
7'07" or the movement’s fiercely driven close. As with the Beethoven,
Tetzlaff is at his lyrical best in the Adagio. Both performances
sidestep interpretative convention without either offending or
displacing their finest rivals. In many respects, a real knock-out. (Rob Cowan / Gramophone)
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