(with apologies for having fallen a little behind...)
Konzerthaus
Bruckner – Mass no.3 in F
minor
Messiaen – L’Ascension
I have long thought that
Bruckner and Messiaen would do well to be programmed together – at least when
the length of their works permits it. Roman Catholic devotion in an
increasingly secularised world, not least in musical terms, is of course an
important point in common, but their frequent eschewal of conventional thematic
development in favour of repetition of blocks of material suggests something
more, and perhaps more surprising too. Ten out of ten for programming, then,
and I am pleased to report that the performance turned out to be highly impressive too.
The very opening bars of
Bruckner’s F minor Mass – grander, perhaps more grandiloquent, than its
predecessors, perhaps trying a little too hard to attempt an impossible
reckoning with Beethoven’s Missa solemnis
– showed that we were in excellent Bruckner hands with respect to conductor and
orchestra alike. This might have been the opening of the first movement of a
symphony, Bruckner’s preoccupying building-blocks as ever to the fore from the
outset. Intriguingly, the drooping phrase-ends ends seemed to hint at Elgar,
whose music would surely benefit from more Viennese outings (not that I have
forgotten the forthcoming VPO/Rattle Gerontius
at the Proms). Choral ‘Kyries’ following continued, intensified, and yet also
brought major-mode hope, the Wiener Singakademie on as fine form as the ORF SO
and Cornelius Meister. Günther Groissböck ‘s resounding first ‘Christe’ seemed
to issue almost from Beethoven’s world, whatever the problems of Bruckner’s would-be
emulation later on. This movement’s a
cappella passages sounded flawless, deeply felt, before the musi sank back
into darkness.
The ‘Gloria’ proved equally
impressive, starting out as if bells were ringing in Heaven itself. Meister’s
command of rhythm and harmony seemed to me every bit the equal of celebrated
past recordings, even Jochum’s. Contrast with imploring intoning of the word ‘peccata’
was telling, as again were Beethovenian parallels, not least from a gorgeous
woodwind section. With that in mind, there were an appropriate sense and scale
of struggle towards the close. The ‘Credo’ responded in properly titanic –
symphonic – fashion, again with splendid contrast, not least in the sweetness
of the violin, viola, and tenor (Benjamin Bruns) solos upon reaching ‘Et incarnatus
est…’. ‘Et resurrexit…’ sounded as a
veritable earthquake, almost Bachian: certainly as powerful, if simpler, and of
course with well-nigh Wagnerian means. No easy route was taken thereafter,
ensuring that the victory upon ‘Et exspecto…’ inspired as if that to one of the
greatest Bruckner symphonies.
The ‘Sanctus’ was grand, turning
to exultance, whilst the ‘Benedictus’ exuded tenderness and warmth, especially
from the outstanding string section. It had the depth of one of the composer’s
symphonic Adagio movements – just as
it should. Groissböck’s tonal richness was especially welcome here; alas, the
shrillness of Ruth Ziesak, here and elsewhere, offered a rare blemish to the
performance as a whole. Nevertheless, it was a minor blemish upon the leisurely
but always-directed progress shaped by Meister. The poignant falling lines of
the ‘Agnus Dei’, echoing the opening, proved equally moving, prior to a
triumphant close, to which even the most hardened of Bruckner-sceptics would
surely have submitted.
L’Ascension sounded different immediately, a ‘French’
soundworld – however much of a construct that might be – announcing itself
unquestionably. This was also a different sort of slowness as Messiaen’s
ecstatic voice began its progress, harmonies still more gorgeous, devotion
still more intense. ‘No room at the inn for doubt!’ composer and performance
appeared to be telling us. For me, as a sometime organist, the orchestral
version still sounds as a transcription – but who cares? I certainly did not,
and indeed listened with new, or at least refreshed, ears. ‘Alléluias sereins d’une
âme qui désire le ciel’ offered opening material that was sinuous yet
implacable, melismatic orchestras alleluias inveighing, perhaps even seducing. And
then, awestruck, we seemed to approach and yet to remain hopelessly distant
from Whomever it might be in Heaven Himself. Echoes of Ravel hinted at something
sultry, although, needless to say, Messiaen’s eroticism remained of a very
different nature. This, I know is the Messiaen some find difficult or
impossible to take, but not I. Swooning Alleluias were heard from the next
movement’s ‘trompette … [et] cymbale’. Orchestra and conductor kept rhythms
tight, without precluding occasional relaxation. Again, the sonority sounded
convincingly Gallic. More importantly, there was a true sense of cosmic drama,
perhaps even of an unintentionally comic variety when the cymbals clashed in
almost Hollywood-like climax. Ensuing counterpoint issued forth with genuine
panache. The final ‘Prière du Christ montant vers son Père – the first piece of
Messiaen I played, all too many years ago – was taken very slowly, as it must
be. Soaked in ecstatic vibrato, this really seemed to capture something of the
almost-beyond. Moulded exquisitely, the movement nevertheless retained surprising,
refreshing simplicity in a model account.
