Some performances confirm a work's status as a masterpiece. Others do more: they reveal why that music must once have sounded like a revelation. The performance of The Creation by Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) on Friday, May 22 in the Queen Elisabeth Hall, part of the Cofena series in collaboration with the Antwerp Symphony Orchestra, undoubtedly belonged to that latter category. What Václav Lukš achieved with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment, the Choir of the Age of Enlightenment, and an outstanding solo team was a performance that sounded simultaneously sharp, deeply felt, and genuinely inspiring—an interpretation in which musical refinement and pure performance joy continually reinforced each other.
From the first measures of the portrayal of chaos, it became clear that Lukš was not after monumental weightiness, but movement, tension, and dramatic intensity. The darkness with which Haydn opens his creation narrative gained something tangible here: restless harmonies, abrupt silences, lines searching for each other without quite finding it. The Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment played that opening with an intensity that crept under your skin. When the famous "And there was light" subsequently burst forth, an audible shiver ran through the hall. Not because the effect was played for theatrical impact, but precisely because Lukš had organically prepared the moment. The light didn't break in spectacularly here—it became inevitable.
That drive remained palpable throughout the evening. Lukš conducted with an almost infectious enthusiasm: continuously alert, energetically propulsive, visibly relishing Haydn's inventiveness. He spurred the orchestra, choir, and soloists to a performance that never sagged for a moment. At the same time, he never lost control over the architecture of the work. The large dramatic arcs remained intact, while details continually lit up.
This was evident particularly in the masterful rendering of the nature scenes. The sunrise was one of the absolute highlights of the evening: from an almost imperceptible buildup, Lukš let the orchestra swell into a blinding orchestral brilliance. The subsequent creation of the moon and stars then received a hushed elegance, with finely drawn woodwinds and an almost weightless transparency in the strings. The famous musical evocations of the animals were also performed with audible delight. Haydn's humor and imagination were given full scope: roaring lions, graceful deer, writhing worms—the orchestra painted them with a virtuosity that never became caricaturish.
The bass part found an ideal interpreter in Krešimir Stražanac as Raphael and later Adam. His voice combined warmth with authority, but above all his text treatment made an impression. In the descriptive passages, he gave Haydn's vivid music precisely the right rhetorical impulse, without ever overreaching. His evocation of the animal world was exemplary: lively, colorful, and musically intelligently constructed. Moreover, as Adam he formed a wonderfully natural duet with soprano Robin Johannsen, who stepped in at the last moment for Samantha Clarke.
Johannsen proved a revelation as Gabriel and Eve. Her fresh, youthful timbre gave both roles a disarming lightness, while her phrasing remained consistently elegant and apt. Particularly in the lyrical passages, it was striking how naturally her voice blended with Stražanac's. Their duet sounded remarkably natural; Haydn's ideal of harmonic unity took on an almost tangible form here.
Tenor Nick Pritchard completed the solo ensemble as Uriel with a clear, supple, and remarkably musical interpretation. His voice combined narrative strength with warmth and surprising dramatic power: every recitative line seemed carefully carved, with phrasings that gave breath to the narrative. In the opening passages, in which Uriel announces the creation, he brought a sparkling energy that swept the orchestra and choir along, while in the arias he effortlessly shifted between lyrical tenderness and jubilant brightness. His interactions with Robin Johannsen and Krešimir Stražanac resulted in subtle dialogues that gave the human dimension of Haydn's masterwork additional relief.
The choir also delivered a performance of exceptional caliber. From the first major choral interventions, the astonishing purity of intonation stood out especially. The different voices remained transparently audible within the whole, while the dynamic build-up always proceeded organically. Moreover, the German diction of both choir and soloists was so clear and refined that the supertitles seemed almost superfluous—though of course they remained welcome for those less familiar with the language.
In the great hymns of the final section, the choir grew into an almost symphonic power: jubilant without heaviness, forceful without harshness. A particularly lovely detail was how the soloists positioned themselves among the choir members and increasingly integrated themselves into the choral fabric. By the end, the distinction between individual and collective seemed almost to dissolve—as if Haydn's idea of a perfect creation was also musically realized.
What ultimately made this evening so special was the naturalness with which everything came together. Historical performance practice was here not an aesthetic end in itself, but a means to restore the score its original freshness. Lukš and his musicians played The Creation not as an untouchable monument, but as living music full of wonder, humor, drama, and humanity.
It is rarely wise to immediately call a performance a reference recording, but anyone who heard this Creation caught themselves thinking just that. More than that: this was an evening that will inevitably influence future performances of the work. A dream team, indeed—and a performance that stood like a cathedral.
