There may be something more depressing in the modern musical world ...

..., but if so, I have forgotten it, and feel no need to be reminded:

Festival d'Aix-en-Provence (3) - Lang/BPO/Rattle, 8 July 2009

Haydn – Symphony no.91 in E-flat major
Haydn – Piano concerto in D major, Hob.XVIII/11
Ravel – Piano concerto in G major
Ravel – Ma mère l’oye

Lang Lang (piano)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Sir Simon Rattle (conductor)

This really was a ‘game of two halves’, the only difference being that the excellent half consisted of the first and last items, whilst the two concertos, performed either side of the interval, received solo performances of an uncomprehending vulgarity that beggared belief. I had entertained the vain hope that Lang Lang might yet redeem himself, following an execrable performance of Brahms’s first piano concerto, which I heard in Berlin last year. If anything, these performances were even worse.

The concert started well, with a fine performance of Haydn’s ninety-first symphony, the programming choice of a true Haydn connoisseur, since it is a marvellous work, yet little heard even by Haydn’s standards. Sir Simon Rattle elected to employ a relatively but not excessively small orchestra, strings in the proportion 9.9.6.5.3. Although the Grand Théâtre de Provence is a reasonably large space, the orchestra did not sound undernourished. The first movement introduction sounded full of hope rather than grave, with woodwind timbres as beautiful as one could ever hope to hear. Articulation was sprightly throughout. Even the exposition was full of contrast, without seeming disconnected: counterpoint in the bridge passage was clearly projected, whilst the second subject’s ‘character’ was full of grace. Following András Schiff’s bizarre experiment with the Philharmonia, employing natural horns with an otherwise modern orchestra (including other brass), it was a great relief, especially during the development section, to hear the superlative Berlin horns. Rattle could not but relish a modulation, breathtaking in an almost Schubertian fashion, in the recapitulation, yet without undue exaggeration. The Andante was flowing but not rushed, its variations unfolding delectably, that with solo bassoon (the first), proving a particular joy. We had a sense of the neo-Baroque but also of the rustic, the latter heightened by pairs of oboes and horns, and the principal cello. The minuet was taken fast, a little too much for my taste, and seemed a touch over-directed, the fussiness to which Rattle can sometimes be prone once again exhibiting itself. Yet if the minuet wanted naturalness, the trio was nicely relaxed, full of colour and grace, and with a true sense of chamber music writ (relatively) large. The finale opened with a Mozartian grace, which has seemed lacking in Rattle’s own Mozart, followed by a warranted orchestral display. Interplay between the two quite rightly proved the dramatic material for the rest of the movement, with a welcome touch of humour projected, without underlining, in an unexpected repetition at the end of the movement.

The Haydn D major concerto started well enough, with nice antiphonal response between the first and second violins (both sections reduced by one instrument apiece). Enter Lang Lang. My first reaction was that his was a genuinely beautiful instrumental tone but it was not long before tiresome ‘effects’ reared their head – and, of course, those pained expressions, followed by a self-satisfied grin, as if he knew he were playing a gullible audience. Unmotivated dynamic and tempo variations obliterated all sense of musical line. Something approaching absolute zero was reached with a preposterous cadenza, accorded a superficial sense of extemporisation, yet clearly rehearsed, not least since the orchestral players knew precisely when to pick up their instruments. An irrelevant quotation from Beethoven’s fifth symphony led to music which sounded as though it might have emanated from Tin Pan Alley. Once again, the orchestral opening to the second movement sounded full of grace, highlighting the paradox that Rattle’s Haydn can sometimes sound more Mozartian than his Mozart. Soon, of course, we were subjected to further soloistic posturing. Piano-stool conducting, unrelated to what the orchestra was playing, heralded more of the same so far as the performance was concerned. This time, the cadenza opened with sub-Lisztian fioritura and descended into a meandering exchange between Broadway and cod-Rachmaninov. The ‘Hungarian’ aspects of the finale were predictably over-indulged, and arguably so in the orchestra too, but that was the least of the movement’s problems. The distracting – had there been any musical substance from which to distract – movements of the soloist reached a climax when I thought the pianist was about to fall from his stool. If only he had... His foot-tapping grew in volume too. I should not have minded the sub-Bartókian exaggerations, if there had been any sense of how the solo part fitted together, but no. This was nothing more than a circus act. All the technique in the world does not guarantee any degree of musical understanding.

I wondered whether the Ravel G major concerto might prove more bearable; it did not. The first movement was taken very fast. Perhaps Rattle simply wanted to get it over with; who could blame him? The Berlin Philharmonic sounded lighter than one generally hears in this music, closer to Gershwin: a valid interpretative choice, I suppose, but not one to which I warm. Lang Lang’s glissandi were just that, with no sense of musical meaning. After that, much of his part was heavy, choppy, augmented by an additional part for tapped foot. Accents were arbitrarily – absurdly – placed on certain notes, with the climax milked as if it were once again imitation Rachmaninov. At least the BPO’s harp managed briefly to mesmerise. The opening cantilena of the slow movement illustrated how to make one hear every bar line. Then, suddenly, Lang moved from the metronomic to the gratuitously indulgent (and heavy-handed). This was graceless and forced; indeed, never have I heard Ravel sound less like Ravel. Later on, the pianist seemed to have no conception of when his part was of an ‘accompanying’ nature, merely carrying on in his narcissistic, attention-seeking way. If he could do less damage in the finale, it was not for the want of trying, some terrible clattering sounds pouring forth. Incomprehensibly to me, the audience erupted with approval at the end. For one dreadful moment, I feared that we were to be ‘treated’ to an encore. Small mercies and all that...

Ma mère l’oye came as balm to the senses and soul after such a farrago. In the opening movement, I had a sense of the orchestra being the instrument, played by Rattle; out of this, other, single instruments emerged. There were some intriguing hints, especially earlier on, of pastel Wagner, though there was much that was sharper-edged too. A winning spring to rhythms allowed the various dances to work their magic. The contrabassoon’s vivid characterisation of the Beast was an especial joy. However, there were so many solo virtues, that I could not list them all: silky solos from leader, Guy Braunstein, richness of tone from the principal viola, a woodwind section full of character, not least when it came to the flute cuckoo... Nor should I neglect to mention the superlative percussion section. Finally, Le jardin féerique would surely have touched the hearts of children and adults alike. The strings were possessed of an almost Elgarian nobility and the final climax was truly exultant. Ravel and his performers proved beyond a shadow of doubt that childlike is in no sense equivalent to trivial.

Daniel Barenboim, Lang Lang, et al., 22 March 2008

Philharmonie, Berlin

Ravel – Ma mère l’oye
Liszt – Réminiscences de Don Juan
Bartók – Sonata for two pianos and percussion

Daniel Barenboim (piano)
Lang Lang (piano)
Torsten Schönfeld (percussion)
Dominic Oelze (percussion)

The piano four-hand version of Ravel’s Ma mere l’oye is the original, but I admit to wondering during this performance whether, at least for an audience, it has been superseded by its subsequent version for orchestra. It is another matter for performers themselves, for which the work is a joy to explore. In any case, it received a good, if not outstanding performance from Daniel Barenboim and Lang Lang. It was not always clear that the performers were equally matched, with the latter often sounding somewhat heavy-handed. The waltz of Les entretiens de la belle et de la bête lilted nicely, however, and Le jardin féerique possessed a grave, understated beauty.

I had not heard Liszt’s Réminiscences de Don Juan in the two-piano version before. Indeed, ardent Lisztian though I be, I admit that I was unaware of its existence. Lang Lang is clearly on surer territory in such repertoire than he had been during the Brahms First Piano Concerto two nights before. This is not to say that his performance was flawless: there was the odd slip and, more seriously, a little more playing to the gallery than might have been warranted. He would do well to remember that Liszt adopted super-virtuosity in order to beat mere piano virtuosity at their own game and thereby to restore musical virtues. Barenboim proved no mean virtuoso himself, although there were admittedly moments when a certain technical fallibility showed. On the whole, though, this was an enjoyable performance, if not the extraordinary one some elements of the audience seemed to believe they had heard.

The towering masterpiece on the programme was Bartók’s Sonata for two pianos and percussion. It probably received the best performance, not least since the two pianists were joined by two outstanding percussionists from the Staatskapelle Berlin, Torsten Schönfeld and Dominic Oelze. I could not fault their performance, whether in rhythmic precision, in finely judged dynamic contrasts, and perhaps above all in their fine contributions on tuned percussion. Barenboim was clearly if unobtrusively leading the performance, which undoubtedly benefited from his guiding hand. On the other hand, Lang, despite the undoubted quality of his performance in pianistic terms, seemed very much intent on playing his own part and did not appear to be listening so closely to his fellow performers. Certainly Schönfeld and Oelze were the superior chamber musicians.

As an encore, Barenboim and Lang offered the Andante from Mozart’s Sonata for two pianos, KV 448. This made me wish that they had performed the work in its entirety, in place of one of the first-half works. Once again, Barenboim took the musical lead, hardly surprising for one of the supreme Mozartians of our time. This performance was poised, stylish, and sometimes meltingly beautiful. It is something of an irony that Lang Lang, so touted as a Romantic lion of the keyboard, should have shone most here, not least through relative self-effacement; it also imparts hope, given that there can be no sterner musical test than the music of Mozart.

Brahms, Schoenberg, and Wagner: Lang Lang/Staatskapelle Berlin/Barenboim, 20 March 2008

Philharmonie, Berlin

Brahms – Piano Concerto no.1 in D minor, Op.15
Schoenberg – Five Orchestral Pieces, Op.16
Wagner – Tristan und Isolde: Prelude and ‘Liebestod’

Lang Lang (piano)
Staatskapelle Berlin
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)

It is not pleasant to write a damning review, but this performance of the first Brahms piano concerto was dreadful. Despite – or perhaps on account of – the hype, this was the first occasion on which I had heard Lang Lang. One should not build too much upon a single hearing, but at the very least I doubt that I shall ever wish to hear him in Brahms again. If I strain to find something to be said in its favour, the performance was technically correct – as it should be, for no pianist who cannot encompass the notes has any business performing the work, although he can readily be forgiven for omitting the odd note here and there. However, it did not for me yield a single musical insight; it did not appear remotely comprehending of Brahms in general or this concerto in particular. It was perhaps Brahms for those who prefer Rachmaninov. There were, it was true, moments of pianistic – in the worst sense – beauty, especially the trills, but they were in no sense integrated into the musical argument. How could there be, when there was none? The first movement might just about have passed muster, since it was dull rather than truly vulgar; the second movement, however, was something else. Lang Lang’s opening statement here had to be heard to be believed. The bizarre ornamentation – surely it was not a slip of the fingers? – and café-pianist spreading of the chords came as close to unforgivable as any musical performance I can recall. Much of the movement was taken not only at so wilfully slow a pace, but without any sense of a basic pulse, that it was distended almost beyond endurance. The third movement could only be an improvement after that, and I suppose it was, but again it placed empty virtuosity – in Brahms of all composers! – above musical substance. If there were one conductor who could have reined in this pianist it ought to have been Daniel Barenboim, but he seemed generally content to follow. The orchestral part of this truly symphonic concerto was thereby short-changed, although it was not without its moments of beauty, especially from the woodwind and the gorgeously rich second-movement ’cellos. As for the encore, it was even worse. Liszt’s transcription of the ‘Liebestod’ – his coinage rather than Wagner’s – from Tristan und Isolde was reduced to a level of vulgarity beneath the emptiest of Donizetti. There was simply melody, pulled around outrageously, and an utterly inappropriate sparkling of ‘accompaniment’. If Lang Lang did not understand Brahms at all, he somehow managed to understand Wagner even less. His ‘soulful’ facial expressions were perhaps even more irritating than they had been during the concerto. Much of the audience lapped it up.

Thank goodness then for the second half! Barenboim and the Staatskapelle Berlin sounded rejuvenated. Schoenberg’s Five Orchestral Pieces, one of the pinnacles of the twentieth-century repertoire, received, as so rarely they do, a performance fully consonant with their stature. Every section of the orchestra shone, in terms of attack, rhythmic precision, tonal security, ensemble, and sheer beauty – though never for its own sake – of sound. There was a delicate sense of chamber music when required, not least from the string principals, and equal vastness of orchestral voice when that was necessary. In Barenboim’s hands, the work sounded like a drama without words, which in many senses it is. There was a clear sense of a narrative unfolding, from the astounding violence – matching anything in the Rite of Spring – of the first movement Vorgefühle, through the shimmering Klangfarbenmelodie of the third, to the brave new world of the fifth’s ‘obligato recitative’, which casts its shadow over so much of its century. The fourth movement’s peripeteia truly sounded like a turning point, and the aching beauty of the second’s reminiscences of things past conjured up a canvas that belied the relative brevity of the work as a whole. Barenboim ensured that each movement had its own soundworld and story to tell, but never at the expense of its place in the work as a whole. In this reading, the pieces sounded as the symphony, albeit without voices, that Schoenberg planned yet never completed, subsuming it into the also-unfinished Die Jakobsleiter. We were also reminded that he was every bit as great an orchestral colourist as Debussy, something for which he is all too rarely given credit.

The Tristan extracts also showed conductor and orchestra on form, far more so than in the previous night’s sometimes casual Meistersinger. My suspicion is that this – along with Parsifal – is more Barenboim’s piece than Die Meistersinger. At any rate, there was an absolute surety of the journey to be taken, married to a gorgeousness of orchestral sound akin to Nietzsche’s ‘voluptuousness of hell’. Wave upon wave surged, until repose was finally granted. The strings’ vibrato was perfectly judged, the unendliche Melodie omnipresent. Indeed, I could find nothing at which to cavil. If this was a swifter, less ‘metaphysical’ reading than one might have expected from a disciple of Furtwängler, then it was all the better for telling its own tale.