Pierre Boulez Saal
Symphony no.40 in G minor, KV 550
Symphony no.41 in C major, KV 551, ‘Jupiter’
West-Eastern Divan Orchestra
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)
I have heard the future: it is
Mozartian and it works; it is, moreover, to be seen and heard here and now, in Berlin’s
Pierre Boulez Saal. Last summer, I enthused about the West-Eastern Divan
Orchestra’s three final Mozart symphonies with Daniel Barenboim. I shall not
read my review until after having written and posted this; yet, outstanding though
those performances were, this was even better, not least thanks to the salle modulable, whose properties come,
like Mozart’s music itself, to seem more miraculous with every encounter. As
with the Schubert symphonies (Barenboim and the Staaskapelle Berlin) of a week ago, Barenboim
turned the orchestra round at the interval, affording us a difference of aural
and visual perspective that put me in mind, however fancifully, of Boulez’s own Répons. (Now there is a thought for the hall…) There
was, rightly, no scaling back: Barenboim deployed a full(ish) complement of
strings (12.10.8.6.4) and the results were almost everything Mozart might have
wished for. Listen not to the authenticists: Mozart was perfectly clear that he
wanted as large an orchestra, preferably larger than this, as was possible.
Whatever they are preaching, it is not ‘authenticity’, certainly not in the
large halls of today. To hear an orchestra such as this in a hall of this size,
blessed with so warm and clear an
acoustic is to get closer than most. Having mentioned the hall, though, very
much part of the performance, as Barenboim clearly acknowledged at the close, I
shall return it to the background, for the greatest achievement remained, as it
always will in performance, that of the musicians.
The E-flat major Symphony
received a performance still more ‘Beethovenian’, to use a shorthand concerning
whose efficacy I remain unsure, than I can recall previously from Barenboim. I
shall try to explain what I mean, and leave it to you whether I should simply
have stuck with ‘outstanding’, which it undoubtedly was. The magnificent warmth
of the orchestra, echoing Die Zauberflöte
more keenly than ever, full of potentiality was undeniable in the introduction
to the exposition; so too was Barenboim’s command of line, which continued,
indeed intensified, quite unbroken, throughout the movement, throughout the
symphony. Furtwängler would surely have nodded approval, although I wonder
whether he might have found his anointed successor ever so slightly on the
stern side here. (I did not; there is no one ‘right’ way.) Liminal mystery gave
way, or rather resulted in, if you will forgive the metaphors, an exposition
that itself took on the form of an extended Mannheim rocket, Kant’s ‘starry
heavens’ its theatre. If the second subject were more courtly, more demure, it
nevertheless arose out of the material, never merely contrasting with it. The
concision of the development seemed ever greater on this occasion, the
recapitulation reached, almost alla Mendelssohn,
at a point of exhaustion, after which invention rose to still greater heights.
This was champagne, yes, but with its pinot noir standing out for all to hear –
and taste. The second movement emerged as a profoundly dialectical struggle,
miraculously reconciled, or so it seemed. Charm and fury, melody and harmony
worked their magic. Again, there was gravity, but there was hope, even the Hoffnung of Fidelio. This mattered every bit as much as the slow movement of
the Ninth Symphony. The Minuet, taken on the cusp of three and one, was fast,
perhaps surprisingly so, but it could yield and did, and not only in its Trio.
The finale blazed with the integrity of Haydn, of Beethoven, even of
Schoenberg, but the blend of its grapes could have been effected by no other
musical vintner. This was, I think, the most modernistic Symphony no.39 I have
heard, at the very least since Michael Gielen’s wonderful, sadly underrated,
recording.
The G minor Symphony opened
with the urgency of Furtwängler, if not quite his speed (although not so far
off). Drama and line co-existed, or rather thrived upon one another. This time,
Barenboim took the exposition repeat: it sounded and was necessary. Likewise
the slight yielding for the second subject. That greater breadth – or different
breadth, there being, of course, no introduction – in turn necessitated the
strangeness of the development, in which contrapuntal clarity proved so
crucial. Again, the recapitulation was upon us before we knew it, proving all
the more developmental (yes, Beethovenian) in this case. The fall to the tonic
minor spoke of unexaggerated tragedy, which yet developed into something all
the more tragic. If I say, quoting Mozart in another context, that the slow
movement flowed like oil, then that implies no loss to its gravity. It spoke
unmistakeably of Bach at times, contrapuntal string variegation telling as much
of the 48, so cherished by Mozart, as
of the orchestral Bach. Tragedy was again the guiding principle of the Minuet,
relieved by its Trio, yet we all knew that it would prove but momentary, such
was the strength of line, the pull of tonal gravity. Still more so was that the
tendency of the finale, any turn to the major mode all the more agonising for
it. This was as grand a tragedy as, and yet, of course, more unalloyed than, Idomeneo, Bach supplanting Gluck.
Where Barenboim’s recent Jupiter Symphony with the Vienna Philharmonic had proved relatively disappointing, this
West-Eastern performance proved the truest of climaxes. The young players
sounded so much more immediate, their performance so much fuller of life, that
one might, however unwisely, have forsworn Vienna for life, or at least for a
month or so. Barenboim imparted pomp and grandeur to the first movement, yes,
but also an urgency that seemed to derive from what we had heard before the
interval, the concert concerned with a triptych that took form in more than
name. Rhetoric was more overt, but that goes with the territory. It made me
think how I should love to hear him turn to La
clemenza di Tito. Who knows? He conducted his first Gluck opera only last year. Back to Mozart, though: how the richness of the
strings resounded, and how the division of violins, right and left, told, ‘echoes’
so much more than that, properly developmental. The bass line growled in the
development as if it were Beethoven ‘ripe for the madhouse’, and yet, before
one knew it, the music would again be all related sweetness and light. The
thrill and satisfaction of the return and close was experienced as if an overture
to the rest of the symphony.
In the second movement, the
passion lying under the veil of muted strings seemed to speak of an aria that,
having no words, could be, still more become, so much more than an aria. This had
all the depth of Beethoven, but the spirit was entirely Mozart’s own, far
closer to his piano concertos than to any symphonic successor. If I say its
length was heavenly, I mean just that: not the back-handed compliment sometimes
paid to Schubert. The Minuet took us to the Redoutensaal
of our dreams, albeit thoroughly grounded in harmony. Its Trio sounded more
intense still; this was no moment for relaxation. For the finale, that eighth
wonder of the world, needed to fizz and
to erupt, and how it did. Brilliant, Don Giovanni-like display, aching,
Elvira-like tenderness, emotional representations of so many of Mozart’s
characters were united in a symphonic argument that was taut yet far from
relentless or unsmiling. Every flourish, every sigh came from and led
somewhere, until we reached the coda: a climax to what we heard, no mere ‘tail-piece’
on this occasion. Is this the greatest of all symphonic finales? It certainly
has, and in performance had, nothing to fear from comparison with Beethoven. He
never exceeded it; how could he? This was not just the music of the future; it
was the music of the spheres.
