Auckland Philharmonia at the Aotea Centre

By WILLIAM DART

There was a sense of anticipation before the final concert of the Auckland Philharmonia's Vero Premier series. What would French conductor Emmanuel Plasson inspire from the musicians after some weeks working with them in Carmen?

The evening opened with Ivan Zagni's Mokehu, first heard last September, and now being played in memory of violinist Katherine Harris, who died just a few months ago.

The stoic beauty of Zagni's piece, allowing just a tinge of anger in its middle section, drew a hushed appreciation from the audience.

Plasson then showed us just what a Frenchman can do with Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin. In the Prelude, woodwind lines danced with just the right resilience, phrases seemed to billow in the breeze, and dynamics were shaded in delicate watercolour.

One sighed with the delicious (and restrained) rubato in the Minuet, and visually, it was a revelation to see as well as hear the delicacy and ingenuity of Ravel's colourings.

Austrian violinist Karin Adam is one of the AP's most reliable soloists, although at first it seemed we were in for a Symphonie Espagnole that was more solid than inspired.

In the first movement, violinist and orchestra conspired to make me think more of Brahms than any sun-scorched Spanish vista.

The performance took fire, and dramatically, with the third movement, when Adam seemed to discover the appassionato in the work. From then the adrenalin flowed until the final fortissimo D major chord.

Gounod's First Symphony is alarmingly light fodder, penned by the man who wrapped an Ave Maria around a defenceless Bach Prelude and one of two symphonies written after a bout of operatic disappointments.

With a style that could be described as cod Haydn with a few harmonic and rhythmic nudges, this demands a spotless performance, which, despite some energetic playing, didn't eventuate. One felt for the violins, so sorely tested by merciless passagework that offered little in the way of musical rewards.

The concert ended with Dukas, a shrewdly judged L'Apprenti Sorcier that balanced galumphing humour with the most elegant of menace.