BLISS Violin Concerto. A Colour Symphony • Richard Hickox; Lydia Mordkovitch (vn); BBC Natl O of Wales • CHANDOS 10380 (73: 35)

Composed in the mid 1950s for Alfredo Campoli, the Bliss Violin Concerto has never made much headway in the repertoire; although two Campoli recordings were issued at various times, this new Chandos version seems to be the only one readily available today. Its neglect is not hard to explain. It’s a big, meaty, backward-looking concerto that demands a great deal of virtuosity from the performers and Sitzfleisch from the audience. But it doesn’t offer very much in return. Despite the promise of its achingly mournful opening, it’s melodically unmemorable (it certainly doesn’t boast either the rapture or the nobility of the Elgar); and for all its glowering intensity, it falls too readily into harangues (there’s surely none of the spiritual depth we hear in the Berg or the Shostakovich Firsts). In terms of formal ingenuity, it’s no match for the Bartók Second; and despite its virtuoso demands, those looking for superficial dazzle would be better served by the Khachaturian. It’s got something of Sibelius’s dourness—but lacks the concentration with which Sibelius keeps us enthralled. Most of all, it doesn’t know when to stop—the ending of the finale is so drawn out that, were the piece not so earnest, you’d be apt to suspect a joke in the manner of Malcolm Arnold’s nearly contemporary Grand Grand Overture. In sum, it’s a skillful but ultimately unlovable work.

Still, it’s well worth hearing, at least once in a while—and Lydia Mordkovitch, a violinist rarely accused of diffidence, throws it at us with undeniable conviction. In the process, she plays down whatever respite the music offers—the refreshingly jazzy asides in the first movement are too staid, and the second movement is arguably too driven; but she’s so courageous as she slashes her way through the thorniest moments, so luminous in the more lyrical outpourings (say, the opening of the finale), and so technically assured that you hardly mind the overkill. Hickox supports her well, especially in those soaring passages that may remind you of Korngold’s heady scores for Errol Flynn swashbucklers.

There’s a lot more competition in A Colour Symphony, of course—and here the performance seems less compelling. Yes, it’s a solid reading—but that may be precisely the problem. Certainly, next to Vernon Handley’s venomous recording, Hickox’s seems just a bit too well behaved. It’s not simply that he’s palpably less exciting, failing to match either Handley’s assertive stride in the second movement or his manic energy in the mechanistic passages of the finale. Beyond that, he seems less fragrant as well, as he pushes over harmonies that register poignantly under Handley’s baton. Handley is more alert to the music’s transgressive elements, too; particularly in the second movement, Hickox is apt to smooth out the music’s lurches. Still, the music’s power and ingenuity come through. Certainly, anyone seeking an up-to-date, luxuriously engineered recording of the Concerto should snap up this release.

FANFARE: Peter J. Rabinowitz