Grosses Festspielhaus
Schubert – Symphony no.4 in C
minor, D.417, ‘Tragic’
Bruckner – Symphony no.6 in A
major
A disturbing feature of
recent years has been the distinctly mixed quality of performances heard from
the Vienna Philharmonic; I am therefore delighted to report that, this year at
Salzburg, such lapses would appear to have been put behind the orchestra, in
repertoire ranging from Mozart to Strauss. The VPO has always, in my
experience, played very well for Riccardo Muti, and this concert, dedicated to
the memory of Herbert von Karajan, who had died twenty-five years earlier,
proved no exception.
Schubert’s Fourth Symphony is
not heard so often in concert halls. Although, like other early Schubert
symphonies, it sometimes exhibits a certain stiffness of form, it is difficult really
to understand why. I should certainly rather hear it than a good number of
other Fourth Symphonies, Bruckner’s included. The introduction to the first
movement opened with an expectancy seemingly echoing The Creation’s ‘Representation of Chaos’, albeit with woodwind
lines that could only be Schubert’s. There was more than a hint of Beethoven
too, likewise in the exposition proper, in which Muti finely balanced grace and
formal dynamism. String turns of phrase again marked out the composer – and indeed
the orchestra – unmistakeably, whatever the undoubted examples of influence
from others. The extent to which the VPO has Schubert in its blood was
underlined by the number of occasions on which Muti was able to stand back and
let it play, intervening only to point a certain phrase or to coax a certain
strand of development. The tricky opening to the slow movement was perhaps
slightly diffident, but that seemed intentional rather than by default. There
were gorgeous woodwind solos to enjoy thereafter – and such warmth from the
Viennese strings. Beautifully melancholic, the movement was ideally paced as an
Andante; its length was certainly ‘heavenly’.
A exuberant reading of the Minuet followed, sounding very much ‘after’ Haydn,
though the syncopations and the places they led were equally very much Schubert’s
own. The trio was, rightly, more Mozartian in spirit, evoking the air of a
Salzburg serenade, and relaxed to just the right degree. There was an excellent
sense in the finale of Schubert’s Rossinian side, an influence that yet permits
the composer to penetrate far deeper than ever Rossini would have been able –
or cared – to do. Mendelssohn also came to mind at times in a fleet yet never
superficial reading, lovingly, seemingly effortlessly played. No other
orchestra can play quite like this.
Bruckner’s Sixth Symphony,
despite its Schubertian resonances, is a very different work – and is, frankly,
a symphony with which I continue to struggle. I know that many others feel
similarly, but am equally well aware that, for others whose judgement I greatly
respect, this stands as a masterpiece. The ‘Bruckner problem’ refuses to go
away, then, and what I have to say should be taken in the spirit of my personal
experience, both of work and experience. (In a sense, that is always the case,
but I thought it perhaps worth underlining here.) The first movement I can
follow – and, in this performance, did. Again, it opened with great expectancy.
The VPO’s tone was different: pellucid, almost as if for late Karajan, or
indeed Boulez, in late Bruckner (with which I certainly do not experience such
difficulties). The sound, though, developed into something greater for those
terrifying unisons. Rhythmic precision was crucial to Muti’s delineation of the
composer’s formal processes. This was, perhaps, ‘objective’ Bruckner, certainly
not the Bruckner of, say, Eugen Jochum, but was none the worse for it, especially
in this movement. Woodwind ‘moment’s evoked Wagner, Siegfried in particular, but the counterpoint was unmistakeably
Bruckner’s. The apparent twilight of liminal zones was particularly captivating
– and intriguing. The Adagio had a
warmer, more rounded tone – yes, sehr feierlich,
as Bruckner marks it. It progressed with a serenity that at times tended
towards the seraphic, yet which did not long go unsullied by darker
undercurrents. However, I could not claim that I really followed where it went
and why, Bruckner’s byways remaining a mystery to me. The scherzo was again
rather Wagnerian in sonority, if hardly in form. I am afraid that, whatever the
excellence of the playing, those repetitions remained – well, repetitions. And
the final was much the same. Again, I could relish the Wagner echoes and the
fine playing, but formal development often eluded me. I was given no reason to
doubt the guide(s); the problem, for me, lay with the obscurity of the path
itself.
