Charles-Auguste de Bériot: Violin Concertos Nos. 1, 8, and 9
Takako Nishizaki, violin; RTBF Orchestra/Alfred Walter
Marco Polo 8.220440 [50:05]
Recorded: Maison de la Radio, Brussels, 1986
Here’s a puzzle. Why does a composer who wrote ten violin concertos—ten!—occupy so marginal a position in our concert life?
Charles-Auguste de Bériot (1802-1870) was no provincial hack. He studied with pupils of Viotti, married the legendary soprano Maria Malibran, held positions at the courts of two kings, and shaped the Franco-Belgian school of violin playing at its zenith. Yet his name appears on programs about as often as Halley’s Comet appears in our skies.
The economic argument has some merit. Two of these concertos clock in at a mere thirteen minutes—hardly enough to justify flying in a soloist, however brilliant. But economy can’t be the whole story.
We program Baroque concertos of similar brevity without qualms. Perhaps the real issue is that Bériot’s idiom—virtuosic, operatic, unabashedly decorative—fell out of fashion when modernism declared war on charm. These three concertos make a compelling case for rehabilitation, though not without revealing why Bériot became a footnote.
The Concerto No. 1 in D Major, premiered by the composer on Christmas Day 1829, arrives in a single movement that owes everything to Paganini. Left-hand pizzicato, glittering passagework, melodic lines that could have wandered in from a Bellini opera—it’s all here, presented with shameless bravura.
The original version asked for scordatura tuning (violin up a semitone, fingering in D while the orchestra played in E-flat), a gimmick that adds brilliance at the expense of… well, good sense. Nishizaki sensibly performs it in standard tuning, and her bright, forward tone captures the music’s extroverted personality without apology.
The opening Allegro moderato wants to seduce you immediately, and largely succeeds. By 1855, when Bériot composed the Concerto No. 8 in D Major, his style had ripened—or perhaps just mellowed.
The three-movement structure follows conventional patterns, but the melodic invention shows real refinement. That Andantino second movement could stand alone as a salon piece of considerable distinction; Nishizaki phrases it with genuine tenderness, resisting the temptation to over-sweeten. The "finale" erupts without pause, all spirited energy and double-stops, the kind of thing that must have brought down houses in 1856.
It still works, provided your tolerance for nineteenth-century display runs high. The Concerto No. 9 in A Minor (also three movements, played attacca) reveals Bériot at his most accomplished.
The Allegro maestoso opening establishes dramatic weight unusual for this composer—there’s genuine architectural thinking here, not just strung-together episodes. The Adagio achieves that operatic elegance the liner notes mention, though “elegance” perhaps understates the emotional reach. When Nishizaki plays the long-breathed melody over pizzicato accompaniment, you hear why Heine claimed Malibran’s soul continued singing through her husband’s violin.
But then comes that Rondo: Allegretto moderato, and we’re back in the salon, all glitter and charm and technical display. Delightful, certainly. But after the slow movement’s depth, it feels like a retreat to safer ground.
Nishizaki plays with consistent musicality and impressive technical command—her father co-founded the Suzuki Method, and she was among the first to complete that training. Her tone stays bright throughout, perhaps a touch thin in the lower register but always focused. She doesn’t attempt to make these pieces sound like Brahms or Beethoven; she accepts their terms and delivers them with conviction.
That’s no small achievement. Alfred Walter and the RTBF Band provide alert, sympathetic support. The orchestration rarely challenges—Bériot knew better than to compete with his solo line—but Walter shapes phrases with care and maintains forward momentum.
The 1986 release places Nishizaki well forward, which suits music that’s fundamentally about violin display. The orchestral sound shows its age slightly, a certain boxy quality to the strings, but nothing that seriously compromises enjoyment. The disc runs just over fifty minutes.
You might wish for a fourth concerto — but three seems right—enough to appreciate Bériot’s gifts without exhausting your tolerance for his limitations. Because limitations there are. These works lack the structural inevitability of the great concertos, the sense that every note exists because it must.
They’re skillfully made — often luminous, occasionally moving. But they remain artifacts of a particular time and taste, museum pieces that happen to play very well. Still, museum pieces deserve occasional visits.
This disc offers an engaging afternoon with a composer who deserves better than oblivion, performed by artists who understand his idiom. If you’ve exhausted the standard repertoire, or if you simply enjoy virtuoso violin writing from the Romantic era’s first flowering, Bériot rewards attention. Just don’t expect profundity—expect pleasure, skillfully delivered.
Sometimes that’s enough.
