Founded by Argentine-Israeli conductor Daniel Barenboim and Palestinian-American academic Edward Said in 1999, the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra’s mission to promote sympathetic co-existence between Arabs and Israelis has never felt more vital, or its outcome less certain. That same combination of determination and fragility was summed up in Barenboim’s second London appearance this year, shrugging off health concerns to lead the ensemble that’s closest to his heart.
Appropriately enough, optimism and despondency dominated a programme that juxtaposed the 24-year-old Mendelssohn’s musical snapshots of sun-drenched Italy with Brahms’ fatalistic, final symphonic utterance. Barenboim husbands his resources these days, approaching the podium with careful tread and gingerly taking his place to conduct seated. The music-making, however, is unimpaired, although physically the grand gestures are often attenuated. There were times he seemed to do nothing at all, until a barely raised hand or steely look conveyed a reminder of shared intent.
The Mendelssohn went its merry way, rhythmically crisp, never too fast, but always energised. Eschewing the lightly sprung for something more emphatic lent the music an extra weight and determination. Imaginative phrasing was expressed by the subtlest of emphases. The chuntering pilgrims’ procession was propelled by gravelly double basses; the easy-going minuet counterbalanced by the mellowest of hunting horns. Dividing the violins left and right paid dividends in a beefy, call-and-response finale, Barenboim switching from demonic to puckish at the flick of the baton.
Elastic phrasing in the Brahms lent an organic spontaneity to an opening movement that embraced moments of radiant tranquillity and jumped-up pugnaciousness. A certain choppiness allowed Barenboim to heighten the sense of musical debate here, abetted by weighty orchestral contributions with plenty of sonic edge.
A hands-on approach brought imagination and depth to a second movement that unfolded with a melancholy stateliness. Steadfast resolve and delicate reflection gave way by turns to a warmly consoling conclusion. The Allegro giocoso, with rasping contrabassoon and fluttering piccolo to the fore, was a riot. But it was the mighty passacaglia finale – sculpted here with a rare clarity – that really struck home, its desolate solemnity illuminated by passages of expansive beauty and calm.
A richly deserved standing ovation allowed the orchestra, and its invigorated maestro, to go out on an upbeat with an impish account of Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream scherzo.
