Most of what's to be written about James Galway has been written long before now. His 60th birthday tour, which brought him to the National Concert Hall on Wednesday, confirmed that his flute-playing remains in tip-top shape. The tone is a little mellower at the lower end, the intensity of the vibrato now a little diminished in the upper, so that the old sense of super-saturated sweetness is not as pervasive. Not having a particularly sweet tooth when it comes to flute-playing, it's the current Galway sound that I find more to my personal taste.
The programme opened with Reinecke's sub-Mendelssohnian Undine Sonata, all froth, no substance - the mention of storms in Galway's introduction was mere wishful thinking - and moved straight away to the Prokofiev Sonata, which he reasonably described as the finest flute sonata of the 20th century. The playing here, excellent of its kind, seemed a little pressured, as if he were anxious not to dally lest anyone get bored. The musical rewards were limited by the shadow-like accompaniment of Phillip Moll, a miracle of accommodation and discretion but not really an equal voice in the discourse.
The second half was given over to trifles, forgettable music by largely forgotten composers. Galway brings the same polish and refinement to this repertoire as he does to better music. One can but admire his skill and wonder at his patience. The best of Wednesday's bon-bons was Franz Doppler's Andante and Rondo, in which he was joined by his flute-playing wife, Jeanne. The double charm offensive worked a treat.
