Musikfest Berlin (8) - Tetzlaff/Konzerthaus Berlin/Eschenbach - Haydn, Jost, and Beethoven, 6 September 2020

Philharmonie

Haydn: Symphony no.21 in A major, Hob. I:21
Christian Jost: Violin Concerto no.2, ‘Concerto Noir Redux’ (world premiere)
Beethoven: Symphony no.8 in F major, op.93

Christian Tetzlaff (violin)

Konzerthausorchester Berlin

Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

How wonderful to hear Haydn’s Symphony no.21 in the concert hall. I had never done so before, and whilst I should happily be corrected, I doubt many others in the audience had. Christoph Eschenbach led the Konzerthausorchester Berlin in a performance alert to the work’s formal strangeness, albeit with none of the exaggeration and downright grotesquerie that often, regrettably, accompany such exploration. The first movement ‘Adagio’ in particular benefited from simply being permitted to speak, however great the art concealed in that ‘simply’. Gorgeous, warm tone invited us in to contemplate and to experience Haydn’s formal mysteries, mysteries through which certain harmonic progressions and their rhythmic instantiation already seemed to prefigure the Beethoven of the Eighth Symphony, if only one listened (to both). Following the model, though only in the most skeletal sense, of the sonata da chiesa, Haydn follows that movement, which, like much in the Beethoven, makes sense so long as one does not wish to put a name to it, with a fast movement, here marked ‘Presto’. It sounded as an eruption of joy, of harmonic release, sharpened by rhythmic, alert playing. Concision and expression in thematic development again had one think of Haydn’s most celebrated pupil, but it was the teacher’s voice that was unmistakeable. Above all, this was music that made me smile. Eschenbach’s unfussy way with the ‘Menuetto’ again had it tell its own story. Its trio’s curious melancholy, rhythmic signature and all, was relished throughout the orchestra. If there were occasional untidiness here, it did little harm. The finale proved a veritable compendium of syncopated surprises, of invention and a posteriori inevitability—thus emulating the first movement, albeit in very different style, ‘Allegro molto’. The spirit of Haydn as revealed through the recordings of Antal Doráti seemed reborn, albeit warmer and more conciliatory. Delightful!


By contrast, I struggled to make much out of Christian Jost’s Concerto Noir Redux, notwithstanding the excellence of solo (Christian Tetzlaff) and ensemble playing. Opening effortful violin slides, taken up by other strings, eventually unleashed something akin to ‘traditional’ solo virtuosity, which Tetzlaff of course possesses in spades. It was interesting to hear how such techniques could be echoed by the skilled percussion section, here four strong, both tuned and untuned. Was that perhaps a sense of the ‘infectious’, in a nod to current preoccupations? So far, so good. Where the rest of this single movement (in roughly twenty-five minutes) went was, to me at least, more obscure. A new, softer focus section sounded redolent of a generic television score. Different moods and sections summoned up music suggestive more of note-spinning than anything else, with curious nods elsewhere, for instance clarinet lines that might have been offcuts from The Rite of Spring. A frenzied close brought this vaguely neo-Romantic, not unpleasant work to an end, at least ten minutes too late; or perhaps that was just me.


I had long ago given up hope of hearing the symphonic Beethoven this year (save for the wonderful ‘Beethoven-Séance’ given in Cologne, during the dying days of our ‘Freyheit’). Anything other than a catastrophe, then, would have been welcome for the Eighth Symphony, and this was certainly not that. Eschenbach’s way with the first movement was insistent, even through agogic accents which would not have been to all tastes. He made no apologies for old-style heft, and was all the better for it, though progress was at times a touch deliberate. There was splendid contrapuntal interplay, though, a battle of a development underpinned by crashing syncopations. Thereafter, the movement proved as full of surprises as the Haydn heard earlier. Again, this fresh reading made me smile, long before triumphant coda and witty sign-off. I was also reminded quite how difficult a piece this is to bring off—even to begin to understand.


Humour is best delivered straight in the ‘Allegretto scherzando’; to do otherwise in this case, would be entirely to miss the point. Its considerable charm suggested paths to Mendelssohn; it also proved an excellent choice of encore. There is more to it than charm, of course, and motivic development came to the fore once that charm could be (almost) taken for granted. There was charm of a different kind in Beethoven’s neo-Classical reinvention of the eighteenth-century Minuet. It boasted all the complexity such cunning reinvention entails, but also due affection. Eschenbach and his players showed a keen ear for detail and balance, the trio once more exuding a tenderness that brought Mendelssohn to mind. Woodwind were not always entirely together, but I could live with that were once. If the concert had begun with a formal enigma, it closed with another, at least in theory. In practice, of course, this finale is what it is—and must be made to sound as such, which it was. I sometimes had my doubts as to whether Eschenbach was proving over-demonstrative, but there is much to be said for such clarity of purpose and texture. It was unyielding at times, but again that was his conception. The jokes of the coda had me laugh, not only smile; for that, I could forgive anything.

Musikfest Berlin (2) – Barto/DSO Berlin/Eschenbach - Mozart, Rihm, and Mendelssohn, 8 September 2017

Philharmonie

Mozart-Busoni – Don Giovanni: Overture

Mozart – Concert aria: ‘Ch’io mi scordi di te? – Non temer, amato bene’, KV 505

Rihm – Piano Concerto no.2

Mendelssohn – Symphony no.4 in A major, ‘Italian’, op.90

Hanna-Elisabeth Müller (soprano)

Tzimon Barto (piano)

Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester Berlin

Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

What a joy it was to hear the Overture to Don Giovanni with Busoni’s 1908 concert ending. Once one has done so, it is difficult to know why anyone would prefer any of the more ‘traditional’ solutions. What a joy, moreover, it was to hear Christoph Eschenbach conduct the Deutsches Symphonie-Orchester Berlin in a performance that was ‘traditional’ in the best, rather than a lazy, way: no modish – or rather, puritanically orthodox – alla breve introduction, and a full orchestral sound, albeit from really rather a small band. The important thing, of course, was that the spirit was there, both in D minor and in D major – and it was. Busoni then plunged us back into the Stone Guest scene, the music subsiding with dark ambivalence: then the scena ultima, whose banishment was ever a stain upon so many ‘Romantic’ interpretations. The first time I ever conducted an orchestra was in this overture; how I wish I had known Busoni’s version then!

Hanna-Elisabeth Müller and Tzimon Barto joined the orchestra then for the wonderful concert aria, ‘Ch’io mi scordi di te? – Non temer, amato bene’. In the recitative, Müller, Eschenbach, and the orchestra worked closely to convey a myriad of subtleties in Mozart’s writing, every note and every word mattering, yet without pedantry. I first thought of Christine Schäfer (with the Berlin Philharmonic and Claudio Abbado), only for Müller then – ‘Venga la morte…’ – to prove far more hochdramatisch. No phrase, verbal or musical, was taken for granted. Barto’s entry, heralding the aria proper, promised much in tone and touch. Alas, his contribution turned out oddly: at times, sensitive, a true partner, at other times curiously heavy-handed. Everything else, however, came close to perfection, the entwining of opera and concerto – not that they are not entwined already! – as apparent in Mozart’s passages of hushed anticipation as in his bravura coloratura.

Barto seemed on much surer ground in the Second Piano Concerto of another Wolfgang: Rihm, which he and Eschenbach premiered in Salzburg with the Gustav Mahler Youth Orchestra in 2014. Its single movement proves, as is often the case, suggestive also of a multi-movement conception, although never quite predictably. The opening material, piano and orchestral chords initially responding to each other, then fusing, has a harmonic language redolent of, yet never to be reduced to, Schoenberg and Berg. Process, however, is certainly quite different, the line seemingly concentrated in the middle register of both solo instrument and orchestra – Rihm views a concerto as ‘only’ meaning that ‘there is a soloist and a collective’ – with bass clarinet in particular offering commentary, and other lines surrounding. Barto and the DSO Berlin provided welcome clarity, without evident sacrifice to ‘atmosphere’. Climaxes and indeed the piece as a whole all seemed very well shaped, Eschenbach clearly having the piece’s measure. A couple of sweet-toned violin solos suggest an alternative path: neither taken, nor eschewed. Later, more Bartókian material evolves from what we had heard, suggestive perhaps of another, related movement, and apparently more malleable in its nature. Rihm is nothing if not eclectic, and yet never seems arbitrary here (apart, perhaps, from a strange guest appearance from temple blocks, but that may well have been my problem). A cadenza passage, underpinned by double basses, pays homage to ‘tradition’, but then so does much of the rest of the piece, without being hidebound: rather like Busoni, one might say. The quiet ending both ‘spoke’ and ‘sang’.

An exhilarating yet never merely breathless performance of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony was to be heard in the second half. The DSO’s sound (or Klang) sounded just right for this music – as, indeed, it had earlier too, lightness and richness two sides of the same coin, woodwind a sheer delight. There was a great deal of pleasure to be taken in the sound itself, albeit never in a Straussian, materialist sense (and rightly so). Eschenbach ensured that the music breathed without sagging. The first movement’s formal dynamism was, so it seemed, effortlessly manifest, art concealing art. Its development proved, much to its advantage, more overtly Beethovenian than often one hears, the recapitulation no mere ‘repeat’, almost a second development, so much having changed in the meantime. Antiphonal violins certainly paid off in the elucidation and drama of Mendelssohn’s counterpoint. The second movement was on the brisk side, yet retained a strong sense of the processional, Mendelssohn’s mastery of orchestration wondrously revealed therein, not least through a variety of articulation. In some ways, the minuet and trio emerged as more of a ‘slow movement’, although that is only a matter of degree. A necessary – or at least desirable – hint of slight nostalgia for a Mozartian world that has passed was beautifully conveyed, not least in the daringly relaxed trio. And what horn playing there was to savour! There was no doubting the orchestral virtuosity we heard in the finale, but it was quite without self-regard, at the service of the musical argument. It seemed over in a trice, leaving us wanting more.

Salzburg Festival (5) - Don Giovanni, 15 August 2014

Images: © Salzburger Festspiele / Michael Pöhn

 

 

Haus für Mozart

Donna Anna – Lenneke Ruiten

Donna Elvira – Anett Fritsch
Zerlina – Valentina Nafornita
Don Giovanni – Ildebrando d’Arcangelo
Leporello – Luca Pisaroni
Commendatore – Tomasz Konieczny
Don Ottavio – Andrew Staples
Masetto – Alessio Arduini

Sven-Eric Bechtolf (director)

Rolf Glittenberg (set designs)
Marianne Glittenberg (costumes)
Friedrich Rorn (lighting)
Ronny Dietrich (dramaturgy)

Philharmonia Chorus Vienna (chorus master: Walter Zeh)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

Why, o why, is it apparently so difficult for directors to come up with a vaguely coherent staging of Don Giovanni? Why, moreover, do so many of them seem so uninterested in, even contemptuous of, the work? It is an opera of such overflowing richness that one would have expected directors to be spoilt for choice when it came to options for staging. Instead, we find ourselves almost always faced with an incoherent mess.

Such is certainly what was served up by Sven-Erich Bechtolf. Bechtholf’s production is probably not quite so bad as London’s twin nadirs of Francesca Zambello and Rufus Norris, but it is difficult to say anything much more positive than that. This year’s Salzburg Festival’s Great War theme – are we not all fed up with such commemorations already? – seems to receive a nod in the updating, but to what end beyond that I cannot say. Similarly the bizarre hotel setting, which makes a nonsense of so much in the work. The closest attention to Da Ponte, let alone to Mozart, seems to be in retaining some vestige of class distinction in presenting Zerlina and Masetto as hotel staff. Beyond that, the opera seems of little interest to Bechtolf. Of religion, let alone of sin, there is nothing – unless one counts the occasional and, in context, quite nonsensical reapparances of the Commendatore as a porcine devil. People dart in and out of hotel rooms and occasionally strip to their underwear in the reception area. Whether comedy be intended is unclear; it certainly is not achieved. Still less is anything approaching tragedy. As for the ending, in which Don Giovanni is still there, chasing after another maid, what is supposed to have happened? Nothing, apparently – which actually is not so very far off the mark. An existentialist conception of Don Giovanni, if that be what this is, is fine in principle, if somewhat partial; but, like any other conception, it needs pursuing coherently. It really is not worth saying any more. Bechtolf’s Così fan tutte, whilst far from perfect, was much better than this; we await next year’s Figaro with trepidation.  

 

Musically, matters were much better. If Christoph Eschenbach did not rise to the heights of Daniel Barenboim in Berlin – by far the best conducted performance of this work I have ever heard – then he nevertheless rose above the rank incompetence and/or sheer perversity we are generally fated to hear. (I really cannot be bothered to compile a list; it would rival Leporello’s in length, if not in excitement.) There was not a single instance in which tempi were objectionable. They were generally well related to one another. And crucially, Eschenbach knew how to draw a fine sound from the Mozart orchestra non pareil, the Vienna Philharmonic, which in turn deigned to play as it can and should. There was not the Furtwänglerian intensity that Barenboim brought to the drama, but there was plenty of light and shade and, that rare thing, an impression that it was being permitted to speak more or less for itself.  Interventionist continuo playing may not be to everyone’s taste, but it did little harm, and indeed livened up a good number of the more hapless moments of stage direction.

 

Don Giovanni (Ildebrando d'Arcangelo)

 

Ildebrando d’Arcangelo made for a brilliant Don Giovanni, insofar as he was permitted to do so. (Why, at one point, did he suddenly have to dress up in the guise of a 1970s gameshow host? At any rate, the Jimmy Savile hint, doubtless coincidental, was not pursued.) Characteristically dark and flexible of tone, d’Arcangelo’s was a smouldering portrayal, which captured to an unusual degree his character’s quicksilver changes of mood and circumstance. Luca Pisaroni’s Leporello was an excellent sidekick, possessing agency in his own right, yet subordinate (again, insofar as Bechtolf’s direction permitted, etc., etc.). Both showed great facility with words, music, and their alchemy. Lenneke Ruiten and Anett Fritsch had their moments as Donna Anna and Donna Elvira, though intonational difficulties were not entirely absent. Andrew Staples sounded a little out of sorts as Don Ottavio; perhaps it was simply an off-night. In any case, despite some less than mellifluous sounds, his dramatic intelligence shone through. Valentina Nafornita and Alessio Arduini made for a characterful, indeed sexy, couple as Zerlina and Masetto. Only Tomasz Konieczny’s surprising unsteady Commendatore really disappointed. The cast, then, mostly did what it could, as did Eschenbach and the orchestra; the fault lay squarely with Bechtolf.

LPO/Eschenbach - Messiaen: Des Canyons aux étoiles, 2 November 2013

Royal Festival Hall

Tzimon Barto (piano)
John Ryan (horn)
Andrew Barclay, Erika Öhman (percussion)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

Bryce Canyon, Utah

 

A strange sight greeted the audience at the Royal Festival Hall. No, not the usual lack of anywhere to sit before the performance, the public spaces having yet again been colonised by whatever the collective noun for massed, less-than-heavenly laptop users might be. (By all means encourage use of the space during the day, but is it that unreasonable to expect some spaces at least to be available for concert-goers at night? One would not be able to enter the Philharmonie, the Musikverein, or for that matter the Royal Opera House without a ticket when a performance was on.) No, not even the sight of the hall creditably full for an hour-and-three-quarters of Messiaen, for the season, ‘The Rest of Noise’, whatever one might think of sometimes predictable, even conservative, programming, has nevertheless more or less guaranteed sizeable audiences for twentieth-century music. It was the bust of Beethoven placed upon the stage. Perusal of the programme noted the reinstatement in the Royal Philharmonic Society’s bicentenary of a venerable tradition for the society’s concerts, the bust having been given to the RPS in 1870 by Fanny Linzbauer, ‘in recognition of the Society’s kindness to Beethoven during the last years of his life’. Why strange, then? Apart from the far from unwelcome surprise, the presence of Beethoven on the stage served principally to underline Messiaen’s strangeness, or perhaps better, his dissociation from the dominant æsthetic of modern Western music. Beethovenian development is quite foreign to a world of repetition and stasis. And if ultimately there is goal-orientation in this work, Des Canyons aux étoiles, it is of a very different nature from that of a Beethoven symphony.

 

Christoph Eschenbach is no mean Beethovenian himself, of course, so it was interesting to hear him in such different repertoire. If there were a few occasions when the knife-edge precision and, just as crucial, time-defying patience of, say, a Boulez was lacking, there was by the same token nothing that was unidiomatic. Eschenbach was blessed by a fine collection of solo musicians: pianist Tzimon Barto, horn player John Ryan, and percussionists, Andrew Barclay and Erika Öhman. And if the London Philharmonic Orchestra was not always as precise or as infallible as a band under Boulez might have been – he conducted the British premiere in 1975, itself an RPS concert – then again, it would be churlish to complain too much about what remained undeniably a memorable occasion.

 

This tour of landscapes both American and heavenly – the Tea Party may need reminding of the distinction, but I doubt that many of its members are avid Messiaen listeners – opens with the desert, ‘Le Désert’. Nigel Simeone’s note reminded us that, according to the composer, ‘The Desert represents the emptiness that is needed if the soul is to be receptive to the message of the Holy Spirit.’ There certainly was an element of that necessary stillness, even barrenness, both from the obvious – too obvious? – wind machine and, more thoroughly penetrating to the spiritual heart of the matter, lonely solo orchestral instruments. Yet there was also a sense even here, in the opening call, and in the later solos, of God’s Creation made manifest, immanent, even in its most inhospitable environment. And God seemed to speak, unanswerable, unchallenged, through Ryan’s horn. ‘Les Orioles’ offered a more fully realised vision of joy in Creation: birdsong of course, but also harmonies that would not have been out of place in L’Ascension, Barclay’s contribution to tuned percussion every bit as precise as that of Barto. A harder-edged sonority announced itself at the beginning of ‘Ce qui est écrit sure les étoiles’, setting the scene for its portentous apocalyptic quality. Lack of unanimity amongst the orchestra slightly lessened its impact, but that should not be exaggerated. The piano solo, ‘Le Cossyphe d’Heuglin’ (‘The White-browed Robin’) – Messiaen is certainly good for enriching one’s avian vocabulary – was despatched with crystalline clarity, occasionally besmirched by what might have been a little over-pedalling. The final movement of the first part, ‘Cedar Breaks et le Don de Crainte’ was urgent and, yes again, apocalyptical, imbued with a sense of God’s majesty.  There were a few cases in which woodwind rhythms might have been tighter; it was not entirely clear whether that was Eschenbach’s doing. Yet again, there was little truly to detract from the gift of awe. And there was a splendid contribution from muted trumpet.

 

The second part opens with the celebrated horn solo, ‘Appel interstellaire’. It received a splendid performance from Ryan, echoes and all. Not only was there more tonal variegation than one might reasonably have hoped for; there was, more importantly still, a proper sense of narrative coherence. I could not help be put in mind at one point of the cor anglais solo from Act III of Tristan, as well as more obvious French horn-specific precedents. ‘Bryce Canyon et les rochers rouge-orange’ is the largest movement in the work. Again, it sometimes lacked the last word in rhythmical exactitude, but that was certainly not the case with the contributions from the soloists or indeed from the admirable LPO string section. Moreover, there was nothing that detracted or distracted from the sense of divine awe and majesty. Barto really pounded the bass of his instrument, the treble passages proving equal in authority.

 

‘Les Ressuscités et le chant de l’étoile Aldébaran’ opens the third and final part. It initially offered a post-Debussyan air of hazy mystery, which Messia(e)nic certitude soon broke through. Despite a few loose ends, the music’s hieratic progress mesmerised. Barto’s second solo movement, ‘Le Moqueur Polyglotte’, was impressive: songful and muscular. At the same time, I entertained the doubtless heretical thought that this mockingbird perhaps overstays his welcome. ‘La Grive des bois’ offered another occasion for percussionists, both solo and orchestral, to shine, which they did. ‘Omao, Leiothrix, Elepaio, Shama’ showed, amongst other things, that the horns had not gone away, their opening calls leaving us in no doubt about that. A wonderful chorus of birdsong followed: a sense imparted of triumph being prepared. And so it came to pass in ‘Zion Park et la Cité Céleste’, a typically Messiaenesque celestial coronation. The birds were far from silenced; rather they were sublimated – assumed? – into a new heaven-scape, itself summoned into being by the divine brass chorale, implacable yet not without tenderness. This final movement thus proved summative in a musical and a theological sense. Its conclusion sent shivers down the spine; as Messiaen put it, ‘the bells ring out, heralding the ultimate joy.’

 

 

Salzburg Festival (8) - Così fan tutte, 25 August 2013

Haus für Mozart

Fiordiligi – Malin Hartelius

Dorabella – Marie-Claude Chappius
Despina – Martina Janková
Ferrando – Martin Mitterrutzner
Guglielmo – Luca Pisaroni
Don Alfonso – Gerald Finley

Sven-Erik Bechtolf (director)

Rolf Glittenberg (set designs)
Marianne Glittenberg (costumes)
Jürgen Hofmann (lighting)
Ronny Dietrich (dramaturgy)

Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus (chorus master: Ernst Raffelsberger)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

 

Images © Michael Pöhn
Ferrando (Martin Mitterrutzner), Gerald Finley (Don Alfonso), Guglielmo (Luca Pisaroni)

I have scrupulously avoided reviews of the opening night of Salzburg’s new Così fan tutte before writing this review (of the second night: well, afternoon, the performance beginning at the very odd time of 1 p.m.). However, news filtered through to me that it was universally execrated – perhaps an exaggeration, but we shall see – and indeed that Christoph Eschenbach had been booed. I have never held the highest opinion of newspaper journalists, though there are many honourable exceptions; ‘some of my best friends...’ etc. In this case, however, all I can say that either I have been misinformed, or the second night was entirely different from the first (possible), or journalists deserve to sink lower still in our imagination. Whilst this was not the finest Cosi I have heard, or indeed seen, it was superior to many others, and such a reaction, especially when apparently universal – which should perhaps always make one suspicious, were the idea of a Franz Welser-Möst claque not so inherently ridiculous – seems straightforwardly incomprehensible.

 

Let us start with the conductor and orchestra, then. Welser-Möst had made a great song and dance about withdrawing not only from this production, but the projected Da Ponte cycle (Don Giovanni next year, Figaro and the cycle as a whole in 2015), allegedly on behalf of the Vienna Philharmonic, yet the claims of unacceptable rehearsal schedules lose all credibility when any comparison is made with the typical state of affairs ‘at home’, at the Vienna State Opera. Eschenbach’s appointment as replacement seemed at the time to me an interesting and indeed hopeful sign, indicative of Alexander Pereira’s laudable determination, voiced in a press conference I attended in London, that Mozart should not now fall victim to what he all too accurately, if all too tragically, termed the ‘Bach problem’, namely that Mozart should not also fall victim to capture by the ‘authenticke’ brigade and its fellow-travellers. (Having Nikolaus Harnoncourt conduct The Magic Flute last year with the Concentus musicus Wien may sit oddly with that, but may simply betoken genuine open-mindedness. Stranger things have happened. Allegedly.) If this were not a performance with the depth of insight, and indeed of life-long immersion, of the late Sir Colin Davis, or Karl Böhm (how glorious the years in which Salzburg effectively designated Così as his province must have been!), it was far more than efficient. Tempi were convincingly if not always conventionally chosen; even if there were a few occasions when pit and stage lost touch – for some reason, a surprisingly common occurrence in this opera – they were swiftly corrected. Most impressive was Eschenbach’s sense of chiaroscuro, for which the VPO must also of course share praise. There was not a single ugly sound – perhaps the critics were longing for some of Harnoncourt’s ‘abrasiveness’, the most diplomatic term I can offer – but this was not bland. Lightness of touch did not preclude emotional and, on a few occasions, sonorous profundity. I had expected Eschenbach that would use a larger orchestra; the VPO was essentially reduced to a chamber band, yet that reduction did not entail the clattering of Meissen china. Eschenbach, to my surprise, opted for a fortepiano continuo. It is strange how conductors – and indeed pianists – who would never consider using the period instrument for solo work opt for it as continuo instrument; Riccardo Muti is another example. Quite what the problem with a modern piano is held to be I am not sure, but Enrico Maria Cacciari’s playing was alert and stylish, without exhibitionism, much like the orchestra as a whole.

Dorabella (Marie-Claude Chappuis), Fiordiligi (Malin Hartelius), Don Alfonso, Despina (Martina Janková), Guglielmo

 

 

The cast on the whole impressed too, though there was some unevenness. Gerald Finley though was a masterly and masterful – for once the oft-confused words both apply here – Don Alfonso, making his mark through authority and quicksilver response to text and situation, a worthy successor to Sir Thomas Allen, whom I heard more than once in that role here in Salzburg. Luca Pisaroni proved just as distinguished a Guglielmo as he had a Figaro in Claus Guth’s excellent Salzburg staging. Suavely and darkly attractive of voice and presence, his attentiveness to the text was every bit the equal of Finley’s, suggesting the truth of Stanley Sadie’s oft-repeated remark that the presence of an Italian native speaker in a Mozart cast lifted the general level of responsiveness to the libretto. Both singers can act too – and did. Martin Mitterrutzner often sang attractively as Ferrando, but sounded parted by the role a little too often; whether this were just an off-day, or a more general problem, I cannot say. He is certainly an eager stage animal. Malin Hartelius sometimes experienced problems with her coloratura, but by the same token, there was much to enjoy, and her performance improved as it progressed. Mozart, the cruellest of musical masters, if the most necessary for vocal (and instrumental) health and flexibility, of course offers nowhere to hide. Marie-Claude Chappuis offered proper vocal contrast, attractively despatched in vocal and stage terms, as Dorabella, and Martina Janková offered a more musical, less caricatured Despina than most we endure. Choral singing was of a notably high standard, even though there is not that much of it.

 

Bechtolf’s staging may not have been the most radical the work has experienced; I retain fond memories of Hans Neuenfels’s 2000 Salzburg staging, the first time I saw the work in the theatre, though sometimes I seem to be the only one who does. But Bechtolf’s staging makes a strong, rather than lazy, case for setting the work in a contemporary setting – contemporary, that is, to Mozart and Da Ponte, as – at the time – it was ‘intended’. It is not set in Naples, but then it is in no sense whatsoever ‘about’ Naples. Indeed, its siting there was probably a matter of evading the censor, who may have disapproved of the work’s ‘immorality’ being set too close to home, as in the alleged ‘true story’ from the Wiener Neustadt – ‘Nea polis’. At any rate, a handsome eighteenth-century setting, with a fine sense of the cusp between Enlightenment reason and proto-Romantic sensibility, was not there to flatter audience members who simply wished to sigh at pretty frocks; it served a dramatic purpose. Sometimes the conflict between those two opposing, or at least not identical, forces is more convincing than at other points. The spa/hot-house setting works well, I think, and put me in mind – though I doubt that this were the intention – of the relationship I have long pondered between Così  and the Treibhaus of Tristan. However, the drunkenness of the sisters at the beginning of the second act seems a mistake, exaggerated for effect, and trespassing upon the music, even if it were ‘only’ recitative. There is nothing other, though, that I should describe as un-musical, which again marks a refreshing contrast with many opera stagings, of whatever hue. Don Alfonso’s drinking of poison at the end is surprising, though again it made me consider complement and contradiction to Tristan. Perhaps Bechtolf was suggesting that Così is not quite so clear-eyed and unflinching with regard to the illusions and delusions of ‘romantic’ and ‘Romantic’ love, or perhaps he was saying the opposite; at the very least, it made me think.

LPO/Eschenbach - Schumann and Beethoven, 14 November 2012

Royal Festival Hall

 

Schumann – Overture: Der Braut von Messina, op.100
Beethoven – Concerto for piano, violin, and cello in C major, op.56
Schumann – Symphony no.2 in C major, op.61

Baiba Skride (violin)
Daniel Müller-Schott (cello)
Lars Vogt (piano)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Christoph Eschenbach (conductor)

Christoph Eschenbach is a regular visitor to the London Philharmonic, but I think this was the first time I caught them together. I certainly hope that it will not be the last, for it is quite a while since I have heard the LPO on such good form. There was no nonsense about scaling the orchestra down (fifteen firsts down to eight double basses for the Schumann works); that cannot but have helped. But the dark, convincingly German tone Eschenbach drew from the orchestra was just as important, probably more so. Schumann’s Bride of Messina Overture made for an excellent opening, its introduction full of tension, slow but quite the opposite of staid, as if on a coiled spring. The main Allegro was properly tormented, the prominent piccolo part reminiscent of Beethoven’s use of the instrument. A warmly lyrical clarinet second subject offered balm to the soul, though it was soon undercut. This is the sort of piece – and performance – for which the word ‘Romanticism’ might have been intended, and it is a piece we should hear more often.

 

The opening of Beethoven’s Triple Concerto nevertheless registered an increase in voltage. What a joy it was to hear the LPO sounding so darkly German in tone, miles away from the quasi-‘authentic’ experiments of its music director. Romantic warmth from the cello, cultivation from the violin, obstinate ruggedness from the piano: those were the initial impressions gleaned from the solo instruments’ first entries. Character, then, was portrayed, though it was amenable to transformation according to Beethoven’s demands. Sometimes I felt that Lars Vogt’s piano playing was ingratiating, and could also be rather neutral in tone, but at least it was not sentimentalised. Though he did nothing to upstage his colleagues, Daniel Müller-Schott’s performance of the cello part was the star turn for me. Eschenbach’s handling of the orchestra was equally important though, drive coming from within, or better from below (the bass line). The slow movement opened with a sweetly intense solo from Müller-Schott. The trio, including Baiba Skride’s violin thereafter blended uncommonly well in an ideally posed account that gave Beethoven all the time he needed, without ever coming close to dragging. Orchestral depth was present where it mattered. Müller-Schott’s transition to the finale was finely judged. The movement fairly danced, lacking nothing to start with in Beethovenian vigour, but fading of the latter made it overstay its welcome. There should not be a suspicion of note-spinning; here there was, if only slightly.

 

Schumann’s Second Symphony received a memorable account, revealing Eschenbach and the LPO at their finest. I was very much in two minds for the first half of the first movement – but that intrigued me. At first, I wondered whether Eschenbach’s direction was two four-square, playing to the score’s potential weaknesses; however, Eschenbach took the high road of making a virtue out of them. If his reading lacked the easy flow of, say, Wolfgang Sawallisch, then rhythmic and motivic insistence told their own story, even when underlined to an extent I should have thought undesirable in theory. That was all the more the case when themes were tossed between parts, Eschenbach’s division of the violins paying off handsomely, though the woodwind proved equally distinguished in that respect. This movement often sounded like an uphill struggle, even swimming against the tide, yet it held the attention and, more than that, compelled. And there was a truly Beethovenian spirit of triumph to the recapitulation.

 

The scherzo was taken at quite a lick, almost insanely so, but Eschenbach’s tempo held no fears for the LPO. The disturbing hesitance of the trios – a matter of interpretative strategy – painted the outer sections in greater relief. Even when Schumann sang, it was disquieting. A long-breathed account of a true slow movement banished any thoughts of the mere intermezzo one sometimes hears. The LPO’s playing was darkly beautiful, benefiting from the surest of foundations in Eschenbach’s understanding of harmonic rhythm. There was, for once, not the slightest hint of ‘chamber orchestra’ condescension; this was truly symphonic, and all the better for it. A martial opening announced a finale that was anything but carefree; there was symphonic battle yet to be done. And it was won with gloriously rich string tone. Expertly shaped, this was as resounding a rejoinder to the clarions of ‘authenticity’ as one could have hoped for, arguably more so. Amongst present conductors, Eschenbach gave Barenboim a run for his money: quite an achievement.

 

 

 

Salzburg Festival (6) - Goerne/Eschenbach, Die schöne Müllerin, 17 August 2010

Mozarteum

(The mill wheel in St Peter's Abbey, Salzburg)


Matthias Goerne and Christoph Eschenbach have been performing the three Schubert song cycles (including Schwanengesang) as a super-cycle for some time now. I heard their extraordinary Winterreise at the Wigmore Hall last year. This summer, they are performing all three in Salzburg; sadly, I could only catch Die schöne Müllerin, but one is better than none.

Circumstances were less than ideal. One of the many refreshing aspects of a few days in Salzburg has been a higher level of audience consideration. No applause during Gluck’s Orfeo, for instance! Sadly this audience was no better than a typical London crowd. An unfortunate apparent coincidence was the booking of the Mozarteum by the Association for the Bronchially Challenged for precisely the same time as the recital. Some members of its provisional wing, Give Tuberculosis a Chance, were also in attendance, one immediately behind me. Goerne, hardly a prima donna, seemed visibly annoyed by the clash; other audience members were livid, since such constant interruption becomes all the worse on an occasion so intimate as a Liederabend.

Nevertheless, I made the attempt to listen through the audience; insofar as I could, I was richly rewarded. It took Goerne the first song to get fully into his vocal stride, but already Eschenbach was busy with telling interpretative touches, such as the slight agogic accents applied to the piano interludes. I thought it slightly odd that Goerne should slow for the wheels’ turning tirelessly: it worked musically, but seemed a less than obvious response to the words. Wohin? was already deeply troubled, less carefree than usual: neither Goerne nor Eschenbach has any truck with the idea of Die schöne Müllerin as a lighter counterpart to Winterreise. One can argue about whether clearer contrast within the cycle would be desirable; I think there is room for more than one approach.

Danksagung an den Bach was frightening in the inevitability of what was unfolding, Eschenbach’s command of rhythm and harmonic motion crucial. Am Feierabend was as angry as I have heard, whilst its successor, Der Neugierige, provided illusory contrast with the freedom of an operatic scena. The third and fifth stanzas, both opening, ‘O Bächlein meiner Liebe,’ were extremely slow, time freezing, though not yet frozen: there is still a long way to go. To sing at such a tempo requires, apart from anything else, extraordinary reserves of breath: no difficulty for Goerne. Ungeduld came at us fast and furious indeed, though Eschenbach’s fingers could not always cope with quite so swift a tempo. There was no doubting Goerne’s ardency however.

The almost hallucinatory quality of Morgengruß truly made one shudder, likewise the attempt, however doomed, to shake off the veil of dreams (‘Nun schüttelt ab der Träume Flor…’). Throughout, of course, the brook rippled: it is at least as important a protagonist as anyone else here, somehow both conniving in and contemptuous of the false hope, the unreality of strength these musicians conveyed in Mit dem grünen Lautenbande. Fischer-Dieskau-haters would not have liked Goerne’s hectoring in Der Jäger; a bit of dramatic licence here, however, does no real harm, and the terror of the conclusion would surely have effaced any such doubts. The delirium of Eifersucht und Stolz provided a frightening prelude to the piano’s devastation in Die liebe Farbe, straight out of the world of the late sonatas. Goerne responded, in Die böse Farbe, with such vocal power at its opening and ending, that one knew the struggle had not yet quite been lost, likewise his better exultancy in Trockne Blümen, subsiding into chilling nothingness.

It was grave sadness, however, that characterised Der Müller und der Bach: a sense of peace being worked out, though that peace be perhaps too dreadful to be granted a name. One thing alone could follow, the hypnotic piano-brook’s lullaby of the final song. The cruellest of consolations was offered, cruel on account, not in spite, of its beauty. At last came a shattering stillness: if only the audience could have kept its counsel during the rest of the performance.

Goerne/Eschenbach - Winterreise, 17 June 2009

Wigmore Hall

Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Christoph Eschenbach (piano)

A quintessential image of German Romanticism is that of the blaue Blume, the unattainable ‘blue flower’ first dreamed of by Novalis’s Heinrich von Ofterdingen. Yet, for the darker side of Romanticism, a flower is doomed to wither, to die, as soon as – perhaps even before – it has bloomed, let alone been glimpsed. It seems to me that a performance of Winterreise, one of the vey greatest works of the Romantic movement, must bear in mind both strands. The first is that hope, perhaps attenuated, but hope nevertheless, which arises from the straining after the unattainable: not just the narrator’s beloved, but also something metaphysical, indefinable. Second, and overwhelming, is the tragic fate, instantiated in catastrophic breakdown, of the apparently hopeless winter’s journey. Hope and hopelessness are never, and in this tale can never be, reconciled, but the conflict between them begets and furthers the drama. I do not claim that the two strands are equal in strength, but Winterreise’s tragedy is heightened, not lessened, by the ghosts of hope. It is, when searchingly performed, an unbearable journey; so it proved here.

For someone whose musical outlook has been so marked not just by German music, but also by German history, culture, and thought, it is quite ironic – and perhaps rather healthy – that the recording with which I first explored Winterreise was the extraordinary account by Peter Pears and Benjamin Britten. I certainly do not expect to hear a Pears-like voice, should that exist, when I listen to Winterreise, but I think that it is partly from that early experience that, when I think of and listen to the work in my head, I hear a tenor, and that I retain a preference for the higher voice. This was an occasion when that preference never entered my head, so total was Matthias Goerne’s identification with the part and, in turn, mine with his performance.

It would be misleading to describe his or Christoph Eschenbach’s performance as operatic; this was Lieder-performance, without a doubt. And when I mentioned Goerne’s ‘identification with the part’, I certainly did not intend to imply a stage role, although he is a more physically demonstrative recitalist than many. However, there were many aspects of the performance which pointed, quite rightly, to Schubert’s shattering legacy to Wagner and beyond, to expressionism. Schubert always proves an ideal programme companion to composers of the Second Viennese School, much to the confusion or annoyance of an unimaginative, neo-Biedermeier contingent in the audience. Music drama, as such skilled exponents as Goerne, an unforgettable Wozzeck, and Eschenbach would keenly appreciate, has from Wagner to Henze owed a great deal to the example of Schubert’s only apparently smaller canvas.

The ominous tread of Eschenbach’s introduction to Gute Nacht, more insistent than one often hears, imparted a sense of fate, which would be borne out by the cycle, and yet that the dialectic between hope and its antipode also made its presence felt, for instance in Goerne’s subtle colouring of the word ‘Mondenschatten’. The moonlight’s shadow suggests that there remain possibilities; as the previous lines have it, ‘Muß selbst den Weg mir weisen/In dieser Dunkelheit’ (‘I must find my own way/in this darkness).* The almost infinite varieties of address on which Goerne could draw was exemplified by his explanatory ‘Gott hat sie so gemacht’ (‘God has made it so’), again tilting the scales towards fate, without overbalancing them. World-weariness was followed, quite justifiably, by the anger at injustice, temporal and otherwise, of Die Wetterfahne. The depth of tone so startlingly employed upon the words, ‘Ei Tränen, meine Tränen,’ (‘Ah tears, my tears’) in the following Gefrorne Tränen once again broadened the performers’ and Schubert’s musico-dramatic canvas. Likewise the ghostliness, peering forward to The Flying Dutchman, in the piano part of the far from placid Der Lindenbaum; Goerne’s warm yet chilling nostalgia during the final stanza fairly terrified.

The journey of contrast and underlying fatal unity continued with a burning anguish (‘heiße Weh’) which, in Goerne’s delivery truly burnt the listener, in Wasserflut. Auf dem Flusse proved almost too powerful for one to continue to listen, yet, as for Schubert’s traveller, there was no option but to do so. The final stanza was an object lesson in collaborative terror, the fury of the vocal part at one with an icy clarity in Eschenbach’s projection of the bass line. Near delirium remained controlled, if only just, in the ensuing backward glance (Rückblick). For me, it was in Rast that the piano part peered for the first time into the death-devoted heart of Tristan, late Liszt, and beyond, into the heart, or whatever might take its place, of twentieth-century expressionism. The strange, homeless harmony pointed to the Romantics’ perennial Heimweh (homesickness). To be at home, with oneself and with the world, was both an imperative and an impossibility. And this, despite the dream of spring that followed (Frühlingstraum). Here, the contrasting and developing characters of the first three stanzas were caught unerringly: Goerne’s naïve Romantic lyricism, in the first, especially its final line of happy birdsong, followed by the second stanza’s expressionism, and then the delusion and desperation of the third: not reconciling its predecessors, but an Adornian negative dialectic. The fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas took a similar path, yet more extreme still, that final sixth stanza taken daringly slow, in almost frozen motion. If it was too much then to hope for repose in Einsamkeit, then the song opened with a sombre nobility worthy of the St Matthew Passion. Hope of a kind might still, just about, exist, although the build up to the final stanza’s Tristan-esque raging against the light suggested otherwise.

For one should remember, as Goerne and Eschenbach most certainly did, that the journey is both physical and metaphysical: a duality underlined by the painful appearance of Die Krähe, the ominous crow. What are its intentions? Do intentions still matter, or even exist? One can but hope, yet it is becoming a greater effort all the time. Eschenbach’s Letzte Hoffnung – a last hope indeed – brought hints of late Brahms and even Berg. And what hope could there be in Wozzeck or Lulu? A rare stumble at the opening of Der stürmische Morgen unsettled for the wrong reasons, but this was soon forgotten, as the bitterest of Goerne’s rage was unleashed upon seeing his heart’s likeness in the sky: ‘nothing but winter/winter cold and wild!’ This seemingly had to lead to Täuschung (‘Delusion’), otherwise the cycle would have ended there and then. Moreover, the delusion we heard brought a darkly seductive lilt, from both voice and piano, even perhaps a hint of the (falsely) consoling chamber music, of which Schubert was also such a master.

I was unprepared for the very slow tempo of Der Wegweiser, but how it worked! The metaphysical import of the signpost took on in this context almost the decisive nature of Wotan’s confrontation with Erda (and consequent rejection of Fate) in Siegfried. After that, Das Wirtshaus was taken more slowly still – and again, how it worked! This was a slowness lying beyond the glacial tempi Sviatoslav Richter would employ for the piano sonatas, yet the tread continued, as it must; it was not static. Rarely in tonal music can the major mode ever have sounded so bitter as it does in this song. We moved through Mut! and the phantasms of Die Nebensonnen to the exhaustion of Der Leiermann. Here we not only saw, through the vivid tone-painting, but we felt. Moreover, we felt not only the organ-grinder in, if this does not prove a contradiction too far, his numb lack of feeling; we also felt the protagonist’s horror, sympathy, and, just perhaps, his hope. For all the wretchedness of the organ-grinder, our hero could observe in him continuing resistance. And so could we.

There followed an all too brief silence, punctured by some cretin’s bursting in with a cry of ‘Bravo!’ He obviously thought – an abuse of the word, I realise – that he had been entertained by an Italian opera. The rest of us were as shattered as if we had been put through Wozzeck.

(* Here and elsewhere, I use Richard Stokes’s translation from The Book of Lieder, as quoted in the programme. Gavin Plumley’s excellent programme notes (to all three ‘cycles’) also deserve mention.)