Andrew Clements 

Czech PO/Ashkenazy

Barbican, London
  
  

Vladimir Ashkenazy, conductor
Vladimir Ashkenazy, conductor Photograph: Public domain

The Czech Philharmonic has a distinguished history, but to include its two concerts at the Barbican this week under the banner of the Great Performers series might be pushing things a bit. It didn't help that this week's appearance should follow so soon after the Kirov's astonishing pair of concerts in the same hall. In comparison, this was a very low-voltage affair.

Player for player, there may be little to choose between the band from Prague and the one from St Petersburg. But, whereas the Kirov has a truly inspirational conductor in Valery Gergiev, the Czech Phil has Vladimir Ashkenazy - inspirational at the piano, but ordinary on the podium. Ashkenazy is all action and enthusiasm in front of an orchestra, with a generalised up-and-at-'em approach to everything he conducts. That ensures a certain level of dynamism, but stops short of pitching his interpretations on to the highest level.

The mostly Czech programme didn't help either. The "orchestral suite" extracted from Janacek's The Cunning Little Vixen after his death sometimes comes close to being a travesty, grossly inflating instrumentation and turning what is a sinewy, economical score into late-romantic bombast. On this occasion, more careful balance and cleaner orchestral playing (smudged ensemble playing and moments of sour tuning were features of the evening) could have sharpened its impact. Dvorak's third Slavonic Rhapsody and Hussite Overture chugged along happily enough, though they are surely grander celebrations of Czech nationhood than Ashkenazy made them out to be. At least his performance allowed one to appreciate why Brahms detested the posturing of the overture so much.

Ravel's G major Piano Concerto provided the only uplift in a depressing evening. The exposed woodwind writing in the outer movements found some of the Czech players out, and the all-important cor anglais solo in the slow movement was nearly obscured by the turbid strings. But nothing was going to deter the soloist, Hélène Grimaud, from a performance of verve and style, attacking Ravel's piano writing with Argerich-like intensity and fastening upon moments of poetry as they came along.

 

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