Kirov Orchestra/Gergiev Royal Festival Hall, London ****
"O hear the summons of the barbarian lyre," the Russian Symbolist Alexander Blok wrote in his 1918 poem The Scythians. The poem, with its queasy vision of Asiatic hordes terrorising Europe, was Blok's exultant response to the twin convulsions of war and revolution which had ripped apart the civilised veneer of the Tsarist empire.
The "barbarian lyre" had, however, been sounding for a while: in 1916 Prokofiev premiered his Scythian Suite in Petrograd; as early as 1913, Stravinsky had self-consciously explored "primitive" Russia in The Rite of Spring. Both sonic cataclysms were commissioned by Diaghilev (though the ballet from which the Scythian Suite was derived never made it to the stage). It seemed appropriate that the two works should kick off the South Bank's massive Diaghilev retrospective, with the Kirov Orchestra conducted by Valery Gergiev.
The Soviet authorities predictably gave The Rite of Spring a wide berth, so hearing it restored to the repertoire of one of Russia's finest orchestras was a treat. A couple of tentative brass entries apart, the playing was thrilling. Gergiev's interpretation is rivetting, though it has its flaws. This is no eruptive racket, but a carefully structured ritual proceeding with measured intensity. Part I is considerably more violent than Part II (it's usually the other way round).
Gergiev finds vestiges of Russian Orthodox liturgy in the block chords and bell-like sonorities of the Summoning of the Ancestors. The voltage sometimes drops, however. Where Stravinsky calms down a bit, Gergiev dawdles, though he teases out some sensual textures in the process. The ending, with a colossal pause before the final crunch, is mannered in the extreme.
The Scythian Suite has the reputation of being the loudest piece of music ever written, and there were certainly moments when you felt that the Festival Hall's roof might cave in. It is in the quieter passages, like the nocturne, where Gergiev (and Prokofiev) are actually more impressive. The orchestration here is lush - closer to Strauss's Salome than anything by Stravinsky - and the sound glittered with opalescent beauty.
Sandwiched in between this pair came Prokofiev's The Prodigal Son. Shorn of Balanchine's stupendous choreography, you become acutely aware that this is not so much a biblical parable as a portrait of the seductions and terrors of a very modernist city. You're also conscious, however, of the bitty, episodic nature of the music. The Prodigal Son may be one of Balanchine's greatest ballets, but it's not Prokofiev's best score.
