Goldener Saal, Musikverein
Dvořák
– Symphony no.8 in G
major, op.88
Strauss
– Tod und Verklärung, op.24
Stravinsky
– The Firebird: Suite
Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
Mariss Jansons (conductor)
On paper, this was perhaps a
rather strange programme; I am not sure it quite added up in practice either.
Yet, with such fine performances of three individual works, I am not sure that
that mattered too much really. To hear the Vienna Philharmonic under a
conductor it loves – and it clearly loves Mariss Jansons – in the Musikverein
is always something special; and so it was here.
Dvořak’s Eighth Symphony has
some lovely music, although, like the programme as a whole, it is difficult to
discern ultimate coherence in it. The problem, at least for me, lies in the
outer two movements, especially the finale. Jansons and his players gave as
fine a performance as I have heard, whether in the concert hall or on record, and
if they could not turn it into something that it is not, that is hardly their
fault. The opening of the first movement sounded almost as if it were an
introduction to just how good an orchestra can sound: dark lower strings,
magical woodwind, golden violins, and eventually mellow brass too combining
with the fabled acoustic of the hall (and its visual aspect too) to create
something such as those who have never been here will never know. There was craft,
indeed art, in Jansons’s construction of the exposition from what might
otherwise seem rather disparate elements. The movement as a whole winningly suggested
the world of the operatic overture: perhaps not so bad a way to think of music
that does not always bear close formal scrutiny. The Adagio immediately took us into a different world, more profound,
more meaningful; it was as if we were entering a dark Bohemian forest, which,
as one’s eyes – or ears – adjusted revealed itself to be full of a myriad of
colours one might never initially have expected. The forest came to life around
or in front of us, sonorities and harmonies seemingly revealing themselves
rather than being revealed. Again, that takes performing mastery to do so. The
tempo to the third movement sounded just ‘right’, not only in itself, but in
the way it appeared to enable all other aspects of the music, its rhythmic
lilt, its melodies, its harmonies, to come to life. Jansons left us in no doubt concerning both
its structure and its dynamic form. As for the finale, the playing was
magnificent, and the audience clearly loved it. Perhaps I am missing something.
I doubt that anyone, by contrast,
would question Strauss’s absolute mastery of the tone poem in Tod und Verklärung – even those who
uncomprehendingly decry works such as his Alpine
Symphony. (The loss is entirely theirs.) I must admit that I rarely think
overtly of the programme, or at least of its potential detail, when hearing
this work; on this occasion, however, I did, entirely without sacrifice to the
experience of the whole. Jansons shaped the latter so surely, so ‘naturally’ –
which, again, disguises a great deal of art – that the flicker of a heartbeat
there, the potential song of a ‘soul (how ironic, given Strauss’s materialism)
there acquired just enough prominence of their own. Even as music that was at
least Tristan-esque was sung, one
heard the difference, the strangely Nietzschean liberation from thoughts of
redemption. (Wagner, Mahler, or, yes, Schoenberg would doubtless ensnare us
again, as soon as we heard their music, but that is another story.) A slight pause – a comma, if you will –
might attract attention, but never in a self-regarding way. To make the
narrative, musical or otherwise, reveal itself in this way is no mean
achievement. Orchestral balances were well-nigh perfect, so much so that one
did not recognise them as such, hearing only the music – and, of course, the
Vienna Philharmonic playing it to the manner born. Likewise, the unforced
nature of climaxes proved an object lesson in Strauss performance.
Strauss and Stravinsky always
make for interesting comparison and contrast. Just when one thinks they might
have something in common, experience proves one wrong once again. Hearing the 1919
Firebird Suite in this context, one
naturally latched on to an occasional melodic tag here, even an orchestral
colour, that might suggest similarity, only to be shown that the two composers,
and the two works, come from very different worlds. Such was the case despite
their respective debts to Wagner, freely acknowledged in Strauss’s case, far
less so in Stravinsky’s, even via Rimsky-Korsakov. The opening bars, dark, yet,
like Strauss’s, never quite inchoate, were but the first case in point. Full,
golden orchestral tone meant something different here, and rightly so; an
almost Gallic transparency was also most welcome. Not that that was
accomplished with any loss to precision. The Infernal Dance would have woken any
slumbering audience member: not through excessive volume, but through musical urgency
alone. Even to hear the tone of the bells was a thing of wonder. I rarely long
to hear the entire ballet; on this occasion, I should happily have heard it as
an additional item to the programme.
