Philharmonie
Hindemith:
Symphony: ‘Mathis der
Maler’
Brahms:
Symphony no.2 in D major,
op.73
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Daniele Gatti (conductor)
Two works strongly associated
with the greatest Berlin Philharmonic conductor of all: Wilhelm Furtwängler.
The Mathis der Maler Symphony owes
its very existence to Furtwängler’s request for a work from Hindemith, its
material originating in the opera on which the composer was working at the
time. The premiere, on 12 March 1934, was, of course, an event of great
historical as well as artistic importance; neither the conductor’s nor the
composer’s relations with the Third Reich authorities would ever be the same
again (ironically, given its tonal and, as many remarked, frankly ‘German’
qualities). The work, then, has a long association with the orchestra; fine
recordings exist from both Herbert von Karajan and Claudio Abbado. Today it was
Daniele Gatti’s turn to lead an estimable performance (conducted from memory,
for those interested in such matters).
The Symphony’s opening sounded
very much like Busoni: not just the score, but its performance too: yet another
occasion when I found myself wishing ‘if only these musicians would also play…’.
Much inter-war music does at times, although that, alas, never seems to result
in more performances of Busoni. But process, Hindemithian process, was
immediately apparent, shaping the material and its dynamism, rendering any ‘similarities’,
whether to Busoni or anyone else, of interest, yet hardly deterministic. I must
admit to finding the glockenspiel’s appearance in this first movement, its
designation as an ‘Engelkonzert’ notwithstanding, a bit odd, but that is
doubtless my failing. Can honest, superior ‘craft’ be ‘art’? Yes, of course,
and that seemed both to be proved in performance, but also to be dramatised
therein – as in the opera too. It is not all counterpoint, of course, but it
inevitably registered strongly, the Bach of Neue
Sachlichkeit especially apparent. So too did what fun that can be. And no,
there is no sarcasm in that claim. Res
severa verum gaudium.
The second movement, and indeed
the third, shared many of the virtues of the first, not least the luxurious – never
remotely narcissistic – tone of the Berlin Philharmonic, especially at
climaxes, and Gatti’s guiding, unobtrusive musicianship. The general moods of
the movements were naturally very different. Woodwind solos took, I think, more
of a leading role in the ‘Grablegung’, which made sense. And the brass sounded,
in context, unmistakeably of a Lutheran tradition. The richness and vehemence
of the finale’s opening strings ‘spoke’ wonderfully, as if the language of an
opera related to, yet distinct from, Mathis
der Maler itself. It sounded like a finale too: often easier said than
done.
The Hindemith was premiered
with C.P.E. Bach’s A minor Cello Concerto (soloist Paul Grümmer) and Brahms’s
Third Symphony. Here we heard Brahms’s Second. No one in his or her right mind
would fail to consider Furtwängler one of the very greatest Brahms conductors.
It is difficult to imagine why (s)he would not consider him the greatest of
all. There is no good reason to draw straightforward comparisons here; Gatti’s
Brahms has little in common with Furtwängler’s – and why should it? What I can
say is that I found it an outstanding performance, of greater interest than any
I know from this orchestra – I can hardly speak of those I do not know! – since
Eugen Jochum. I say ‘greater interest’ because it genuinely had something new,
at least to me, to say, without that novelty appearing to be for its own sake,
or indeed for the sake of anything other than ‘the music itself’, whatever that
might be.
‘Motivic clarity’, if that is
not too odd a term, struck me at the opening of the first movement. Themes
sounded almost as if they were Wagnerian motifs: with great potential for
malleability, (just, perhaps not entirely incidentally, as Wagner speaks of his
own Ring motifs), yet distinct and
with character, introducing us to the drama ahead. One might, I suppose, say
the same about Beethoven, common inspiration lying therein; yet for some
reason, perhaps unusually, it was Wagner who came to mind. There was an
undeniable elegiac quality (good!), yet it was one amongst many and never
uncontested, the ‘character’ of the movement, and indeed of the symphony as a
whole, ever transforming, according to the requirements of the symphonic drama.
Earlier, undeniable influences, not least Mendelssohn and Schumann, might be
heard, without that meaning the music could be reduced to them. A symphony does
not proceed according to a recipe; nor, thank goodness, does a performance, at
least not a good one. And how gorgeous – again, non-narcissistically – the opening
of the second subject sounded from this orchestra (which has been playing it
regularly since 1887, most recently with Simon Rattle last November). It had
heft, too, when required, but there was nothing ‘heavy’ to the performance,
having been thoroughly thought through, without pedantry. There was often a
Klemperer-like sturdiness – quite different from Furtwängler, in some respects
even antithetical to him – to this movement; yet, like Klemperer himself, Gatti
nevertheless had the music flow. The development, for instance, was a battle
royal, possessed of a tragic note clearly, perhaps even surprisingly,
foretelling the Fourth Symphony. And the weight of utterance – which, I should
stress again, does not speak of ‘heaviness’ – truly made this a worthy
successor to the more overt titanism of the First.
The opening cello theme of the
second movement was clearly loved – and why not, especially with the Berlin Philharmonic?
It emerged with a nobility I am tempted to call Elgarian. Woodwind counterpoint
seemed to peer forward into the more obvious modernism of Schoenberg and Berg.
(It is doubtless no coincidence what a fine conductor of their music Gatti is.)
The passion was as great as anything in their music too. The Classical
dialectic between major and minor was given new – and old – meaning: how very
Brahmsian! Clouds lifted, it seemed, for the third movement, its character
different, yet clearly following on from what we had already heard. It danced,
Brahms’s metrical games clearly relished. Haydn would surely have smiled.
As for the finale and the
alleged ‘finale problem’ after Beethoven: ‘problem, what problem?’ Not that
triumph was not hard won, of course not, for this was anything but merely
genial. Rather, Brahms’s material, method, and yes, character were put to good
work here in a thrilling, defiant, and ultimately jubilant reading – which seemed
to me just as successful as, say, the brilliant live LSO recording with Karl
Böhm. Gatti was more daring, however, in his extremes, here perhaps owing more
to, or at least having more in common with, Furtwängler than with Klemperer (or
Böhm). He could be, because the fundamentals – in every sense – were sound.
Brahms was not being pulled around; rather, dialectical method inherent and
implicit in the score was released to do what it could, even should. I am not
sure that Adorno would necessarily have ‘liked’ this; indeed, he might have had
reservations similar to those he voiced concerning Furtwängler’s Brahms. I
suspect, though, that, just as he appreciated Furtwängler’s Brahms, he would
have done so Gatti’s. Perhaps that semi-notorious Brahms-sceptic, Pierre
Boulez, might have done too. (Yes, he conducted some, but not very much, and
soon gave up.) The greatest revelation came, quite fittingly, at the end: well
prepared, and thus with all the necessary illusion of something coming
naturally. The horizontal and vertical seemed to become one: more Schoenbergian
– and behind Schoenberg, there will often come a little Brahms and Wagner – than any performance I can
recall hearing. It made sense, both in itself, and of what had come before.
This, I think, was a great Brahms performance, no qualification required.
