Elgar & Dvořák Cello Concertos (CD Review)

by Ryan Ross

Elgar: Cello Concerto in E Minor, Op. 85; Dvořák: Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op. 104. Alban Gerhardt, cellist; Andrew Manze, conductor; WDR Sinfonieorchester. Hyperion CDA68486. 

In 1952, Ralph Vaughan Williams wrote the following in a letter to fellow English composer Rutland Boughton: “The truth is, I think, that when I am with Conservatives I become Socialistic and when I am with Socialists I become true blue Tory.” I feel a similar tension in multiple walks of life. With regard to classical music recordings, I have a tendency to talk out of both sides of my mouth: on the one hand I abhor performances that haphazardly heap on rubato and cheap theatrics in ladles, and on the other hand I want more than simply mechanical or workaday accounts. I am tempted to say it’s as simple as finding that sweet spot in between, but it isn’t always. Some performers go “all in” and seem to embody the music’s spirit in a way that my binary hardly tracks. Think Horowitz playing Schumann, or Bernstein at his best in Mahler. 

 

But not Alban Gerhardt playing Elgar’s and Dvořák’s Cello Concertos. It would be unfair to say that these new performances with Andrew Manze and the WDR Sinfonieorchester sound mechanical, but they do tend toward the workaday. Actually, Gerhardt gives the game away with his liner note remarks. He writes: “I grew up with the legendary recordings of these two extraordinary cello concertos by Mstislav Rostropovich and Jacqueline du Pré. Their interpretations have shaped generations of cellists and established a powerful performance tradition that continues to resonate today. While I have always admired both artists for their intensity and individuality, I found myself questioning certain interpretive choices from early on. When I began performing these works some 35 years ago, I felt a growing need to look beyond inherited conventions and return to the sources: the scores.”

 

Gerhardt goes on to say that he believes in maintaining a steady pulse, and that major disruptions to it do not necessarily translate to expressive depth. Read my review of Edward Gardner’s Brahms Second Symphony to see that this argument has resonated with me. But I’d be more torn about Gerhardt’s decisions here if it weren’t for one thing: the scores of these works themselves stress an emotional fervor (with markings like nobilmente and espressivo in the Elgar, and appassionato and grandioso in the Dvořák) that he largely undersupplies. And I am not simply referring to rubato, though there could be more of that given these markings. Gerhardt also employs limited tone color and abrupt phrasing, to mention only two further elements. In other words, he is selective about score instructions in a way he chooses not to acknowledge. The result is that tempi in both works are invigoratingly brisk, but in service of playing that too frequently sounds square and perfunctory, like a kid reciting memory work at parochial school. There’s a feeling of routineness that you certainly don’t get in the great performances to which Gerhardt brashly compares his own. 

 

The Elgar concerto suffers most from his approach. I have said elsewhere that too many contemporary performers are out of touch with Sir Edward’s sensibilities and cultural circumstances. He had, and his music reflects, values that they hardly recognize at best and disdain at worst. Paul Johnson, in his popular history Modern Times, writes that the concerto “conveys better than any words the unappeasable sadness of those days.” It represents Elgar at the end of a career he had struggled mightily to build, finding him a committed patriot witnessing the losses of the First World War and the beginning of an Empire’s decline, and a widower living his twilight years without a beloved wife who was his best friend and unfailing confidante. Rostropovich and du Pré capture these feelings and more. Gerhardt hardly does at all. The latter’s selective score-following can be heard at the very beginning, where he fudges a very clear largamentedirection in the opening figures as part of an impatient start. That sets the tone for what follows. Multiple espressivos are virtually ignored; it’s often difficult to differentiate them from unmarked soloist passages. Or observe how frequently Elgar indicates a largamente or ritardando followed by some sort of a tempo. What more does he have to do to write judicious rubato into his score?! Gerhardt’s reluctance on this point defines the proceedings. The dotted-rhythm figure at the beginning of Rehearsal 22 in the second movement is emblematic. Ideal performers dispatch this with savory relish. Gerhardt is comparatively free of gusto. Gusto, of course, is something distinct from overall tempo. Speed should not be confused with passion. Too often do Manze and his soloist blow through music that should be more deliberate. For instance, Elgar indicates Allegro, ma non troppo (quarter = ca. 108) for the march in the finale. These performers instead approach quarter = 116-118 in a manner that is almost flippant. I’m usually a fan of faster paces, but theirs is unsupported by requisite rhetorical intensity. Worst of all is the last major theme. Both soloist and orchestra strip it of its breathtaking fervor in what is a frail handling of the conclusion. This is virtually Elgar’s autumnal farewell, and should be rendered as such. 

 

Dvořák’s concerto fares considerably better, mostly because it more easily withstands Gerhardt’s reserve. Certainly the work is grand and emotional, but it does not quite wear the creator’s tender vulnerabilities on its sleeve in the way that Elgar’s does. What we get is a boilerplate performance that goes through the motions well but unremarkably. Our performers even make attempts at passion, particularly in the second movement. Once more, however, the difference between good and great becomes apparent when we compare it to one of my favorite classic recordings: Pierre Fournier with George Szell and the Berlin Philharmonic (DG 423 881-2). Gerhardt for once doesn’t lack earnestness, but both he and his orchestra sound heavy and forced, whereas Fournier and Company supply a supple warmth that better accentuates the music’s flavor. Still, the present interpretation is sturdy, and in the final analysis a respectable option if no more. 

 

And so here I am once again having to remain honest by dealing glumly with a new release of well-worn repertoire. The difference this time is that Gerhardt himself is explicit about what his “schtick” is, which, far from distinguishing this catalogue entry, betrays conceptual flaws that I could only speculate about if he had remained mum. But we don’t really need his justifications to know that what we have here is essentially another musician who is too afraid of being sentimental. In that sense, Gerhardt is all too typical of our times. To a certain extent I get it. Guarding against interpretive overreach is a valid precaution. But becoming one of C. S. Lewis’s “Men Without Chests” should equally be avoided.