Received wisdom has it that Schumann’s late works fall off creatively, mirroring the composer’s failing mental health.
These period instrument performances think differently. I’ve never heard quite such a searing account of the Violin Concerto’s opening movement.
It’s as if the music has been stretched and darkened, with soloist and orchestra glorying in tension and clashes created through the illusion that various strands of the music have been made to adhere to each other.
There’s nothing quite as daring elsewhere, though every moment communicates with consistent conviction.
