Charles Mackerras's considerable reputation is essentially founded on his ability to turn in consistently great performances covering an almost encyclopaedic repertoire. He is perhaps best known, however, for his pioneering, often radical interpretations of Czech music, so it is not surprising that his performance of Dvorak's Seventh Symphony with the London Philharmonic should prove to be an electrifying, drastic re-appraisal of the work.
Although few doubt that it is anything other than a masterpiece, the symphony is regarded as unusual in certain quarters. Brahmsian, and un-Czech are among the epithets used to describe it, which broadly means it owes an enormous debt to Brahms (Dvorak's mentor) and falls into the Austro-German symphonic tradition rather than displaying an overt, folk-based nationalism. Most conductors consequently treat it with respectful solemnity. Mackerras, however, probes beneath its surface to reveal a rawness of sound and emotion that disturbingly pre-empts the gritty power of Janacek.
The fierce, astringent tone is established at the outset in the jabbing cello phrases that open the work. The slow movement veers between autumnal sadness and outright despair as the glowing tone repeatedly drains from the orchestra to leave aimlessly meandering strings punctuated by weird, sepulchral throbs. The Scherzo, often deemed charming, is suddenly revealed as an alarming morass of rhythmic dislocations.
This is hard-hitting stuff, though Mackerras's radicalism was also apparent before the interval in performances of Kodaly's Hary Janos Suite and Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto. Kodaly's satirical study of an old Hungarian soldier who fabricates fanciful tales of his own heroism during the Napoleonic wars was once hugely popular, though now is something of a rarity. You can either cope with its vision of war as black comedy or you can't, though Mackerras stresses Kodaly's withering depictions of stiff-backed military types and the vacuity of imperialist politics, while the playing was so exciting it drew premature applause from the audience.
Tchaikovsky's concerto, meanwhile, brought the house down. The soloist was Barry Douglas, the pianistic equivalent of Sean Bean, his playing passionate, at times erotic and indelicate rather than refined. Mackerras pulled out all the stops to obtain red-blooded playing from the LPO. It served as a much-needed reminder that this is one of the greatest concertos ever written, as well as one of the most popular.
