Elgar’s Violin concerto in B minor inspired Nigel Kennedy’s finest recording. Taped in 1984 (before the would-be pop idol violinist pronounced serious music “boring”, began trashing hotel rooms, and sported ridiculous costumes), it’s in the direct lineage of classic interpretations of this work, as collectors familiar with recordings by Albert Sammons (1929) and Menuhin (1932, with Elgar himself conducting, and 1965 with Boult) will readily detect. At the price, this is only rivalled by Dong-Suk Kang’s Naxos version (hampered by indifferent sonics) and Itzhak Perlman’s brilliant but decorous DG recording with the Chicago Symphony under Barenboim.
Vernon Handley summons deep seriousness of purpose at the outset, though the density and tonal mass of the LPO strings doesn’t quite match the sonority of the Chicago Symphony for Barenboim. The LPO’s antiphonally-seated violins are a masterstroke, though, as their thematic interplay can be easily followed. And no other conductor (even Elgar himself sounds awkward here) ushers in the nostalgic second subject so eloquently. The winds, especially the first clarinet, are excellent. Comparing Kennedy’s first entry with Perlman’s (whose bow admittedly digs deeper), his slightly halting, measured playing seems more idiomatic and remains more sympathetic in details of phrasing and rubato. Time and again, it’s his quiet playing that impresses the most, particularly in the Adagio, which brings moments of great poignancy. You sometimes miss Perlman’s luscious finger-substitutions, but Kennedy’s simplicity and sincerity is deeply moving. Handley also imparts a true nobilmente character to the heroic central episode, something Barenboim fails to bring off so effectively.
In the finale, Kennedy superbly plays the long and very taxing cadenza above the famous “thrummed” accompaniment, which Handley pares down to the softest imaginable levels–another unforgettable attribute. The soloist’s restless musings over fragments from earlier in the work leave nothing much to be desired, and the final section is memorably majestic. Where Kennedy’s account scores most highly, though, is in preserving a sense of performing tradition. Kennedy learned from his one-time mentor Menuhin how to graduate his sound and modulate his vibrato, so in the countless nostalgic passages his vibrato is wide and quite slow by comparison with Perlman’s. The pacing of Kennedy’s finale recalls Sammons’ recordings, whereas it’s harder to see Perlman’s performance against the same historical backdrop.
CFP’s recording, richly detailed and spacious, is every inch as fine as the performance itself–simply unbeatable at the price! Incidentally, CFP seems to have deleted the impressive 1972 recording by Sammons’ student Hugh Bean with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic under Groves, in favor of Kennedy’s account. Surely there’s room for both?
