Philharmonie
Bartók:
Hungarian
Peasant Songs, Sz 100
Bartók:
Violin Concerto no.1, Sz
36Mendelssohn: Selection from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, opp.21 and 61: Overture and nos 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 10, 13
Vilde Frang (violin)
Mari Eriksmoen (soprano)
Kitty Whately (mezzo-soprano)
Ladies of the Philharmonia Chor Wien (chorus master: Walter Zeh)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Iván Fischer (conductor)
What struck me initially during
the first of the two movements of Bartók’s 1933 version for orchestra of his Hungarian Peasant Songs was the sound of
the Berlin Philharmonic. Many have commented, whether since the departure of
Claudio Abbado, since that of Herbert von Karajan, even since the death of
Wilhelm Furtwängler, on how the orchestra has lost ‘its’ sound. Depending on
one’s standpoint, there is either a great deal of truth in that or there is
none; or perhaps there is a third way too. Certainly the orchestral sound has
not remained the same, but has that of any orchestra? Here, I heard – perhaps this
has come from hearing the orchestra often over the past year, in the
Philharmonie – what I might characterise as a ‘modern Berlin sound’, both in
character, rich, deep, and yet translucent, and yet, almost paradoxically, if
one is talking about ‘a sound’, adaptable, according not only to the music, but
also to the conductor. Am I saying anything at all there? I am not sure, but I decided
to mention it, since the thought struck me with some force.
The performance of that opening
work sounded very much, well, as the opening to a concert, almost as if it were
the aural opening of a storybook, which in a sense it was. Fantastical (at
times) orchestration made the original material sound new, just as a Bach
orchestration might, and yet, the ‘original’ was still there, just as with Bach.
Moreover, one could hear where the later Bartók came from, too; affinities even
with the Concerto for Orchestra
presented themselves. If I occasionally found Iván Fischer a little laboured,
keen to underline, less keen to suggest how the dances of the second movement
might hang together, there was no denying the straightforward excellence of the
Berlin Philharmonic’s playing – which, I think, Karajan and Abbado, perhaps
even Furtwängler, as well, of course, as Simon Rattle, would happily have
recognised. And the final dance was unmistakeably a climax.
Vilde Frang joined the
orchestra for Bartók’s First Violin Concerto. Her initially haunting solo line
truly drew one in to listen. Odd though this may be sound, I barely noticed to
start with that other violinists, then other instrumentalists had joined her,
such was the unanimity of purpose, almost as if the musicians were part of a
giant orchestral keyboard. (I thought, then, of Boulez’s
sur Incises, and of his work with
this orchestra.) Chamber music thus blossomed into orchestral music, in a truly
extraordinary way: all the time, so it seemed, led by the golden thread of a solo
line, even when it had fallen silent. The second movement offered a vigorous
response, very much in the manner, if not quite the style, of the later Bartók.
Fast vibrato from Frang proved no obstacle to the surest of intonation, for her
violin playing proved just as commanding as her broader musicianship. Musical
connections with Prokofiev, even Szymanowski, suggested themselves, without
this singular piece ever sounding quite ‘like’ anything other than itself.
I presume the programming of
music from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
was intended as a joke, given the date of the winter solstice. At any rate, it
brightened the darkness of a Berlin winter. It is perhaps peculiarly difficult
to speak of Mendelssohn’s music without resort to cliché. Words for the
Overture – that perfect miracle, from a seventeen-year-old – present themselves
all too readily, whether in work or performance: aetheral, gossamer, and so on.
Those words certainly came to my mind more or less immediately, along with the
recollection that Mendelssohn, so wisely, had once remarked that the problem
with music was that it was more, not less, precise than words. Perhaps I should
give up here, then, but I had better say something more. The aetheral strangeness of those opening
chords actually put me in mind a little of Mahler: the chorale in the first
movement of the Sixth Symphony, to be precise; the gossamer lightness of the Berlin strings’ response proved a true
delight. And if Fischer, to begin with, sounded unduly Toscanini-like, harrying
the score somewhat, he soon settled down. He understood – as many, surprisingly
do not – that the end of the development here is, as often with Mendelssohn, a
point of exhaustion, even if he somewhat overdid that exhaustion. It was,
moreover, a joy to hear a full string section (fourteen first violins, down to
six double basses) in this music. And who would not melt upon hearing those
strings, or indeed Emmanuel Pahud’s flute in the recapitulation?
The Scherzo was as lithe as it
had been under Abbado, and at least as full of woodland character (those
clichés again, I know). This might sound banal, and perhaps it is, but I was
moved to marvel, which I do perhaps less often than I should, at quite what a
modern symphony orchestra can accomplish, and in particular at what this modern
symphony orchestra can. I was taken a little by surprise at the German in ‘Ye
spotted snakes’ or rather, ‘Bunte Schlangen, zweigezüngt!’ Schlegel’s
celebrated translation has its own enchantments, though, as of course does
Mendelssohn’s score. If I might have preferred a little more warmth initially
from soprano, Mari Eriksomoen, that was certainly forthcoming from Kitty
Whately and members of the Philahrmonia Chor Wien, who stood up from within the
orchestra. And any reservation was more a matter of personal taste, or lack
thereof, than anything else; these were fine vocal performances. Fischer let
the music run away with him occasionally, but recovered well enough. Wordless
drama characterised the Intermezzo, again bringing those Mendelssohnian
thoughts concerning the ‘definiteness’ of music to mind. Delectable horns and
woodwind came very much to the fore in the Nocturne, just as they must. Fischer’s
way with it was slightly on the sectional side, but I should not exaggerate. There
was, moreover, great passion to be heard from the strings. A resplendent and,
yes, moving Wedding March prepared the way for the mysterious, quirky,
Mahlerian foreshadowing of the Marcia funèbre. The final movement bound
together various gossamer threads
admirably. My only regret was that we had not had more of the music, and indeed
the play itself. And there was ambiguity to those fairies too, especially in
the delivery of their final line: 'Trefft ihn in der Dämmerung!’
