Salzburg Festival (7) – Scharoun Ensemble/Pintscher: ‘Beyond Recall: Kunstprojekt Salzburg’, 24 August 2013

 Grosser Saal, Mozarteum

Vykintas Baltakas – Eselbrücke

Mark Andre – E2
Dai Fujikura – silence seeking solace
Jay Schwartz – M
Olga Neuwirth – Piazza dei numeri
Bruno Mantovani – Spirit of Alberti
Matthias Pintscher – Beyond (A System of Passing)
Nina Šenk – In the Absence
Michael Jarrell – Adtende, ubi albescit veritas
Johannes Maria Staud – Caldera (for Tony Cragg): Szene im antilopischen Stil
David Fulmer – Faces of Awilda
Vito Žuraj – Insideout

Mojca Erdmann (soprano)

Dietrich Henschel (baritone)

Scharoun Ensemble and other members of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Matthias Pintscher (conductor)

Anthony Cragg: Caldera

 

It seemed such a splendid idea: twelve new commissions, all to receive their first performances, each inspired by a different new(-ish) piece of public art in the city of Salzburg, especially since the quality of the latter works is far higher than what we must often endure in the United Kingdom. One expects something of a mixed bag in such situations, and that was certainly the case here; however, even had that not been the case, there was, at least for me, a distinct, indeed insuperable, problem with respect to the presentation. I like to think of myself as capable of enduring the odd musical marathon; as a Wagner scholar, my stamina has perhaps become greater than that of those whose musical experiences focus entirely upon the traditional concert. Moreover, I am very much in favour of experiments with concert form and length, though not necessarily just for the sake of it. Here, however, I simply found the experience too much. A concert of new works, not all of which are likely to become acclaimed as masterpieces, lasting from 7 p.m. until almost 11 p.m., with but one short interval, really did not show off any of the works to good advantage, a difficulty exacerbated by blinding lighting from the stage. (There was more than one instance I spied of a player wincing.) Half-way, or perhaps not even that, through the first half – actually comprised of seven pieces – I struggled to regain the will to live, and cannot imagine that I was entirely alone in that respect.

 

For that reason, I do not intend to go into any great detail concerning the pieces performed; I do not feel in a position to do so, and should rather say little or nothing than be unfairly damning. The first four pieces I could readily have done without. Vykintas Baltakas’s Eselbrücke is inspired by Brigitte Kowanz’s Beyond Recall, a commemoration of the prisoners of war who built Salzburg’s Staatsbrücke between 1941 and 1945. Eselbrücke was brighter than one might have expected, but that was partly the point, I think; however, its post-Stravinskian fanfare quality – presumably intended to portray the hustle and bustle of the modern city, motion without progress? – outstayed its welcome somewhat. Mark Andre’s E2, for double bass and cello, was merely dull: grey and well-nigh interminable. Mojca Erdmann made the first of a number of scintillating appearances in Dai Fujikura’s silence seeking solace, joining a string quartet in a piece that was pretty enough, but which did not evade suspicions of note-spinning. In a way, it was a relief to hear the pop-like repetitions of Mozart phrases in Jay Schwartz’s M, but, despite Dietrich Henschel’s committed performance – he generally seems in his element in new music – it was difficult to think that such post-minimalism (?) amounted to much more than shop-soiled rhythms and silly noises.

 

The other pieces in the first half seemed more substantial, though fatigue did not help their reception. Olga Neuwirth offered a typically finely-wrought ensemble piece (with high soprano, Erdmann), Piazza dei numeri, responding to Mario Merz’s Ziffern im Wald. Despite Neuwirth’s concern that she risked becoming obsessed with numbers – are not most composers, in one way or another? – she bases her score on Fibonacci rows from Merz’s igloo, formed of stainless steel struts, their neon-lit numbers most readily visible in the Mönchsberg evening. (The programme booklet for the concert is invaluable in its provision of such information.) As we heard numbers sung from the igloo, there was a definite sense that music and the image projected on a screen behind the stage – such was the case for all performances – now properly interacted, perhaps even merged. Bruno Mantovani’s Spirit of Alberti played with the Mozartian Alberti bass to iridescent ensemble effect. Matthias Pintscher’s Beyond (A System of Passing) for solo flute benefited enormously from the virtuosity and musicianship of Emmanel Pahud, but it was clearly a major addition to the solo flute repertoire in any case. Reacting to Anselm Kiefer’s Salzburg installation, A.E.I.O.U., the piece, in Pintscher’s own words, ‘enforces a quite different sound [from his preceding work, the orchestral Chute d’étoiles], one of great lightness. It is far more about air, paths, and perspectives – which are also a major topic in Kiefer’s work.’ Paths opened up and closed, likewise the perspectives of which Pintscher spoke; one could well imagine oneself engaging in a Salzburg miniature version (or vision) of Strauss’s Alpine journey.

 

The second half was more consistent in quality, though a certain sameness announced itself in hearing work after work for similar ensemble, even given the variables of vocal contribution. David Fulmer’s Faces of Alwida, the penultimate work to be performed, seemed at first to offer something quite different, and in a sense it did. However, its more ‘Eastern’ soundworld – the usual percussion suspects in particular – soon palled in a piece that sounded stretched to four or five times its optimum length. Nina Šenk and Vito Žuraj proved attentive vocal composers, the former’s In the Absence playful yet touching in its soprano setting of words by Graz artist, Erwin Wurm: ‘bi di bi di bi di bi di/bi di bi di ja zum bi dig e winn.’ Žuraj’s  Insideout was the only piece in which Erdmann and Henschel both participated, its struggle between the sexes evocative of the world of music-theatre. Michael Jarrell and Johannes Maria Staud both justified the regard in which they are held. The former’s Adtende, ubi albescit veritas is inspired by Christian Boltanski’s ghostly sculpture in the crypt of Salzburg Cathedral, death and hope confronting each other in a vocal work (Henschel again) whose piano-led ensemble seemed both to mirror and contest Alfred Hofmann’s translation from Augustine. Staud’s piece for soprano, clarinet, and prepared piano offered more than mere contrast. Taking its leave from perspectives thrown up by Tony Cragg’s Caldera, which stands in Makartplatz – not, ‘Markartplatz’, as the programme had it, both in German and in English –  Staud’s correspondences between soprano and clarinet, at times almost as one, seem heightened by the piano and ‘active page-turner’, whose lines, in the composer’s words, give ‘depth – a three-dimensionality – to what happens,’ and permit ‘a magma-like proliferation’. I wished that I could hear it by the sculpture itself, on another occasion.

Neue Vocalsolisten Stuttgart/EIC/Mälkki - Ivan Fedele, Johannes Maria Staud, and Bruno Mantovani, 17 June 2011

Salle des concerts, Cité de la musique

Ivan Fedele – Animus anima II, for vocal ensemble
Johannes Maria Staud – Par ici! (world premiere, Ensemble Intercontemporain commission)
Bruno Mantovani – Cantata no.1, for six singers and ensemble

Neue Vocalsoloisten Stuttgart
Robin Meier (IRCAM sound realisation)
Franck Berthoux (IRCAM sound engineer)
Ensemble Intercontemporain
Susanna Mälkki (conductor)



This was a splendid concert: three fine contemporary works, one of which was receiving its first performance, in performances that seemed fully worthy of their stature. One expects excellent things of the Ensemble Intercontemporain, of course, but that is no reason to take its achievements for granted. The concert slotted nicely into two slots, IRCAM’s Agora Festival, and the Cité de la musique’s Fifth Vocal Art Biennale, the latter ranging from Dufay to Scelsi via Monteverdi, Mendelssohn, Schoenberg, and many others.


First up was Ivan Fedele’s Animus anima II, a 2009 work to texts by Giuliani Corti. The solo voices of the Neue Vocalsolisten Stuttgart seemed quite at home with it, as well they might, since that ensemble commissioned the work. Formed of four movements, lasting about twenty minutes in total, this is a piece made up of an array of words, more concerned, according to Corti, with animus, whilst voices provide the anima: a binary opposition fundamental to the work’s progression. Each of the four movements takes its name from a figure of the anima: ‘Incipit’, ‘Eros’, ‘Vox’, and ‘Anghelos’. The language being Italian, almost every word – but not quite – ends with a vowel, which, at least to a non-Italian ear, imparts a certain sort of musical vocalism already. Is it noteworthy that the first word, ‘caos’ (‘chaos’) provides an exception? Perhaps, for we seem to undergo some form of creatio ex nihilo, especially when one comes to consider Fedele’s music.


Corti’s programme note confined itself to aspects of his text, so, a newcomer to Fedele, I had no idea what to expect, a situation that lent an apt, expectant sense of creation to my listening. Sounds became song in ‘Incipit’, answering negatively my initial questioning as to whether the vocal writing might remain stranded in a world too overtly inspired by aspects of Nono and Lachenmann. The words’ sounds remain, however, of crucial importance, to musical development. There is, as sometimes with Nono, a sense of Renaissance music – in this case, the vocal consort – being refracted and rejuvenated through contemporary means. ‘Eros’ opens with a swifter, more jubilant tone, soon transformed into spoken debate, thereafter into whispering, before returning to jubilant song, often in triple time. At its more ornate, I sensed a kinship with Monteverdian madrigal-writing. Flowery solo moments, including an especially lovely mezzo contribution (Truike van der Poel) characterise ‘Vox’, along with an impression – not simply pitch-based – of ascension. ‘Anghelos’ opens at a fast tempo, not unlike ‘Eros’, with an almost Messiaenesque (bird) chorus – albeit here accomplished through words and the sound of words. Alternating between such material and slower sections, this ultimately proved an exultant finale. The performance had no conductor, but was directed where necessary – often it was not – by a member of the ensemble, whose contribution, so far as I could tell, was thoroughly excellent.


Johannes Maria Staud’s Par ici!, for ensemble, received its world premiere from the Ensemble Intercontemporain under Susanna Mälkki. Taking its name from a line in Baudelaire’s ‘Voyage’ (the last of his Fleurs du Mal), it is composed instrumentally for flute, clarinet, bassoon, horn, trumpet, percussion, violin, viola, cello, double bass, and electronic MIDI piano, the latter creating in effect a micro-tonal instrument whose temperament may be modified by touch, Staud’s inspiration being the piano scordatura of Gérard Grisey. ‘Impure’ intervals present not an out-of-tune instrument of weird ‘effects’ – we can leave that to the ‘authenticke’ brigade – but a micro-tonal array of new harmonic possibilities, quite in keeping with the perfumed possibilities of Baudelaire:


The opening flute line, here delivered by long-time EIC member, Sophie Cherrier, triggers off contributions from the other instrumentalists, including the modified piano (Dimitri Vassilakis). This is a febrile opening, full of tension within a slow tempo. Post-Ligeti (perhaps also post-Xenakis) string swarming continues the musical development. For there is a real sense of dramatic trajectory here, within the eight minutes of Staud’s work; it is almost a Lisztian tone poem for the twenty-first century. I very much look forward to hearing it again and indeed to further exploration of the composer’s work. Mälkki and the EIC seemed fully to have the piece’s measure: let us hope for a recording.

Nous nous embarquerons sur la mer des Ténèbres
avec le cœur joyeux d’un jeune passager.
Entendez-vous ces voix, charmantes et funèbres,
qui chantent : «Par ici ! Vous qui voulez manger
le Lotus parfumé !»

Finally came Bruno Mantovani’s Cantata no.1, in which instrumentalists (clarinet, horn, percussion, piano, viola, and cello), conductor, and vocal soloists were united. I admired Mantovani’s opera, Akhmatova, earlier this year; if anything, I thought this 2006 work finer still. Or perhaps it was that I found it easier to grasp as a whole. At any rate, the form is almost ‘traditional’, in that it takes eleven poems by Rilke, and sets them sequentially but as part of a greater whole, for the most part with instrumental interludes. The order is as follows: ‘Es ist noch Tag auf der Terrasse’, ‘Gesang der Frauen an den Dichter’, ‘Der Tod der Geliebten’, ‘Herbst’, ‘Das Lied der Bildsäule’, ‘Pietà’, ‘Träume, die in deinen Tiefen wallen’, ‘Ein weißes Schloß in weißer Einsamkeit’, ‘Wir haben lange im Licht gelacht’, ‘Um die vielen Madonnen’, and ‘Schlußstück’. I was actually put in mind more than once of a chamber reimagination of Zemlinsky’s Lyric Symphony, though have no reason to think that anything more than my own fancy.


The opening clarinet solo, here in the expert hands of Alain Damiens, announces a post-Boulezian musical legacy of arabesques, more violent than their counterparts in Akhmatova, against which a counter-tenor solo movement may be heard, Daniel Gloger’s rendition pure, precise, and yet nevertheless sensuous. That violence is resumed in the first interlude’s cello part, giving way to ravishing piano-led harmonies (the interludes between fourth and fifth songs, and fifth and sixth, sound frankly post-Debussyan), and a sustained horn note around which the piano can play, such play skilfully, sensitively accomplished by Vassilakis. Mantovani deploys a great deal of variation in terms of forces used: solo voices, higher or lower groups of voices, full vocal ensemble, and the a cappella writing of ‘Träume’ and ‘Um die vielen Madonnen’. Interaction with the instrumentalists provides further variation and continuity, as for instance in the viola and clarinet protests against a trio of higher voices in ‘Gesang der Frauen an den Dichter’, which seem to persist in the subsequent cello reaction to the vocalists, or the monotonal percussion response to four male voices in ‘Der Tod der Geliebten’. One really gains a sense, then, of a cantata written in a sense responding to, without imitating, Bach’s supreme and often highly experimental example. Indeed, the employment of bass and B-flat clarinet (both played by Damiens) in 'Herbst' reminded me of the richness of Bach’s woodwind family, only occasionally recaptured in subsequent music. Likewise, the tenor’s arioso-like writing in ‘Das Lied der Bildsäule’ necessarily has resonances with earlier music. Repeated attempts, eventually successful, to voice the word ‘Träume’ both recalled the opening of Fedele’s work and substitute for an instrumental interlude. Mantovani’s a cappella setting proved haunting in itself and an apt preparation for the resumption of Boulezian hostilities in the instrumental transition to the next song, ‘Ein weis Schloß in weißer Einsamkeit’, whose near-hysterical climax upon the ‘Schloß’ of ‘Es blinkt das Schloß’ leads ultimately to delirious entwining of two soprano voices, almost a duet-response to Strauss’s Daphne, in ‘Wir haben lange im Licht gelacht’. The opening warbling ensemble of the penultimate ‘Um die vielen Madonnen’ brought to mind the post-Messiaen writing of the final movement of the Fedele piece, but Mantovani’s setting proved more focused upon the words rather than their sounds, not unlike some of Schoenberg’s choral writing, though doubtless the German language is an issue here too. There was to be no interlude between that movement and ‘Schlußstück’, with its immediate, violent fortissimo outburst from all concerned, hanging over the rest of the poem. Percussion and viola sound the final instrumental voices, an equivocal signal of something akin to life in the light of Rilke’s verse:

Der Tod ist groß.
Wir sind die Seinen lachenden Munds.
Wenn wir uns mitten im Leben meinen,
wagt er zu weinen
mitten in uns.

Three excellent works then, by three excellent composers, in three excellent performances. Though I imagined that the highlight of this visit to Paris would take place at the Palais Garnier or the Opéra Bastille, there can be no question that it was here, in the Cité de la musique, at the intersection of two festivals.

Bruno Mantovani, Akhmatova, Opéra national de Paris, 31 March 2011

Opéra Bastille

Varduhi Abrahamyan (Lydia), Janina Baechle (Anna Akhmatova)
Image: Elisa Haberer



Anna Akhmatova – Janina Baechle
Lev Goumilev – Atilla Kiss-B
Nicolaï Pounin – Lionel Peintre
Lydia Tchoukovskaya – Varduhi Abrahamyan
Faina Ranevskaya – Valérie Condoluci
Representative of the Writers’ Union - Christophe Dumaux
Olga – Marie-Adeline Henry
Sculptor, English Academic – Fabrice Dalis
Student, Second Academic – Paul Crémazy
Student, Third Academic – Vladimir Kapshuk
Agent – Ugo Rabec
Woman from the People – Sophie Claisse
Old Woman from the People – Laura Agnoloni
Solo tenor – Emanuel Mendes
Solo baritone – Slawomir Szychowiak

Nicolas Joël (director)
Wolfgang Gussmann (set designs)
Wolfgang Gussmann and Susana Mendoza (costumes)
Hans Toelstede (lighting)

Chorus of the Opéra national de Paris (chorus master: Patrick Marie Aubert)
Orchestra of the Opéra national de Paris
Pascal Rophé (conductor)


A tale of two cities: London recently found itself lumbered with Anna Nicole. Meanwhile, Paris, in the guise of Nicolas Joel, had commissioned Bruno Mantovani to write his second opera. Akhmatova was the result, a retelling of key episodes from the life of the poetess, Anna Akhmatova, with particular focus upon the torment of her relationship with her son, Lev, that torment in good part a consequence of Stalinist persecution. Premiered on 28 March, this was Akhmatova’s second performance. Divided into three acts, it was performed with an interval between the second and third.

If I hesitate to say too much in detail concerning the music, then it is because I think I should need a second or third hearing to be in any sort of position to offer more than the most cursory observations. However, the fact that I am sure I should benefit from a second or third hearing already draws a contrast with Anna Nicole: what one heard – and saw – on the surface in London appeared all too clearly to be all that there was. Mantovani’s music, by contrast, suggests secrets to be given up with deeper acquaintance, microtones and all. And there was no doubt that, on this occasion, music was the raison d’être of the opera. Immediately striking was the opening viola solo – Mantovani has written a concerto for two violas – and different instruments enjoyed their moments in the sun, almost as if this were a concerto for orchestra with voices. An accordion added particular colour, plangently ‘Russian’ in its way, though there is, we may be thankful, no resort to pastiche. (For one thing, one gleans from librettist Christophe Ghristi’s words in the programme that Mantovani is no more a fan of Shostakovich’s music than I am…) Spatial effects are employed sparingly and therefore with dramatic effect. There are even evocations of particular places and moments – tone-painting, one might say – such as the train that takes Akhmatova to Tashkent or suggestions of the siege of Leningrad, yet within a framework of overall continuity.

Most striking of all is the final scene, almost entirely orchestral. ‘In a birch forest near to the Baltic Sea,’ reads the libretto, though one would never have known it from the staging, which remained identical to that for ‘Akhmatova alone in her room, then Lev,’ Akhmatova observes the sun rise over the sea. Bar a few words towards the end; otherwise, we hear in orchestral terms the anguish of her situation. She has had to endure the use of her son in a cat-and-mouse game with the authorities, resulting in his disowning her, believing that she did not care, for why did she not protest, why did she not attempt to have him released? Violins become more prominent at the opening of the scene, but the leading role of woodwind and trumpets continues, leading us through a series of extraordinary solo arabesques. It felt a little like what I imagine the use of the Lulu-Suite prior to Friedrich Cerha’s completion might have done. At any rate, it proffered a genuinely moving conclusion, without attempting to answer too many questions. Burned into one’s memory there remained Akhmatova’s earlier desperate conclusion that a poetess should not have children. It is interesting in that connection to note Ghristi’s claim that opera has neglected mother-son relationships: oddly true, though not exclusively so, when one thinks about it (though the Mime-Siegfried relationship of the previous night’s production offered something of a precedent!)

Performances all seemed to me very good, especially the excellent orchestral contribution, under the sure guidance of Pascal Rophé. One had little doubt that this was how the music was supposed to sound, which is far from always the case in such enterprises. (Mantovani has already had his ballet, Siddharta performed at the Bastille.) The gleaming sounds Rophé extracted from the orchestra offered credit to all concerned, not least of course the composer. Mantovani owns that, following his first opera, L’Autre côté, ‘a very masculine opera,’ he had wanted to set to work on a large female role. This was certainly what we were offered in the role of Akhmatova, well taken by the librettist’s wife, Janina Baechle, who proved especially moving during the climactic third act. The splendidly named Atilla Kiss-B also proved increasingly impressive as Akhmatova’s son, Lev Goumilev: one felt his anger and his incomprehension, another victim of state barbarism. A faithful friend indeed was to be seen – and heard – in Varduhi Abrahamyan’s Lydia, her refusal to denounce Akhmatova both moving and convincing. Valérie Condoluci employed her coloratura to effect almost as glittering as the orchestra in the role of Akhmatova’s actress friend, Faina Ranevskaya. I think it is fair to say that there was not a weak link in the cast. Lionel Peintre and Marie-Adeline Henry both impressed as Akhmatova’s ex-husband and his new partner, whilst Fabrice Dalis revealed a fine love-sick – or at least lusting – tenor as sculptor and Tashkent lover of Ranevskaya. It is perhaps by now beside the point to note in particular the use of a counter-tenor, in the guise of Christophe Dumaux’s Representative of the Writers’ Union, chillingly excited by his power in the aftermath of the Zhdanov Decrees. What might not so long ago have been used, if at all, as some sort of special effect, now seems for many composers a perfectly natural choice, yet the timbre seemed especially well chosen for such ‘non-masculine’ nastiness and the performance amply justified its use.

Ghristi’s libretto seemed to perform its task well, for the most part self-effacing, yet permitting Mantovani to do his job. A few English phrases – from visiting academics – did not sound quite so natural, but other than that, the story was told clearly, in a narrative anything but avant-garde in its construction, leading us unproblematically from the years of Stalin’s Terror to some point beyond the dictator’s death. Nicolas Joel, perhaps controversially, adopted the twin guise of patron and director. In terms of the latter role, I have little to say, other than to note the stark, monochrome designs and lighting (Wolfgang Gussmann and Hans Toelstede), relieved in the Tashkent artists’ war-exile scene (Act Two, Scene Three) by scarlet, erotically evocative of the actress, Ranevskaya and, no doubt, the unreality of the artists’ situation. As with the libretto, the direction, despite occasional confusion of place, in general permitted Mantovani’s music the principal role. A tale of two cities, once again…

Bruno Mantovani, Akhmatova

Bruno Mantovani's second opera, Akhmatova, will be premiered at the Opéra national de Paris on 28 March. I shall be there for its second performance, on 31st. Fresh from the reported success of his ballet, Siddharta, which received its first performances at the same house last season - perhaps there is hope after all for Fantasy Opera and even Fantasy Ballet! - Mantovani, his librettist, Christophe Ghristi, and his conductor, Pascal Rophé, speak here of their collaboration to date. The online journal, we are promised, will be updated as time goes on...

For those wanting a taste of Mantovani's music, here is a performance of his L'Incandescence de la bruine, for saxophone and piano:



Forthcoming commissions include a piece for the Ensemble Modern, to be conducted by Pierre Boulez, another for the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra and Riccardo Chailly, and a violin concerto for Renaud Capuçon. For the composer's website, click here.

I should hate to jinx the work, but I think we may rest assured that it will turn out rather better than Anna Nicole...