Concertgebouw/Haitink - Bruckner, 20 May 2012

Barbican Hall

Symphony no.5 in B-flat major (revised version, 1877-8)

Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

I rarely find myself in the realm of the juste milieu, ever aware of Schoenberg’s dictum that only the middle road does not lead to Rome. Nevertheless, when it comes to Bruckner, I seem to be somewhere along that road, slightly fearful of where its non-Roman destination might turn out to be. I admire the later symphonies greatly; indeed, the final two I find truly awe-inspiring. The earlier works I continue, however, to find problematical, and cannot help but contrast their formal difficulties – devotees will doubtless respond that the difficulties are mine, not Bruckner’s, and perhaps they are – with the unanswerable ‘rightness’ and satisfaction afforded by Brahms. Nor can I bring myself to become hopelessly absorbed in the business of interminable numbers of ‘versions’, though I cannot help but think that some judicious editorial work would not necessarily be a bad thing.

It is testament, then, to the excellence of this performance from the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra and Bernard Haitink – ‘in the presence’ of a Dutch princess of whom I had never heard, but who required a welcoming committee and police guard – that there were times when I was almost convinced. Not all of the time, I admit, but I do not recall hearing a better sense of the work as a whole, not even from Claudio Abbado and the Lucerne Festival Orchestra last year. From the opening pizzicati, orchestra and conductor were utterly at home. The excellence of playing was such that a split horn note registered more strongly than otherwise it would have done. The weight, both sonorous and historical, of the Concertgebouw’s bass line contrasted strongly with the lighter approach adopted by Abbado. This was Bruckner with a reassuringly traditional, almost mediævalist, character to our pilgrim’s progress. There was, moreover, the inestimable advantage of having a great Wagnerian at the helm, even down to the level of the handling, the resounding, of string tremolos. Haitink’s way with – I am tempted to say, ‘creation of’ – the melos, the guiding thread, almost convinced me that Bruckner could develop here, rather than juxtapose. The splendid peals of rejoicing at the end proved a fitting culmination to a journey led by the surest of guides.

Command of line was equally supreme in the slow movement, likewise Haitink’s ability to conjure so gloriously full an orchestral sound – and, of course, the orchestra’s ability to provide it. Lucas Macías Navarro’s oboe solos were an especial melancholy joy. Indeed, the oases of woodwind stillness had me spellbound. I truly felt that the pathways, thickets even, mattered, as well as beguiled; Haitink again proved a magisterial guide. The abruptness of transition between material in the scherzo I continued to find bewildering, perhaps bizarre, but everything was wonderfully characterised and the menace imparted to peasant dances proved properly terrifying.

Apparent reassurance in the return of earlier material at the opening of the finale, after the model of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, was immediately questioned by the majesty of the Concertgebouw’s brass section in voicing the chorale. One could not doubt the conviction in all the contrapuntal working out that followed, riveting in its way, and yet, does it not actually go on a bit? Does the writing of a fugue not continue to feel like an externally-imposed decision rather than an organic dictate of the material? In a lesser performance, I might have started gazing at my watch, but not here. Nevertheless, longing for a spot, or more than a spot, of Brahmsian developing variation was still felt on my doubtless heretical part. That said, the magnificence of the playing at the conclusion sent shivers down the spine. It was a pity, then, that someone who sounded suspiciously similar to the idiotic purveyor of multiple Bravos at the previous Barbican Concertgebouw appearance(under Mariss Jansons) again contrived to make his presence felt immediately.

Lucerne Festival Orchestra/Abbado - Mozart and Bruckner, 11 October 2011

Royal Festival Hall

Mozart – Symphony no.35 in D major, KV 385, ‘Haffner’
Bruckner – Symphony no.5 in B-flat major

Lucerne Festival Orchestra
Claudio Abbado (conductor)

I had opted for the second of the two Lucerne Festival Orchestra concerts largely on account of the soloist announced for the first, having no desire to hear Hélène Grimaud mangle Schumann’s Piano Concerto. When Grimaud pulled out, ‘artistic differences’ with Claudio Abbado cited, her place was taken by Dame Mitsuko Uchida, but it was too late. Bruckner’s Fifth Symphony was common to both programmes; yet, on the basis of the Mozart I have heard most recently from Abbado, I was not entirely sure of my enthusiasm for a Haffner Symphony under his baton. How wrong I was, for this turned out to be one of the most dashing and surpassingly graceful performances of a Mozart symphony I have heard.

The orchestra was neither large nor small, but more or less what one would expect today for a symphony orchestra in Mozart. Its – and Abbado’s – famed transparency was much in evidence, yet weight was not absent: if the first movement fizzed like vintage champagne, it had the body of at least a young claret too. Chiaroscuro was breathtaking, likewise the fine yet never fussy articulation of the strings. Only occasionally was there a hint of ‘period’ astringency, hard drumsticks notwithstanding. Orchestral transparency permitted contrapuntal clarity as marked as that in Klemperer’s decidedly non-chamber approach. I do not think I have ever heard the slow movement taken so quickly: it sounded to my ears more akin to a relatively swift Allegretto rather than an Andante. Yet it worked. Even if Abbado’s tempo did not remotely equate to what I hear in my mind’s ear, I was won over by his unfailing command of line. Furtwängler would never have sounded remotely like this in Mozart, but I suspect that he would have admired the conductor’s Fernhören (long-distance hearing): I can hardly speak more highly than that. Beautiful dynamic shading, for instance pianissimo string echoes, beguiled the ear just as much as the Harmoniemusik so evocative of outdoor serenading (and reminiscent of Abbado’s splendid Berlin recordings of both the Posthorn and Haffner Serenades). It has been recounted ad nauseam how the Lucerne players are encouraged by Abbado to listen to one another as if they were making chamber music. There could be no doubt, both visually and aurally, that that was just what they were doing here; the presence of some of the world’s finest chamber musicians as part of the ensemble assured a responsiveness that truly is second to none, indeed arguably surpasses any other.

Though my inclination for the minuet and trio is very much towards three beats in a bar, Abbado, taking the movement one-to-a-bar, proved utterly convincing. There was an infectious swing to the music that never so much as threatened to turn into mere swagger. Violins provided elegant ornamentation too: a dangerous path in all but the finest hands, but these hands were fine indeed. The trio breathed the air of a magical Salzburg summer evening. Though it was taken at the same tempo as the minuet, phrasing and general spirit nevertheless ensured relative relaxation. If I were truly to cast around for criticism, I might hazard that the finale was on occasion a little on the driven side, yet Abbado imparted such grace and light that I really did not mind in the slightest. The whole movement flew through the aural sky like a Mannheim rocket. Interplay between first and second violins showed that it is not, as some dogmatists would claim absolutely crucial to separate them. (Abbado placed them together, with violas on his right.) This was then, a wonderful performance. I should expect to be convinced by, say, Sir Colin Davis in this music. That I was quite transported by a performance that stands further from my general inclination speaks of the distinction of musicianship on offer here.

If I was a little less bowled over by the Bruckner symphony, that is more a matter of ambivalence towards the work. Abbado proved for the most part a sure guide, though there were occasions when I wondered whether something a little more granitic might have helped. Still, that is not his way, and there was much to be gained from his approach too: for instance, the magical – I make no apology for repeating that word – softness of the opening to the first movement. Not so far from the limits of audibility, perhaps the music of Abbado’s great friend, Luigi Nono, had come to his mind. Coughing, alas, proved disruptive here. The ensuing measured tread managed nevertheless to presage Elgar (not, so far as I am aware, a composer with whom Abbado has ever been associated). Then the great Bruckner unisons resounded, as hieratic as Messiaen. And finally, the full strings: a resplendent yet still transparent sound. The lack of traditionally Teutonic weight made me think of Karajan’s late Bruckner from Vienna, though in many other respects, the conductors’ approaches are quite different. Chamber spirit remained, for instance in the dialogue between woodwind and lower strings. The woodwind’s way with the chorales was special too: innig, yet also somehow suggestive of the piety of mediæval pilgrimage. Rather oddly, though, there were a few instances when the brass blared in a fashion one might have expected more from Solti in Chicago than Abbado with the Lucerne Orchestra.

Woodwind again excelled in the slow movement, the opening oboe solo of Lucas Macías Navarro later matched by the equally fine musicianship of Jacques Zoon on flute and Matthias Racz on bassoon. Abbado conducted the work with an unforced nobility that came close to concealing, or perhaps to effacing, Bruckner’s block-like construction (more of a problem for me than for many other listeners, it would seem). The brass section was mellower now: indeed, its tonal quality made me keen to hear the orchestra in Wagner. I still suspect that interventionist editing might help this symphony – heretically, I am quite happy to hear Knappertsbusch conduct the butchered Schalk edition – but the Lucerne orchestral sound kept me captivated. Moreover, there remains, even for doubting Thomases such as myself, something undeniably compelling about the sheer scale and seriousness of this music, which sounded, in Abbado’s hands, grave, beautiful, full of sentiment without the slightest hint of sentimentality. I wondered, however, whether a slightly faster tempo – nothing, I hasten to add, akin to that adopted in Mozart – might have helped the slightly agnostic among us.

Schubertian grace vied with peasant clomping at the beginning of the scherzo, much of which emerged, thanks to superlative rhythmic control, more dance-like than is often the case. Not, however, you will probably be grateful to hear, when the brass threatened – or heralded, according to taste – the Apocalypse. String articulation proved as crucial to the success of this movement as it had to that of the Mozart symphony. Again, I wish that Bruckner did not go on quite so much, but that is doubtless my problem.

The revelation of themes from earlier movements in the Adagio introduction to the finale was handled beautifully, it being a special pleasure to revisit Navarro’s oboe solo from the slow movement. String unisons then conspired to instil the fear of God into this mere mortal in the audience: for this orchestra, Bruckner’s power and Abbado’s translucency are far from mutually exclusive. For me, the double fugue starts off a little obviously as The Moment When The Composer Writes A Fugue And Demonstrates Contrapuntal Writing: not even Abbado could convince me that it is necessary, as it is, where it is. Nevertheless, so much excited and gripped in the best sense: the music never artificially whipped up, but the product of impeccable musicianship from all concerned, and again the consequence of a command of line and harmonic rhythm that might have impressed Furtwängler. The hard-won final exultation proved worthy, for once, of the clichéd ‘cathedral in sound’.

Concertgebouw/Haitink - Mozart, Debussy, and Beethoven, 14 March 2009

Barbican Hall

Mozart – Symphony no.35 in D major, ‘Haffner’, KV 385
Debussy – La mer
Beethoven – Symphony no.7 in A major, op.92

Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)

The Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra’s two weekend concerts with Bernard Haitink afford London a slightly belated opportunity to celebrate Haitink’s eightieth birthday, which fell earlier this month. Mozart’s Haffner Symphony opened the present programme, in an excellent performance. (How rarely one can say that nowadays when it comes to Mozart!) The smallish orchestra – ten first violins, with other strings scaled accordingly – was not prevented from voicing a full sound, though that ineffable Viennese sweetness of tone was missing. Nevertheless, the bright, rejoicing sound of D major, open strings and all, was unmistakeably to be heard. The Concertgebouw strings offered commendable lightness of articulation without any of the fussy down-side that characterises so many modern performances. Clarity, Haitink, showed can easily be married to warmth, just as in his treasurable Glyndebourne DVD of Le nozze di Figaro. In every movement, the tempo sounded just right, which is not to say, as I once heard Sir Georg Solti absurdly claim, that, in Haydn and Mozart, there is only one correct tempo for a movement. Haitink, however, convinced us, for the duration of the performance, that this might be the case. He was not afraid, especially during the opening Allegro con spirito, to relax when the music suggested this. The Andante flowed with beauty and grace, light in the sense of an outdoor serenade, a quality further suggested by the ravishing Harmoniemusik. Repeated violin notes were sounded with precision, yet also with an affection that looked forward to Beethoven’s metronome joke in his Eighth Symphony. Resisting modern fads, Haitink took the minuet three-to-a-bar, much to its advantage. The tempo was not slow but it retained aristocratic poise. There was a welcome slight relaxation for the graceful trio. The Presto finale was lively without descending into an absurd dash, as so often it can. Here and throughout the symphony, the inner parts teemed with life. Splendid echo effects attested to the players’ virtuosity. Especially memorable was a delectable oboe solo from Lucas Macías Navarro. I was intrigued also to note the occasional string appoggiatura: not at all what I was expecting but tastefully accomplished.

Debussy is another favourite composer for Haitink, his Concertgebouw recording of La mer a classic of the gramophone. There was a more audible precision to this 2009 reading; it evinced an almost Boulezian clarity, albeit without the impression of X-ray analysis. Certainly the opening of De l’aube à midi sur la mer had not the slightest sense of vagueness. This did not, however, detract from its mystery; there was most definitely a sense that something was about to happen. Woodwind solos from flute (Emily Beynon) and oboe (Navarro again) were breathtaking in their evocative excellence, as was Navarro’s beguiling duet with leader Vesko Eschkenazy. Throughout, Haitink judged orchestral balances to perfection, likewise the music’s harmonic momentum. Thus could the triumph of midday truly sound earned. Jeux de vagues was wonderfully playful, skittish even, a showcase for orchestral virtuosity, which yet always remained at the service of the music. Haitink unerringly caught the sense of the waves’ ebb and flow, and there were magical moments aplenty, not least from the two harps, triangle, woodwind, and the Concertgebouw brass. In the final movement, there was a sense not only of its titular dialogue between wind and sea but also of the battle between them. There was also, however, a great delicacy to be heard, which never veered towards the precious. The ravishing, seamless beauty of high violins provided a perfect setting for Jacques Meertens’s clarinet solo to weave its magic, its ‘winding down’ judged perfectly – once again – by Haitink, without ever sounding unduly micro-managed. I was a little surprised by the degree of vibrato employed by the brass, but it helped acknowledge the often overlooked Russian antecedents to Debussy’s music, Mussorgsky in particular. There was an especially imposing quartet of three trombones and tuba, which did not give the slightest hint of brashness. The final crescendo and accelerando were once again judged to perfection.

Haitink has clearly re-thought his Beethoven, as we heard in his cycle of the symphonies with the LSO. Much of this has been to good effect, yet I did not find his account of the Seventh Symphony entirely successful; that said, my reservations related almost entirely to the final movement. That Haitink meant business was clear from the fact that his purposeful stride to the podium was followed almost immediately by a downbeat and then by a crisp opening chord, pristine woodwind very much to the fore. The introduction to the first movement was nicely persistent, possessed of an absolute surety of where it was heading; release was therefore attained with a minimum of fuss but far from a minimum of effect. Once again, one noted the care with articulation and balances, which yet never drew attention to itself in any of the bizarre ways that so often mar so-called ‘radical’ accounts. However, I found the trumpets a little too prominent. Sometimes, they pointed rhythms to great effect; at other times, they simply stood out to no particular reason. I could not quite work out what Haitink was trying to accomplish there. Ample compensation was provided by the ravishing woodwind solos in the recapitulation. The celebrated coda, of which it is alleged that Weber commented that it showed Beethoven ‘ripe for the madhouse’, provoked a continuous build-up of bass tension, albeit in a more understated fashion than one often hears.

The Allegretto was at least as fast as in Haitink’s LSO reading. There was absolutely nothing of the dirge to this account, yet I wondered whether it was perhaps just too swift. In the end, I thought not, but it would probably be as well not to try this at home. The climaxes were truly awe-inspiring, born of and yet transcending the movement’s inexorable tread. This, then, proved a terrible processional indeed, although the turn to the major mode brought necessary consolation. The string fugato section presented an almost incredible contrapuntal clarity and direction.

Rhythm was king in the scherzo, though it never sounded brutal, as it could, for instance, under Karajan. The trio was considerably faster than ‘tradition’ would have us hear it. There are swings and roundabouts here but the tension Haitink accrued could not be gainsaid. I especially liked the Harmoniemusik, which reminded us of the music’s origins, at least according to the Abbé Stadler, in a Lower-Austrian pilgrims’ hymn. A test of a good performance of this scherzo and trio for me is whether I become impatient with the repeats; I did not on this occasion feel even the slightest temptation to consult my watch. However, the ending had an odd sense of the throwaway to it.

Sadly, as mentioned above, I was not at all convinced by the finale. It was very fast, which can work, but here the speed sounded as if it were allied to unsmiling application of an imaginary metronome. The trumpets, however well they played, did not help in this respect, once again unduly prominent in their underlining of the all-too-grim grim forward tread. I wanted the music to breathe but instead felt bludgeoned, not a feeling I generally associate with Haitink. Yet at the same time, he was curiously unwilling at the end to let the horns have their head, granting a paradoxical impression of ‘restrained bludgeoning’. The unrelenting quality of this movement might well have appealed to those who, incomprehensibly to me, favour the bandmaster approach of Toscanini in this repertoire. I was left hankering after Furtwängler.