Wigmore Hall
Schubert: Winterreise, D 911
I had expected this would be
an excellent, thoroughly moving performance, and so it was. Simon Keenlyside is
one of our subtlest, most thoughtful, most musical baritones, and so he was
here. What took me a little by surprise was the contribution of Emanuel Ax.
Perhaps I have been unlucky in my experiences of his playing before, but this
impressed me far more than those previous experiences had. Ax brought a strong
sense of form to each song, almost as if
those forms were musically ‘autonomous’, whilst in no way detracting from,
indeed in every way supporting, the ‘poetic’ intent and musico-poetic alchemy.
One recognised figures as one might in, say, one of the piano sonatas; one
certainly registered the meaning inherent in and, in performance, communicated
by every note. There was, in, for instance, ‘Der Lindenbaum’, no ‘mere’
figuration, although the part retained its pictorial element; indeed, the piano
playing hinted at the consequences Schubert’s Lieder-writing might hold for the Wagnerian orchestra as Greek
chorus.
Back to ‘Gute Nacht’. It
opened relatively swiftly, with no room for sentimentality. Clean delivery from
both artists worked very much to the benefit of the work, not least in
Keenlyside’s ever-excellent diction. An occasional catch in his voice made no
difference to the greater picture, in a performance of palpable sincerity.
Wonderful touches of detail, for instance a diminuendo on ‘Matten’ the second
time around, made all the difference. The artists were not hidebound by
tradition, though by the same token they made no effort to be ‘new’ for the
sake of it. ’Geforne Tränen’ was taken somewhat slower than usual, at least to
start with, giving one pause for thought, but gathered pace, and, like a number
of the songs, indeed proved admirably flexible in its progress, in this case
setting the scene very well for an impassioned ‘Erstarrung’. Agonising dialogue
with an unstable self marked the third stanza of ‘Wasserflut’, albeit of a
different variety from the outright expressionism of, say, Matthias Goerne.
This was perhaps still more of an interior nature. Ax’s bass line, oppressive
without being over-emphasised, transformed ‘Auf dem Flusse’ into an ordeal of
the soul, culminating in Keenlyside’s furious vocal climax.
‘Frühlingstraum’ again had
one listen anew. The first and fourth stanzas were swifter, blither than one
usually hears. Again, flexibility was very much to the fore in Keenlyside’s
response to the words. Mood-swings, both vocal and pianistic, were perhaps if
anything still greater than usual, especially with respect to the narcotic
numbing experienced in the third and sixth stanzas. ‘Wann halt’ ich mien
Liebchen im Arm?’ The piano was properly, chillingly silvery in ‘Die Krähe’ –
even on a Steinway (as opposed to, say, a Bösendorfer). Here again, Ax’s
iron-clad communication of form contributed greatly too, in this case to the
turn of maddening; so, of course, did Keenlyside’s verbal response. Webern,
unsurprisingly, was relished by Ax in ‘Letzte Hoffnung’, leading to the moment
when Keenlyside seared the weeping of ‘wein’’ into our consciousness and
thereafter our memories. A parallel madness of domesticity was verbally
communicated in ‘Im Dorfe’, heightened, indeed in some cases led, by the
obsessive nature of the piano figuration.
The graceful piano lilt of ‘Täuschung’
seemed born, as it doubtless was, of long immersion in Schubert’s piano music;
the Moments musicaux came to mind.
But there was no doubt that this was something more menacing, hallucinatory. Again,
it was the piano that announced a new depth of sadness in ‘Der Wegweiser,’
showing the way, as it were, for Keenlyside in its final stanza to express, now
every inch a Wozzeck, his true anguish. There was no unnecessary ‘extremity’,
save for in his suffering. The weariness of ‘Das Wirtshaus’ and the final,
deeply moving display of virility in ‘Mut!’ followed on with frightening
necessity. For me, the only miscalculation was a too-forthright rendition of ‘Die
Nebensonnen’, which seemed out of place with respect to work and performance. ‘Der
Leiermann,’ however, mesmerised, its final lines summoning up not only the
ghost (to come) of Wozzeck, but also of the most tragic of Papagenos.
