Have you heard the one about the Osetin conductor, the Siberian violinist,
and the Kursk composer, all in Davies Hall? Well, it happened tonight,
and I wish the results were as colorful as the ethnic components.  The
wish is especially sincere because that conductor from the Caucasus,
Yuri Temirkanov, is a special favorite of mine (and of the San Francisco
Symphony, which repeatedly defied the conductor's powerful gestures to have
them stand and take a bow; instead, they sat, again and again, applauding
Temirkanov).

The concert began with the pleasant but mediocre "Small Triptich," by the
pride of the Kursk province, Georgy Sviridov, former First Secretary of
the Russian Composers' Union.  It is a simple and forgettable work which
would have pleased Stalin (were it not written a decade after his death),
as it did Sviridov's teacher and mentor, Shostakovich.  The difference, of
course, is that Sviridov never broke out of the deadly mold of inoffensive
music, but Shostakovich did, gloriously, and he paid a terrible price while
Sviridov had all the dacha and vodka.  Does that color one's hearing?
Probably.

No political undertones intruded on the next item, the evening's big
disappointment: a dispirited, labored performance of the Sibelius Violin
Concerto, with the formerly excellent Victor Tretyakov (of Krasnoyarsk) as
the soloist.  He played the violin, not the music.  He put visible, audible
effort into the piece, all the way through, never finding legato, beauty of
tone, the singing without which this romantic masterpiece becomes somewhat
of a hackneyed work.  But the real surprise was the orchestra.  The string
players - almost always going the extra mile supporting a violinist or
violist soloist, often smiling and applauding generously - uniformly stared
straight ahead during the performance, not at Tretyakov.  Their bland
expressions might have said: "I can do this.  And better." Tonight, that
was much more than wishful thinking.

Even Temirkanov couldn't rescue the performance, the orchestra sounding
under-rehearsed even at this, the second performance.  Right from the
beginning - when that great sweeping theme makes its first appearance
tutti, but now it swept nought - to some rough brass passages blowing away
the balance later, this was the San Francisco Symphony as far from its best
as I remember recently.

Both Temirkanov and the orchestra were redeemed by a great, cohesive,
powerful performance of the Prokofiev Seventh Symphony, his last, from
1952.  This sparkling, lightweight work (started as a project for a youth
orchestra) makes its impact only if the orchestra plays the hell out of it,
and it happened tonight.  The transformation of the orchestra musicians
(in demeanor and performance) between the Sibelius and the Prokofiev was
amazing.  And, they got it right, bending as one to the knowing will of the
quiet, self-effacing conductor, and then giving him all the credit at the
end.  That was more like it, recalling Temirkanov's recent triumphant
appearances both with the Symphony and the Opera in San Francisco.

Janos Gereben/SF, CA
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