Usher Hall
Weber – Overture: Oberon
Beethoven – Piano Concerto no.4 in G major, op.58
Strauss – Ein Heldenleben
Bernhard Lang – Monadology II (British premiere)
Hélène Grimaud (piano)
Staatskapelle Dresden
Fabio Luisi (conductor)
This was a considerably different concert from that advertised. First, the programme was changed, so that Hélène Grimaud performed Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto rather than Schumann's. Then disaster struck the night before, the orchestral players arriving in Edinburgh but not their instruments, with the result that the first of their two concerts was cancelled. It was therefore decided to give the British premiere of Bernhard Lang’s Monadology II in addition to the new programme.
It is almost always a joy to hear the Staatskapelle Dresden, and this occasion was no exception. Faced with the proverbial gun to my head, I should finally opt for the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra as the world’s greatest, but I have no doubt that I should put Dresden second, however nonsensical such rankings ultimately may be. No one quite possesses the sweetness of the Vienna strings, yet there is something darker, more traditionally German about the Staatskapelle Dresden, a direct line to the extraordinary tradition that has had it directed by composers such as Schütz, Weber, Wagner, and Strauss, not to mention a host of great principal conductors. That is true authenticity. I was therefore especially eager to hear Weber’s Oberon overture, as truly German Romantic a curtain-raiser as one could imagine, in spite of its composition for Covent Garden. The slow introduction was good, though not perfect; a number of minor slips made me wonder whether the prior uncertainties surrounding the concert were extracting their toll. But the main section began with a bang – and the real sound of a great orchestra. Silvery violins, a ravishing clarinet solo, a beautifully rounded sound on the kettledrums: these were some of the delights to savour, although there was also a distinctly sour tone from the oboes at one point. Perhaps the most splendid memory was that of the full complement of horns, at their fullest tone, without a trace of harshness or braying. The overture was well directed by Fabio Luisi, although without the last ounce – or perhaps even a few ounces – of individuality.
Doubts concerning Luisi resurfaced during the Beethoven concerto, although he was presented with a headstrong pianist, very much more the soloist than the chamber musician, when of course she should have been both. Interplay and even mutual sympathy were often lacking; it made me wonder quite why the programme had been changed in the first place. The orchestra sounded wonderful, never more so than in the truly ravishing pizzicato passage following the first movement cadenza, but it could have been more purposively directed. The second movement was something of an exception, with truly characterful strings proving implacable Furies to Grimaud’s pathetic – in the best sense – Orpheus and a greater sense of partnership all round. The beautifully hushed strings at the end took on a memorable, veiled sound, vibrato withdrawn momentarily for a musical reason rather than out of authenticist dogma. A winning lilt was imparted to the finale, although Grimaud once again soon became too much the star soloist. It was rare indeed for her so much as to glance at the conductor or the orchestra. There were many good things in this performance, yet I felt that it could readily have been much better.
Ein Heldenleben benefited from a splendidly vigorous opening, although once again there were quite a few slips only a little way in. The very odd cracked note apart, the Dresden horns were once again to die for, as indeed was the orchestra as a whole, especially when Strauss called for great washes of orchestral sound. Leader Kai Vogler proved a fine soloist indeed. Split violins, here as elsewhere, paid dividends, although elsewhere the account could sometimes be found wanting in terms of clarity. Bombast won out over irony, for it sounded as though the conductor was simply taking Strauss at face value. Moreover, Luisi appeared to value volume over other, more signal virtues, mistaking it for dramatic tension. His direction was once again weaker than the orchestral performance itself and here with graver consequences. Ein Heldenleben needs a great orchestra, of course, but just as important is absolute security in structural terms, lest the score begin to sprawl, to meander even. Here this happened far too often, resulting in an unduly episodic reading. And then there was an unwelcome surprise in terms of an alternative ending. Apparently Luisi and the Staatskapelle have recorded the work with this violin-focused winding down. It is not unpleasant in itself, but is not a patch upon the familiar Also sprach Zarathustra reference. Still, I suppose it might appeal either to Zarathustra-haters, although I should have thought that they would also be Heldenleben-haters in any case, or to those approaching Strauss’s symphonic poem without a sense of irony.
Then, as a bonus, came the Lang premiere. At least, I had thought it would have been a bonus. The piece sounded very interesting from the composer’s own programme note, which explained its concept of ‘musical-cellular processing’, as derived from Leibniz’s monadology. (Festival director Jonathan Mills’s stumbling over the title during his concert introduction suggested a certain unfamiliarity with Leibniz’s philosophy.) Yet the sole impression I gained from the performance was one of tedium. An opening woodwind reference to Strauss’s Don Quixote – the piece is subtitled ‘A new Don Quixote’ – never really led anywhere, and much of the music merely sounded like a textured accompaniment to something that never materialised. The introduction of a wind machine merely sounded incongruous, for there was on the whole little sense of orchestral colour. Rhythmically the piece was monotonous too. Perhaps I missed the point, but I could not help but notice an apparent lack of enthusiasm on the orchestra’s part. Whilst I cannot but applaud attempts to build upon the orchestra’s great tradition – it is hardly celebrated as a champion of the contemporary – I am not sure that this was an ideal opportunity to do so. I was, however, greatly relieved to read that this was a shorter version – of about twenty minutes, I should guess – of an original, fifty-minute-long score.
Showing posts with label Usher Hall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Usher Hall. Show all posts
Friday, 29 August 2008
Thursday, 28 August 2008
Edinburgh International Festival: Collegium Vocale Gent/Herreweghe, 26 August 2008
Usher Hall
Stravinsky – Symphonies of wind instruments
Pousseur – Mnémosyne I
Stravinsky – Mass
Bruckner – Mass in E minor
Collegium Vocale Gent
I Solisti del Vento
Philippe Herreweghe (conductor)
This concert marked the first Edinburgh appearances of both Collegium Vocale Gent and the lesser-known but, on this evidence, very fine Belgian wind ensemble, I Solisti del Vento. Indeed, the latter performed more consistently than the former. I Solisti had the platform to themselves (plus Philippe Herreweghe) for the opening piece, Stravinsky’s Symphonies of wind instruments. It was taken at a fastish tempo, though not unduly so. The players displayed an admirably full sound, aided, it seemed, by a helpful Usher Hall acoustic. A mobile telephone’s intervention just one minute in was less helpful. This performance sounded more alert than many to the reminiscences, conscious or otherwise, of the Rite of Spring and Le rossignol, yet it never exchanged melodiousness for bite. Nor was there any contradiction between a euphonious blend and individualistic solo parts. My sole reservation concerned Herreweghe’s somewhat anti-climactic approach to the ending, although this was not nearly so much a problem as it would be later on.
There can be few more unfashionable composers today than Henri Pousseur, though once he was spoken of almost in the same breath as Stockhausen and Boulez. It was far more than a patriotic act then to perform his Mnémosyne I, composed in 1969 and dedicated to Stockhausen. (It might be a little too churlish to lament the absence of its companion piece, Mnémosyne II. Nevertheless, we should hope that some enterprising ensemble will present the opportunity to hear it before too long.) According to Paul Griffiths’s programme note, Mnémosyne I, which consist of a single unaccompanied melody, ‘may be performed by a solo singer, a unison choir, or a solo instrumentalist’. However, it was here performed by a small unison choir of six female voices, plus a solo clarinet. I am afraid that I do not know whether this practice was sanctioned by the composer; it seemed to work well enough nevertheless. Indeed, it brought the music’s inheritance from Webern all the more sharply to the fore, the clarinet and vocal combination proving reminiscent of the Austrian composer’s Dormi Jesu (Op.16 no.2). The spirit of Webern was also present, and more importantly so, in the shape of the melody, its purity, and its serenity. So, unavoidably, was the spirit of plainsong, although this was rightly not exaggerated. It was a pity that the programme did not include the text of the fragment from Hölderlin’s poem Mnemosyne, but the diction was so exemplary that anyone with basic German would have discerned the text with no difficulty. There was a real sense of something having been lost (verloren, to use an oft-repeated word from the text), yet the abiding impression nevertheless remained of beauty rather than tragic loss. Mnemosyne, the Greek personification of memory, provides consolation, amongst other things.
Stravinsky’s Mass received a good performance, although I was not without certain reservations. I liked the echoes of Œdipus Rex in the Kyrie, for which the instrumentalists must receive a great deal of credit. On the other hand, it would have benefited from a little more Stravinskian bite at times from the choir. The Gloria suffered somewhat from its two vocal soloists. The soprano’s tone was a little too white, but the real problem lay with the downright ugly tone of the contralto. Had I not seen her, I should have thought this one of those rather wild male tenorish voices sometimes associated with speculative recreations of mediæval music: a member of Marcel Pérès’s Ensemble Organum, for instance. To say that the effect jarred would be to put it far too mildly. The Credo was nicely implacable, ‘inexpressive’ in Stravinsky’s sense, which is to say nothing of the sort in reality. The a cappella ‘Amen’ made me hanker after a little vibrato, however, as I would in the solo passages of the Sanctus (especially when that contralto contributed once again). There was a good sense of motor-rhythms in the ‘Osanna’ of the Benedictus, and the wind sounded superlative on that movement’s final sustained chords. The Agnus Dei allowed Stravinsky’s harmony to tell with considerable force, but I felt that a little more warmth – this is, after all, a petition that the Lamb of God grant us peace – would not have gone amiss.
It was, however, with Bruckner’s Mass in E minor that I experienced more than just doubts. A fundamental problem lay in the size of the choir, which sometimes lacked that weight which seems so necessary to Bruckner’s conception. There were other problems, too, however, mostly related to Herreweghe’s sometimes perverse interpretive stance. The Kyrie might, at a pinch, have been termed ‘flowing’; I thought it straightforwardly rushed. It did not lack volume in the ‘Christe’, but the lack of numbers tended to be compensated for by a certain stridency. The part-writing here as elsewhere was projected with admirable clarity. Bruckner marked the brass in this movement as inessential; their interjections sounding anything but in this performance. The Gloria sounded rather as if the conductor were still in Stravinsky-mode; there was a machine-like quality quite out of place in Bruckner. The ‘Amens’ were really quite strident indeed, and too individually stressed, breaking up the greater line. Worst of all, Herreweghe brought off his musicians far too abruptly, as he would also do in subsequent movements. The Credo had a middle section that was serene, if a little on the cool side. After this, the ‘Et resurrexit...’ provided an exciting contrast but was too unyielding. Thereafter the movement staggered on with unduly sectional emphasis. This may be partly Bruckner’s fault, but he can do with a little help here. The choir beautifully captured the radiant, Palestrina-like polyphony of the Sanctus. I Solisti del Vento ably assisted the ensuing homophonic contrast, vitiated by Herreweghe’s peremptory termination of the movement. Bruckner’s harmonies sounded truly exquisite in the Benedictus, though I suspect that they would have done so all the more with larger forces. Soon, however, I wanted the music to yield more; the performance froze, to become unrelentingly metronomic, rendering the woodwind sound oddly inconsequential. When Herreweghe finally did slow down, this sounded appliqué rather than arising from the needs of the music. The Agnus Dei came across as more heartfelt, if not without a touch of shrillness at its climaxes. Sadly, this good work was undone by an almost obscenely abrupt ending. What was Herreweghe thinking of?
Stravinsky – Symphonies of wind instruments
Pousseur – Mnémosyne I
Stravinsky – Mass
Bruckner – Mass in E minor
Collegium Vocale Gent
I Solisti del Vento
Philippe Herreweghe (conductor)
This concert marked the first Edinburgh appearances of both Collegium Vocale Gent and the lesser-known but, on this evidence, very fine Belgian wind ensemble, I Solisti del Vento. Indeed, the latter performed more consistently than the former. I Solisti had the platform to themselves (plus Philippe Herreweghe) for the opening piece, Stravinsky’s Symphonies of wind instruments. It was taken at a fastish tempo, though not unduly so. The players displayed an admirably full sound, aided, it seemed, by a helpful Usher Hall acoustic. A mobile telephone’s intervention just one minute in was less helpful. This performance sounded more alert than many to the reminiscences, conscious or otherwise, of the Rite of Spring and Le rossignol, yet it never exchanged melodiousness for bite. Nor was there any contradiction between a euphonious blend and individualistic solo parts. My sole reservation concerned Herreweghe’s somewhat anti-climactic approach to the ending, although this was not nearly so much a problem as it would be later on.
There can be few more unfashionable composers today than Henri Pousseur, though once he was spoken of almost in the same breath as Stockhausen and Boulez. It was far more than a patriotic act then to perform his Mnémosyne I, composed in 1969 and dedicated to Stockhausen. (It might be a little too churlish to lament the absence of its companion piece, Mnémosyne II. Nevertheless, we should hope that some enterprising ensemble will present the opportunity to hear it before too long.) According to Paul Griffiths’s programme note, Mnémosyne I, which consist of a single unaccompanied melody, ‘may be performed by a solo singer, a unison choir, or a solo instrumentalist’. However, it was here performed by a small unison choir of six female voices, plus a solo clarinet. I am afraid that I do not know whether this practice was sanctioned by the composer; it seemed to work well enough nevertheless. Indeed, it brought the music’s inheritance from Webern all the more sharply to the fore, the clarinet and vocal combination proving reminiscent of the Austrian composer’s Dormi Jesu (Op.16 no.2). The spirit of Webern was also present, and more importantly so, in the shape of the melody, its purity, and its serenity. So, unavoidably, was the spirit of plainsong, although this was rightly not exaggerated. It was a pity that the programme did not include the text of the fragment from Hölderlin’s poem Mnemosyne, but the diction was so exemplary that anyone with basic German would have discerned the text with no difficulty. There was a real sense of something having been lost (verloren, to use an oft-repeated word from the text), yet the abiding impression nevertheless remained of beauty rather than tragic loss. Mnemosyne, the Greek personification of memory, provides consolation, amongst other things.
Stravinsky’s Mass received a good performance, although I was not without certain reservations. I liked the echoes of Œdipus Rex in the Kyrie, for which the instrumentalists must receive a great deal of credit. On the other hand, it would have benefited from a little more Stravinskian bite at times from the choir. The Gloria suffered somewhat from its two vocal soloists. The soprano’s tone was a little too white, but the real problem lay with the downright ugly tone of the contralto. Had I not seen her, I should have thought this one of those rather wild male tenorish voices sometimes associated with speculative recreations of mediæval music: a member of Marcel Pérès’s Ensemble Organum, for instance. To say that the effect jarred would be to put it far too mildly. The Credo was nicely implacable, ‘inexpressive’ in Stravinsky’s sense, which is to say nothing of the sort in reality. The a cappella ‘Amen’ made me hanker after a little vibrato, however, as I would in the solo passages of the Sanctus (especially when that contralto contributed once again). There was a good sense of motor-rhythms in the ‘Osanna’ of the Benedictus, and the wind sounded superlative on that movement’s final sustained chords. The Agnus Dei allowed Stravinsky’s harmony to tell with considerable force, but I felt that a little more warmth – this is, after all, a petition that the Lamb of God grant us peace – would not have gone amiss.
It was, however, with Bruckner’s Mass in E minor that I experienced more than just doubts. A fundamental problem lay in the size of the choir, which sometimes lacked that weight which seems so necessary to Bruckner’s conception. There were other problems, too, however, mostly related to Herreweghe’s sometimes perverse interpretive stance. The Kyrie might, at a pinch, have been termed ‘flowing’; I thought it straightforwardly rushed. It did not lack volume in the ‘Christe’, but the lack of numbers tended to be compensated for by a certain stridency. The part-writing here as elsewhere was projected with admirable clarity. Bruckner marked the brass in this movement as inessential; their interjections sounding anything but in this performance. The Gloria sounded rather as if the conductor were still in Stravinsky-mode; there was a machine-like quality quite out of place in Bruckner. The ‘Amens’ were really quite strident indeed, and too individually stressed, breaking up the greater line. Worst of all, Herreweghe brought off his musicians far too abruptly, as he would also do in subsequent movements. The Credo had a middle section that was serene, if a little on the cool side. After this, the ‘Et resurrexit...’ provided an exciting contrast but was too unyielding. Thereafter the movement staggered on with unduly sectional emphasis. This may be partly Bruckner’s fault, but he can do with a little help here. The choir beautifully captured the radiant, Palestrina-like polyphony of the Sanctus. I Solisti del Vento ably assisted the ensuing homophonic contrast, vitiated by Herreweghe’s peremptory termination of the movement. Bruckner’s harmonies sounded truly exquisite in the Benedictus, though I suspect that they would have done so all the more with larger forces. Soon, however, I wanted the music to yield more; the performance froze, to become unrelentingly metronomic, rendering the woodwind sound oddly inconsequential. When Herreweghe finally did slow down, this sounded appliqué rather than arising from the needs of the music. The Agnus Dei came across as more heartfelt, if not without a touch of shrillness at its climaxes. Sadly, this good work was undone by an almost obscenely abrupt ending. What was Herreweghe thinking of?
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