Gay/RSB/Jurowski - Telemann, Boismortier, Ravel, Ibert, and Strauss, 12 October 2023

Konzerthaus

Telemann: Bourlesque de Quixotte, TWW 55:G10
Boismortier: Don Quichotte chez la duchesse, op.97: ballet music
Ravel: Don Quichotte à Dulcinée
Ibert: Quatre chansons de Don Quichotte
Strauss: Don Quixote, op.35

Paul Gay (bass-baritone)

Alejandro Regueira Caumel (viola)

Konstanze von Gutzeit (cello)

Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra

Vladimir Jurowksi (conductor)

Images: Robert Niemeyer

‘Wie klingt “Don Quijote”?’ was the question posed by (and in) the programme to this splendid tour through musical depictions of Cervantes’s would-be knight-errant. To answer the question, we discovered that Don Quixote sounds in various ways, yet always colourfully and, aptly enough, endearingly too. Vladimir Jurowski’s gift for programming, so strong a feature of his time as Music Director of the London Philharmonic Orchestra, has not deserted him in Berlin. The Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra/Rundfunksinfonieorchester Berlin (RSB) is clearly thriving under his leadership, here in music ranging from Telemann to Ravel. 

Telemann’s turned twice as a composer to Cervantes’s novel, in 1761 writing a one-act opera on an episode from it: Don Quijote auf der Hochzeit des Camacho. (The young Mendelssohn would also turn to this same episode.) This ‘burlesque’ orchestral suite from 1739 takes in different episodes over the course of its seven movements and proved in performance both splendidly enjoyable and vividly theatrical. Its opening French overture might indeed have been the curtain-raiser to an opera of its own, here driven in fine balance between rhythm and harmony. We heard – and may have felt we saw – horses hooves in our hero’s celebrated tilting at windmills, Sancho Panza’s bruising and his donkey’s gallop, dragging and then absurdly accelerating, and much more, the final movement a well-earned sprint to the finish. Well-chosen percussion effects from triangle to tambourine added to the pictorial jollity. 

Joseph Bodin de Boismortier write his ‘comédie lyrique’ Don Quichotte chez la Duchesse on an episode in which Telemann found courtly repose and perhaps a greater emotional depth than elsewhere in his suite. Here we heard only some of the orchestral (ballet) music: the overture, a sequence of march, two tambourins, and second march, and a chaconne. (An old BBC broadcast with splendid cast may be found here for the eighty minutes or so of the entire work.)  Another arresting overture, this time actually written for the theatre, had us all but see the curtain and its rise. Notes and drama, even in this purely instrumental music, fairly flew off the players’ pages. Jurowski and the orchestra, moreover, conveyed the composer’s voice, close in some ways to Rameau yet quite different in others, with great élan, the conductor himself leading from tambourine in the first march. Oboes, bassoons, and harpsichord offered a fine Gallic contrast in the second tambourin. The chaconne proved piquant and full of surprises, from its opening gong stroke onwards. Through its twists and turns of mood and material, Jurowski never forgot this was a single dance; nor did we. 

Bass-baritone Paul Gay joined the orchestra for two sets of songs intended for Georg Wilhelm Pabst’s film starring Feodor Chaliapin. Ravel’s short song-cycle, his final completed work, was written too late for inclusion, but Jacques Ibert’s four songs were sung both in the film and in a recording made by Chaliapin and Ibert. Neither composer sets Cervantes: Ravel opted for contemporary texts by Paul Morand, whereas Ibert’s selection mixed old and new with Pierre de Ronsard and Alexander Arnoux. Both composers, even with small orchestra, Ibert’s (saxophone included) somewhat larger than Ravel, could offer a more varied instrumental palette; yet one could readily fancy one heard something of a ‘French’ ear for colour continued from their eighteenth-century predecessor. Gay presented resolutely unsentimental, communicative performances, relishing the melismata in third of Ravel’s three songs, the ‘Chanson à boire’, in which the composer’s ‘Spanish’ voice comes to the fore one last time, as much as the keen narrative of Ibert’s ‘Chanson à Dulcinée’ and the undeniably filmic qualities of the farewell, ‘Chanson de la mort de Don Quichotte’. 

And so we came to Strauss’s tone-poem, the excellent Alejandro Regueira Caumel and Konstanze von Gutzeit stepping forward as ‘soloists’, yet acting collegially as much as highlighted leaders of their sections. The RSB’s versatility, on show throughout, was certainly evident here, immediately sounding, for want of a better word, Straussian. Jurowski’s way with the score was fascinating, more modernistic, even strangely Stravinskian, than I can recall having heard. Generally brisk and admirably clear, I could not help but feel there was loss as well as gain, but we shall always have Karajan, Kempe, and others to return to when we wish. His trademark formalism certainly paid off in delineation of the work’s variation form and sharp individual characterisation of each episode. In any case, as the mood darkened, the orchestra’s colours, especially from the RSB brass, spoke increasingly for themselves. Quite a storm was whipped up, not only via the wind-machine. In the later duet of two bassoons it was, strangely, Stravinsky who once again came to mind. Woodwind in general were pleasingly rumbunctious. If this were ultimately a somewhat distanced performance, Caumel and Gutzeit notwithstanding, like the rest of the programme, it had me think—and, in a number of ways, reconsider.

Munich Opera Festival (4) - Members of the Bavarian State Orchestra: Bach, Reincken, and Telemann, 29 July 2019

Alte Pinakothek

Bach: Art of Fugue, BWV 1080: Contrapunctus I and II

Johann Adam Reincken: Hortus Musicus: Partita no.1 in A minor

Bach: Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus XII and XIIb

Telemann: Pyrmonter Kurwoche (Scherzi melodichi per divertimento di colore, che prendono le Acque minerali in Pirmonte, con Ariette semplice e facili): ‘Venerdi’, TWV 24:e4

Bach: Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus VI; Sonata in G major for viola da gamba and harpsichord, BWV 1027; Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus IX; Trio Sonata in D minor, BWV 527, arranged for two violins and basso continuo; Art of Fugue: Contrapunctus XI

Barbara Burgdorf, Corinna Desch (violins)

Christiane Arnold (viola)

Friederike Heumann (viola da gamba)

Dirk Börner (harpsichord)

There could hardly be a more delightful venue for a concert of Baroque – or any –chamber music than one of the rooms of Munich’s Alte Pinakothek. Here, under the watchful eye(s) of Rubens’s Last Judgement, we heard from members of the Bavarian State Orchestra music by Bach, Telemann, and, from the previous generation, Johann Adam Reincken.

We started with Contrapunctus I and Contrapunctus II from the Art of Fugue: two violins, viola, and viola da gamba, no harpsichord. It was a ‘period’ sound, but not aggressively so, and mercifully not entirely without vibrato. More importantly, the music flowed, Barbara Burgdorf, Corinna Desch (violins), Christiane Arnold (viola), and Friederike Heumann (gamba) permitting Bach’s counterpoint to speak – and with it, his harmony. Dynamic contrasts were nicely variegated, and the two fugues were properly distinguished, the rhythmic lilt of the second’s subject informing its course, no mere add-on. You might say, ‘it would, wouldn’t it?’ but you might be sorely surprised. The music’s complexity grew, Schoenberg-like. All of us at heart know that Bach is the greatest of all. That need only be shown, not argued.

A modulatory harpsichord improvisation, the first of several from Dirk Börner, took us to A minor for Reincken’s Partita (as would be transcribed by Bach for keyboard, in his BWV 965). The musicians’ manner – minus viola – was now freer, which perhaps make sense in less complex music. There was certainly recognition that melody and harmony were very different. The different tempi of the first movement offered winning contrast, yet also sounded consequent. Burgdorf took her solo at quite a lick, without harrying it, Heumann hers with dignity and then, moving from ‘Adagio’ to ‘Allegro’, with a fine sense of release. A reflective ‘Allemand’ and related, yet distinct ‘Courant’ followed, the ensuing ‘Saraband’ perhaps somewhat hamstrung by ‘period’ manners. Still, the closing ‘Gigue’ made for a lively and highly musical conclusion, the musicians bringing form to life. This is not, by any stretch, great music, but it was interesting and worthwhile to hear.

Returning to Bach (XII a and b), the music sounded graver, deeper than still before. Then a further improvisatory passage led us southward, to Telemann in Italianate divertimento vein, here losing one of the violins. The ‘Introduzione’ seemed also to suggest a more Classical, or at least galant, voice, arguably bringing Bach’s distinctive qualities into greater relief (at least in retrospect). Each of the short movements was well characterised, without exaggeration. The ‘Largo’ was graceful, that grace founded on a delightful change of colour (gamba pizzicato): not unlike a brief number from an opera or ballet. The closing ‘Accelerando Allegro’ did what it suggested in equally delightful fashion. Even to this relative Telemann-sceptic, here were music and music-making that did not outstay their welcome.

Following an interval stroll among the visual Old Masters, we were well fortified for the ‘Stile francese’ from the Art of Fugue, its beating heart as German as ever, whatever the stylistic casing. We heard and felt both. If only the G major sonata for gamba and harpsichord, BWV 1027, had proceeded with such distinction. Heumann offered considerable grace, but Börner’s playing tended towards the unrelenting, even in the second movement, the sewing machine. The ‘Andante’ that followed sounded so effortful as often to lose its sense, although the finale offered a degree of vigour. Balance, moreover, proved a considerable problem, at least where I was seated, harpsichord often cruelly obscuring the gamba line. Even the ensuing Contrapunctus IX was hard-driven and scratchy, although the notes, for the most part, shone through.

Another of the by now all-too-predictable improvisations took us to the Trio Sonata for organ, BWV 527, here played by two violins and continuo. It can be done – but at least on this evidence, I should much rather hear it on the organ. At any rate, greater space to breathe would have been welcome, especially in the first movement. Desch’s playing on second violin proved more often than not the most pleasing, richer toned than that of her companions. Alas, Börner on harpsichord proved all too prosaic throughout. At least he was silent for Contrapunctus XI, which emerged, not coincidentally, with greater intimacy and gravity. Bach’s darkly expressive chromaticism worked its wonders in a performance of chiaroscuro that seemed at least to aspire to match the painterly examples surrounding it. A fugal gigue by Johann Gottlieb Goldberg made for a fine surprise as encore: as focused and as evidently relished as Telemann’s ‘Venerdi’. If Bach’s fortunes proved mixed in performance, he will always remain with us. This was a concert perhaps especially noteworthy for the opportunity it afforded to hear music from some of his contemporaries.

LSO Chamber Orchestra/Antonini - JS Bach, WF Bach, CPE Bach, Telemann, Haydn, 13 January 2017

Milton Court Concert Hall

JS Bach – Orchestral Suite no.1 in C major, BWV 1066

WF Bach – Symphony in F major, F 67
CPE Bach – Symphony in G major, Wq 182/1
Telemann – Recorder Concerto in C major, TWV 51
Haydn – Symphony no.49, La Passione

LSO Chamber Orchestra

Giovanni Antonini (recorder, conductor)

It is a rare delight to hear the LSO, even if in ‘chamber orchestral’ formation, play music from the first half of the eighteenth century. Since the death of Colin Davis, it has even been something of a rare delight to hear the orchestra in eighteenth-century music at all. (I suppose we should at least be grateful to have been spared ‘Gergiev’s Haydn’.) Moving across the road from the Barbican to Milton Court was, in such circumstances, a sensible move; it certainly ensured that a small orchestra did not sound too small. The one problem, and I am afraid it was at times well-nigh insurmountable, was the conductor, Giovanni Antonini. Frankly, the LSO – and we – deserved better.

I kept an open mind for as long as I could. If, for these ears, trained on Klemperer and Richter, the introduction to the first movement of Bach’s C major Orchestral Suite sounded light, airy, and, alas, all too short-breathed, perhaps there would be a way of challenging those ears to listen differently, to take the performance on its own terms. The problem, despite the break-neck speed that ensued, was less of tempo as such, then of the lack of space for the music to breathe. Gorgeous, bubbly, woodwind playing offered some compensation, though. A courtly, undeniably Gallic Courante fared better, as did a surprisingly vigorous first Gavotte, its companion quite the textural contrast. Counterpoint was admirably clear. Alas, Antonini conducted with all the musical awareness of a sewing machine. The Forlane impressed with its vigour too, although greater warmth from the strings – low, but thankfully not no, vibrato – would have been welcome. The Minuets had a reasonable sense of character; the Bourrées were excitable, closer to Vivaldi (!) than to Bach; the Passepieds were suavely enough despatched. I listened in vain, however, for Antonini to show the slightest awareness of harmonic rhythm; and without that, Bach is lost.

 

The F major Symphony by Wilhelm Friedemann Bach is more of a rarity, and thus scored points on that alone. Its first and third movements were performed with a sense of the strangeness of their disjuctures, yet Antonini seemed incapable, or at least unwilling, to mould a series of rhetorical gestures into something greater than the sum of their parts. Nervously dramatic playing again offered some compensation. The intervening Andante really needed more space, less metronomic regularity, although the LSO strings sounded impressively dark. An air of galanterie was welcome in the closing pair of Menuets, but Antonini needed to dig more into the music, the prevailing impression being one of curious neutrality – as if the players were being prevented from playing.

 

CPE Bach’s G major Symphony, Wq 182/1 concluded the first half. The opening Allegro di molto offered greater continuity: that is partly the work itself, but was not, I think, just the work. The seeds of something Mozartian were to be heard, if one so wished – a turn of phrase, a harmonic progression – without compromise to this most individual of musical voices. The slow movement emerged stylistically similar – too much so? – with Antonini again far too static in his conception. A finale somewhere in between again had me wishing that he might take more account – some account – of harmony and its role in propelling the action. This is, after all, the composer who declared that his ‘and my deceased father’s basic principles are contrary to Rameau’s’; we need to think about what that might mean.

 

The C major Recorder Concerto by Telemann, TWV 51, is no masterpiece. It, however, received perhaps the most compelling performance of the evening, at least until the interminable finale. One was better advised to close one’s eyes, though, unless one wished to follow the lead of many audience members, attempting, some with greater success than others, to stifle the giggles. Even before Antonini began to play, we were treated to bizarre dance movements; once connected with his instrument, the impression was of a cross between a snake charmer and something more pornographic. It was, I suppose, a spectacle of sorts. Poor Telemann seems increasingly to attract the bizarre: a couple of years or so ago, it was Simone Kermes in a state of perplexing ecstasy. There was alert, characterful playing, especially from the orchestra, which seemed to benefit from not being conducted. In the slow movement, having given a passable impression of a baby eagle not quite managing to take flight, Antonini concentrated on his playing, the LSO’s performance sounded all the more cultivated as a result. At one point, however, I felt it necessary to stare at an emergency exit sign. Solo playing became more wayward in the Andante, Antonini seemingly not listening to the orchestra, concentrating instead on his own peculiar self-choreography. The Lang Lang of the recorder? Perhaps, but with lesser technical ability. There was undeniable virtuosity, though, to the finale. It went on and on and on, though. Until then, I should have been happy to testify to a Telemann performance that had at least not bored me.

 

Seemingly emboldened by that display – and cheers from a small yet vocal group of partisans – Antonini continued to inflict ‘flamboyant’ gestures on the music, in this case that of Haydn. Quite unconnected with what we heard, they might have offered amusement, but there is more than enough interest in Haydn’s music for such an ‘approach’ to be quite unnecessary. The LSO’s playing had a grave, sonorous beauty; if only Antonini had had some conception of how to phrase. In the first movement, and indeed beyond, bar followed bar, at best phrase following phrase, with no sense of a greater whole. Alert, febrile playing characterised the second movement; if only Antonini had permitted the form to fulfil its dramatic potential. The Menuet and Trio were definitely better heard than watched; if only Antonini had not stunted the dances’ lilt with such metronomic regularity. Likewise in the finale, the energy of the playing notwithstanding. I should love to hear the LSO play this symphony with another conductor, or indeed with none at all.

Staatskapelle Dresden/Goebel - Telemann, Palm Sunday Concert, 14 April 2014

Semperoper, Dresden

‘Unsterblicher Nachrühm Friedrich August’: Serenata on the Death of Augustus the Strong, TVW 4:7

Simone Kermes (soprano)

Netta Ør (soprano)
Lothar Odinius (tenor)
Marcel Beekman (tenor)
Stephan Genz (bass)
Daniel Ochoa (bass)

Dresdner Kammerchor
Staatskapelle Dresden
Reinhard Goebel (conductor)

Dresden’s Palm Sunday concerts – this Monday concert was a repeat of the previous night’s performance – have a distinguished pedigree indeed. Wagner’s performances of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony are the stuff of legend; indeed, it was following that of 1849 that the itinerant Russian anarchist, Mikhail Bakunin approached the conductor, announcing: ‘if all music were to be lost in the coming world conflagration, we should risk our own lives to preserve this symphony’. Shortly the opera house would be in flames, Bakunin and Wagner heavily involved in the uprising. Nothing quite so dramatic has ensued in 2014, though perhaps there is still time.

 

Since the Staatskapelle Dresden and Christian Thielemann acquired their residency at the Salzburg Easter Festival, that has necessitated a smaller-scale presence in Dresden over Holy Week, and the decision has been made to explore works from Dresden’s Baroque heyday. Reinhard Goebel conducted a work which, whilst not actually written for Dresden, has a strong connection, as a work of mourning for the Saxon king, Augustus the Strong, by Telemann. An as yet unexplained peculiarity – not the only one – of the work is that it was written not for Dresden, but for Hamburg, first performed in May 1733, under the direction of the composer, most likely with singers from the Hamburg Opera. In an interesting programme note accompanying the performance, Karl Böhmer speculates on possible trading and political reasons for Hamburg’s somewhat belated commemoration; so far, however, as I can ascertain, we do not know.

 

The work itself is not a conventional work of mourning. It seems to begin as such, but soon becomes more of a celebratory commemoration, in the form of one of those allegorical discussions between Saxony, Time, Majesty, and so on, so beloved of the Baroque and often so strange to modern ears and minds. The opening is striking: a lengthy first part to the Sinfonia for trumpets and kettledrums (here sounding in notably ‘period’ guise) alone. Antiphonally performed, with groups on either side of the stage, this offered some of the most funereal music, string eventually joining in not un-Handelian fashion. There is relative sadness, to both this and the opening chorus, but nothing akin to what we might have expected from Handel or Purcell, let alone Bach. Telemann remains competent rather than inspired.

 

The relative simplicity of the music was not matched, however, by Goebel’s flailing around: often a distraction, though a distraction the orchestra generally seemed to ignore. Likewise apparent attempts to have the strings withdraw vibrato and so on: they worked for a while, then we heard something closer to the deep and richly toned Staatskapelle Dresden we know and love. Obbligato instruments took the best of their opportunities to shine, for instance a fruity bassoon in the aria of ‘Die Zeit’, ‘Ich stürze die irdischen Götter vom Throne’, a relatively – here a constant qualification – furious number. String echoes of Saxony’s voice in ‘Das Inbegriff von meiner Erden’ were nicely done: attractive in sub-Purcellian fashion. Likewise the string swagger of ‘Prange nur, auf stölzen Hügeln’, from ‘Die Majestät’.It was striking, moreover, to hear clarinets in music of this vintage, the pair of instruments in ‘Des Friedens holde Stille’ bubbling away in rather a lovely vein.

 

The extraordinary aspect of this performance, however, was the contribution of Simone Kermes (Sachsen). Anything but funereal, she sported something akin to an eighteenth-century sky-blue apotheosis of a dress, mysteriously cut away at the front. Much of her singing seemed to fit her outfit rather than Telemann’s serenata. Something approaching hysteria was reached in her first number, but it was only at the end that something more akin to sexual ecstasy seemed to have been reached. Clearly there is great vocal facility here, but for those of us who find the likes of Cecilia Bartoli unbearably mannered, this was something else again: closer to performance art than performance. That might not matter so much, did it not prevent Kermes from sustaining a line. Otherwise, the soloists were more conventional. Lothar Odinius nodded somewhat – if less so – towards camp, but the rest, one was grateful, played it straight. Especially impressive to my mind was Daniel Ochman (Die Grossmut), who even managed to deliver lengthy accompagnato recitative with great conviction and musicality, rewarded with a tuneful, again quasi-Handelian aria, ‘Die Macht zum Gebieten und Schrecken besitzen’. It was something of a relief to hear the four-part protestation, ‘Nein, rühme dich nur keener Güte’; recitative-aria etc. can become quite wearisome when the music is less than top-notch. The chorus of Saxon inhabitants does not have much to do, but did it well. In the final chorus, I was a little surprised by Goebel’s grandiloquent closing ritardando: just the sort of thing he and his ilk for which used to take performers of the past to task. Whatever the ‘authenticity’ or otherwise, it worked – as did this interesting performance as a whole.

What we have lost: Bach's St Matthew Passion rendered unperformable?

A recent, very costly, mishap was to leave my iPod on an aeroplane. Sad to say, it was never found. Since it has become an essential working tool, quite apart from being a comfort upon otherwise unbearably crowded railway carriages, I had to bite the bullet and buy another. Memory constraints meant that I had very little music stored on my computer - I shall have to find a way of rectifying that - so I have slowly but surely been selecting recordings and importing them. In most but not all cases, I have tried to stick to one recording per work, which has involved making interesting but difficult choices. Which versions of the Mahler symphonies? I actually managed to stick to one each: for the moment... Which versions of the Beethoven symphonies? In certain cases, I did not manage to stick to one each... As for the greatest musical work of all, and I tend to think the greatest work of art bar none, Bach's St Matthew Passion, I simply could not choose between various performances, all of which, tellingly, were of a certain vintage or older. Below are the opening choruses, which I have found available on Youtube. How can we have allowed this monumental, shattering chorus to be reduced to an out-of-tune, meaningless dance? Do present-day performers never even read the words? And it is not simply a matter of period instruments. Riccardo Chailly, when I heard him conduct the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, took this very chorus at an unyielding, breakneck tempo I should have found obscene, had I not been near-anaesthetised by my astonishment. Listen, by contrast, to the tempo variations introduced by Willem Mengelberg in his Palm Sunday performance from 1939 (there are a date and place to conjure with...), not at all arbitrary, but responding to the text in what remains perhaps the most vividly dramatic reading of all:



Or to Otto Klemperer, whose magisterial, terrifying, yet plain-spoken pageant does not rely upon such adjustments, but which proves every bit as responsive to words and music:



Or to Wilhelm Furtwängler's seething, searing, metaphysical drama, not only presaging but perhaps going beyond Tristan und Isolde:



Or, finally, to Karl Richter, whose conception is so clearly, overwhelmingly founded in a profound theological understanding of the work:



And then think of what we must endure today. As Theodor Adorno, writing in the aftermath of the Bach anniversary year 1950, unforgettably put it, 'Bach's devotees' might 'say Bach,' but they 'mean Telemann'. The situation is if anything even worse today, for the devotees no longer seem even to mean Telemann, preferring a bizarre freak-show to would-be restoration of the merely generic German Baroque. Now, more than ever, we need to recognise, in Adorno's words again, that 'the difference between what is past and what is present … is not absolute. One can only understand Schoenberg if one understands Bach; one can only understand Bach if one understands Schoenberg.' And, indeed, to say the same of subsequent composers. Thank goodness, then, for recordings...

For more on Adorno, Furtwängler, and Bach, and some of the unsavoury roots of the 'authentic' movement, click here.