You wouldn’t believe it, but while the booklet offers us a detailed curriculum vitae of the conductor here (who in the skittish Francaix does no more than beat time, without the slightest nuance of dynamics or concern for balance with the harpsichord), there’s not even a mention of the soloist. Playing on a scrawny-sounding instrument against this insensitive accompaniment, the poor girl is swamped, even though the orchestra consists of only strings and one flute; and the Francaix, which should be as light as a souffle (I know, because I gave the UK premiere), becomes a heavy-handed bore. (The booklet-note’s mention of its “profundity” is preposterous.)
Fortunately things are better in the more densely scored Martinu (of which, if I’m allowed to be personal, I also gave the first London performance): balance is fairly adjusted, and the harpsichord tone is more agreeable. I still wouldn’t describe this as the most imaginative of performances – it’s too stiff to catch the work’s humour and sparkle – but it’s efficient enough. The Concertino by the prolific Ferenc Farkas is a facile work that seems unwilling to make up its mind about which style to adopt – neo-baroque, idealized Hungarian folk (in the last two movements) or, fleetingly, atonal; but it gives Eva Braito most opportunities to display her not inconsiderable ability. The most intriguing item here, though, is Jelinek’s brief jeu d’esprit (I’ve no idea of the title’s significance) for harpsichord, eight percussionists, harp and double-bass, in whose fragile repetitive sonorities dodecaphony comes to terms with near-jazz rhythms.'