Prom 57 - Swedish RSO/Harding: Mahler, 29 August 2014

Royal Albert Hall

Symphony no.2 in C minor

Kate Royal (soprano)

Christianne Stotijn (mezzo-soprano)

Swedish Radio Choir (chorus master: Peter Dijkstra)

Philharmonia Chorus (chorus master: Stefan Bevier)

Swedish Radio Symphony Orchestra

Daniel Harding (conductor)

 

This was, all told, an impressive performance of Mahler’s Second Symphony from Daniel Harding, the Swedish Radio Symphony Orchestra, their soloists and choruses. Harding’s direction avoided egotism without becoming faceless, plotted Mahler’s narrative with a keen sense of drama that came nowhere near the vulgar theatrics we too often hear in this music, and, no mean feat this in itself, managed soon enough to rise above the Royal Albert Hall’s dreadful acoustics, in a performance that balanced instruments as well as competing dramatic imperatives.

 

The first movement opened with fine attack from the Swedish cellos and double basses. String tone did not always sound so full in general, but that was probably a matter more of the aforementioned acoustic, to which my ears soon adjusted. Harding attended to detail, whether in terms of dynamic contrasts or rubato, without the mannerism of undue micromanagement. Woodwind were nicely pungent, brass splendidly militaristic, but just as important, indeed probably more so, was the sense of awe and unease in those extraordinary Mahlerian liminal zones. This was not a case of rehashing a performance of a work many of us have perhaps heard too often, at least in mediocre performances or worse; it drew us in to listen. Vistas, both physical and metaphysical, opened up, often subtly, but without shying away from grander gestures, well prepared, when necessary. If there were a few occasions when, in abstracto at least, I might have favoured slightly more gradual shifts of tempo, the well-nigh Wagnerian cut and thrust largely compensated; indeed, I thought more than once of Wagner’s semi-serious desire for an ‘invisible theatre’. There was no denying that a musical mind was at work here – and that is more important than whether everyone might have completely agreed with every decision. In the recapitulation, material sounded properly changed in the light of what had gone before. There was nice violin portamento to savour too: not self-regarding, but still a delight. Rarely have I heard the downward scalic harp passages so charged with menace; Boulez’s performances of this work came to mind.

 

What a pity, then, that an ill-mannered section of the audience decided to talk through the silence that should have followed. Surely, aware of Mahler’s intentions or no, the sign that Harding had sat down rather than left the stage, ought to have given a clue. In any case, the second movement proceeded with a winning lilt, rubato again well judged, and warm strings. A flute as pure as a mountain spring intervened and made its point. There was a lovely sense of a serenading band writ large, though actually not so very large, rendering turbulence all the more eruptive when it came. Pizzicato strings evoked suitably spooky marionettes – yet with good nature too: this was no mere house of horrors.

 

Timpani announced the third movement attacca, in spirit as well as in the letter. Artlessness and artfulness, innocence and guile were splendidly balanced in the twisting turns of what many of us now unavoidably think of as this pre-Berio (Sinfonia) river. Sardonic woodwind helped; so did a fine sense of irony that Harding and his players never sought to overplay. The fishes were relished, but so was the preacher: perhaps a shade here of Ecclesiastes as well as St Anthony of Padua? And crucially, good musical values, not least clarity and direction of counterpoint underlay such ideas. The music sounded more Bachian than we often hear – and to good effect. Not that dreams and phantasmagoria were neglected, but they made their point all the more strongly with countervailing tendencies given their due. Thematic connections with music that had gone and music that was yet to come were apparent and meaningful throughout.

 

In ‘Urlicht’, Christianne Stotijn proved straightforward but never simplistic. Words were crystal clear. The brass response to her opening line sounded as if an ambivalent chorale or even equale: was this death or something else that was heralded? As so often with Mahler, either/or misses the point. The Wunderhorn character of the ‘song’ was not forgotten, but rather sublimated in its new context.

 

The finale emerged ‘naturally’, art concealing art, from its predecessor, whilst also audibly sowing thematic seeds for what was to come. There are, of course, many dissimilarities here with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, but the similarities registered rather strongly, again being permitted to make their own point instead of being underlined. Once more, drama came to the fore, but without sacrificing the more ‘purely’ musical dynamism of form. (The dichotomy is false, but nevertheless merits an occasional heuristic mention.) The interplay between the (otherworldly?) off-stage band and on-stage musicians was truly disconcerting: death and resurrection are, after all, no easy things. Hesitant steps thereafter did not want for awe, finally preparing the way for the chorus’s entry, for the re-entry of the word – and perhaps even for the entry of the Word? We could not be sure, and that, surely, is Mahler’s point. Kate Royal’s diction was initially poor, sounding more akin to an operatic ‘vocalise’ than to the Lieder-like contribution of Stotijn, but, to Royal’s credit, Stotijn’s return had her improve her game considerably. In any case, the Swedish Radio Choir and Philharmonia Chorus were on fine form; one could have taken dictation from them. If I say that the rest took care of itself, that would of course be an exaggeration, but it flowed so ‘naturally’ – that word again – from what had been prepared that it almost seemed to do so. And that chord on ‘Gott’ sent shivers down the spine, as it must.

What a pity, then, that a loutish minority did its best to ruin things by denying even the briefest of silences, competing instead to issue the first farmyard noise in response. Such selfish exhibitionism has as little place in a Mahler audience as in a Mahler performance.

 

 

LSO/Bychkov - Mahler, Symphony no.3, 1 April 2012

Barbican Hall

Christianne Stotijn (mezzo-soprano)
Tiffin Boys’ Choir
Ladies of the London Symphony Chorus
London Symphony Orchestra
Semyon Bychkov (conductor)

Many recent, or relatively recent, Mahler performances have proved disappointing. Part of the problem has been that there have simply been too many, or rather too many unnecessary, performances. Following the unfortunate conjunction of two anniversary years in 2010 and 2011, we might have hoped that things would have calmed down a little, and perhaps they have; it was striking that a concert one might have expected to sell out had not. Nevertheless, I entertained hopes that this might be a (Mahler) performance as it should be: a special event, rather than the latest instalment in a vainglorious ‘cycle’ by a conductor who had nothing to say about the music, or had merely inappropriate things to say about it. This was, I think, the first time I had heard Semyon Bychkov in Mahler, though I have had occasion to admire him in a number of other composers, not least Wagner and Strauss. My hopes were on this occasion, however, only partially fulfilled, despite a good number of virtues to Bychkov’s and indeed to the LSO’s performance.

Alarm bells rang at the very opening, at its sheer volume and, perhaps more to the point, its seeming militarism. Yes, Mahler marks the eight horns fortissimo and so on, but the LSO sounded more in Star Wars than in Mahler mode. Part of this, I am sure, was a matter of the Barbican acoustic. Indeed, throughout, I could not help but wonder how different the performance might have sounded in the larger Royal Festival Hall, even the generally accursed Royal Albert Hall, let alone a more favoured venue abroad. That said, I do not remember feeling quite so brutalised when Bernard Haitink led a performance from the Berlin Philharmonic in the same hall of the same symphony a few years ago (2004). I also could not help but wonder whether Bychkov was hearing Mahler partly through the ears of Shostakovich. Doubtless many find this a valid, even a welcome, approach; for me, however, it serves only to bring to mind Boulez’s acid observation about pressings of olive oil and the Russian composer as the ‘second, or even third, pressing of Mahler’. Bychkov imparted straightforward direction to his rhythmically alert traversal of this vast movement that was undoubtedly welcome, strongly contrasted with the dreadfully mannered disfigurations visited upon it last year by Sir Simon Rattle (‘an incoherent mess’, I wrote at the time). Thematic intimations of what was to come, both in this movement and beyond, were clearly signalled. Yet the character of the music often seemed to be misjudged – and I deliberately add ‘seemed to me’, since I appreciate that others may have good reason to think differently. Certainly one’s appreciation of the marching music’s near barbarism was likely to depend on one’s appreciation not only of Shostakovich but also of Mahler sounding close to him. Ultimately, I missed a sense of the metaphysical; it was all too earth-bound.

Again, experience of the second movement would have depended upon one’s assessment of its character – and the relation of that character to what was heard. It opened with a heightened sense of fantasy, redolent of early Stravinsky, perhaps even Debussy: striking and not at all what I had been expecting. Whilst open to the idea, I can imagine that many might have thought it a little wide of the mark. Bychkov’s wide tempo fluctuations were also striking, the basic tempo a perfectly justifiable reading of ‘Sehr mässig’, other sections really rather fast indeed, perhaps too much so. Some of the massed violin playing I found schmaltzy in character: less Strauss than Korngold. There was, however, some lovingly handled rubato to savour, and the ending proved quite magical, the fantastical sonority working especially well here. As a whole, however, and this observation might be writ large for the symphony as a whole, I wondered whether Bychkov was a little too intent to follow Mahler’s hyperbolic claim that a symphony ‘must be like the world. It must embrace everything.’ Clearly nothing embraces everything; some aspects of the world will always be omitted or simply irrelevant.

The third movement was nicely contrasted, perky woodwind contributing significantly to its character. Moreover, Bychkov skilfully combined, contrasted even, the competing demands of Beethovenian purpose and a true sense of mystery, the music sometimes on the verge of, but only on the verge of, modernistic disintegration. I still felt that the brass could be on the brash, overpowering side, but the posthorn solos (Christopher Deacon, flugelhorn) were beautifully played and ‘accompanied’. Whether the requisite sense of the metaphysical were truly present in Bychkov’s reading, I was less sure; at times, this seemed more of a landscape than whatever else it might have been. There remained, however, much to admire.

Enter Christianne Stotijn. (And let us skate over the applause some members of the audience thought appropriate at that moment.) I am afraid I found her contribution quite misjudged. The words were admirably clear and seemingly ‘meant’; yet she acted her ‘part’ as if she were a character in an opera, an impression that was heard as much as seen. At least the oboe’s ‘hinaufziehen’ marking was not turned into something grotesque: as convincing a middle-way as I have heard between a sober, old-style performance and the downright silly ‘effect’ the likes of Rattle impose upon the music. Both Bychkov and oboist Domenico Orlando should be accorded thanks for that. The following movement was sung with a delightful lilt, the choral forces on excellent form. Again, however, Stotijn’s delivery was weirdly operatic – especially for one who has made her name in Lieder. Her intonation also at times left a great deal to be desired.

It was quite a journey, then, and to my ears at least not always a journey travelled along the best-chosen path, but the great slow movement with which Mahler concludes or consummates his symphony turned out to be a triumph unalloyed. Its strains emerged beautifully, almost imperceptibly, from the final bar of its predecessor. The LSO’s string tone was warm, never too bright. Bychkov’s reading was possessed of a quiet dignity from which the music could bloom as ‘naturally’ as one might ever have imagined. Such blooming was variegated, however; goal-direction was ever-present but anything but simplistic. The conductor’s command of line remained second to none, though, permitting us to hear the movement as if in a single breath. There were occasional imperfections, but they served only to emphasise that the musicians were humans, not automatons. This movement at least was the work of a great conductor. I wished that I could hear a new reading of the symphony as a whole in the light of what we had now observed.

LPO/Jurowski - Ligeti, Bartók, and Mahler, 29 January 2011

Royal Festival Hall

Ligeti – Lontano
Bartók – Violin Concerto no.1
Mahler – Das klagende Lied (original version)

Barnabás Kelemen (violin)
Jacob Thorn (treble)
Leopold Benedict (treble)
Melanie Diener (soprano)
Christianne Stotijn (mezzo-soprano)
Michael König (tenor)
Christopher Purves (baritone)

London Philharmonic Choir (chorus master: Neville Creed)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Thomas Blunt (off-stage band conductor)
Vladimir Jurowski (conductor)


Quite a programme: as Vladimir Jurowski had commented three nights earlier, these two London Philharmonic concerts were to be taken as a pair, circling around Mahler, and in particular the original version of Das klagende Lied, though a Hungarian connection was perhaps just as strong. A performance of Das klagende Lied, especially in its original version, is of course an event in itself – unlike the manifold unnecessary Mahler performances we are hearing or avoiding over the 2010-11 double-anniversary year.

There was, however, also a first half of generous duration to be heard. Ligeti’s Lontano is a masterpiece; so it sounded here, despite an almost inevitable bronchial onslaught. (Cannot these people simply stay at home if they are that ill?) It would be vain to pretend that such thoughtlessness did not detract from the shifting sounds of Ligeti’s large orchestra. Nevertheless, the almost countless statements of the Lux æterna theme, taken at varying speeds, coming together to form his typical yet ever-different cloud- textures, were clearly manifested both individually and collectively – thanks in no small part to such fine playing from the LPO. Colours, temperatures, intensities: call them what you will, they were all to be heard here, in perpetual evolution. The climax before the end was well shaped by Jurowski, likewise the final retreat into another distance, or perhaps the same one. An encore, without a good – or rather bad – part of the audience, would have been most welcome.

Anyone interested in Bartók’s music – and how could anyone not be? – will find much of interest in his posthumously published First Violin Concerto, though it remains somewhat less than a masterpiece. (Comparisons may be odious, but consider the Second: one of the great concertos of the twentieth century, or indeed of any other.) It nevertheless received fine advocacy from Barnabás Kelemen, Jurowski, and the LPO. In the first movement, Kelemen proved an ardent, impassioned soloist, whilst Jurowski once again proved expert in shaping the progress to climax. I found Kelemen’s vibrato a little heavy, but that is really a matter of taste and I can understand why it might be thought appropriate to such ‘Hungarian’ music. If the final solo phrase proved a little fallible, that largely reflects pon the high quality of performance heard elsewhere. Technique and unabashed virtuosity were much in evidence in the second movement. Yet the orchestral part was every bit as impressive, a note of Debussy-like fantasy, harps and all, being struck from the very outset. We did not seem so very far from the realm of The Wooden Prince; at times, we verged close, and rightly so, to Strauss. If the musicians could not entirely conceal the somewhat rhapsodic structure, I doubt that anyone could. Kelemen treated the audience to two encores: a scintillating account of the Presto from the Bartók solo sonata, which made one keen to hear him in the complete work, and a fine Sarabande from Bach’s Partita in D minor. The latter evinced a cleaner sound, in no way ‘authenticke’ but alert to the music’s contrapuntal and harmonic requirements.

Jurowski amply justified performance of the original version of Das klagende Lied. There is no need to be fundamentalist about such matters; there are gains as well as losses to be heard in the revision born of experience. (Why one might prefer not to hear Waldmärchen, though, I find difficult to understand, even if one were to adopt a hybrid approach.) However, had I to choose, I should hear the original more often than not; its demands may be extravagant, but not for the sake of extravagance, rather at the service of the young Mahler’s extraordinary imagination. The opening horns enchanted: there is no sound that better encapsulates German Romanticism, both bright-eyed and yet somehow already forlorn. Equally enchanting was the woodwind throng that joined them. A magical kingdom was awakening, quite in keeping with the text we were about to hear. Everything from Der Freischütz to Gurrelieder (still, of course, some way into the future), by way of pretty much all of Wagner’s music dramas, is there and was heard to be there. Yet, by the same token, almost every bar sounds a voice that is Mahler’s alone. We hear premonitions of the early symphonies as well as the Wunderhorn songs. What comes across most vividly of all is the vernal freshness, even when, perhaps particularly when, tragedy takes centre stage. The LPO, off-stage band and all, responded in fine spirit. If there were occasions when synchronisation was not absolute, there was nothing to perturb in Jurowski’s marshalling of his forces.

Had I a criticism of Jurowski’s direction, it would be that he tended a little much towards the operatic. Yes, Götterdämmerung is there, as it is in Gurrelieder, but Mahler’s story-telling, here as elsewhere, is of a subtly different kind; it is not straightforwardly representative, let alone realist. The music may be more bound to the text than would be necessary in the light of his subsequent experience, but an overarching, quasi-symphonic form benefits from being heard too. I do not wish to exaggerate, for this was far from formless, and the competing demands may ultimately prove irreconcilable. However, I felt that, for instance, the slower passages in the Hochzeitstück dragged a little within the context of the whole, as if dictated by a desire to depict would-be stage action that is better left to the listener’s imagination. On the other hand, the way in which Jurowski drew out thematic links between the first and third movements and their implications, not least the varying treatment of that descending scale, was only to be applauded.

Vocally, the star turn was the excellent London Philharmonic Choir, attentive to the text and well-rounded of tone. A mighty noise could be made where necessary, but the softer, subtler woodland descriptions were just as impressive. The soloists seemed oddly selected. They were most likely not helped by being seated behind the orchestra; for some reason, Jurowski also followed this practice in his performance of Korngold’s Das Wunder der Heliane. Yet that was clearly not the only factor, for the voices of solo choir members often resounded more satisfyingly than those of the named soloists. The men conveyed their words decently enough but often sounded dry, likewise Melanie Diener. Christianne Stotijn showed, however, that Lieder-like intimacy was far from incompatible with greater projection. The two boys, Jacob Thorn and Leopold Benedict, were also to be commended, their high notes truly piercing in emotional terms: Cain and Abel indeed.

Whatever incidental flaws, then, there may have been to the performance as a whole, and it is well-nigh impossible to conceive of a flawless performance of this work, it proved that, from the outset, Mahler was possessed not only of imagination but of a rare power to engage the listener emotionally. His genius was never in doubt.

LSO/Haitink - Schubert and Mahler, 11 October 2009

Barbican Hall

Schubert – Symphony no.8 in B minor, ‘Unfinished’
Mahler – Das Lied von der Erde

Christianne Stotijn (mezzo-soprano)
Anthony Dean Griffey (tenor)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

I doubt that I should have placed money on Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony being the greater performance in this programme, but that, despite some splendid orchestral playing from the London Symphony Orchestra in Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde, is how it turned out. Bernard Haitink sounded more Furtwänglerian in the Schubert than I can recall before: a considerable contrast with his recent Beethoven. The first movement’s opening cello line sounded like a Brucknerian de profundis, immediately followed by teeming Schubertian life, from the woodwind especially. Placing the cellos on his right ensured that the antiphonal interplay between violins – often firsts and seconds – and cellos was given full opportunity to resound: instructive to those who would dogmatically argue for one seating arrangement or another. There were moments when the LSO’s woodwind and horns brought a magic that looked forward – of course, not that far forward – to Mendelssohn, but Bruckner, and Furtwängler’s Bruckner at that, returned in the development as ominous waves built up to express great angst, three trombones and all, and ultimately the unfulfilled developmental climax that necessitates the recapitulation. Haitink’s formal command was supreme throughout, not least in ensuring how very different the second group, with its new tonality, sounded in the recapitulation from its first appearance in the exposition. And the LSO musicians played their hearts out for him, never more than in the beautiful, desolate coda. There was real anger here, real tragedy.

The second, final movement once again brought woodland magic from woodwind and horns, answered gravely yet charmingly by the strings; there was rustic strength too. Then the hushed second subject prepared the way, yet permitted one to be taken aback by, the full orchestral onslaught with which its subsequent development commences, the conflict between the two expressive modes proving irresolvable – truly Romantic. New vistas would be glimpsed: a Mahlerian move, even if the vistas themselves were not so Mahlerian. Uneasy contentment was the mood of the close: unfinished business in more sense than one.

Haitink and the LSO were let down by the vocal soloists in Das Lied von der Erde. Anthony Dean Griffey was a last minute replacement for the indisposed Robert Gambill. I felt sorry for him but, in what were very unfair circumstances, he could rarely prove himself equal to Mahler’s extraordinary demands, doubtless unreasonable in themselves. Singing with a heavy vibrato throughout, his tone remained unmodulated, often laboured, perhaps especially during Von der Jugend, but elsewhere too. As if to compensate for the relative lack of vocal expression, he ‘acted’ too much, his facial expressions especially distracted. There were times, moreover, for instance in the opening line of Der Trunkene im Frühling, when he shouted more than sang. I had hoped for more from Christianne Stotijn, but she was perhaps the greater disappointment. Intonation was wobbly throughout her first number, Der Einsame im Herbst, and not just there. The penultimate stanza of Von der Schönheit came perilously close to Sprechgesang, not an effect I wish to hear again. Often, she sounded too much like a lyric soprano, lacking depth to her mezzo, though matters improved somewhat, albeit only somewhat, in Der Abschied. There she seemed more at home in the narrative passages. With all of those great accounts of the past ringing in the memory’s ears, this, even at its best, fell considerably short.

Sadly, this often eclipsed, or at least detracted from, a fine orchestral performance. The vigorous orchestral opening to Das Trinklied vom Jammer der Erde took me by surprise, the brass veering a little towards the brash, but it was full of the life shortly to be denied. String sweetness and richness were added to the palette later on. The lovely woodwind mix of Austria and chinoiserie with which Von der Jugend opened set the scene wonderfully, if only the vocal contribution had been more distinguished. When it came to Von der Schönheit, conductor and orchestra proved alert to innumerable shards and shifts of colour, pointing the way most revealingly towards Webern. The bird truly sang in its various guises in Der Trunkene im Frühling, before darkness terrifyingly descended upon the earth for the great farewell. The orchestral introduction to Der Abschied went further in its desolation even than the Schubert we had heard earlier, whilst the ‘interlude’ – the term hardly seems sufficient – following the words ‘O Schönheit, o ewigen Liebens, Lebens trunk’ne Welt,’ really had the bell toll for one and all. It was here, perhaps more than anywhere else, that I wished Haitink were conducting a symphony rather than a song cycle, for a slightly paradoxical consequence of the underpowered vocal contribution was that Das Lied sounded less, not more, symphonic than it ought. The final bars were ravishing, frightening in their stillness, but there was only so much the orchestra could do in such circumstances.

LPO/Jurowski - Kurtág and Mahler, 26 September 2009

Royal Festival Hall

Kurtág – Stele, op.33
Mahler – Symphony no.2 in C minor, ‘Resurrection’

Adriana Kučerová (soprano)
Christianne Stotijn (mezzo-soprano)
London Philharmonic Choir
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Vladimir Jurowski (conductor)

This is not the first time Kurtág’s Stele and Mahler’s Second Symphony have been performed together. The former’s association with memorial and the latter’s focus upon resurrection are suggestive. Likewise, the large forces common to both – this must be one of the few cases when musicians exit the stage in preparation for a work by Mahler – make practical and doubtless economic sense in programming terms. Michael Gielen in his Hänssler recording presents both works with Schoenberg’s Kol Nidre. The Mahler is, however, more often than not programmed alone, so we were hardly short-changed.

Stele received an excellent performance. Written for the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra when Kurtág was composer in residence, the London Philharmonic proved more than equal to the task. So did Vladimir Jurowski in succession to Claudio Abbado. The opening proved expectant in its expansion, the initial pitch of G dissipated through microtonal subversion. The beauty of the doleful woodwind sounds to which this led put me in mind of another memorial, the Berg Violin Concerto, and in particular the Bach chorale used therein, but also of something older, antique even, the Greek world from which the piece gains its title. Guest principal flautist Mattia Petrilli, both here and in the Mahler, was extremely impressive. In the ensuing controlled hysteria, one truly heard how huge the orchestra was, yet Jurowksi ensured that a fine sense of rhythmic momentum was maintained, even in the static passages. At the end, the hints – arguably more than that – of a funeral procession sounded almost as if for Mahler himself.

Jurowski’s account of the Mahler symphony was highly unusual. He has not, at least in London, conducted much of the composer’s music so far, but it is clear that he had given great consideration to this performance. I was not quite sure that everything cohered into a whole, but there could be no doubt that here was someone who had something to say about the composer and his music. This was not just another Mahler Second, for, at a time when that music is arguably over-exposed, we need more than ever a reason to perform it beyond filling concert halls (that in itself, of course, quite a reversal in fortune).

Jurowski began with Boulezian attack but allied to a far swifter tempo; indeed, I am not sure that I have ever heard the music taken so quickly. The brass sometimes blared a bit and there was the odd horn fluff. However, Jurowski displayed a good ear for orchestral detail, not least the all-important, often obscured figures for double bass. The English horn’s sadness put me in mind of Tristan’s shepherd song. Moments of stasis revealed a kinship with Kurtág, though I wondered whether they might have been slightly exaggerated to that end. This, then, was a bracingly modernist first movement, though sometimes perhaps too much; Boulez and Gielen both know that this is a Romantic work too. And then, later on, at the close of the development, there was an almost Bernstein-like hysteria: magnificently performed, but was it really compatible with what had gone before? The movement as a whole came across as somewhat disjointed, especially when the recapitulation reverted, as I suppose it must, to the rushed opening tempo. Portamento for the second subject was beautiful in itself, but sounded in context a little appliqué. Perhaps Jurowski was saying that such unresolved oppositions are what Mahler is about; certainly that was the impression I gained from the performance of the symphony as a whole. One thing for which to be extremely grateful: he rightly silenced the idiotic applause that began at the end of the movement. There was not the length of silence that Mahler requested between this and the second movement, but then I have never been to a performance respecting that wish. Perhaps it is simply impractical. Instead, a barrage of coughing and low-level chatter accompanied the entrance of soloists and chorus.

The Andante moderato was much slower than I have ever heard: considerably slower than even what used to be considered – and by some of us still us – the just tempo for a minuet, and certainly more akin to a ‘slow movement’ than usual. It was charmingly nostalgic, the warmth of string tone, especially in the cello section, contrasting with the steely gleam of the first movement. The minor mode trio sections were very insistent rhythmically – again echoes of Kurtág – though perhaps one was made a little too aware of the bar lines. The effect at so slow a tempo of the pizzicato passages was glacial, the harp unusually and welcomely prominent. I liked this movement very much, though it was decidedly non- or even anti-traditional.

It was good to have the scherzo’s opening kettledrum clatter silence the recidivist coughers. In Jurowski’s hands, this movement was a sardonic danse macabre, the ‘witch’s brew’ of which Mahler himself once spoke. The trio was raucous, vulgar even; there was no attempt to iron out its rusticity. Indeed, its highlighting made that sound unusually banal. I could almost see the village ‘characters’ dancing. Again, I was set thinking that Jurowski’s idea might be to incorporate ‘everything’ into Mahler’s world; after all, the composer famously told Sibelius that a symphony should be a world. The performance as a whole was coming to resemble – and would continue to do so – a vast symphonic poem, which of course is how, in the guise of Totenfeier, it set out. It was a bit like a conflation of Liszt’s Faust and Dante symphonies – and then some. If my preference would be for something more symphonically integrative, I undoubtedly heard many new perspectives upon a work I flattered myself I knew well.

Urlicht was perhaps too ‘different’ in conception. It lacked the hush I think it really needs, being presented instead as a simple, peasant-like explanation of how things will turn out in the hereafter. Christianne Stotijn brought a Lieder-singer’s attention to the meaning of the words, her diction superb. And the spatial dimension of the finale was presaged by having a wind band above the orchestral platform answer that initial, imploring ‘O Röschen rot!’

With the opening sound of the finale, we reverted to the modernism of the first movement. Once again, there was rhythmic insistence, but not always to the benefit of the longer line. The off-stage brass could be fractionally ahead of the on-stage musicians – at least from where I was sitting – but Jurowski brought them into line. This movement received a brazenly pictorial account, cinematic even. I fancied, once again, that I could see the characters, this time members of a procession; I certainly heard their cries. The spatial dimension was heightened immeasurably when one heard the last trumpet from various directions of the beyond. Moreover, the choral contribution was superb, both in diction and tonal variegation. ‘Sterben werd’ ich, um zu Leben!’ (‘I shall die so as to live’) and ‘Aufersteh’n,’ the assurance that we should rise again, sent shivers down my spine. Now I was utterly convinced and was reminded what truly astounding music this is. As the bells rang out – and rang out they most certainly did – one could hear, if this time not see, something of whatever it might be that lies beyond this world.