Royal Festival Hall
Schubert – Symphony no.8 in B minor, ‘Unfinished’,
D 759
Mahler – Das
Lied von der ErdeCatherine Wyn-Rogers (mezzo-soprano)
Robert Dean Smith (tenor)
Philharmonic Orchestra
Josep Pons (conductor)
First Christoph von Dohnányi
had to withdraw, then, at the last minute, Matthias Goerne. Schubert and Mahler
remained, though, alongside the Philharmonia Orchestra and Robert Dean Smith.
They were joined by Catherine Wyn-Rogers and Josep Pons, in a decent enough
concert, which neither truly disappointed, nor truly inspired, although I must
admit that I felt more moved at the end of Das
Lied von der Erde than I had done during its performance: testament, no
doubt, to the enduring greatness of the work itself.
Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony probably received the better of the two
performances. The first movement’s opening was dark – how could it not be? –
although I have certainly heard darker, not least from Bernard
Haitink, in an identical programme with the LSO a few years ago. The
Philharmonia’s playing was cultivated throughout, a keen sense on offer of the
players listening to each other as chamber musicians. Pons proved somewhat
rhetorical at times, arguably a little too much, but not unduly disruptively. I
was struck once again by the harmonic daring and sheer darkness of the
developmental night of the soul: there were no extraneous histrionics applied
to the music, simply a sense of a great Romantic speaking truth about out human
condition. A shadow, then, was cast over a nevertheless variegated
recapitulation, the coda proving both dignified and defiant. The second
movement flowed well, although its pulse was perhaps a little too close to that
of its predecessor. Mood was contrasted enough nevertheless, if somewhat bright
for my taste at times. Darker passages received their due, though, and there
was a concluding sense of contentment in culmination.
Das
Lied von der Erde took a
while, arguably a movement, to settle down. The opening was brusque, even
brash. Woodwind shrillness made its point, but Pons drove too hard all in all.
One can hardly fail to feel sympathy for the poor tenor in this work, but Dean
Smith’s unpleasantness of tone sounded distinctly superannuated. He almost always managed to make himself
heard, though. ‘Der Einsame im Herbst’ was more sympathetically conducted,
flowing in a way one might trace back to Schubert. There was strength beneath
the surface too. Wyn-Rogers proved dignified and sincere: the Mahlerian heart
was certainly weary, but humanity nevertheless survived. The third movement
proved nicely rhythmical, with necessary flexibility. Dean Smith had the notes,
but his expressionless delivery did little for me. ‘Von der Schönheit’ had a
welcome sense of symphonic ‘following on’. Occasional lapses in orchestral ensemble
surprised, although they were nothing too grievous. Both orchestra and voice
imparted a sense of the pictorial, courting comparison with Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder, without any danger of
veering into contradiction between ‘drama’ and ‘music’. Dean Smith’s charmless,
colourless singing overshadowed some at least of the considerable orchestral detail
to be heard in ‘Der Trunkene im Frühling’. His vibrato was on the wide side,
even for me. Pons conducted it briskly, but not without feeling: probably the
best course of action in the circumstances.
Mahler marks the opening to ‘Der
Abschied’ schwer, heavy; and that was
just how it sounded. Mezzo, flute arabesques, and cello pedal soon combined to
underline the music’s – our – desolation. If Wyn Rogers’s intonation were not
always perfect, musical and poetic sense was always conveyed: a far more
important a thing. Schoenberg seemed already to be with us in some of the
orchestral textures – which he is, to all intents and purposes. Pons was
sometimes a little deliberate, underlining figures that might have flowed, even
flown, more freely, but I should not exaggerate. A cold wind indeed blew at
times, chilling me to the bone, but there was consolation, if far from
unalloyed, to be had through the bitterness, the sardonicism, the ghostly,
echt-Mahlerian marionettes. If the orchestral interlude, if one can call it
that, sounded a little thin of tone to begin with, it grew in symphonic stature,
reminding us that this is not ‘just’ a song-cycle. The ‘liebe Erde’ was, ultimately,
what we heard and felt; it was that Earth that won through.
Why o why, though, the instant
applause? Are these people not only hard of hearing, but hard of humanity?
