St John’s, Smith Square
Suite no.1 in G major, BWV 1007
Suite no.2 in D minor, BWV 1008Suite no.3 in C major, BWV 1009
Suite no.4 in E-flat major, BWV
1010
Suite no.5 in C minor, BWV 1011Suite no.6 in D major, BWV 1012
Alisa Weilerstein (cello)
Would it be too daunting a prospect,
or too tiring an experience, to hear all six Bach Cello Suites in a single
concert? Not even slightly. ‘Journey’ is doubtless by now far too well worn a cliché
to be admissible for me here. Nevertheless, in a programme interview, Alisa
Weilerstein framed its use so well that I did not even notice: ‘To perform all
the Suites one after another is a transcendental experience, a remarkable
journey for both musician and listener. There is an almost childlike innocence
to the opening of the G major Suite, and from there the music blossoms and
broadens, and step by step the emotional range expands. The same goes for the
rhythmic range: by the time you reach the Sixth Suite its Allemande is almost
free-form.’ Part of that framing was, of course, her performance, which more
than held the attention from beginning to end.
Weilerstein opened the G major
Suite with warm tone, a tempo that seemed just right, telling rubato, and a
startling, yet never remotely self-regarding, variety of articulation and
dynamic range. Following that opening Prelude, the Allemande sounded soulful,
even dreamy, yet always directed. A swift Courante contrast proved just as
flexible. This was not playing that exhibited undue respect for bar-lines. The energy
generated was musical, never artificially whipped up. Here as elsewhere, the
Sarabande is at the heart of the Suite; this heart sang as if it were issuing a
declaration of love both courtly and Romantic, almost a major-mode ‘black pearl’
(to borrow from Wanda Landowska). The pair of Minuets that followed seemed
almost to exhibit different musical ‘characters’ through their differing
articulations. The good, honest enjoyment of the Gigue put me in mind again of
the Goldberg Variations, this time
the world of the ‘Quodlibet’. There is good as well as ill in German provincialism
– at least at its best. Not for nothing, I think, did my thoughts take me
briefly to Thomas Mann and his Doctor
Faustus, before it all ‘went wrong’.
The Prelude to the D minor
Suite offered a songful lament, never maudlin, keenly felt. Its Allemande
sounded similar yet different: a sister, perhaps, followed by an energetic
sibling Courante. The Sarabande-heart spoke unmistakeably of sorrow, of loss,
even perhaps of tragedy. It met its defiant response in the first Minuet, its aristocratic
dance so clearly delineated it could almost be seen. Following the relative
foil of the second Minuet, there was greater defiance still, I think, in the
concluding Gigue, its character much in the mould of the first Minuet,
extending and developing what I, perhaps too subjectively, cannot help but
characterise as its ‘point of view’. Some might here have found Weilerstein’s
rubato too much; for me, it always had rhetorical justification.
From the simple building block
of its opening scales, the C major Prelude developed in just the way
Weilerstein in that quotation from the programme interview had suggested. The
extraordinary proliferation of the Allemande had me think, eccentrically or
otherwise, of Boulez. Messagesequisse?
Its flightier cousin, the Courante, proved flightier only in a superficial
sense; there was neither lack of character nor of heart here, just different
character. Breadth did not preclude chiaroscuro in Weilerstein’s (very broad)
reading of the Sarabande, quite the contrary. A catchy, good-natured
performance of the first Bourrée benefited greatly from an almost Mozartian
(Trio-like) complement in the second. They made me smile: not something to be
sniffed at. The freedom (and organisation) of the Gigue suggested Bartók – but such
is Bach.
From C major to E-flat major:
the very different tonality (especially for the cello) made itself felt
immediately. These were new challenges, new opportunities; perhaps this Prelude
even spoke with a new seriousness. Likewise the Allemande, although its kinship
to its predecessor’s proliferative qualities remained clear. The opening phrase
of the Courante sounded almost Purcellian in its insouciance, swiftly offset by
undeniable complexity. A sense of austere, although never puritanical,
relationship to the world of the viola da gamba characterised the Sarabande.
Noticeable reduction in vibrato was part of that; just as important, however,
was the communication of harmonic rhythm. The ebullience of the opening to the
first Bourrée suggested an opening phrase to an imaginary (middle-period?)
Beethoven quartet; the second was again heard very much in ‘trio’ vein. If
Weilerstein’s tuning faltered somewhat in the Gigue, the spirit of this finale,
runaway in the best sense, was very much present throughout.
Next to the relative minor: C.
The Prelude’s opening section sounded more overtly and multifariously tragic
than anything we had heard previously. Resonances from Monteverdi to Mahler and
beyond were suggested, all the more powerful for the lack of any exaggeration
on Weilerstein’s part; any pointing always had a discernible purpose. It was
not only the key that made me think occasionally of the opening movement of
Mahler’s Second Symphony. Mozart came to mind in the fugal writing and playing,
so suggestive that there was no chance of missing the ‘missing’ voices of parts
thereof. The Allemande sounded similarly haunted by ghosts of the musical past
and future (interestingly, given the key, never Beethoven). It sounded as if an
old Italian operatic lament, transformed, even transfigured, and always it
danced. Bartók reappeared, with more than a dash of the stile antico, in the Courante. And Beethoven himself, the Beethoven
of the late quartets, seemed a guiding presence in the world of the Sarabande,
perhaps a more expansive Webern too. Every note counted, without pedantry. The
dignity of response in the first Gavotte and the quicksilver genius of the
second led us to an implacable Gigue. And yet, it moved.
The distinctive range (tenor,
one might say) of the D minor Suite presented us with yet another, distinct
modernity. Rapt lyricism and well-nigh Ligetian swarming were the stuff of the
Prelude. Development and proliferation again characterised, utterly
distinctively, the Allemande and Courante, the latter no less rich for its
different character. Now the Sarabande seemed cut from the same cloth as the
great opening chorus to the St Matthew
Passion – whatever the obvious differences. A nervy, vigorous first Minuet once again led,
with Classical ‘naturalness’ – I thought of Haydn – to its sibling. There was
no mistaking the note of triumph in the final Gigue: simple and complex, a
true, irrepressible force for unity forged through diversity and development.
