Gerhaher/Huber - Holliger, Wolf, Schumann, and Schoeck, 12 February 2023

Wigmore Hall

Holliger: Elis
Wolf: Abendbilder
Holliger: Lunea
Schumann: Vier Husarenlieder, op.117
Schoeck: Elegie, op.36: ‘An den Wind’, ‘Herbstgefühl’, ‘Verlorenes Glück’, ‘Das Mondlicht’, ‘Herbstentschluss’, ‘Welke Rose’
Schumann: Sechs Gedichte von N. Lenau und Requiem, op.90

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)
Gerold Huber (piano)

Any recital from Christian Gerhaher is likely to be special; offering a range of quite unusual repertoire, Heinz Holliger’s Lunea written for and dedicated to Gerhaher, this was no exception. It opened, though, with a rare solo spot for Gerhaher’s long-term collaborator, pianist Gerold Huber, and early (1961, revised 1966) Holliger. Gerhaher reading the three Georg Trakl texts on which Elis’s three short piano pieces, ‘Verkündigung des Todes’, ‘Todesangst und Gnade’, and ‘Himmelfahrt’, are based, even providing his own English translation for the programme sheet. Strikingly post-Schoenbergian harmony characterised the first, though its musical gestures worked differently. The soundworld of the second sounded later, more post-Webern, if you will, indeed surely marked by Holliger’s contemporary study with Boulez, albeit with a Germanic accent. ‘Himmelfahrt’, as its name might suggest, seemed in some sense both to reconcile and to go beyond. These aphoristic nocturnes emerged pregnant with emotion, gesture, and – who knows – perhaps ‘meaning’ too. 

Hugo Wolf’s Abendbilder (again early, 1877) followed, without a break. In context, the piano prelude to the first of the three sons sounded Romantically consoling, yet not unrelated: an excellent starting point for our Wolfram von Eschenbach, sorry Gerhaher, to sing, the sincerity as well as beauty of his delivery striking from the outset, likewise command of detail without pedantry. All three Nikolaus Lenau ‘pictures’ rightly formed part of a greater whole, whilst happily going on their own, sometimes pastoral, ways. It was difficult not to marvel at the different shades and colours of Gerhaher’s voice, poetically deployed, an sinking wanness as the sun set (‘Bald versinkt die Sonne’, an example in point. Shades of Schumann and Liszt in language and performance contextualised without overwhelming.

We remained with Lenau for Holliger’s Lunea, written from 2009-10, though only premiered at Zurich’s Opera House in 2013 (also venue five years later for the premiere of Holliger’s opera of the same name, featuring Gerhaher, reworking these settings ‘like chorales in a Bach Passion’). Notably more gestural than what we had previously heard, it yet remains – and, in performance, remained – within the noble Lied tradition. Twenty-two Lenau sentences and a short poem, ‘Einklang’, in memory of Johann Baptist Mayrhofer form a striking cycle that must surely have won the composer new admirers here in London. Gerhaher’s acuity of verbal and musical response seemed ideally suited. That range of colour was now married to a greater range of general delivery, sometimes unabashed song, sometimes recitation, often somewhere in between; extended piano techniques such as bowing the strings acted similarly. Searching melismata unsettled, lit up, even amused, as instances of wordpainting (‘Ein Tropfen im Stein’) worked something like their traditional magic of recognition. Wonderfully nomadic harmony illuminated Lenau’s Wüstenwanderer, prior to that neo-Schubertian postlude of ‘Einklang’.  

I struggle to find Schumann’s Lenau Husarenlieder among his more compelling work, but they received stylish, commanding performances, with a fine degree, where required, of Schwung. Rhythms were well-pointed, and Gerhaher, rightly, I think, permitted a word-driven approach. A selection of six songs from Othmar Schoeck’s Elegie, four to texts by Lenau, Gerhaher imparted a strong sense, even in the others’ absence, of its character as a whole, yet equally individual character to individual songs. Musical process was clear, courtesy above all of the piano, in ‘Das Mondlicht’. The performance as a whole was subtly surprising: no shocks, yet deeply satisfying provided one offered musical attention.

The final Schumann set showed the composer, at least some of the time, the recapturing the infinitely touching spirit of his youth. Gerhaher and Huber offered plenty of variety in the opening, strophic blacksmith’s song, but it was the ensuing ‘Meine Rose’ that played on the heartstrings. Was that perhaps a sense of Schumann influenced by Wagner, or simply memories of Gerhaher’s Wolfram? At any rate, it brought tears to my eyes. So too did the sense of youthful anticipation in ‘Die Sennin’, whilst ‘Einsamkeit’ and ‘Der schwere Abend’ both turned from disquieting ambiguity to ultimate sadness. The final ardour of the strange ‘Requiem’, offered us flame that flickered both in defiance and reconciliation, perhaps like the Lied tradition’s persistence unto Holliger (and beyond?) ‘Zweifeldner Wunsch’ from Schoeck’s Elegie made for a fitting encore, concluding and continuing a line of subtle questioning.

Gerhaher/Huber - Schubert, 1 December 2022

Wigmore Hall

Sei mir gegrüsst, D 741
Dass sie hier gewesen, D 775
Lachen und Weinen, D 777
Du bist die Ruh, D 776
Greisengesang, D 778
Schwanengesang, D 957

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano)

This memorable Schubert from Christian Gerhaher and Gerold Huber opened with five settings of Friedrich Rückert, well chosen and ordered. Sei mir gegrüsst’s opening piano lilt was taken up just as keenly by Gerhaher, signalling a meeting of musical minds and practice. From the very outset, one might readily have taken dictation, verbal and musical, so clear was every aspect of the performance, that clarity never a goal in itself but means to an expressive end. Unity and variation in an initially strophic setting that then sets out along new paths were equally apparent, inspiring and comforting in similar measure. The almost Lisztian sensibility of Dass sie hier gewesen offered nice contrast, the set’s culmination in a declamatory, richly expressive Greisengesang calling Fischer-Dieskau to mind. No more than anywhere else, though, did one size fit all, a silvery, surprisingly tenor-like reading of Du bist die Ruh finely complemented by Huber’s voicing of harmony and counterpoint. 

Seven Schwanengesang settings of Ludwig Rellstab took us to the interval. The ‘Bächlein’ of ‘Liebesbotschaft’ set the scene and underlay it, in figurative as well as locational terms. A deeply touching ‘Kriegers Ahnung’ took in several moods, not least the proto-Wagnerian; likewise the later ‘In der Ferne’, its world-weariness prefiguring Wagner’s Dutchman, the final stanza deeply—in more than one sense—ambiguous, whispering breezes performing their magic whichever way they or fate chose. Gerhaher’s ardent ‘Ständchen’ really felt like a serenade, in essence and progress, ‘Aufenthalt’ a tragic pendant from the world of Winterreise. The pounding of the protagonist’s heart as the high treetops swayed in the wind had us feel altitude and grief alike. ‘Abschied’, the last of the set, effected after ‘In der Ferne’ a perfect transformation of mood, in a reading both animated and detailed, yet never remotely fussy. 

Six Heine settings followed the interval. A darkly resolute ‘Der Atlas’ offered a fascinating study in pride. ‘Ihr Bild’ proved duly haunting, nothing taken for granted, the miracles of Schubertian modulation heard as if for the first time; likewise the composer’s major/minor oscillation. Prefiguring ‘Die Stadt’ and its chill wind, we found ourselves once again emphatically post-Winterreise. ‘Der Doppelgänger’ went further still, as it must, technically in its ghostly withdrawal of vibrato and much else, yet also emotionally in its defiance. This, quite properly, marked the climax to the entire recital. After that, ‘Die Taubenpost’ worked its charms to perfection, a delightful, lingering goodbye.

Gerhaher/Huber - Brahms, 12 December 2021

Wigmore Hall

Neun Lieder and Gesänge, op.32; Vier ernste Gesänge, op.121; Meine Lieder, op.106 no.4; Geheimnis, op.71 no.3; Die Mainacht; op.43 no.2; Treue Liebe, op.7 no.1; Lerchengesang, op.70 no.2; Acht Lieder und Gesänge, op.59: ‘Regenlied’, ‘Dein blaues Auge halt so still’, ‘Mein wundes Herz verlangt’; ‘Nachklang’; Auf dem Kirchhofe, op.105 no.4; Von ewiger Liebe, op.43 no.1; O kühler Wald, op.72 no.3; Herbstgefühl, op.48 no.7; Die Kränze, op.46 no.1

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)
Gerold Huber (piano)

Christian Gerhaher singing Brahms: it promised much and, if anything, delivered still more. This was a song recital as finely planned as it was executed, as thoughtful as it was moving. Ably supported by his pianist Gerold Hubert, not only did Gerhaher, by any standards one of the greatest singers of our age, give a masterclass in Lied-performance; he also showed quite how much his artistry has developed over the past few years. This is neither a musician to rest on his laurels, nor one to do something different for the sake of it; rather, with a quiet confidence and questing born of intelligence, sensitivity, and hard work, he led us to believe this was certainly the best way, perhaps the only way, whilst leaving open the door for other possibilities in subsequent reflection. 

Much nonsense is spoken about Brahms's songs. Some would have them all too similar, but then they might say the same about the composer’s symphonic works. Look, listen beneath the surface and you will divine a whole universe as distinctive and as varied as that of Schubert or Schumann. The first half offered bold programming in itself. If you place the op.32 songs and the Four Serious Songs there, do you run the risk of upstaging whatever comes afterwards? Perhaps, but if so, that risk was averted, by construction and performance of a second half that related to, extended, and contrasted with what we had heard, with where Brahms had travelled already beyond mere death. Moments of Romantic wonder, of a divine spark that actually makes life worth living even if it lies within rather than beyond this world, found themselves retrospectively bathed in light as well as further darkness. Gerhaher and Huber took seriously, as well they might, Brahms the Bible-loving agnostic as one of the nineteenth-century’s most intriguing theologians. Mortality may, after all, be a blessing, not a curse. The German Requiem may already have told us that, but these songs, from both before and after, told us more.

Indeed, the structure of Brahms’s songs in this context came to represent an intricate jigsaw of response significantly more than a musical momento mori. We could hear that in the Platen songs of op.32, just as in the Biblical texts of op.121; but we could hear it just as well, if differently, though a glass, less darkly, in the Schubertian flight of the early Treue Liebe. op.9, Gerhaher sensing and voicing inheritance without ever needing to underline. Echoed, with greater maturity, in the birdsong of op.70 no.2, Lerchengesang, barriers between natural and metaphysical worlds dissolved. Other connections were to be heard, of course, again subtly pointed, as much by Huber as by Gerhaher: the strangely comforting and disquieting intimations of the G major Violin Sonata in ‘Regenlied’ and ‘Nachklang’ from the op.59 set, the latter tellingly followed by ‘Auf dem Kirchhofe’ from a decade-and-a-half later, haunted by the most celebrated Passion chorale of them all—and thus by Johann Sebastian Bach, perhaps via Mendelssohn. There was autumn, of course, and something more final too, but there was spring. Gerhaher’s verbal inflection, ear for colour, and fine aesthetic judgement in declining ever to exaggerate were very much what was needed. 

Where sometimes, a little while ago, I had begun to wonder whether his increased experience of opera—who can forget his Tannhäuser Wolfram?—was leading him to privilege sheer beauty of tone over other aspects of his art, here the thought never entered my mind. The comparison is odious, but from the opening of ‘Wie raft ich mich auf’, it was Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau who came to mind. Sounding like Fischer-Dieskau was not the point, although more than once I fancied Gerhaher did. This rather represented a renewal of lyric art from the spirit of verse, a renewal that seemed, however incidentally, both to pay homage and to reimagine these songs once again on terms that were both theirs, Gerhaher’s, and ours. A rare evening indeed.

Gerhaher/Huber - Mahler, 23 September 2019

Pierre Boulez Saal

Mahler: Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen

Mahler: Des knaben Wunderhorn: ‘Wer hat dies Liedlein erdacht’, ‘Ablösung im Sommer’, ‘Ich ging mit Lust durch einen grünen Wald’, ‘Um schlimme Kinder artig zu machen’, ‘Rheinlegendchen’, ‘Der Schildwache Nachtlied’, ‘Lied des Verfolgten im Turm’, ‘Das irdische Leben’, ‘Zu Straßburg auf der Schanz’’, ‘Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen’

Mahler: Kindertotenlieder

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano)

Christian Gerhaher in Mahler was always likely to prove special. Thus it was here at the Pierre Boulez Saal, if anything still more so than an identical programme – I think – at the Wigmore Hall in 2014. At any rate, these were no repeated performances; in many respects, they proved quite different, bearing no trace of the routine.

Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen opened with Gerold Huber on piano nervous (in a good way!) and agitated, full of detail, Gerhaher surprisingly wan of tone (also in a good way: interpretatively, not by default). The sadness of that first song’s final stanza sounded still more sorrowful, even desolate, both in tone and tempo: ‘Denk’ ich an mein Leid! An mein Leide!’ A forthright ‘Ging heut’ morgen über’s Feld’ followed, Gerhaher closer to Fischer-Dieskau than I can recall, not least on repeated, ironic references to ‘eine schöne Welt’, Mahlerian alienation strongly to the fore. Recent performances of Wozzeck (also forthcoming, in Munich) seemed to have left their mark on a final, hallucinatory stanza. Would his ‘happiness’ now begin? No, no: that could never bloom for him. The vehemence, even rage, of ‘Ich hab’ ein glühend Messer’ again brought Fischer-Dieskau to mind; so too did attention to detail, if not the detail of that detail. Different colourings applied to cries of ‘O weh!’ offered progression without fussiness. Mockery, hallucination, and much else seemed to have developed from previous songs, whilst retaining their specific imperative and character in this. Memories of late Schubert haunted the final song: Winterreise  and Schwanengesang in particular. They were memories, though, mediated through and through. Here were not only smiling through tears, warmth that could not warm: they knew themselves to be such.

A selection of Wunderhorn songs spanned the interval: different in mood and implication, of course, yet possessed of similar virtues in detail without pedantry. Bachian coloratura in ‘Wer hat dies Liedlein erdacht’, ironic sympathy in ‘Ablösung im Sommer’ both lightly suggested a continuation of that fateful, necessary alienation that haunts Mahler’s music and summarises its modern lot. A leisurely stroll – much to take in, all the better at such a tempo, as would also be the case in ‘Zu Straßburg auf der Schanz’’ – through the green wood of the following song prepared the way for affinity and contrast in ‘Um schlimme Kinder artig zu machen’ and ‘Rheinlegendchen’. The prisoner in the tower sang freely, freshly, Gerhaher fully rising to the challenge of two ‘characters’ without caricature. ‘Die Gedanken sind frei’ (‘thoughts are free’) proved a final line rich with summative ambiguity. If Huber perhaps underlined specific figures too much in ‘Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen’, in danger of losing overall line, Gerhaher’s infinitely touching contribution more than made up for that.

Presaged in ‘Das irdische Leben’, Kindertotenlieder took matters further – and what a work with which to close! What a performance too. The different vocal colours in a single line such as ‘Als sei kein Unglück die Nacht gescheh’n!’, a line that yet remained very much a line, set the scene for a performance that moved through a profound musicality that had no need for histrionics, for anything externally applied. That ability to express all manner of verbal and emotional nuances without disruption to line was just as apparent in the sadness and regret, moving towards yet never quite attaining bitterness, of the second song too. Words were throughout permitted to chill through the bitter-sweetness of music. Was the hallucinatory conclusion to the final storm, repose ‘as if in their mother’s house’, enlightenment or delusion? In a formal sense, it must be the former, yet performance quite rightly left room for doubt. ‘Urlicht’ as encore brought lengthy, unfortunate, and deeply unsettling telephone disruption; and yet, finally, comfort and resolution.

Gerhaher/Huber - Schubert, 31 March 2016

Wigmore Hall

An den Mond in einer Herbstnacht, D 614; Hoffnung, D 295; Tiefes Leid, D 876; Abschied, D 475; Herbst, D 945; Über Wildemann, D 884; Der Wanderer, D 649; Der Wanderer an den Mond, D 870; Der Zwerg, D 771; Abendstern, D 806; Im Walde, D 834; Nach einem Gewitter, D 561; Der Schiffer, D 694; An die Nachtigall, D 196; Totengräberweise, D 869; Frühlingsglaube, D 686; Nachtviolen, D 752; Abendlied für die Entfernte, D 856; Wehmut, D 772; Der Strom, D 565; Der Hirt, D 490; Lied eines Schiffers an die Dioskuren, D 360; Nachtgesang, D 314; Der Sänger am Felsen, D 482

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano)

 

There was a great deal to admire in this recital. However, with a few exceptions, I found myself strangely unmoved by Christian Gerhaher’s singing. Perhaps that was my fault or, at any rate, my problem; however, I shall attempt to explain what it was, for me at least, that seemed to be missing. Gerold Huber’s playing of the piano parts I found constantly illuminating: full of colour, incident, strength, subtlety, and a fine sense of form too. One thing for which I can certainly not fault Gerhaher is his programming, not just here, but elsewhere too, including a November recital in Vienna, in which I found his performance far more engrossing. Here, in London, the balance of Schubert songs, mostly but not all familiar, varied in mood, was well judged indeed.

Opening with an early quasi-scena, An den Mond in einer Herbstnacht, neither entirely characteristic nor entirely uncharacteristic, we heard sweetness, delicacy, and, when the verse turned nasty (‘Wenn ein schrecklicher Geier an der Seele nagt’), nastiness in the voice too. That, however, was something of which we heard perhaps too little later on; one does not expect Gerhaher to sound like, say, Matthias Goerne, for they are very different artists, but that was a comparison coming to mind more than once for me. A brief, welcome contrast in the Goethe setting, Hoffnung, was followed by what I thought of us as very much the ‘real thing’ in Schubert: the despair of Tiefes Leid. There was sorrow, but was there despair? It felt observed: perhaps a valid choice, but one that did not entirely convince me on this occasion. The second stanza offered more, but was it enough? In Abschied, the long lines played to Gerhaher’s strength of sustaining. Here, we could feel the beauty as well as the pain of resignation: perhaps a little like Mahler, albeit less mediated.

In Herbst, there was less vocal defiance than one will often hear, but there was musical weariness, especially in the piano: the continuity of its chill was striking. Über Wildemann offered immediate intensification, first in the piano, and then next, yes, in the voice: considerably closer to Fischer-Dieskau than one might have expected. Uneasy repose in Der Wanderer led to an unmistakeable sense of portrayal of a wanderer in Der Wanderer an den Mond, both in the piano tread and in the softly restless vocal delivery. Abendstern perhaps inevitably brought to mind Gerhaher’s starlit Wolfram, but I found the vocal part in Im Walde a little too understated. There was no doubting, however, the dark nobility heard in the piano part, decidedly ‘late’.

 

Following the interval, Nach einem Gewitter presented a post-Mozartian mood in piano and voice, poignant concerning implicit loss: we might want to return to Mozart, but we cannot. It was in the piano part that the drama of Der Schiffer really seemed to lie: pictorial and form-creating. The second stanza brought butterflies to the stomach, but I am not sure that Gerhaher did. Likewise, in Totengräberweise, I heard the song almost instrumentally, at least until the penultimate and final stanzas, in which suddenly, Gerhaher seemed resolved to do more with the words – and how! Frühlingsglaube was suffused with quiet longing, whilst Nachtviolen again offered an emotional build up rooted in words as well as music. However, there seemed once again to be a somewhat excessive degree of vocal reticence in Abendlied für die Entfernte; Huber’s command of rhythm offered considerable compensation.

In the final group, Wehmut had a more strongly defined mood to it. I was intrigued that Der Strom sounded decidedly ‘late’, despite its relative earliness (1817?) Here, Gerhaher sounded more animated than had often been the case; if ‘enraged’ would be an exaggeration, it would be a pardonable one. Der Hirt received a splendidly subtle performance, the slight vocal wanness in the final stanza telling of much. Nachtgesang likewise drew one in subtly, as did the closing Der Sänger am Felsen. There one heard undeniable artistry of the highest order, Gerhaher offering, in one sense, a return to the world of the very opening, but now laden down by some of the cares voiced in the intervening songs. That was a significant achievement of both programming and performance. Perhaps some of my expectations had been unreasonably high.

 

Gerhaher/Huber - Beethoven, Schoenberg, Haydn, and Berg, 17 November 2015

Mozart-Saal, Konzerthaus

Beethoven – An die ferne Geliebte, op.98

Schoenberg – Das Buch der hängende Gärten, op.15
Haydn – The Spirit’s Song, Hob. XXVIa/41; Content, Hob. XXVIa/36; The Wanderer, Hob. XXVIa/32; Sailor’s Song, Hob. XXVIa/31; She never told her love, Hob. XXVIa/34
Berg – Altenberg-Lieder, op.4, arr. Hans Erich Apostel and Gerold Hubert
Beethoven – Adelaide, op.46

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano)

 

What a wonderful programme, given under the heading ‘Wiener Schule’ (‘Viennese Schools’)! Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte and Schoenberg’s Das Buch der hängende Gärten must, along with Hindemith’s Marienleben, stand as the most disgracefully neglected of song-cycles. (No reasonable person denies the greatness of Schubert, but do we really need to have Die schöne Müllerin and Winterreise programmed quite so often?) The opening song, ‘Auf dem Hügel sitz ich spähend’, began beautifully slow, heartbreakingly so. This, one felt, with reference to Christian Gerhaher’s most celebrated operatic role, was Wolframs Lied. For whatever reason, and the reasons are, I think, complex, we hear what we imagine to be Beethoven’s voice, his character, in his music. Does anyone really not hear his greatness as a human being as well as a composer? The composer’s goodness certainly shone through here, through rather than in addition to vocal beauty; nor was Gerhaher’s performance at the expense of the words. There was sadness, though, too: how could there not be when measured against the state in which the world now stands? The acceleration in the final stanza was spot on: ‘natural’, with nothing remotely abrupt to it. That, of course, was Gerold Huber’s doing as well, and the subtlety of the brief transition to the next song – and not just to this next song – was his too. ‘Wo die Berge so blau’ offered contrasts between such beauty of tone and a dried out quality in the second stanza, vibrato strategically withdrawn. ‘Schmerzen’ indeed. I liked the playful yet serious character to ‘Diese Wolken in den Höhen’: akin to a vocal Bagatelle, and yes, the persistence of certain piano figures reminded me further of those true gems for the instrument. The sadness of an aspiration to naïveté, no longer possible to fulfil, Beethoven already too late, marked ‘Es kejret der Maien’. Beautifully sprung piano rhythms heightened the loss. The turn to the minor for concluding tears (‘Tränen’) sealed a tragedy in miniature. Gerhaher offered an almost Mahlerian serenity of exhaustion – closer, perhaps, to some of the symphonies than the songs – in the final ‘Nimm die hin den, diese Lieder’. The final stanza reinstated, not without implicit sorrow, Beethovenian good humour.

 

Schoenberg could, not without reason, be a pricklier soul. Here, though, we heard a veritable garden of delights. Placing his cycle after Beethoven’s suggested reinstatement of that slippery idea, ‘tradition’, and the intrinsic necessity of its Aufhebung. Lines heard in quasi-isolation might have been of the past, almost but not quite; where they were sung or played now, they became unheimlich. The eloquence of Huber’s opening left-hand single-line melody heightened expectations, which were certainly not to be thwarted. A Schubertian bird (‘Vögel’) sang during ‘Hain in diesen paradiesen’, the piano recognisably a collaborative partner drawing upon Schoenberg’s recent op.11 Piano Pieces. Rhythms in the following ‘Als neuling trat ich ein in dein gehege’ seemed to want to enjoy themselves, almost succeeding, Stefan George’s verse pulling them back. Gerhaher’s hairpin on ‘strauchelt’ encapsulated his marriage of drama and beauty, the vowel doing his magical work. Resignation – ‘leaning in’ on harmonic progressions – marked ‘Saget mir, auf welchem pfade’; and yet, it moved. Sometimes, as in ‘Angst und hoffen wechselnd mich beklemen’, the piano part seemed to attain relative autonomy, but it was not contradiction, such as Schoenberg unfarily accused Busoni of having advocated. Pierrot-ish rage seemed within range in ‘Wenn ich heut nicht deinen leib berühre’, whilst pale, wan tone drew us in and repelled us in ‘Als wir hinter dem beblübtem tore’. Ghostly dignity was Gerhaher’s mode of delivery here, that mode ever shifting, ever complex: like Schoenberg’s music itself, of course. The final ‘Wir bevölkerten die abend-düstern’ had, from its outset, a sense of finality, yet by the same token, the battle was not won before its singing. There was to be no easy conclusion; how could there be? Perhaps this offered some irresolute resolution of that which would not resolve.

We hear Haydn’s – and Mozart’s – songs far too little. This selection would, I suspect, have been quite an ear-opener to many. The particular gravity of the piano sound, the placing of chords, and their harmonies marked out the opening of The Sprit’s Song as ‘late’. Gerhaher’s performance of Anne Hunter’s words and Haydn’s notes seemed to hark back a little to Handel, whose music so enthused Haydn both in London and before, and, even, via the adoptive Englishman, to traces of Purcell. This was no merely genial Haydn; it was as dark as Schoenberg, indeed perhaps more unrelievedly so. The mood lifted for ‘Content’, as one might expect (!), but ambivalence remained in a fashion that perhaps hinted at Mozart. Edging toward Romanticism, though remaining in the eighteenth-century, the performance of ‘The Wanderer’ sounded perfectly placed. My sole reservation lay with the Hunter ‘Sailor’s Song’. For me, it does not present Haydn at his best, but more to the point, both performances sounded over-emphatic: heavy-handed and whatever the vocal equivalent might be. ‘She never told her love’, however, sounded as well judged as ‘The Wanderer’ and indeed announced its kinship thereto.

There is loss, of course, in any piano version of Berg’s Altenberg-Lieder, but Huber’s own revision of Hans Erich Apostel soon had us forget and perhaps even to experience certain compensations. The piano’s quicksilver flickering, relative weighting of instrumental voices constantly shifting, sounded in model fashion. Mood and style were marked out as differently from Schoenberg as Haydn from Beethoven. Gerhaher’s attention to detail presented in the first song a quasi-turn upon ‘schöner’ as careful as if it had been by Haydn. Occasional erring of pitch, not of great importance or degree, was eradicated by the time of the second, ‘Sahst du nach dem Gewitterregen’. The paradoxical, or better dialectical, musical plenitude of Berg at (almost) his most aphoristic was something to savour in ‘Über die Grenzen des All’ and ‘Nichts ist gekommen’. Huber plucked the piano strings, harp-like, in the former: a lovely touch. Gerhaher’s final note, in falsetto, rang out in near-perfection. Sands constantly shifted beneath an almost Brahmsian core in ‘Hier ist Friede’. This truly chilled, as if Tristan were meeting Wozzeck.

Placed after Berg, Beethoven’s Adelaide sounded as painfully past, as unattainable, as Mozart might after Beethoven: heart-stopping indeed. The Mozart of The Magic Flute did not in fact sound so far removed from Beethoven’s palpable sincerity. Tamino, rather than Papageno, seemed almost the guiding spirit. I thought that before knowing what would come next: a delectable, light yet truly felt, encore of Mozart’s Abendempfindung. I cannot conceive of any of the preceding works without Mozart’s example; there is, happily, no need to do so.

 

Gerhaher/Huber - Mahler, 19 December 2014

Wigmore Hall

Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen

Songs from Des Knaben Wunderhorn

Kindertotenlieder

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano) 

 

 

Image: Simon Jay Price

 

It has always proved a great pleasure for me to hear Christian Gerhaher, and this Wigmore Hall recital proved no exception. I worried a little during the opening Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen that it might, indeed worrying more than slightly during the first song, ‘Wenn mein Schatz Hochzeit macht’. One should of course bear in mind that there is rarely, if ever, one correct tempo for a piece. As Wagner observed in his brilliant little book, Über das Dirigieren, quoted approvingly more than once by that great Mahlerian, Pierre Boulez, the relationships between different tempi are really the crucial matter. (Even that, I think, is not a hard-and-fast rule, but it seems far closer to the truth.) That said, it is not the case that just anything goes, and the weirdly distended tempo for this song adopted by Gerhaher and his pianist, Gerold Huber, simply did not work for these ears. Yes, it will be a ‘day of mourning’ (‘Hab ich meinen traurigen Tag!’) when the wayfarer’s beloved has her wedding day, but the music did not seem able to support such a reading, still less quite so abrupt a shift in the second stanza. Given that the voice I most often hear in my head when thinking of these songs is that of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau – and what a wonderful performer of them he was! – I was surprised also to hear Gerhaher occasionally depart from the general beauty of his musical line to sound a little close to a caricature of Fischer-Dieskau at his most hectoring. But there was much to admire here, not just in Gerhaher’s tone, but in its alchemy with Mahler’s own words. Huber generally provided good support, often more than that in formal terms, structures emerging clearly and strongly. There were perhaps, though, a few occasions on which he might have proved more flexible; if a good conductor can, then a pianist should certainly be able to do so.

 

Ten songs from Des Knaben Wunderhorn ( ‘Wer hat dies Liedlein erdacht?’, ‘Ablösung im Sommer’, ‘Ich ging mit Lust’, ‘Um schlimme Kinder artig zu machen’, ‘Rheinlegendchen’, ‘Der Schildwache Nachtlied’, ‘Lied des Verfolgten im Turm’, ‘Das irdische Leben’, ‘Zu Straßburg auf der Schanz’, and ‘Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen’) followed: the first six before the interval, the final four after. Gerhaher does not – or at least here, did not – opt for Mahler as proto-expressionist; his instrument and his temperament are quite different from, say, Matthias Goerne. But that is not in any sense to say that he is unresponsive to the different requirements of words and music. We heard a similar range of human experience, veering, as it should do with Mahler, towards the darker side, even when, indeed sometimes particularly when, it seems relatively carefree. ‘Rheinlegendchen’ can express, after all, an almost Mozartian, or at least Schubertian, sense of smiling through tears. And if Goerne can harrow like few artists today in this repertoire, Gerhaher’s ambiguity has its own stories to tell. I wondered whether the cuckooing of ‘Ablösung im Sommer’ and ‘Um schlimme Kinder artig zu machen’ might have been ironised a little more; Mahler’s Nature always expresses alienation. However, those folk characters indelibly etched on to our consciousness always shone through, and their particularly deeds and thoughts registered to any who would hear them. For all his famed beauty of tone, Gerhaher also knew when to modify and to withdraw it. But he also knew that the music expresses the most important story of all; lose that, and you might as well give up.

 

Those observations apply more or less equally to the closing Kindertotenlieder too. Rückert’s world is a different one, of course, as in some respects is Mahler’s by the time of writing. Moreover, the subject matter hardly permits, to put it mildly, of levity. Gerhaher’s deeply serious artistry was perhaps at its finest here. Words were certainly given their due, but the emphasis lay as much upon the shifting perspectives  conjured up, as in the simpler ‘Wayfarer’ Songs, yet here more successfully, by the relationship between words, music, and vocal colour. Momentary withdrawal of vibrato made its point, without in any sense speaking of dogma. The evocation of ‘childhood’ could only have come from an adult; children themselves do not consider such matters. Gerhaher here seemed to speak almost, but not quite, directly for Mahler, the knowledge that we are distant from and yet remain so painfully close to the composer another matter for reflection. Huber’s knowing reiteration of material from the first song in ‘In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus,’ permitted Gerhaher to point to what had changed: a journey through these songs does not, or should not, leave one unchanged. The encore, ‘Urlicht’ disarmed with a simplicity that was, again rightly for Mahler, knowing: sentimental, in Schiller’s sense, rather than naïve, for all its longing aspiration to the former.

 

Gerhaher/Huber - Schumann, 15 March 2014

Wigmore Hall

Myrten, op.25: ‘Freisinn’, ‘Talismane’, ‘Aus den hebräischen Gesängen’, ‘Venetianisches Lieder’ I and II, ‘Aus den “Östlicken Rosen”’, ‘Zum Schluß’

Liederkreis, op.39
Die Löwenbraut, op.31 no.1
Kerner-Lieder, op.35

Christian Gerhaher (baritone)

Gerold Huber (piano)

 

No surprises here in one sense: an excellent recital from start to finish. And yet, such excellence cannot but surprise at a deeper level. Christian Gerhaher has a well-nigh perfect combination of vocal beauty and verbal intelligence. His longstanding partnership with Gerold Huber is clearly a meeting of minds and sensibilities; indeed, there were times when I felt I was almost hearing a single musical voice as opposed to two partners.

 

Gerhaher and Huber opened their recital with seven songs from Myrten. The free-spiritedness of the opening ‘Freisinn’ was communicated from the very opening, rhythms finely sprung, the second stanza properly going deeper, but not too much so. Subtlety of shifting moods was characteristic of the set as a whole, indeed the recital as a whole, another case in point being the understated sadness in the third stanza of ‘Talismane’: ‘Mich verwittren will das Irren; doch du weißt mich zu entwirren.’ ‘Aus den hebräischen Gesängen’ was more intense, yet remained variegated, aching for consolation its overwhelming characteristic. Huber’s handling of the crucial balance, or perhaps better dialectic, between harmony and counterpoint put me in mind of Schumann’s Arabeske, op.18. The two Thomas Moore songs (translated by Freiligrath) benefited from telling rubato, in perfect tandem with verbal stresses. Both musicians, not just Huber, created that unmistakeably German evocation of Venice in the rocking rhythm of the first – and the colours, the colours at Gerhaher’s command…! Much the same could be said of the final two songs, both by Rückert. ‘Rapt’ is doubtless an overused word, but it might have been coined to describe the performance of ‘Zum Schluß’ – and, of course, the song itself.

 

The op.39 Liederkreis followed, ‘In der Fremde’ offering plangent, late Schubertian tones: here we seemed to hear a response to Winterreise. How the dissonances told, again quite without exaggeration, the overriding impression of painful beauty. Likewise in the ensuing ‘Intermezzo’, bringing quite a lump to the throat, the syncopated defiance of its second stanza judged to perfection. ‘Waldgespräch’ peered forward towards Mahler, albeit with a different, Romantic form of alienation. This was the ebullience of an intellectual who wanted the forest, but would never quite be at home there. Huber’s piano part was every bit as sharply etched in ‘Die Stille’ as Gerhaher’s vocal line; as ever, they seemed to be of one mind and voice. ‘Mondnacht’ evinced a kinship with the night of Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht: one truly felt its agonising beaurt. Eichendorff’s ‘sternklar’ really was the word for it. A sense of discovery, including that of things yet to come, characterised ‘Schöne Fremde’, followed by the intimate sadness of age(s) in ‘Auf einer Burg’. An intense yet fleet ‘In der Fremde’ was followed by ‘Wehmut’, the voice-leading in the piano epilogue painfully exquisite. However, all was not beauty, or not straightforwardly so: Gerhaher’s withdrawal of colour for the final line of ‘Zwielicht’ duly chilled. The hesitations of ‘Im Walde’ finally led once again to the pain of expectancy – and the expectancy of pain – in ‘Frühlingsnacht’.

 

Schumann makes a valiant effort with Die Löwenbraut, but I cannot account it one of his great songs. Nevertheless, the suavely prowling lion in the left-hand and the lingering coldness of the ‘letzten Kuß’ made their mark. The rest of the second half was devoted to the twelve Kerner songs of op.35. Especially notable earlier on were the Nazarene beauty of ‘Stirb, Lieb’ und Freud’!’ and the shining moon of the piano treble in ‘Auf das Trinkglas eines verstorbenen Freundes’, tinged with melancholy. Rock-solid rhythm ensured the resounding success of ‘Wanderung’, the piano part almost seeming generative of the poem itself, rather than vice versa. The ardent quality to the final stanza proved heart-stopping. ‘Stille Liebe’ was simply lieblich, and ‘Frage’, yes, questioned as it should. Gerhaher’s shaping of the vocal line in ‘Stille Tränen’ would have impressed deeply in a purely instrumental sense; married to his verbal acuity, it proved unforgettable. The closing ‘Alte Laute’ showed again the necessity of pain, every bar imbued with the sense of life slowly passing. ‘Und aus dem Traum, dem bangen. Weckt mich ein Engel nur.’ ‘Requiem’, op.90 no.7 offered an apt, duly moving encore.