THE TIMES OF LONDON
September 27, 2002

LPO/MASUR
by Hillary Finch

An opening concert sends out a clear message: in the case of the London Philharmonic, it signalled not only the approach of its 70th birthday, and the 75th of the principal conductor, Kurt Masur, but it resonated with a sense of occasion which celebrated their fertile relationship.

The focus was on a work which honoured Masur's own musical roots. Bruckner's Seventh Symphony was first performed in Leipzig, where Masur's great 19th-century predecessor, Arthur Nikisch, first reacted to the music by becoming "all fire and flame". And so it was again. With no score, no baton, and his tall body positively bristling with nervous energy, Masur kindled his players to little less than a conflagration of the mighty work before the evening was out.

In the golden climax points of the outer movements where, first, noble horns and then Wagner tubas sign and seal the energies amassed from motif and theme, one could almost physically feel the strength and rigour emanating from Masur himself, to inspire and galvanise his players. Those great verticals of octaves which can too often sound ponderous, or merely pompous, became joyful acclamations; robust counter-melodies were buoyant with dance.

At the start, Masur stood with head bowed. For there was deep reflection here, too. It's a long time since I've heard so much time and space given to the great cello melody in the first movement. The woodwind solos were encouraged to be wide-eyed pipers of Pan: tremulous flute, reedy oboe, musky clarinet all scenting Bruckner's great outdoors.

And deep in the recesses of the heart, where Bruckner paid homage to the dying Wagner, there was a slow movement whose chorale melody had a gentle inevitability — a sense of being part of a continuum of musical thought which grew out of and returned into infinity. The bright focus of the LPO's brass created a sensation of pealing bells: no need for the controversial cymbal clash at the climax here.

Earlier in the evening, Masur's protégée, the 19-year-old pianist Helen Huang, had joined a select band of the LPO for Mozart's Piano Concerto No 23 in A. This was a performance of such ease and facility — fingerwork glassy, orchestral accompaniment fine-honed — that one longed for a little more sharp-etched detail with which to engage. But Huang made the slow movement her own, creating an eloquent stillness in her sensitivity both to its flickering pulse and to silence itself.