Philharmonie
Brahms:
Variations
on a Theme by Haydn, op.56a
Schoenberg:
Five
Orchestral Pieces, op.16Beethoven: Piano Concerto no.5 in E-flat major, op.73
Radu Lupu (piano)
Staatskapelle Berlin
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)
Brahms and Schoenberg always
complement each other well; they certainly did so here, Daniel Barenboim and
his Staatskapelle Berlin past masters in the music of both composers. Barenboim
seemed to choose just the ‘right’ tempo – not to say that there are not others –
for the Theme in Brahms’s Haydn
Variations, and indeed for each of the variations that followed, the work
very much conceived of and communicated as a whole. Pauses (or not) between
movements were very much part of the overall conception in a deeply considered
reading that lacked nothing in (apparent) spontaneity. Lightness of touch and
depth were revealed as two sides of the same coin, with wonderfully ‘true’ –
never more so than in the opening statement of the Theme – Harmoniemusik. Moreover, the string tone we heard in the first
variation and beyond simply, or not so simply, sounded just right for Brahms,
its darkness undeniable yet never overshadowing. Classicism and modernism, Gemütlichkeit and violence: all manner
of dialectics were in play, just as they would be in Schoenberg, albeit with at
least a greater pretence at reconciliation. The pathos of the minor mode seemed
to look back to Mozart’s Pamina, whilst swifter, more impetuous (yet still
controlled) movements, pulsating with life, however mediated, evoked
Mendelssohn, Elgar, even, in the eight variation, will-o’-the-wisp Webern. The
nobility of the cumulative sweep found true fulfilment in the closing passacaglia.
Its victory was not easily won, yet it was undeniable. Magnificent, then, and
deeply moving – and yes, the triangle made me smile.
Barenboim also conducted
Schoenberg’s Five Orchestral Pieces without
a score (as he would, unsurprisingly, the Beethoven concerto in the second
half). The first movement opened in medias
res, Brahms’s developing variation further developed, as it were, albeit
with an almost Straussian transformative technique also in play (or so it
sounded). What writing this is, and what playing this was from, a huge
orchestra! It thrilled, seemingly concentrating the action from an entire
operatic scene into its brief duration. The second piece brought seemingly
necessary contrast: not exactly relaxation, but a change of pace, at least
until its own developing variation gathered its own pace. Schoenberg’s
sonorities, whether soloistic or, more often, in combination, beguiled as if
they were Mozart’s; moreover, they continued, more than a century on, to
surprise. A Mahlerian sense of purpose in performance, married to Brahmsian
involvement – in more than one sense – brought a mesmerising experience indeed.
The Klangfarbenemelodie of the third
movement had one realise quite how far we had come from Brahms, not least in
the opening wind chords, which one could hardly fail to compare and contrast
with the opening of the Haydn Variations.
The occasional slightly awkward ‘join’ is almost inevitable; others were, it
seemed, effected by sorcery. Tendencies from earlier movements united and
reacted in the fourth and fifth. Violence and its aftershock were very much the
order of the day in the close of the former, whilst languor and urgency somehow
seemed to coexist with, even incited, each other in the latter. Here there is a
phantasmagoria at least as impressive as anything in Strauss, but with a
thoroughly Brahmsian grounding. Draining yet exhilarating. Judging by his
personal applause for the orchestra, Barenboim was rightly appreciative of his
players’ work.
Radu Lupu joined the orchestra
for Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto. This was not an easy ride, but even when
it edged towards – and arguably, on one occasion in the finale, beyond –
catastrophe, Beethovenian spirit was ever-present. Beethoven, after all, should
never be easy. Lupu’s opening flourish sounded almost extemporised: not
arbitrary, but free. Its little smudges did not matter, at least not to me. And
what touch! What orchestral weight and clarity, moreover, Barenboim marrying
once again tendencies with roots in Klemperer (with whom he recorded this work)
and Furtwängler, now so internalised that they seem entirely his own. For he
and Lupu undoubtedly understood that the work’s foundation, almost by
definition, lies in its harmony. There was something almost Cortot-like, errors
and all, in Lupu’s playing: magic in the right hand, of course, but it was the
left hand that perhaps intrigued more, the very locus of Beethoven’s struggles.
Neither Lupu nor Barenboim was afraid of rhetoric; if you are, this is
certainly not your piece. Such rhetoric, however, grew out of the music rather
than being imposed upon it.
A bardic quality to Lupu’s
declamation – Wagner would surely have approved – was also apparent in the slow
movement: a reverie more directed, and yet seemingly also more spontaneous,
than its counterpart in the previous night’s Violin Concerto with Anne-Sophie
Mutter. Lupu touched and charmed, seemingly creating the music before our ears;
the Staatskapelle Berlin offered a solemn, dignified ‘backdrop’ that
nevertheless wanted nothing in life. The beauty of the transition to the finale
might almost have been effected by Liszt himself, the sense of release somehow
postponed until the coming of the orchestral tutti, liminality extended. Here one had to overlook a good deal
technically, and I can understand why some might not have been able to do so –
not that there seemed to be any such reaction in the audience – but even in
catastrophe, there was the truest of authenticity. Moreover, whatever shortcomings
there may have been in the despatch of the piano part, the electricity of the
orchestral performance – how, for instance, motivic development worked itself
through the different string registers – was, even by these players’ standards,
quite something indeed.
