United Kingdom Bernstein, Gershwin, Walton: Steven Osborne (piano), Andrew Hamilton (baritone), Bournemouth Symphony Chorus (Assistant Chorus director: Sam Hanson), Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra / David Hill (conductor). Lighthouse, Poole, 14.5.2025. (CK)
Bernstein – West Side Story: Symphonic Dances
Gershwin – Rhapsody in Blue
Walton – Belshazzar’s Feast
The Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra knows how to throw a good end-of-season party: it was no surprise that every seat in the Lighthouse was taken for this jamboree. Musically, it was razzmatazz all the way: no well-behaved classical concerto to offer contrast to twentieth-century music at its most rambunctious. Nor was there any danger from the law of diminishing returns: each piece was strongly characterised under David Hill’s direction.
Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances from West Side Story are much more than a skilfully constructed trailer for the musical that is regularly hailed as the best ever written. We may feel a passing disappointment that not all our favourite numbers are included, or not as we are used to hearing them (Maria as a delicate, rather tentative cha-cha rather than a full-blown aria). My neighbour was hoping to hear I Like to Be in America; but she conceded that as things currently stand it probably isn’t an appropriate sentiment.
After a sharp, stylish, finger-clicking Prologue, with busy bongos, saxophone, xylophone and snapping trombones, Somewhere was beautifully shaped and affectingly played (fine work from the string section principals and solo horn). Mambo has become famous as the calling-card of Gustavo Dudamel’s Simón Bolívar Symphony Orchestra in its youthful pomp: but the BSO gave them a run for their money, with clattering trap set and shrieking trumpets. One could feel the temperature in the hall rising. For sheer orchestral virtuosity and intensity, though, the Cool Fugue leading to the Rumble was the highlight of the performance: angular, obsessive, the brass stunningly in-your-face. The wistful conclusion, Anna Pyne’s flute to the fore, with the strings and solo horn, was infinitely touching.
At the start of Rhapsody in Blue the clarinet made the most of his moment, drawing the note up like a string of pasta, but he was upstaged (for once) by the wah-wahing trumpet; and he was topped later in the piece by the muted trombone’s Donald Duck impression. The vastly experienced Steven Osborne discharged the piano solo part with Lisztian brilliance and (where appropriate) blowsiness: with a nice lift to the rhythms and an unabashed enjoyment of the big moments (especially when the Big Tune sailed in) it was a joyous performance, provoking a storm of applause.
After the interval, Belshazzar’s Feast. Like the Bernstein and Gershwin pieces it is indebted to jazz (and features a saxophone): but it is a horse of a very different colour. It has – or should have – shock value: we are no longer scandalised by its barbarous (rather than pious) treatment of Biblical texts, but its brazen depiction of the acquisitive greed of the powerful and the pitiless triumphalism of the victims-turned-victors should give us pause. I hesitate to be specific about our world’s current natural and geopolitical tensions; and I fear that this piece may never lose its relevance anyway. (There is another work from the 1930s that is even more brutal about these matters: Havergal Brian’s Fourth Symphony, The Psalm of Victory). In surrendering to Walton’s music at a visceral level – as we surely do – are we complicit in its brashness and cruelty? No, of course not: but we may feel that there is something oppressive about its grandeur.
Despite its dark and sobering elements, a live performance of Belshazzar’s Feast is one of the most thrilling concert-hall experiences you can have: and this one, in most ways, did not disappoint. The orchestra was on superb, swaggering form: they reminded me of Berlioz’s description of his own Te Deum – ‘Babylonian, Ninevite’. The full complement of extra brass was present – making a total of ten trumpets, nine trombones and three tubas – and their positions at the extreme edge of either side of the platform made for some thrilling antiphonal effects, especially as they stood to play. I have never seen the platform so crowded: I felt rather sorry for the BBC Radio 3 presenter off to the side, trapped in front by two harps, with the bell of a tuba in his left ear.
The Bournemouth Symphony Chorus were well drilled: Walton’s writing for them is challengingly difficult, as I know from experience. Their diction was excellent – we could hear every word: the only thing missing was the last few degrees of attack – violence, we might call it – that the music demands. There were places where David Hill was trying to get them to give more, and it wasn’t quite forthcoming. The shout of ‘slain’ sounded perfunctory, almost polite. Andrew Hamilton, the baritone soloist, was similarly under-characterised, lacking the harsh arrogance – and later the spine-chilling horror – that are needed. No complaints about the endgame: the final Alleluias, driven at an excitingly fast tempo by David Hill, blazed magnificently, even overwhelmingly. By the end we were all ready to cheer, and perhaps to reflect, as we left the hall, on a memorable season’s music-making, and to look forward to the next.
Chris Kettle