Royal Albert
Hall
Lachenmann – Tanzsuite mit Deutschlandlied (British
premiere)
Mahler – Symphony no.5
Arditti Quartet
Bamberg Symphony Orchestra
Jonathan Nott (conductor)
Given the stalwart service of
the BBC in the cause of new music, I was astonished to learn that this was the
first time any of Helmut Lachenmann’s music had been programmed at the Proms.
Better late than never, I suppose, and it certainly came in a provocative
coupling, his Tanzsuite mit
Deutschlandlied with Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. It made a great deal of
sense, of course, given Lachenmann’s preoccupation with re-examination of
tradition, and specifically German tradition. Yet depressingly, a quick perusal
of Youtube comments on the
piece betrays the sort of reaction the composer is still likely to face in
some quarters: ‘It has nothing to do with music, it is nothing but rubbish,’
writes one ‘Utz Beahre’, in response to the question without question-mark
posed by ‘jonnyrs1’: ‘could someone please explain to me what the hell this has
to do with music!! Thank God for Mahler 5 at the Proms!!’ Whatever complaints
we might all have with concerning the BBC, at least it has not entirely
capitulated to such boorish, ignorant philistinism.
For the Arditti Quartet, the
Bamberg Symphony Orchestra, and Jonathan Nott offered an outstanding
performance: just the sort of advocacy that ought to convince anyone willing to
listen rather than merely to hurl a
priori abuse. We all know that Lachenmann can provoke, though never for the
sake of mere provocation; here, he was shown to scintillate, to beguile, and
perhaps above all, to dance, indeed foot-tappingly so. The lengthy opening
passage for quartet alone – played, as throughout with pin-point precision,
though far more than just precision – offered a mini-compendium of the players’
superlative extended techniques. As often in the Royal Albert Hall, and despite
coughing, even talking, intimate music drew one in, made one listen. Then came
the orchestral call and the highly rhythmical pizzicato section it unleashed in
our latter-day concerto grosso. It was less Bach, let alone Vivaldi, summoned
up, though, than the ghost of what must rank as Schoenberg’s zaniest piece, the
Concerto for String Quartet and Orchestra, after Handel. Lachenmann, however,
goes far beyond Schoenberg as inventor, ushering us in to a veritable workshop –
somehow the German Werkstatt seems
more apt – of ideas. A workshop, be it noted, not a laboratory: craft, rather
than positivistic science, is celebrated here, as it was in the scintillating
performance. Shards of earlier music make their presence felt, not entirely dissimilar
to Berio’s practice, though arguably less conciliatory. A tapped rhythm put me
in mind of the Baroque passacaglia, whether or no that were actually ‘intended’.
Bach’s Christmas Oratorio offers
epiphany of its own, whilst ‘O du lieber Augustin’ inevitably registers not
only as itself but as a reminder of Schoenberg’s scorned usage in his Second
String Quartet, a reference that surely had particular resonance for such fine
exponents as the Arditti Quartet. But was that Mahler in the orchestra, or was
it merely my fancy? Was there even the ghost of an oom-pah band, that in itself
perhaps a reference to Bernd Alois Zimmemann. Even in 1979-80, when daggers really
ought to have been drawn with Henze, was there an unconscious note of affinity,
betokening a shared disturbance with respect to German musical tradition, when
the raucous, even raunchy dance-music threatened to shade almost into a
reminiscence of Boulevard Solitude Stan Kenton jazz? Lachenmann asks such questions, or permits us
to ask them, without definitely providing answers. In that, he is most
certainly and emphatically a German Composer. The players demonstrated the necessity of a
great performance; I have heard Lachenmann almost killed under a lesser
conductor (Sylvain Cambreling). Here, music drew upon its historical
inheritance of fantasy, caprice, even whimsy, without a hint of sentimentality;
and aptly, it did so under the auspices of an orchestra from Bamberg, the city
that escaped Allied bombing. The still, almost glacial, conclusion seemed to
breathe purer air once again; for me, on this occasion, it was the ‘Adagio’ to
the Hammerklavier Sonata that came to
my mind. If Beethoven still lives, then so does music.
I was worried that the
performance of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony might suffer by comparison. Not a bit of
it: Nott and the Bamberg SO proved just as outstanding as they had in
Lachenmann. The opening tattoo (Markus Mester) was purposeful, even militant,
with a finely-judged move into string foreboding. (It was at that point that I
realised the tone of the Bamberg strings was reminding me of the Czech
Philharmonic of old: perhaps no mere coincidence, given that it was formed in
1946 by German refugees, fleeing the ethnic cleansing of the Beneš Decrees.) Gorgeous
yet baleful woodwind evoked Mozart and an idealised village band in almost
equal measure. All the while, the cortège continued its progress. Nott’s
command of line never failed him, whether in this first movement or elsewhere:
a signal achievement in itself in what remains a very difficult symphony indeed
to carry off convincingly. And how the players turned their phrases! Not
narcissistically, but charged with tragic, musical meaning. Lilt and rubato
sounded effortlessly ‘natural’; Mahler was clearly under their skin. Nott
proved equally adept at the phantasmagorical skill of turning a corner,
revealing a new vista, and yet needing to offer no reminder that this remained
the same movement, the same work. The conclusion, not least Ulrich Biersack’s
hopeless flute solo, duly chilled. To that, there came a furious attacca response. Mood-swings were more
intense in this second movement, yet line remained unbroken. I was put in mind
of Rafael Kubelík’s Mahler, a slightly more modernistic sheen certainly not
eclipsing the depth of ‘tradition’ in a good sense. Dialectics, then, abounded,
as they should, indeed must. Death himself – Himself? – danced, reminding us of
Lachenmann, yet danced still more seductively, the violin solo (an excellent
Baer Vandenbogaerde) inevitably bringing to mind Mahler’s preceding symphony. Those
echt-Mahlerian marionettes, unholy
offspring of Berlioz and Nietzsche, menaced, yet charmed. This was a movement
terrifying through its musicality, not through the all-too-easy path of
external ‘effect’. It was not least for that reason that the chorale sent
shivers down the spine, even though – perhaps because – we knew its ‘triumph’
would prove hollow. Mahler’s return to the Inferno seemed but a stone’s throw
from the terror of his Sixth Symphony.
The scherzo opened with
articulation as fine and as warm as one might have hoped for in an ‘old school’
Haydn performance. (Think of Furtwängler in the 88th.) Gemütlichkeit, needless to say, gave way
to ambiguous marionettes, doused in a mixture of Bach and acid, working their
nihilistic magic. This movement, then, proved properly full of irreconcilables;
indeed, it overflowed with them. And yet – it made sense. Counterpoint was both
full and empty, sometimes simultaneously. The awestruck stillness, which yet
continued to offer motion, of the trio offered Schubertian longing (the Unfinished Symphony in particular) in
its shadow, rendering the reprise of the scherzo an absolute necessity. Such
extremity of effort would not of course be resolved here; the battle
nevertheless engrossed, riveted, terrified.
Nott played the Adagietto as it works best, as a declaration
of love, rather than a feast of maudlin onanism. It was beautiful, tender, yet
without a hint of self-regard. If fanciers of Visconti’s wretched filmic
treatment still exist, the reading might be likened to a Tadzio upon whom
Aschenbach had not so much as laid eyes. More importantly, it consoled and
moved us through musical understanding, a true command of harmonic
rhythm obviating any perceived need for imposition of irrelevant ‘personality’.
And my goodness, the emotional, physical charge those Bamberg strings elicited!
One could actually fancy that this represented love as Mahler might have
conceived of it: unfathomably complex, yet devastatingly sincere. The follow on
of the finale was, once again, judged perfectly. It exhibited welcome sparkle,
even lightness, though that should not be taken to indicate lack of depth. Good
humour is not a trivial thing, certainly not in Mahler, and these things are
without doubt highly relative here in any case. Should one take seriously the ‘battle’
between Brandenburg-counterpoint and
mockery of ‘high intellect’? It was not the least of Nott’s even-handed yet
committed approach that one never quite knew. Detail was keenly observed, yet
he never mistook trees for the wood. Shadows continued to haunt: how could it
be otherwise when the undergrowth was as variegated as here?
