Kammermusiksaal, Philharmonie
Quartet,
for four flutes (1986)
Glissées, four pieces for solo cello (1970)
Gasa, for violin and piano (1963)
Trio, for violin, cello and piano (1972/75)
Images, for flute, oboe, violin, and cello (1968)
Martin Glück, Fang-Yu Chung, Laura Schreyer, Ziangchen Ji, Roswitha Staega (flutes)
Birgit Schmieder (oboe)
Clemens Linder, Sunyung Hwang (violin)
Adele Bitter (cello)
Holger Groschapp (piano)
The Korean-German composer, Isang
Yun, was born on 17 September 1917, one hundred years to the day before this
commemorative concert. His was, by any standards, a dramatic life: a figure in
the resistance to Japanese occupation, a participant in the Darmstadt summer
schools and other important aspects of European musical life, kidnapped from West
Berlin in 1967 by the South Korean military regime and charged with communist
subversion, released two years later following an international outcry, and
settling once again in Berlin, where he would live until his death in 1995. He
aimed to combine, even integrate, elements of European and Asian – not just
Korean – music. This concert, part of the Musikfest Berlin, offered an
opportunity to hear various chamber music pieces, very much, it would seem, at
the heart of his output, especially later in his career. They were all new to
me; my remarks should be taken very much in the spirit of a first hearing. Insofar
as I was able to tell, the performances all gave committed accounts.
I hope that flautist friends
will forgive me when I say that the prospect of a piece for four flutes did not
exactly fill me with joyous anticipation. As it turned out, I rather enjoyed
this 1986 Quartet, both as work and
performance. In four sections, it broadly seemed to encompass a journey if not
from darkness to light then from deeper tones to something almost seraphic. The
interval of a minor third seemingly in some sense fundamental, the work moves
upwards in various combinations from two bass flutes and two alto flutes, through
four standard sized flutes, two of them then swapped for piccolos, and finally
to one of each variety; the turning of the four seasons also came to my mind. Perhaps
it was simply because the example of Boulez comes to the fore in my memory, but
the arabesque quality of the writing did have me think of his music at times,
although Yun’s music seemed far more inclined to repeat, even if not exactly.
The return of the bass flute in the final section heralded a change of mood, of
pace, figuration above notwithstanding; something akin to the full range of this
family of instruments offered a sense of culmination.
The twelve-note organisation of
Glissées, for solo cello, did not
preclude a similar sense of something close to, if not to be identified with,
tonality. It had, in Adele Bitter’s exciting, rich-toned performance, a strong
sense of line, albeit with greater disruption than the preceding work. As time
went on, I began to hear – or at least believe I did – more dodecaphonic
process. The functional and expressive qualities – not that I intend a
distinction between the two, quite the contrary – of glissandi fascinated, as
the piece moved towards what I thought of, in homage to Nono, as a canto sospeso.
Gasa, from 1963, seven years earlier, perhaps
had a greater proximity of some elements of ‘avant garde’ language, although,
less, I think, of its temperament. If I knew a little more about East Asian
music, perhaps I should find an answer there, perhaps not. Again, twelve-note
method seemed not merely an element of organisation, but something, if far from
the only thing, to be heard. There was also, in work and performance, a strong sense
of drama, of whatever variety. The title means ‘Song Words’ in Korean:
interesting, since I had thought of it more as a wordless scena than a song as such. I later discovered the following characterisation
by the composer: ‘Gasa exists in space. It takes no heed of time – each moment
exists in space and that space is unending. Within this (space) however there
exists a dramatic development.’ Again, that was not necessarily how I had
naïvely heard it, but it made me keen to hear it again with those words in
mind.
The two movements of the Trio
(that is, piano trio) were written in 1972 and 1975, on either side of the
death of one of Yun’s teachers, Boris Blacher. Intervals, as in the piece for
flutes, immediately announced their importance: both, I think, in their
recurring use and in their transformation. At a certain point, though, I am
afraid I began to found the music all sounding a little same-y, if you will
forgive the colloquialism. Perhaps I was just tiring a little. The second
movement, faster, at least to start with, certainly offered relief, seemingly
more in the line of Glissées and Gasa. I loved the ricocheting of lines
between instruments, never quite predictable. Then the music froze, seemingly,
but only seemingly, to return us to the opening mood. I thought a little of the
music of Giacinto Scelsi here, but perhaps that was just me finding my own
bearings.
Images,
for flute, oboe, violin, and cello sounded to me a little long for its
material, despite the apparent distinction of performance. It seemed curiously
static, somehow, but perhaps that was the point. I only learned afterwards – I should
have worked it out, given the date! – that it had been written during Yun’s
imprisonment, inspired by the frescoes at the Great Tomb of Kangso. Yun’s visit
to North Korea, in which he had seen those frescoes, had raised the suspicions
of the paranoid Southern authorities, partly leading to his abduction. Whether
I should find this musical journey – perhaps not dissimilar to that in the
opening work – more interesting armed with that information, or indeed simply
on account of a second hearing, I do not yet know. On the basis of much of what
I had heard, though, I should not mind finding out. Three cheers, then, to the
festival for affording us this opportunity.
