Philharmonie, Berlin
Symphony no.39 in E-flat
major, KV 543
Symphony no.40 in G minor, KV
550
Symphony no.41 in C major, KV
551
Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)
There is a little irony in
that I have now twice been asked to write an essay to accompany this programme
for the Salzburg Festival – last year for the Berlin Philharmonic under Sir
Simon Rattle, this year for Concentus musicus Wien and Nikolaus Harnoncourt –
yet not for this, with a conductor far more to my liking in Mozart. No matter I
was not at the Philharmonie to read the programme notes. Indeed, since the
death of Sir Colin Davis, Daniel Barenboim and Riccardo Muti are probably the
only conductors about whom I feel great enthusiasm in this repertoire (which is
not to say that I should not happily hear others and, with a little good
fortune, be pleasantly surprised by them). Thomas Zehetmair, on the strength of a recent
Mozart 39th, might be another, but since I have only heard him
conduct Mozart once, it is perhaps a little early to say.
Anyway, in a relentlessly
demanding programme – nowhere to hide – Barenboim and the Vienna Philharmonic
shone. The first two symphonies received excellent performances; the Jupiter received something greater
still. The introduction to the first movement of no.39 could not have been more
promising: warm, expansive, grand, the E-flat major tonality immediately
suggestive of the Overture to Die
Zauberflöte. String sound (12.10.7.6.5) was glorious, and would remain so.
More important still, there was an overriding sense both of potentiality and
goal-direction. If the exposition opened in muscular fashion, the second
subject yielded as it should: classically ‘feminine’ in the time-honoured, if
hardly feminist, typology. The concision of the movement as a whole was
striking, having veritably burst forth from the introduction. (Barenboim
sometimes took repeats, sometimes not; here he did not.) This was a reading
that looked forward to Beethoven, with all the strengths that implies, but if I
were to register a cavil, it would be that it might have smiled a little more,
as it did for, say, Karl Böhm or Davis. The slow movement exhibited wonderful
contrasts, not least in terms of dynamic responsiveness, within a greater
unity. Contrapuntal clarity could not be faulted; moreover, it was a joy as
well as an education to hear sections respond to each other. Above all,
Barenboim’s ability to hear – and to convey – the movement as if in a single
breath was evident. The minuet was grand and
gracious: nicely pointed, without exaggeration. This was not a formulaic case
of one-size-fits-all, for it was taken considerably faster than the succeeding
two minuets. The trio relaxed slightly, the sonorous woodwinds a delight,
though again, there was perhaps, that ‘smiling’ which Messiaen – of all people!
– identified as a characteristic of Mozart’s music might have been more in
evidence. If the finale was fast, indeed Haydn-fast, as it were, it was in no
danger of being garbled. Due weight was imparted to a movement as full of
character as Don Giovanni. It was
over far too quickly.
The first movement of the G
minor Symphony was urgent without forsaking grace. Barenboim opted for
clarinets, whose beguiling presence was most welcome. In this movement, he took
the exposition repeat, but the music did not sound the same; indeed, it
developed throughout. The development section proper opened with disorientation
that was yet not overplayed; it came from somewhere, and led to somewhere.
Again, counterpoint was wondrously clear. The recapitulation’s second subject,
now of course in G minor, signalled tragedy unalloyed. Clarity and warmth were
striking in the slow movement, similarly direction and backbone. This was
beautiful music, to be sure, but it was beautiful symphonic music. Barenboim
ensured that the minuet was duly severe, without eclipse of its roots in
courtly dance. Beethoven hovered in the (near) future, but did not overwhelm.
The Vienna players offered a trio that sounded as if it were the easiest thing
in the world, which it certainly is not; woodwind again were outstanding. The
finale was taken quickly, but not at the expense of harmony. Motivic working
was as tighly woven and as powerfully projected as it would – or should – have
been in Beethoven or Brahms. The vehemence of the recapitulation was
suggestive, rightly so, of operatic tragedy. It thrilled on account of, not
despite, its beauty.
Finally came the Jupiter, its first movement opening with
C major pomp, but not pomposity. There was due contrast, and generatively so,
in the subsidiary first subject theme, as well as the second subject proper:
strings brilliant in the best sense, thereafter caressing. The repeat was not
taken, but the movement developed throughout, almost to the extent that one did
not notice the advent of the nominal ‘development’ section. Progress was
founded upon harmonic rhythm, unfailing dramatic. The same could be said of the
slow movement, which breathed the air of the stage, of the Da Ponte operas in
particular. This might have been the answer to ‘what happened next for the
Countess?’ For, let there be no doubt, this was human tragedy that was heard
and felt here. Form was no straitjacket, but dynamically expressive.
Similarities and differences with Beethoven were equally apparent. This went
deeper than either of the previous slow movements, much deeper. The minuet
sounded, quite simply, as I hear it in my head. Barenboim’s tempo was perfectly
chosen; light and shade balanced each other with similar perfection. Sturdy
rhythms and gracious release characterised the trio too. And that woodwind section had to be heard
there to be believed. The finale was again fast, but not too fast. There was
release, yes, but originating in harmony and formal dynamism, not applied
‘excitement’. The bass line and its implications were as crucial as in a
performance by Klemperer. Just to underline the transfer of weight towards the
finale, Barenboim took both repeats; yet again, these were no mere repetitions,
development being again a matter for the
whole movement. Alas, I could not quite reconcile myself to the extremity of
Barenboim’s pulling back to announce the coda, which seemed to rob the symphony
somewhat of its necessary triumph. However, with a performance that was
otherwise so outstanding, I could live with it. All three symphonies, I might
add, where conducted from memory.
