Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921)
Samson et Dalila, Op 47, Act III, Scene 2, Bacchanale (1877)
Cello Concerto No 1 in A minor, Op 33 (1872)
Nickolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1906)
Scheherazade, Op 35 (1888)
Mischel Cherniavsky (cello)
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra / Sir Thomas Beecham
rec. live 21 March, 1957 (Scheherazade), 19 October, 1958 (concerto), 24 April, 1960 (Bacchanale), Royal Festival Hall, London
The Beecham Collection – Live Recordings
SOMM Recordings Somm-Beecham 34 [70]
SOMM have done some great work over the years in making available live performances by Sir Thomas Beecham. We’ve reviewed quite a number of these releases; you can find details here. Their latest instalment contains buried treasure taken from three separate concerts.
The collection opens with two Saint-Saëns pieces. From a 1958 concert, the First Cello Concerto is played by the Ukrainian-born, London-based cellist, Mischel Cherniavsky (1893-1982). In his valuable notes, Nigel Simeone mentions that the reviewer of this concert for The Times damned the work on account of what he (I assume it was a he in those days) regarded as “the poverty of ideas except for a few flashes of poetry”. I think that’s cruel. I grant that this is not the most profound of concertos for the instrument. However, like so much of this composer’s output, it is very well-crafted and, in the true sense of the word, entertaining. And, after all, why should a concerto not simply be entertaining? The music is attractive and Cherniavsky plays it well. Beecham and the RPO support their soloist very well, not least in the central movement (the work’s three movements play without a break). That slow movement is slender but it needs charm and grace if it’s to make its effect; that’s just what happens here.
The other piece by Saint-Saëns is a Beecham ‘lollipop’; the Bacchanale from Act III of the opera Samson et Dalila. The booklet contains a short, rather touching essay by Jon Tolansky, who relates that as a boy, just shy of his twelfth birthday, he was taken by his parents to the very concert, given in April 1960, in which this piece was played. I infer that this was the only occasion on which he saw Beecham conduct. The concert turned out to be not only Beecham’s last London appearance but also his penultimate concert with the RPO; only one more followed, in May 1960, in Portsmouth just before the career-ending stroke that he suffered in June 1960; some nine months later, Beecham died. The Bacchanale was the last item on the programme and Tolansky relates that he was bowled over by the performance. It was not until 2025, sixty-five years after the event, that he heard this recording for the first time and it brought excited memories flooding back. Hearing the performance now, it’s easy to understand how it made such an impact on a young boy – and, indeed on everyone else in the Festival Hall that night. Beecham conducts this sparkling, energetic performance with an evident twinkle in his eye. From 5:50, with the timpani pounding, Beecham and his orchestra really go for it, bringing the piece to a thrilling conclusion. Though no one knew it at the time, this was Beecham’s farewell to London; what a way to take your leave. So intense is the performance that the recording is under some strain but, oh boy, is the excitement conveyed.
For all the merits of the two Saint-Saëns recordings, though, the jewel in this particular crown is, by a considerable distance, the performance of Scheherazade. Beecham’s 1957 EMI recording is justly famous – it’s one of those whose nomination as one of EMI’s ‘Great Recordings of the Century’ brooked no challenge (review). In his notes, Nigel Simeone reminds us that the sessions for that commercial recording took place on 17-19 and 28 March, 1957; so, this concert on 21 March came right in the midst of the RPO’s intensive work on the score with Beecham. Simeone notes some fascinating differences between the recorded performance and the live version. In particular, the first movement is tauter and, in places, a bit livelier in the concert hall; the live performance clocks in at 9:18, the studio traversal takes 10:03. Beecham’s overall timing for the second movement is also a little quicker in the concert hall. All in all, I think there’s an undeniable extra frisson in this Festival Hall performance.
At the start of ‘The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship’ we hear the RPO’s leader, Steven Staryk (b 1932) as the eponymous storyteller. He had not long joined the RPO as its leader (he served from 1957 to 1960) but, my goodness, he plays as to the manor born. In his opening solo, you get a real sense of ‘Once upon a time’. A word, too, for the highly sensitive, unnamed RPO harpist who dances attendance on Scheherazade so often during the work. You could argue that in Scheherazade, Rimsky makes his thematic material go a long way. Perhaps he does, but this four-movement work is all about narrative and orchestral colour; Beecham makes sure that no listener is left short-changed in those respects. The playing of every department in this first movement is fantastic; indeed, you almost get the sense that Beecham is just letting his orchestra get on with it, though clearly that’s not the case.
In ‘The Story of the Kalendar Prince’, Scheherazade gets the Sultan’s attention right at the start. Then we’re treated to a series of outstanding solos by such luminaries as Gwydion Brooke (bassoon) and Trevor McDonagh (oboe). A little later, clarinettist Jack Brymer delights us. When the pace of the music quickens appreciably (from 3:18), there’s real bite and urgency in the playing – sample the trombone and trumpet summons at the start of this episode. Throughout the quick music, the RPO display fantastic precision; the rhythms are taut and unanimous.
‘The Young Prince and the Young Princess’ is a delight from start to finish; Beecham is definitely telling the story here. At 3:26, the clarinet solo with light side drum accompaniment has a delectable lilt; this will be Brymer in action again. From 6:13, when Staryk reappears, Beecham invests the music with tender affection.
Then, we’re off to ‘The Festival of Baghdad’. From 1:20, once we’re past Scheherazade’s ‘Once upon a time’, the merry dance goes at full pelt. Nigel Simeone mentions, very fairly, that there are a few little imprecisions in this movement which were, of course, not present in the commercial recording. He’s right to mention this, but they scarcely registered with me. To be honest, who cares when the music-making is as incandescent and involving as this? The return of ‘The Sea’ (7:46) is marvellously majestic but what really seals the deal for me is the tranquil epilogue (from 9:54). In these pages Scheherazade, thanks to the beguiling playing of Steven Staryk, ensures that the drowsy Sultan is off to the Land of Nod. This passage is very fine indeed on the commercial disc but I think an even more special atmosphere is distilled in the live performance. Having listened to both, one after the other, I feel that the key factor is the way in which the double basses steal in under the violin solo; they do this marvellously in the concert performance and you can tell that the Sultan’s eyelids are drooping. This is truly an example of the famed Beecham magic. The only pity is that the audience break into applause immediately after the last chord has ended; but can we blame them after such a performance?
This is a fabulous performance of Scheherazade, caught on the wing. It wonderfully complements the classic EMI version. True, the sound on the commercial version (which I have in the 1999 Parlophone remastering) is more opulent, but the recording of this concert, as restored by Lani Spahr, is better than anyone has a right to expect for sound dating from 1957. This performance is an essential counterpart to the EMI version and if you’re a Beecham fan, you must hear it.
Lani Spahr has done wonders with the restoration of all three recordings, though I think that he’s been most successful of all in the earliest of the three recordings, Scheherazade. To complete our pleasure, the booklet essays by Nigel Simeone and Jon Tolansky are excellent.
This is a mandatory purchase for Beecham devotees. And if you don’t yet count yourself as an admirer, listen to this disc, which demonstrates in spades what all the Beecham fuss is about.
Other review: Jonathan Woolf
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