Happy 90th birthday, Bernard Haitink!

Image: Monika Rittershaus

Of any performing musician alive today, none has had a more formative influence on me than Bernard Haitink. Not only did I hear my first Ring – at the Royal Albert Hall, when the Royal Opera looked in grave danger of never returning to Covent Garden – from him; it has remained musically one of the very best. (Ironically, its sole rival would hail also from that same, unpromising venue, under the direction of Daniel Barenboim.) I took the train down from Cambridge and back every day, and stood right up in the Gallery, seemingly miles from the stage. Not once did my feet tire, let alone my ears and mind. Haitink’s integrity, wisdom, and communicative understanding gripped me from beginning to end. I had barely attended any live opera, let alone Wagner, at the time. Even without his quietly heroic plea on the day of Götterdämmerung, beseeching us in the shortest of sentences to do what we could to defend an institution Rupert Murdoch and philistine New Labour stood eager to consign to the flames, it would have been an unforgettable experience. To me, it seemed, rightly or wrongly, that he saved the Royal Opera. He certainly inspired me early on to continue a Wagner journey that will most likely never end.


Since then, I have tried to hear him whenever I can: mostly here in London, occasionally elsewhere. In Amsterdam with the Chamber Orchestra of Europe for Brahms; in Zurich for Tristan (my one and only visit to date to cripplingly expensive Switzerland, but worth every penny); in Salzburg for Haydn’s Creation; but above all, since what proved, regrettably, his final Covent Garden appearance, for Parsifal in 2007, in concerts with the London Symphony Orchestra: time and time again, his musicianship, his inspiration of musicians and audience alike, have afforded an undemonstrative masterclass in that most unfashionable of virtues, musical ‘greatness’. We can chip away at that all we like, often with good reason. Bernard Haitink reminds us how and why it can still matter: not in terms of some throwback to an age of great ‘maestri’, but now, in the present, in our terms. May I wish him the happiest of ninetieth birthdays, and look forward to the next time I shall share in his artistry?


In the meantime, here is a link to my review of Haitink conducting Mahler’s Ninth Symphony with the LSO at the Proms in 2009: a performance I shall never forget.

And here is his legendary recording of La Mer with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra:

Prom 19 - LSO/Haitink: Mahler, 29 July 2016

Royal Albert Hall

Mahler – Symphony no.3

Sarah Connolly (mezzo-soprano)

Tiffin Boys’ Choir (chorus master: James Day)
London Symphony Chorus (chorus master: Simon Halsey)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

Bernard Haitink has what is absolutely necessary, yet more often than not lacking, to conduct a Mahler symphony, indeed to conduct any symphony worthy of the name: the ability to hear it in a single span and to communicate in performance that ability. That is not, of course, in itself enough to ensure a successful, let alone a great, performance, but its absence will be fatal. He showed that again here, and how – with a London Symphony Orchestra on outstanding form. Haitink did not seem to offer a particular point of view on the work, but nor did he conduct with anonymity: something that could, on occasion, prove a problem in this music, during his later years, for Claudio Abbado – or at least a problem for me. Rather, one had a sense, even though one knew it to be unfounded, even nonsensical, that this was somehow the music ‘itself’ we were hearing.

Haitink opened the first movement briskly, but the opening phrase’s subsiding both told of possibilities ahead in this movement and beyond (the prefigurement of the fourth movement’s ‘O Mensch’ as clear, as telling, as I can recall). There was no doubt that this was a march: how could there be with the LSO drummers on such magnificent form? But there was far more to the LSO’s performance than military might: this was Mahler with great warmth and unanimity of attack. It was post-Wagnerian Mahler, with equal emphasis on the ‘post-’ and the ‘Wagner’. The huge orchestra notwithstanding, Mahler’s ability to conjure up a miraculous array of chamber ensembles – always, be it noted, directed by Haitink – never ceased to amaze. When those phantasmagorical flutes began their chorale-like passage – and, again, when it returned – Haitink held the tempo back slightly, hinting perhaps that summer marching in might not all be good; it might even be bad, although undoubtedly irresistible, as leader Carmine Lauri’s sinuous solo suggested. The gravity of the trombones seemed to reach back across the centuries, past Mozart’s Requiem, to ancient (relatively speaking) Habsburg equale.  Tempi shifted with infinite subtlety; this was no ‘look at me, the conductor’ Mahler, for Haitink wanted us to look at Mahler. Marching onward, the woodwind in particular seemed almost to threaten metamorphosis into the deathly marionettes of the Sixth Symphony; equally crucial, though, that metamorphosis never happened. For this was marching that could be enjoyed too, almost as if we were paying a decidedly non-Marschallin like visit to the Prater. But then, there came disintegration: it was not just, or even principally shattering; it was perhaps closer to Mendelssohnian exhaustion. Attempts at rejuvenation or resuscitation were thereby rendered all the more ambiguous. The loudest offstage percussion I can recall (up in the Gallery, I think) heralded the recapitulation: it was as before, yet utterly transformed. And how the differences in the material were now revealed – or, so it seemed, revealed themselves! The end, when it came, was not lingered over; whatever Haitink may be, he is no sentimentalist. There was, indeed, a touch of Haydn to it.

 

A graceful oboe solo (Oliver Stankiewicz) and gracious second violins’ response set the tone for the second movement. Except soon it became clear that it had not; it was not long before unease set in, from within the music, nothing appliqué. Indeed, there was as much unease in ‘beauty’, whatever that might be, as in dissonant corrosion thereof. Thematic profusion seemed almost to rival Mozart – and this music is perhaps still more difficult to hold together. (So many conductors, often praised to the rafters, fail here.) Haitink’s rubato was expertly judged: again there was nothing self-regarding to it, but rather it always made a musical point; so did his ritenuti. He revealed to us all manner of connections, intra- and extra-musical, whether intentionally or otherwise. Not the least of them was the sweetness, inviting yet not without malignance, of Alt-Wien, that malignance ever more present towards the close.

 

We heard, almost stepped into, a city dweller’s countryside in the third movement: its nightmares as well as its dreams. This was, it seemed, Mahler exploring the terrain of Hänsel und Gretel, only with more overt nastiness. Internal coherence was just as striking: at times, we seemed close to Webern’s Bach. Until, that is, we could not be more distant from it. Cross-rhythms were as disconcerting as those of Brahms, whatever the gulf that might otherwise separate the two composers (in both of whose music Haitink has long excelled). The trumpet’s presentiments of the posthorn solos have never registered so strikingly to me. And how wondrous that sounded, from afar, in Nicholas Betts’s flugelhorn rendition. Again, there was more than a hint of modernist Mendelssohn. Above all, though, it moved: with dignity, with nobility, rather than pleading for us, Bernstein-like, to shed tears.  Instrumental scurrying also had something of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to it: Mendelssohn and Shakespeare. With that ‘Nocturne’ in mind, it seemed especially fitting that the French horns as well as the posthorn should have us hold our collective breath once again. We flitted around a weird liminal zone, combining Webern and Mendelssohn; on reflection, is that not often what Mahler is? A hint of balletic Tchaikovsky was swiftly banished by parodic ‘triumph’. And then, everything, or so it seemed, was to be heard that had gone before: together and eternally separate, alienated.

 

Sarah Connolly brought equal sincerity and subtlety to her vocal part in ‘O Mensch!’ Indeed the different colourings of the first statement of those words and her repetition of them spoke volumes; likewise the ensuing ‘Gib acht!’ The orchestral backdrop, if one can call it that, sounded again close to Webern in its shifting colours. Haitink’s strength of symphonic purpose was, however, quite different in nature (which is not, of course, to imply that Webern has not strength of purpose!) I have heard more contralto-like performances, but there was no denying the excellence of Connolly’s blend of Wort and Ton, nor the strength of the emotional response provoked. Indeed, perhaps not coincidentally, given her recent performances of the role, there was something Brangäne-like to her warnings, the deepness of Nietzschean midnight already in danger of disruption.

 

The boys’ calls of ‘Bimm bamm’ – I have heard dull people decry this wondrous moment as ‘silly’, when nothing could stand further from the truth –came as a fifth-movement, quite heavenly wake-up call from such Tristan-esque reverie. Connolly, intriguingly, continued to warn; it was certainly not only Haitink who understood how the two movements are connected. The women’s chorus and the LSO stood somewhere in between: mediators, perhaps even sainted mediators.

 

Quiet, infinite warmth marked the hymnal intensity of the LSO strings at the opening of the finale. I thought of – and felt – Communion. ‘What God tells me’, indeed! There was an almost Nono-like imperative to listen, as the strings spoke to us not just corporately, not just sectionally (what viola playing!) but, so one fancied, from individual desks and individual positions at those desks too. Fragility and strength were partners as the movement gathered pace, as something or Something revealed itself or Itself. There was, moreover, a well-nigh Beethovenian benevolence of spirit, albeit more vulnerable, to be experienced, perhaps even a little neurosis aufgehoben. And how Haitink guided the unfolding of that long line of unendliche Melodie; how he and his players communicated that echt-Romantic Innigkeit, so close to Schumann and yet alienated from him as modernity must be! For there was a Lied-like simplicity to what we heard and felt. This is difficult music, but its difficulty is accessible to anyone with a heart – and a mind. Unlike, alas, the idiot who disrupted the silence-that-never-was by shouting ‘Yeahhhhhhhhh!’ How can people be quite so inconsiderate? Still, that was an irritation rather than a catastrophe; the performance, both then and in recollection, rose far, far above it.

Perahia/COE/Haitink - Schumann, 20 November 2015

Grosser Saal, Musikverein

Manfred, op.115: Overture

Piano Concerto in A minor, op.54
Symphony no.2 in C major, op.61

Murray Perahia (piano)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

As safe bets go, this all-Schumann programme, with these musicians, would probably have veered toward the extreme end of safe. Yet, however heightened the expectations, they were not to be disappointed by performances whose supreme musicality delighted and edified from beginning to end. The golden acoustic – it really does sound more or less as it looks, albeit without the questionable ornamentation that must have given Adolf Loos severe palpitations – of the Musikverein’s Grosser Saal did no harm either, of course, although the chattering pair of girls behind me certainly did. No number of hard stares seemed to be enough; why do these people bother going?

 

I am not sure that I have ever heard the Manfred Overture in concert before; if I have, I have forgotten the experience, which forgetfulness might well speak for itself. We rarely, if ever, hear the complete incidental music: a great pity, but then much the same can be said of a good deal of Schumann’s music. At any rate, Haitink and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe had nothing to fear from the most exalted of comparisons. Indeed, whilst the orchestra was of course smaller, though not at all too small, and Haitink’s way is not Furtwängler’s – whatever the inspiration, neither is Barenboim’s – the darkness of tone Furtwängler drew from the Berlin Philharmonic did not always sound so distant. The extraordinary drama of such a performance, sounding with no exaggeration as if everyone’s life depended on it, is doubtless unrepeatable, just as no one could or should imitate Furtwängler in the Ninth. However, if the orchestral lines did not ‘speak’ quite like that – how could they do? – there was a noticeable, parallel kinship with Wagner. Two of the very greatest of Wagner conductors, and moreover, two of the very greatest Walküre conductors, impart their different varieties of musico-dramatic eloquence to the same score. Those Neapolitan sixth chords tell so much – which might perhaps resist the attempt to put it into words – because the crucial importance of harmony and, above all, harmonic rhythm is present throughout. It is that greatest wonder of Western music, harmony, which shapes the melodic, almost verbal, contours above. We feel again the loss, Genoveva notwithstanding, of Schumann as opera composer – even if, perhaps particularly if, it could never really have been. And the playing of the COE was just as committed as the Berlin Philharmonic: whether the Freischütz-like brass, the vernal woodwind, or the strings, whose every note pulsed with life – life, which Furtwängler, in his echt-Romantic way, distinguished in his notebooks from ‘vitality’, a second order virtue, longing for something already gone. Ours is largely a secondary lot, or sometimes it seems, but without grandstanding, Haitink and the COE permitted this neglected masterpiece to shine as itself.

 

The Piano Concerto is of course, a different animal. No one could call it neglected; indeed, it is the sort of work I only really wants to hear in a great performance, since otherwise one might just as well return at home to the great recordings of the past. Well, this was a great performance of the present. If I say that the work appeared simply to speak for itself, the claim stands open to objection in any number of ways. ‘Appeared’, ‘simply’, etc. The art that conceals art is in many respects the greatest and most difficult art of all. But there was a wisdom here born not only of lengthy experience, but also surely of the renewed delight in treating again with a masterpiece: finding new things, no doubt, but also, I suspect, finding old things and letting them speak, or sing, anew. Haitink and the orchestra offered the most impeccable of balance, lines weighted as if we were hearing, say, Boulez subtly and yet unmistakeably bring to the surface a Bergian Hauptstimme. Yet beneath that surface, again, lay harmony. So too, it did with Perahia, whose renowned love for Schenker was clearly in evidence. And yet, individual lines sang with Mozartian eloquence, the eloquence of a Mozart piano concerto in which the ‘purely’ vocal has been aufgehoben. A right-hand melody, in which the shadows deepened, lifted, or perhaps in which our standpoint upon them shifted, was crafted in the most apparently ‘natural’ of ways, just as it would be from the outstanding COE woodwind. Transitions, such as that from the Intermezzo from the finale, were a model of their kind, uniting every one of those virtues listed above. Moreover, not the least virtue of the finale would be when a Brahmsian piano chord revealed through its voicing the potentialities of a future later still. Perahia is not noted as an exponent of Schoenberg; indeed, I recall an interview in which he admitted ruefully that he did not understand twelve-note music. This, however, made me long to hear Perahia, Haitink, and – why not? – the Chamber Orchestra of Europe in a performance of that composer’s piano concerto. They might even give Uchida and Boulez a run for their money. Such was not, however, my final thought: that lay with the jubilation of warm, radiant, Musikverein A major: a Romantic battle had been lovingly won.

 

Haitink’s performance of the Second Symphony was to be no less distinguished. (It would by this stage have been surprising indeed, if it had.) Both of the earlier works are in many, although not all, respects ‘symphonic’ of their kind; this, however, was the ‘real thing’, as it were. What struck me – and I might have expected it, but experiencing it in the flesh can surprise one even with the unsurprising – was the structural grasp Haitink and his players displayed not only of each movement but of the symphony as a whole. That was not to paint each movement or indeed each paragraph, each phrase even, in similar shades. There was certainly diversity in unity, and vice versa, here. Again, I think of those chords from the piano concerto, with seeds not only of the future I mentioned, but also, of course, of the past, Bach in particular. Bach is, not without reason, often invoked in discussions of the first movement, but for me, Beethoven is just as important, perhaps more so. Moreover, there is kinship – I am not quite so sure that it is ‘influence’, but that is neither here nor there – with Wagner too. Such aspects were readily apparent, perhaps all the more so for the lack of underlining. Haitink, whatever he might be, is certainly not an ‘underliner’. (I imagine with horror what some of those intent on arbitrarily pulling around symphonic structures would have done with, or rather to, this.) Once again, the freshness, the exhilaration of the COE’s response was a joy in itself, not that it could or should have been heard merely ‘in itself’. The scherzo dazzled, not in a flashy way – again, can one imagine a less ‘flashy’ conductor? – but through the unleashing of kinetic, Mendelssohnian, above all profoundly musical energy. There was nothing sentimental to the slow movement, but nor was it treated in the perfunctory way that some, eager to avoid charges of sentimentality, will inflict upon it. Phrase upon phrase unfolded, almost as if in a poetry reading, until the dam broke and the high yet not un-tortured spirits of the finale flowed, like the Rhine itself. Beethoven again seemed a guiding but not an overbearing inspiration; Schumann spoke for himself.

 

Prom 57: Pires/COE/Haitink - Schubert and Mozart, 28 August 2015

Royal Albert Hall

Schubert – Overture in C major, ‘in the Italian Style’, D 591

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.23 in A major, KV 488
Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944

Maria João Pires (piano)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

Images: Copyright BBC/Chris Christoudoulou

 

 

Bernard Haitink and the Chamber Orchestra presented what will surely be remembered as one of this season’s finest Proms. Not perfect, although it certainly was not far off in the second half, but an experience of such unforced and unshowy, wise and lively musicianship that only someone predisposed not to do so would not have come away buoyed by that experience.

 

Schubert’s C major ‘Italian’ Overture – there are two, the other in D major – is not amongst his finest works, but it has enough that is characteristic and indeed enough that is fun to merit the occasional outing. Above all, it is what it says: an overture, a genre which seems to have become strangely unfashionable. (In part, that is a consequence of a welcome rediscovery of other ways to programme an orchestral concert than overture-concerto-symphony; that seems, however, to have left some with the idea, triumphantly refuted in this concert, that overture-concerto-symphony is no longer an option, or is somehow intrinsically unimaginative.) The introduction took us quickly from Mozart to Rossini (well, sort of: that can be exaggerated) to Schubert. Ersatz Rossini reinstated in the exposition proper reminded me of the work of both Claudio Abbado and Maurizio Pollini with this wonderful orchestra in its early years, although, especially in Haitink’s hands, Schubert could not help but shine through. Harmonies, key relationships, even rhythm (looking forward to the ‘Great’ C major Symphony) announced kinship clearly, an not only with the composer’s ‘Italianate’ Sixth Symphony. The COE proved spruce, vernal; woodwind playing, unsurprisingly, offered many highlights. And yes, there was more of a sense of the theatre than one tends to find in Schubert’s own opera overtures.

 

Haitink opted for a very small orchestra for Mozart’s twenty-third piano concerto: eight first violins down to three double basses. Especially during a slightly bland first movement, I could not help but wish for a little more, not least given the notorious acoustic of the Royal Albert Hall. Occasional ‘period’ mannerisms intruded, but only slightly: over-emphatic slurring of quavers from the violins, for instance. Compared to most of what we must put up with nowadays, it was almost nothing, but it seemed a pity, allied to slightly thin string tone in the opening tutti. The orchestra sounded fuller following the entry of Maria João Pires. She offered beautifully shaded playing: never fussy, let alone mannered. There was great clarity too, not least, crucially, when it came to her left-hand. And yet, beautiful though this was, the performance, in this movement anyway, never quite seemed to engage with Mozart’s greatest emotional depths, all of which are where. It was not all surface, by any means; but nor did it move to tears, at least in my case.

 

 

Mozart’s unfathomable depths are perhaps still more readily apparent in the slow movement. Here, both soloist and orchestra were much readier to explore them. The COE’s Harmoniemusik was exquisite, with the lightest direction – yet one imagined it made all the difference – from Haitink. Pires treated the music as if it were an aria, that ‘as if’ crucial: a singer can hardly sing an aria as if it were one, but a pianist can suggest with her playing, and did. Her evenness of tone was a thing of wonder. So were, for example, the bassoon duets which, more than once, caught my ears. Ineffable sadness, lightly worn, characterised the close. Papapeno put in a guest appearance, as he must, in the finale. Again, the COE woodwind were simply ravishing. That treacherous bassoon line at the opening – I remember a bassoonist in my college orchestra unsuccessfully pleading with me, as soloist, to take the movement even a little slower – was despatched as if the easiest thing in the world. Mozart must never, but never, sound difficult. Episodes had their own character and were seamlessly integrated, as if without effort. There were, perhaps, times when a little greater dynamic range would not have gone amiss, but this was otherwise quite delightful.

 

I was fortunate enough to hear a great Schubert ‘Great’ from the Vienna Philharmonic and Daniel Barenboim earlier this year. Ultimately, if I had to choose, I should opt to experience that again, but that is more a matter of Furtwänglerian personal taste than of æsthetic judgement. I can safely say that I have been privileged to hear two great performances in 2015, that art is not, thank God, yet subject to ‘league tables, and that I should thus count myself doubly fortunate. Whereas Barenboim had opened in unforgettable, darkly Wagnerian fashion, Haitink’s first movement introduction – more to the point, perhaps, his first horn, Chris Parkes – had no hint of the portentous; indeed, that opening was almost, but not quite, fragile. The COE, as one would have expected, fielded a smallish orchestra, albeit larger than that for the Mozart: strings, I think, 12:10:8:6:4. This was a performance which certainly did not avoid the darker corners of Schubert’s score, but nor did it dwell upon them. Balance was perhaps the watchword, offering a conception of the composer which perhaps placed him, rather than Beethoven, as Mozart’s most obvious heir – or rather, the most obvious heir of a particular conception of Mozart, such as we had heard earlier. The life we heard in the inner parts was reason enough to celebrate such a conception; brass gently yet unmistakeably reminded us that life necessarily entails death. And, wonder of wonders in these ‘authenticke’ times, although Haitink’s initial tempo had been on the fast side, there was an accelerando to come to the exposition proper. (The idea of anything approaching ‘authenticity’ with respect to a work never performed during the composer’s lifetime is more than usually absurd, but let us leave such irrelevances where they deserve to be left.) Having made that Mozartian comparison, I should add that there were differences too. The strings were far more willing, rather as I wish they had been earlier, really to dig in, often belying their numbers, whilst retaining the transparency those numbers probably aided. Haitink’s development section was fresh with the spirit of adventure, always so keen with this orchestra, and, in the quieter passages, harmonic mystery too. The recapitulation sounded, quite rightly, as exploratory as if it were formally a second development. The coda did not – could not – have the cataclysmic import Barenboim and the VPO had brought to it, but proved triumphant in its own, more modest, way.

 

 

The slow movement – yes, I know some people do not like it to be called that, but who cares? – was as fresh as expected, without downplaying stern intrusions, which truly exuded menace. The world of melancholic song was never far away either. Indeed, as mentioned, above, balance, in an almost Abbado-like way, seemed to be Haitink’s watchword. Lengths were truly heavenly; I wished it might have gone on forever. Style, vigour and, yes, song characterised the scherzo, equally well balanced between such apparently competing tendencies. There was a sense of conversation between the musicians such as one might have expected from a great string quartet. By the same token, the movement’s stature, which one almost inevitably, however misleadingly, is tempted to call Beethovenian, shone through. So, however, did feather-light, yet equally goal-orientated Mendelssohnian presentiments. We could dream, even after Midsummer. The sheer scale naturally also had one think of Bruckner, although Bruckner could surely never have summoned up such lightness and ease. The trio was just as lovingly detailed, very much with its own character, all too easily categorised as ‘rustic’. Not that there was nothing ‘Austrian’ to it, but it should not, could not, be reduced to the realm of the Heuriger, however inviting. Haitink unfailingly shaped and communicated the contours of the finale, having one almost believe that the music was speaking ‘for itself’; as ever, art concealed art. There was much that so poignant in melody and harmony, perhaps all the more so for the lack of heavy underlining. That pair of oboes brought a tear to my eye, as did moments of Mendelssohnian magic – put to other ends. The final blaze of glory was, again, quite different in character, as it had to be, from that which Barenboim had engendered. There was, of course, no need to choose. Magnificent!    

Uchida/LSO/Haitink - Debussy, Mozart, and Brahms, 30 October 2014

Barbican Hall

Debussy – Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune

Mozart – Piano Concerto no.22 in  E-flat major, KV 482

Brahms – Symphony no.4 in E minor, op.98

Dame Mitsuko Uchida (piano)

London Symphony Orchestra

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

My only worry concerning this concert, as I confided to a friend beforehand, was that, at best my expectations, high as they were, would only be met. As it happened, there was nothing for me to worry about; they were exceeded. Bernard Haitink and the LSO opened with what was perhaps the warmest, most leisurely, most languid performance of Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune I have heard –at least that I can immediately recall. Magical both in its panoply of colours and its unhurried progress, its drama was heightened by nagging undercurrents that brought to mind Haitink’s Pelléas and of course his Wagner. The LSO was on excellent form, its harps imparting as much delight as Gareth Davies’s beautifully-shaped, infinitely-flexible flute solo. One could both appreciate the harmonies and sonorities for their own sake, and for their place in the greater scheme of things; one could luxuriate, but actively. Wonderful!

 

Mitsuko Uchida joined the orchestra for Mozart’s great E-flat major concerto, KV 482. The orchestra she joined displayed in its initial tutti just the right balance of clarity and warmth, Haitink ensuring a sense of the martial that was never exaggerated, ably assisted by trumpets and drums. Uchida’s entry showed her entirely in keeping with the performance; there was not the slightest need for adjustment. Perfectly voiced, beautifully variegated, unerringly phrased, this was distinguished pianism indeed. She was not shy to ornament, whether in this first movement or the others, but the results convinced, indeed drew one’s ear in. This was chamber music writ large, yes, but it was also symphonic: in short, it was just what a Mozart concerto should be. A nicely Beethovenian cadenza (Uchida’s own, I presume) was presented with style and conviction.

 

 

As with its predecessor, the slow movement benefited from a finely judged tempo: unfashionably a true slow, but certainly not too slow, movement, and all the better for it. Grave beauty and understated intensity put me in mind of Gluck, although the flowering of lines could only have been Mozart. Uchida’s responses to the orchestra seemed to look forward to the Orphic exchanges in the slow movement of Beethoven’s Fourth Concerto. Again, the exquisite truthfulness of every phrase shone through. The Harmoniemusik was just as crucial, of course: lifting the shadows so that we might glimpse Elysium. The advent of the hunting finale immediately put a smile on my face: woodwind serenades and the divine ‘simplicity’ of the piano part equally responsible. It mattered too much really to qualify as ‘carefree’, but there was nevertheless proper lightness of touch. The return of the rondo theme brought greater ebullience, in just the right measure. This was surely a performance that would have delighted Sir Colin Davis.

 

Brahms’s Fourth Symphony had the second half to itself. The first movement emerged forthright in Haitink’s hands, though certainly not unyielding; indeed, it sounded unusually Beethovenian. The LSO strings offered heartrending playing, especially for the longing first subject. Motivic development was admirably clear and meaningful throughout: Schoenberg’s ‘developing variation’ indeed. Counterpoint and harmony showed beyond any doubt that it is not only this work’s finale which is imbued with the spirit of Bach. Inexorable and ultimately awe-inspiring, this was a fine account indeed. The second movement was perhaps taken swifter than usual; at any rate, a sense of urgency did not imply being rushed. The music again offered Beethovenian reminiscence, in this case particularly of the second movement to Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. And yet, such a processional retained more than a hint of the Bergian labyrinth in the motivic development of inner parts – which combination situates Brahms pretty well really. Not that there were not ‘late’ Romantic recollections of Mendelssohn and Schumann too – and not only from the woodwind.

 

The third movement was vigorous, bracingly so, to a certain extent defying expectations set up, yet in no sense incongruous. Beethoven again seemed a guiding presence. It was difficult to tell whether Haitink’s reading were exultant or angry; and that surely was a good deal of the point. Then the great finale, whose modernism, without obviously being highlighted, nevertheless shone through Brahms’s material and its deployment. Webern sounded just as close as Bach. (If only we had more performances of either of those composers at such a level!) The utmost rigour enabled both anguish and sublimity of utterance. Trombone equale and numinous yet desolate flute lines had their individual tales to tell, but nothing distracted from the principal argument. Haitink surprised, however, with a well-nigh Furtwänglerian accelerando at one point, not something I have heard him do before here. Like Furtwängler, Klemperer, and many before him, he continues to rethink the greatest works of our symphonic tradition. And if this were tradition, then it is something worth defending to our dying breaths. Brahms’s final symphony – there is none greater since Beethoven – was renewed, reinvigorated, tragic in every proper sense.

 

 

LSO/Haitink - Bruckner, 23 October 2014

Barbican Hall

Symphony no.8 in C minor (1890 version, ed. Nowak)

London Symphony Orchestra

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

This was by any standards an impressive performance, although it did not entirely fulfil my (perhaps unreasonable) expectations. Bernard Haitink is and remains a master Brucknerian, of course, but there were a very few occasions on which tension flagged slightly, although that may have been more a matter of the edition than the performance as such; the two are not straightforwardly disentangled. Moreover, there were perhaps a few more orchestral fallibilities, particularly falling off of phrases, than I might have expected from the LSO, even in so notoriously exhausting a work for the players as this. The congested acoustic of the Barbican certainly did not help either. Finally, I remain to be convinced that this edition of the symphony presents Bruckner to his greatest advantage, above all with respect to the cuts made. I am no fundamentalist about such matters, nor am I a Bruckner scholar, and in general, a great performance can salvage even the most corrupt of editions – think of Hans Knappertsbusch using Franz Schalk in Bruckner’s Fifth! – but I could not help but regret that Haitink had turned to Leopold Nowak from Robert Haas, however distinguished the company Haitink may have joined.

 

Those reservations out of the way, I can now describe what remained, as I said, an impressive performance. The first movement opened and continued in admirably ‘direct’ fashion: facing ‘it’ in squarely, whatever ‘it’ may be. Those oases of not-quite-stasis, not unlike and yet certainly not identical to Mahler’s later examples, offered remarkable relative stillness. Haitink’s patience always paid off, not least in the build up of apparently Wagnerian figures to distinctly un-Wagnerian ends. Apocalyptic grandeur arose out of the notes rather than being applied to it from without. The final subsiding was accomplished, like everything else, without exaggeration and all the more powerful for it.

The scherzo was alert: full of life, yet telling of death. Both Haitink and the LSO gave the sheer strangeness of Bruckner’s harmony, often overlooked, its full due. Again, that proper sense of the apocalyptic arose from the material. The trio brought with it no metaphysical relaxation, its relative leisure no less disturbing. Indeed, barely have I heard it so unsettling. Yet Haitink did not appear to ‘do’ anything with, let alone to, it; the effect, however much art this may conceal, was of permitting the music to speak ‘for itself’.

The Adgaio opened with a sadness to great for words: again, the work’s sadness, or so it seemed, not a ‘mere’ performance’s. It progressed with a strength that pertained to both. Woodwind told of something different, of something perhaps celestial, something both necessary and yet increasingly difficult to attain; this was the orchestral section that impressed most greatly of all. There was something monastic, in a far fuller sense than the modern, ignorant caricature would have it, to those players’ contribution: a last gasp of the Austrian Baroque, one might say. Strings consoled as they could, but at what point did Bruckner take his leave, or threaten to do so, from his God, or vice versa? That remained an open question, for all the clichés one hears concerning such matters. Silence, without a hint of theatrical prolongation, played its role too, both dramatic and architectural. Towards the close, horns, despite occasional slips, offered the innocence of an earlier German Romanticism: infinitely touching.

 

The finale undoubtedly opened with defiance. Unstable – especially in this edition? – progress seemed to rely as much upon belief as anything else, though Haitink’s sense of the greater picture could hardly be doubted. One does not, of course, expect the motivic cohesion of Brahms in Bruckner; Bruckner’s very personal handling of form had its own story to tell, and, despite the cuts, did so for the most part admirably. Once again, though one could hear harmonic proximity to Wagner, one felt all the more keenly how important were Bruckner’s purpose and method.

 

Salzburg Festival (1) - BRSO/Haitink - Haydn, The Creation, 18 July 2014

Grosses Festspielhaus

Camilla Tilling (soprano)

Mark Padmore (tenor)

Hanno Müller-Brachmann (bass-baritone)

 

Bavarian Radio Chorus (chorus master: Peter Dijkstra)
Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

Bernard Haitink has waited until late his career to perform some of the greatest masterpieces of the choral repertoire. The Creation, the B minor Mass, and the St Matthew Passion are all works he has conducted for the first time in or approaching his eighties. ‘Authenticity’ has doubtless played a part here, as has Haitink’s typical modesty. Has the wait been worth it? Very much so, at least on the basis of this, the opening concert of this year’s Salzburg Festival.

 

Since Alexander Pereira added an extra week to the festival, having it open with an ‘Ouverture spirituelle’ programme of sacred music, The Creation, or Die Schöpfung, has featured first each time: a lovely invention of tradition. It would, I am sure, be fascinating to compare Haitink’s performance with those of previous years, not least the ‘period’ performance of Nikolaus Harnoncourt; alas, I am not in a position to do so. We all come with our own personal ‘traditions’, our own terms of reference, however. Passing swiftly over an unfortunate performance earlier this year from Richard Egarr, replacing the late Sir Colin Davis, my most recent performance had been with Sir Colin and the LSO in 2007; beyond that, the recording I tend most often hear in my head – and indeed to listen to – is Karajan’s classic first version (second, if you count his live Salzburg performance, issued much more recently). It seems inconceivable that anyone will ever match, let alone surpass, Karajan’s soloists, but it is a measure of the stature of this performance that Mark Padmore was anything but shamed by inevitable if odious mental comparison with the hardest act to follow, Fritz Wunderlich; indeed, Padmore’s was for me the finest vocal performance of all. And if my memories of the LSO/Davis performance – it has been issued on LSO Live, though I have yet to hear it – in general pip this Salzburg account, perhaps above all in terms of Davis’s inimitable way with orchestral Haydn, encompassing not only great musical wisdom but a sense of fun that is perhaps not Haitink’s strongest suit, then the distinctions will only be of degree. This was a fine performance, with no weak link, which crucially had one marvel anew not only at Haydn’s invention but also at one of the greatest monuments to the late Austrian Enlightenment.  

 

Perhaps one of the greatest surprises concerning Haitink’s performance was the size of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra: the strings ranged from ten first violins to four double basses. (Not that this need determine how we perform the work today, but it is of course a far smaller orchestra than Haydn, influenced by the monumental Handel performances he heard in London, either had in mind or received at the premiere.) There were a few occasions when I really felt that at least another couple of desks of violins would have benefited the performance – for instance, during Raphael’s Second Day accompagnato – but, even in a large house such as this, not very many. In any case, regret at the loss of Karajan’s deep pile was, if not entirely banished, largely compensated for by the alert, variegated playing of the scaled-down BRSO. Purpose and direction may be accomplished and communicated – or not – with any size of orchestra, and they were certainly present from the very opening of the ‘Representation of Chaos’. That first chord – well, not actually a chord, just a unison C, tonality itself still to emerge, like Heaven and Earth themselves – was magnificently ominous; the movement as a whole offered a properly Beethovenian essay in the symphonically generative. Indeed, it almost seemed to go beyond Beethoven. Whether at the fundamental level of harmonic rhythm, or at that of the detail of the menace imparted by clarinet figuration, everything was made to count – and was heard to be connected. (The contrast with the hapless exhibitionism of Egarr could hardly have been greater.)

 

The recitative which follows was taken beautifully slowly: a sense of the desolate, perhaps, or at least the empty, but pregnant with hope. The excellent Bavarian Radio Chorus intoned with sotto voce precision the Spirit of God’s moving upon the waters, before the celebrated outburst of ‘Light!’ It was perhaps not so overpowering as in some performances, yet made its point without exaggeration: typical Haitink. Uriel’s following aria was crisply played, anything but sentimental; Padmore offered – or seemed to do so – a slight stress – upon ‘Ordnung’, that crucial eighteenth-century preoccupation, again without exaggeration, certainly without the musical disruption some seem to think betokens attention to the verbal text. And in the chorus that followed, orchestral chromaticism was both sinuous and strongly symphonically generative, choral diction and pitching beyond reproach. A new created world indeed seemed to spring up at God’s command.

 

Hanno Müller’ Brachmann and Camilla Tilling, the other soloists, both had strong virtues. If Müller-Brachmann had, especially earlier on, a slight tendency to hector and indeed to bluff tone, that soon worked itself out. Tilling announced herself with ‘Mit Staunen sieht das Wunderwerk’, where I cannot help but hear Karajan’s Gundula Janowitz. Tilling was very different indeed: almost hoch-dramatisch, certainly forthright and unquestionably attentive to the libretto. It was intriguing, and perhaps a little surprising, that Haitink seemed keen to highlight Haydn’s Handelian legacy im ‘Rollend im schäumenden Wellen’, not just the dotted rhythms, but their rhythmic and harmonic implications. The Munich flautist worked especial wonders here with the ‘limpid brook’, as did the woodwind section as a whole in the following ‘Nun beut die Flur…,’ Tilling’s line here and elsewhere ornamented. ‘Stimmt an die Saiten’ sounded revealingly close to Mozart’s Handel – Gottfried van Swieten’s performances of alte Musik were of great importance to Mozart and Haydn – and the clarity with which it proceeded enabled both a panoply of orchestral colour as well as choral vigour. The fourth day’s sunrise again made its point without exaggeration, prefigured by the pretty recitative tinkling on an early piano by James Johnstone. Padmore brought echoes of Bach – perhaps inevitably – to bear, delicate yet purposeful. As the first part drew to a choral close, the heavens telling the glory of God, the only thing I missed was Haydn’s smile, or indeed his leaping for sheer, unadulterated joy; however, Beethovenian goodness and greatness of spirit were not entirely inadequate substitutes.

 

Orchestral playing was just as beautiful, just as variegated following the interval. Gabriel’s first aria brought a wonderful cooing synergy between Tilling and the Munich woodwind – though was her ornamentation of ‘Liebe’ just a little overdone? Müller-Brachmann’s gravity matched that of Haitink in the following recitative injunction to be fruitful and multiply. Haitink’s tempi were not entirely without surprise; for instance, ‘Der Herr ist groß’ was taken at quite a lick. Crucially, however, it was not harried; it came as release. If ‘Mit Würd und Hoheit angetan’ delighted rather than ravished, Wunderlich’s – and Karajan’s – shadow falls especially long there. In any case, the opening of the third part, three flutes and strings alike, was truly beautiful by any standards: this was a beauty that did not need to ask whether we had noticed it. The opening of the ‘Hymn’ was again taken at a fleet tempo, but if it did not offer the same kind of rapture as Karajan, its own variety was undeniably present. Müller-Brachmann as Adam again occasionally proved hectoring: perhaps the less agreeable side of Fischer-Dieskau’s influence? However, as this extraordinary number progressed, any minor doubts were dispelled. It was a delight, and a moving one. Haitink’s relatively small scale seemed especially apt here in Eden. And Tilling sounded very much a different ‘character’ as Eve. Moreover, Müller-Brachmann naughtily relished the quickening dew, celebratedly echoed in Haydn’s own Schöpfungsmesse. I am not sure that the final chorus has ever in my experience so clearly echoed the end of Die Zauberflöte, not the least associative achievement in a thoroughly admirable performance.

Wishing Bernard Haitink a very happy 85th birthday...

Jansen/COE/Haitink - Brahms, 29 November 2013

Grote Zaal, Concertgebouw

Violin Concerto in D major, op.77

Symphony no.2 in D major, op.73

Janine Jansen (violin)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

Two of Brahms’s greatest works in very fine performances in the Concertgebouw: a perfect choice for one of the hall’s 125^th anniversary ‘jubilee concerts’. Without being oppressively nationalistic – the Chamber Orchestra of Europe is, after all, by its very nature anything but – it could reasonably be seen as a matter of Dutch pride too: hall, conductor, and soloist representing the very best of the Netherlands’ cultural life.

 

Bernard Haitink, Janine Jansen, and the COE certainly made for a fine team in the Violin Concerto. There was little loss in what might have been thought the ‘restriction’ of chamber-size Brahms. For one thing, the orchestra throughout played with great fullness of sound and no preposterous scaling down, let alone elimination, of vibrato. That is, the size of orchestra – Meiningen or otherwise – was not the point; this was simply a manifestation of great musicianship. A translucency one would associate with the orchestra’s founder, Claudio Abbado, remained, but there were few occasions when anyone would reasonably have protested at a lack of body. The hushed moments, for instance, following Jansen’s exemplary account of the first movement cadenza, truly drew one in to listen with great intent, but that was not at the cost of due vehemence – minor mode passages in particular – elsewhere. Haitink’s command of the music’s ebb and flow, above all its harmonic rhythm, was enough to make a Schenkerian out of the most hardened Schoenbergian. Not that there was no sense of developing variation, either here or in the two following movements, but the work emerged as a ‘classic’ in a newly-minted yet time-honoured sense rather than a harbinger of what the twentieth century would bring. Jansen’s intonation was well-nigh perfect throughout, her tone perfectly centred, and her dynamic palette impressively varied without there being a sense of undue exaggeration. So much did her performance seem to emerge out of the capabilities of her instrument – and of course her artistry – that this seemed to be a concerto ‘for’ rather than ‘against’ the violin. The slow movement was songful, glorious in its evocation of Mozartian Harmoniemusik; it was not only the principal oboe who deserved special mention; so did the entire section, a veritable collection of serenaders. Jansen’s interaction with them was as first among equals rather than star soloist, expertly guided with a light yet firm touch by Haitink. The finale emerged with an utterly convincing balance between ‘Hungarian’ virtuosity – never for its own sake – and ‘German’ Urlinie. I could not find fault with a single aspect of this performance; nor should I wish to try.

 

The Second Symphony received almost as fine a performance, my sole reservation concerning the finale. Once again the COE’s playing was beyond praise, even though here there were times when one might have wished for a larger band. (Not so many of them, though, I have to admit.) All-too-easy summations of this as the ‘sunniest’ of Brahms’s works sounded as irrelevant as they are. Deeper undercurrents, again founded in Haitink’s harmonic understanding, were given their due: again permitted to emerge with an art that concealed art, apparently ‘natural’, rather than underlined. Indeed, the weight of the first movement registered to an extent such as one rarely hears, the exposition repeat fundamental to the musical conception rather than a formalistic nod. There are arguments either way, of course; the question is what works in any particular case. The special character of the inner movements was keenly observed. Once again, Brahms’s Viennese predecessors came to mind, and more importantly to the heart’s perception. Mozart and Schubert, rather than the first movement’s Beethoven, were very much present: benevolent, inspiring ghosts. The finale, however, I could not quite come to terms with. It was fast, indeed faster than I can ever recall hearing. Crotchets per minute are neither here nor there, but Haitink, as in some of his recent Beethoven, seemed intent on driving too hard. I can understand the desire to rid Brahms of ‘autumnal’ clichés, just as much as those of ‘summer’, but this music does not lose its true excitement if it is given time to breathe. There was much to admire, and the playing of the COE continued to impress greatly, but it did not – to me at least – seem a reading quite in the spirit of what had gone before.

Capuçons/COE/Haitink - Brahms, 27 November 2013

Grote Zaal, Concertgebouw

Concerto for violin and cello in A minor, op.102

Symphony no.1 in C minor, op.68

Renaud Capuçon (violin)

Gautier Capuçon (cello)

Chamber Orchestra of Europe

Bernard Haitink (conductor)

 

Nothing anyone says will prepare a newcomer for the acoustic of the Concertgebouw. This was my first visit, and I hope it will be the first of many. (There will certainly be at least one more, a second Brahms concert.) I shall not try to describe the sound, suffice to say that it must be the warmest, most rounded I have heard, with the possible exception of the very different Musikverein. Such things come to naught without musical excellence, of course, but once again a visit abroad, or even out of London, makes one realise how unfortunate we are in terms of orchestral-size concert halls.

 

It was a chamber orchestra we heard on this occasion, not a small chamber orchestra, but one of what I should think of as Mozartian proportions, with a string section extending down from twelve first violins to four double basses. (Not, I hasten to add, that Mozart cannot sound wonderful with a larger orchestra!) Before hearing this concert, I should have been something of a sceptic concerning chamber-orchestral Brahms. Doubtless the warmth of the acoustic played its part, but so did the crack players of the Chamber Orchestra of Europe. There was not a single occasion during the Double Concerto when I wished for a larger orchestra, much as I should have loved to hear the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra on home territory. (Next time, maybe!) I have heard wonderful things about the COE’s recent, quite intensive collaboration with Bernard Haitink, but again, one has to hear these things for oneself. Joined by the Capuçon brothers, there was here a sense of that celebrated line from Die Meistersinger, perhaps as close as Brahms and Wagner ever came: ‘Es klang so alt und war doch so neu!’ Haitink imparted the wisdom of an old Meister, of course, and yet there was nothing remotely stuffy, pedantic, or set in its ways, to his interpretation. The COE sounded just as invigorated as he did, lifting itself to something different from an orthodox symphony orchestra, but equally different, or perhaps more so, from the small-scale nature of what has come to be thought of as chamber-orchestral playing, the twin intimacy and intensity that seem to be taken as read from an Abbado-founded orchestra being equally present even many years on. And the violinist and cellist brought both youthful vitality and a true sense of old-world style. Truly, then, this appeared to offer the best of all possible worlds.

 

Gautier Capuçon’s opening phrase resounded with a depth that set the scene for the rest of the performance. This was actually the only occasion on which I heard a little intonational slip, but it mattered not a jot, Beckmessers will be alarmed to note. Naturally it was Gautier who made the greater impression at first, simply on account of Brahms’s writing, but the sweetness of Renaud’s violin tone was soon an equal wonder to savour; likewise his perfectly judged portamenti. Rubato and tempo variations, both in the first movement and later on, were never confused; Haitink knew what he was doing, never exaggerated, but let the music speak for itself, an illusion (Wahn) perhaps, but when a latter-day Sachs is conducting, all the better for it. The grand scale of that first movement made its point in a personal yet not idiosyncratic manner. It was not granitic; if anything, it seemed to have the mark of a master Wagnerian upon it. Haitink’s perhaps surprisingly Romantic view of Brahms was not that of, say, his great Amsterdam predecessor, Willem Mengelberg. It was marked rather by a freshness – many thanks here to the superlative COE woodwind – that took inspiration from Mendelssohn and Schumann, without reducing Brahms to the status, as it were, of a late early Romantic.

 

The slow movement was heard as if a song sung in a single breath. Again Schumann and Mendelssohn sprang to mind. All sorts of duets, trios, quartets, etc. were to be heard, as the soloists conversed with their orchestral counterparts. I could not help but think of Così fan tutte. Indeed, it was possible to imagine Fiordiligi and Dorabella playing games as they chose – what an impossible task! – between the blond player and his dark brother. The finale seemed ‘right’ in every respect. It had the character of a finale: perhaps an obvious point, yet it is hardly to be taken for granted. Not for the first time, we heard the shadow, productive rather than forbidding, of Beethoven – and not least in the combinations of harmony, rhythm, and colour, again especially with respect to the woodwind. This was musical, not artificial, excitement, every participant seeming to draw out the best from everyone else. A truly outstanding performance, the best I have ever heard of this work.  

 

Had it not been for that performance, I doubt that I should have had any qualms whatsoever about that of the First Symphony. Any reasonable person would not, and this was by any standards again a masterly reading. Of the four Brahms symphonies, this one took the longest for me to ‘get’: not in the sense of arrogantly assuming to understand it, but for me not simply to be bemused by it. Some people – more than you might expect – would claim that the fault lay with the composer; cue turning round Brahms’s notorious reference to ‘boa constrictors’ and the form of Bruckner’s symphonies. They would be wrong. It was doubtless partly a matter of my own immaturity, but also, I think, a matter of waiting for the right performance to come along, since this symphony suffers especially with respect to conductors who do not comprehend its tightly-knit organisation. (It stands at least as close as the Fourth to Schoenberg, indeed, if anything, closer.) Hearing within close succession Daniel Barenboim conduct the work with the Staatskapelle Berlin and then Furtwängler on record marked my eureka moment a good few years ago.

 

Haitink’s account with the COE was only the second I have heard that made sense of the work, the first having been Barenboim’s. That in itself ought to be commendation enough. And indeed it possessed many of the virtues of the concerto performance. Throughout there was a strong sense of line – strong enough, indeed, that I wondered what the problem could ever have been held to be with the work. The first movement’s introduction led as naturally as could be into the exposition proper; tension never sagged. Brahms’s two inner movements evoked both kinship and difference – and, most importantly of all, progression, as did the four movements as a whole. The woodwind section proved as verdant as previously. And if there were a few occasions when I felt a pang of regret that there were not more strings, this Mozartian complement worked wonders and never sounded in the slightest bit stretched, their tone in general as glowing as the acoustic – insofar as one could make such a distinction. The conductor’s refusal, or better disinclination, to linger in the Andante sostenuto was no sign of brusqueness, nor of unwillingness to yield; but it brought the music closer to a Schumannesque intermezzo than one often hears, a reading perhaps especially valid for a chamber orchestra. Schubert was heard to be just as much Brahms’s progenitor – that Harmoniemusik! – as Bruckner’s in the third movement. Haitink’s unwavering yet subtly flexible sense of line guided the twists and turns of the finale. ‘That’ theme was lovingly, faithfully, yet individually connected to Beethoven, and there was triumph in the final arrival.

 

And yet… I retained a lingering doubt, alongside wholehearted admiration for Haitink’s sureness of touch. Had it perhaps sounded a little too easy, too comprehensible? Barenboim, I seemed to remember, had exulted in the very difficulty of Brahms; his reading had stood closer to Schoenberg’s ‘Brahms the Progressive’. Certainly there had been more metaphysical striving, and a darker, more ‘German’ tone to his great orchestra. Rank ingratitude, of course; this was a noble, dignified, in many ways revelatory account. Yet one cannot have it all; Brahms’s symphonies are greater than any one interpretation will ever permit.  So maybe the ‘problem’, not really a problem at all but an opportunity, a provocation even, lay partly with Brahms after all.