Barbican Hall
Schoenberg - Chamber Symphony no.1, Op.9
Mahler - Symphony no.7
London Symphony Orchestra
Valery Gergiev (conductor)
'Gergiev's Mahler', as the London Symphony Orchestra has dubbed its Mahler cycle, has not received the most positive reviews. This was the first concert in the series I have intended, and I must admit that I was rather fearing the worst. However, I have to say that I was favourably surprised. This may not have been 'great' Mahler in the sense of a performance whose memory will mark one indelibly for the rest of one's life, but it was for the most part very good, and certainly represented a welcome change from the highly proficent yet interchangeable, ultimately soulless performances that now seem to be put forward as any international orchestra's calling-card.
I really did fear the worst at the opening of Schoenberg's first chamber symphony. Balance is always a problem in this work: if I remember correctly, Karajan thought it impossible. The strings have to work very hard to avoid being swamped by the wind - the opposite can be true in the inferior, infrequently performed version for full orchestra - and here, not only were the horns far too loud, but the strings sounded thin indeed. However, with a few exceptions, this fault was soon rectified, and the ensemble improved greatly. I did not feel that this was an interpretation that had quite settled, but there were some very interesting touches. For instance, the second subject received a considerable slowing down, such as I have not heard before, but which worked very well. One might well do this in Brahms, so why not in the music of his greatest disciple? Furtwängler probably would have done. As the music hurtled towards its conclusion, it did not seem out of control, but quite rightly one felt that it would not take much for this to be the case. The final chord almost always sounds perfunctory, or at least it does to me. I cannot help feeling that Schoenberg should have marked it to be held, but he did not, and Gergiev is not to be blamed for that.
Again, the very opening of Mahler's Seventh Symphony did not seem to augur well. The brass sounded somewhat coarse, but in retrospect this puzzled, for it was not a general characteristic of the performance. Mahler might have written 'Nature roars!' but I do not think he meant it quite like this. The first movement was perhaps the weakest of the performance: there were occasional problems with balance, and not every twist and turn sounded persuasive. This should not be exaggerated, however.
More generally, one characteristic of which Gergiev made the most throughout was the march-like quality of much of Mahler's music, especially in the first Nachtmusik, but not only there. This put me in mind not so much of Shostakovich - although the cliché of a (sort of) Russian conductor making Mahler sound 'Russian' is always tempting - but of Mahler's own Second Symphony. The musical connections are stronger than ever I had realised before. (Gergiev will conduct the Second in April, although unfortunately I shall be unable to attend.) Another great strength was Gergiev's ability in depicting and expressing those astonishing transformations of vista - physical and metaphysical - that are Mahler's hallmark. The slickness of so many contemporary Mahler performances was but a distant memory; on this occasion, there was a true sense of the numinous, aided of course by the prowess of the LSO.
A number of solo contributions were very fine, especially guest leader Andrew Haveron and mandolin-player James Ellis in the second Nachtmusik, and Andrew Marriner in the final clarinet solo. The weirdness of Mahler's undermined and undermining serenade was splendidly captured. There were also all sorts of weird and wonderful contributions in the scherzo not least from the splendid percussion section.The movement's marking, Schattenhaft, really made sense on this occasion. The bizarre nature of Mahler's instrumental combinations was brought to the fore, not only, as one might have expected, recalling Berlioz, but also casting a shadow far into the modernist twentieth century. And the finale was terrifically exciting, at what seemed a faster pace than usual, but never too frantic. Daylight had finally arrived, in a duly dazzling and more than a little perturbing fashion. The mock-Bachian (in some sense Meistersinger-ish) counterpoint was unusually emphasised, which underlined the Seventh's kinship with Mahler's Fifth Symphony. I do not think one could reasonably fault the orchestra - nor the conductor - here at all, although it will be interesting to read the experience of other critics.
This was not the post-Adorno Mahler Seventh of Pierre Boulez, in which the contradictions of the musical material stand brazenly to the fire; nor was it the surprisingly winning Brahmsian Seventh of Daniel Barenboim. There was often something a little rough and ready to the orchestral sound, which rather surprised me from the LSO; this reading certainly lacked the timbral sophistication that Boulez achieved in an unforgettable performance with the same orchestra a few years ago. (It also, however, lacked the unfortunate split opening horn call of that performance.) Nevertheless, I felt this was a considered, if still-evolving interpretation, which is to be applauded. I am hoping to attend the performances in this cycle of the eighth and ninth symphonies, and am now very much looking forward to discovering these final instalments in 'Gergiev's Mahler'.
Saturday, 8 March 2008
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Simon Trpčeski, Wigmore Hall, 4 March 2008
Wigmore Hall
Chopin – Piano Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor, Op.35
Debussy – Children’s Corner
Prokofiev – Old Grandmother’s Tales Op.31
Prokofiev – Toccata in D minor, Op.11
Prokofiev – Piano Sonata no.7 in B flat major, Op.83
Simon Trpčeski (piano)
Simon Trpčeski possesses a phenomenal technique, but is also clearly a fine musician with a mind of his own. Chopin’s second sonata received a commanding reading, a couple of slips in the scherzo notwithstanding. Trpčeski has an extraordinary fullness of tone: undoubtedly pianistic, but also highly suggestive at times of orchestral colours. This, one could tell, was someone born to play a Steinway (and Rachmaninov). The first movement was big-boned, at times almost Beethovenian in its sound, although there is of course nothing Beethovenian about Chopin’s remarkably original handling of sonata form. There was a true sense of a cortège to the Marche funèbre, which somewhat surprisingly put me in mind of the ‘Bydlo’ from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. The middle D flat major section of this movement was especially notable. Taken at a daringly slow pace, there was a daring spareness of texture allied to the noble singing tone that was Trpčeski’s throughout the recital. The Presto final movement sounded less spare, less flickering, than is generally the case, but certainly worked well in Trpčeski’s bolder interpretation of its moto perpetuo. Indeed, there was a sense in which it therefore seemed more of a ‘finale’ than is often the case with a movement that bewildered Schumann and Mendelssohn amongst others.
The six movements of Debussy’s Children’s Corner were sharply and winningly characterised. Trpčeski’s Debussy is not a composer of (post-)impressionist hazes, but paints in bold, primary colours. This is Debussy for the Steinway, not the Erard. I do not wish to imply absence of variegation. ‘Jimbo’s Lullaby’ was softer in touch and approach than, say, its predecessor, ‘Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum’, which fairly rattled through Debussy’s affectionate parody of Clementi’s tedious keyboard exercises. Yet mystery was not to the fore of this pianist’s agenda. Occasionally, for instance in ‘The snow is dancing’, I felt this as a lack, but there were compensations aplenty, not least from Trpčeski’s tightness of rhythm, which did not preclude well-considered rubati from time to time. This is a pianist of aristocratic poise, as he would also show in the first of his encores, the first Arabesque. The part-writing was as clear as it would have been with Maurizio Pollini, but with a more Romantic, less modernistic tone. In ‘Golliwogg’s cake walk’, the gently mocking quotations from Tristan und Isolde were wonderfully handled: full of character, yet integrated into the general musical argument.
Prokofiev perhaps fared best of all. The Old Grandmother’s Tales sounded duly nostalgic, pining for a Mussorgskian ‘Mother Russia’ that no longer existed, if ever it had. The ‘whiteness’ of Prokofiev’s piano writing – irrespective of key – was married to a wonderful, vocal projection of line. This was followed by a simply spellbinding Toccata, which never relented and yet never lost that extraordinary fullness of tone. I have long treasured Pollini’s recording of the seventh sonata as hors concours, but upon the evidence of this recital, Trpčeski is a serious rival. Indeed, his tone and more general post-Romantic approach are arguably more appropriate than the crystalline modernism of the Italian pianist. (In practice, of course, there is absolutely no reason why one should choose; I simply mention Pollini in order to signal the level of pianism at which Trpčeski is operating.) The mechanical – war-like? – quality of some of the first movement’s rhythms was once again projected with an orchestral fullness of tone. This did not soften the hints – and more – of barbarism, but rather heightened the tension. The pianist’s singing tone and length of line present in the middle Andante caloroso could not have been more impressive. And the barbarism of the final Precipitato exceeded that of the Toccata, which in retrospect at least now sounded jejune. The relentless 7/8 rhythm put me in mind of the wilder reaches of Bartók (in whose music I should love to hear Trpčeski), and once again this was miraculously accomplished without the slightest hardening of tone. There was an abandon which perforce had to remain controlled, but one might never have guessed so as the sonata was hurled towards its barnstorming conclusion. Trpčeski had the measure of that strange marriage between percussive and lyrical writing, which stands at the heart of Prokofiev’s writing for his own instrument.
Chopin – Piano Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor, Op.35
Debussy – Children’s Corner
Prokofiev – Old Grandmother’s Tales Op.31
Prokofiev – Toccata in D minor, Op.11
Prokofiev – Piano Sonata no.7 in B flat major, Op.83
Simon Trpčeski (piano)
Simon Trpčeski possesses a phenomenal technique, but is also clearly a fine musician with a mind of his own. Chopin’s second sonata received a commanding reading, a couple of slips in the scherzo notwithstanding. Trpčeski has an extraordinary fullness of tone: undoubtedly pianistic, but also highly suggestive at times of orchestral colours. This, one could tell, was someone born to play a Steinway (and Rachmaninov). The first movement was big-boned, at times almost Beethovenian in its sound, although there is of course nothing Beethovenian about Chopin’s remarkably original handling of sonata form. There was a true sense of a cortège to the Marche funèbre, which somewhat surprisingly put me in mind of the ‘Bydlo’ from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. The middle D flat major section of this movement was especially notable. Taken at a daringly slow pace, there was a daring spareness of texture allied to the noble singing tone that was Trpčeski’s throughout the recital. The Presto final movement sounded less spare, less flickering, than is generally the case, but certainly worked well in Trpčeski’s bolder interpretation of its moto perpetuo. Indeed, there was a sense in which it therefore seemed more of a ‘finale’ than is often the case with a movement that bewildered Schumann and Mendelssohn amongst others.
The six movements of Debussy’s Children’s Corner were sharply and winningly characterised. Trpčeski’s Debussy is not a composer of (post-)impressionist hazes, but paints in bold, primary colours. This is Debussy for the Steinway, not the Erard. I do not wish to imply absence of variegation. ‘Jimbo’s Lullaby’ was softer in touch and approach than, say, its predecessor, ‘Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum’, which fairly rattled through Debussy’s affectionate parody of Clementi’s tedious keyboard exercises. Yet mystery was not to the fore of this pianist’s agenda. Occasionally, for instance in ‘The snow is dancing’, I felt this as a lack, but there were compensations aplenty, not least from Trpčeski’s tightness of rhythm, which did not preclude well-considered rubati from time to time. This is a pianist of aristocratic poise, as he would also show in the first of his encores, the first Arabesque. The part-writing was as clear as it would have been with Maurizio Pollini, but with a more Romantic, less modernistic tone. In ‘Golliwogg’s cake walk’, the gently mocking quotations from Tristan und Isolde were wonderfully handled: full of character, yet integrated into the general musical argument.
Prokofiev perhaps fared best of all. The Old Grandmother’s Tales sounded duly nostalgic, pining for a Mussorgskian ‘Mother Russia’ that no longer existed, if ever it had. The ‘whiteness’ of Prokofiev’s piano writing – irrespective of key – was married to a wonderful, vocal projection of line. This was followed by a simply spellbinding Toccata, which never relented and yet never lost that extraordinary fullness of tone. I have long treasured Pollini’s recording of the seventh sonata as hors concours, but upon the evidence of this recital, Trpčeski is a serious rival. Indeed, his tone and more general post-Romantic approach are arguably more appropriate than the crystalline modernism of the Italian pianist. (In practice, of course, there is absolutely no reason why one should choose; I simply mention Pollini in order to signal the level of pianism at which Trpčeski is operating.) The mechanical – war-like? – quality of some of the first movement’s rhythms was once again projected with an orchestral fullness of tone. This did not soften the hints – and more – of barbarism, but rather heightened the tension. The pianist’s singing tone and length of line present in the middle Andante caloroso could not have been more impressive. And the barbarism of the final Precipitato exceeded that of the Toccata, which in retrospect at least now sounded jejune. The relentless 7/8 rhythm put me in mind of the wilder reaches of Bartók (in whose music I should love to hear Trpčeski), and once again this was miraculously accomplished without the slightest hardening of tone. There was an abandon which perforce had to remain controlled, but one might never have guessed so as the sonata was hurled towards its barnstorming conclusion. Trpčeski had the measure of that strange marriage between percussive and lyrical writing, which stands at the heart of Prokofiev’s writing for his own instrument.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Richard Goode, piano recital, 27 February 2008
Queen Elizabeth Hall
Bach – Prelude and Fugue in C major, BWV 870
Bach – French Suite no.3 in B minor, BWV 814
Chopin – Mazurka in C, Op.24 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in G, Op.50 no.1
Chopin – Mazurka in E minor, Op.41 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in B minor, Op.33 no.4
Chopin – Impromptu in F sharp major, Op.36
Mozart – Rondo in A minor, KV 511
Chopin – Scherzo no.4 in E major, Op.54
Debussy – Etude no.11: ‘Pour les Arpèges composés’
Debussy – Etude no.5: ‘Pour les Octaves’
Chopin – Nocturne in C minor, Op.48 no.1
Chopin – Nocturne in B major, Op.62 no.1
Chopin – Polonaise in F sharp minor, Op.44
Richard Goode (piano)
Richard Goode opened his Queen Elizabeth Hall recital, ‘Homage to Chopin’, with some of the best Bach playing I have heard. He took full advantage of the modern piano without ever straying into merely ‘pianistic’ vulgarity. The C major Prelude and Fugue from Book II of the ‘Forty-eight’ was a perfect curtain-raiser, functioning rather like an overture in an orchestral programme. Bach’s counterpoint was wonderfully clear throughout, yet never at the expense of the manifold harmonic implications of the score. ‘Implications’ seems an especially appropriate word for the Prelude, with its parts that grow into chords: Goode’s mastery of the numerous held notes on which this depends was something quite rare, in every sense. So was the splendidly vocal quality to his part-playing, both in the Prelude and in the little three-part fugue. To this was added, in the third French Suite, a markedly orchestral sense. Goode’s characterisation of individual lines was so apt that one could imagine this part being allotted to a flute, that to a ’cello. Moreover, he showed a rhythmic security, attentive to the harmonic implications of the work’s rhythms, characteristic of the best performances of the Orchestral Suites: Klemperer or Karl Richter, for example. This was never at the expense of the piano’s unique qualities, however; far from it. The hushed return of the fifth movement’s Menuet, for example, was quite magical in purely instrumental terms.
Chopin also adored Mozart, and the Rondo in A minor, perhaps Mozart’s single greatest work for solo piano, is more than suggestive of why. Some of its highly Romantic piano writing clearly looks forward to Chopin and even beyond. The music is often highly chromatic, as is the melodic line of the rondo theme, which suggests a vast range of harmonic possibilities, as in Bach. Textures are more complex than is often the case in the sonatas. Yet I did not feel that Goode responded strongly enough to these rewarding although admittedly treacherous possibilities. Whilst his Mozart was thankfully not of the ‘Dresden china’ persuasion, it still felt somewhat inhibited, despite marvellous incidental beauties, such as the perfectly articulated left hand staccato runs. The arrival of the A major episode, which should be a moment of utopian beauty, seemed oddly matter-of-fact. And where Mozart really goes for the jugular, at the beginning of the coda, Goode seemed far more wary of exploiting his modern instrument than he had in the Bach works.
Debussy’s celebrated line, that ‘Chopin is the greatest of them all, for through the piano he discovered everything,’ was quoted in the programme. One of Chopin’s greatest disciples was represented by two Etudes. The first, ‘Pour les Arpèges composés’, suffered from sounding excessively like a homage to Chopin. There was a full-blooded Romanticism, occasionally verging upon the heavy-handed, to its Scherzandere middle section, which, although it might have made sense in terms of the programme, did not really work in practice. ‘Pour les Octaves’, however, was marvellous, as full of suggestive wit as post-impressionistic ambiguity. Goode’s touch was fully equal here to whatever Debussy demanded. The composer’s marking, ‘Joyeux et emporté, librement rythmé,’ is an apt summation of Goode’s performance.
Chopin himself was well served. The selection of Mazurkas was masterfully characterised, both as a group and in terms of the individual character of the pieces. As with the Bach suite, Goode exhibited great sensitivity to the difficult balancing act between the dance origins of the works and their new life as instrumental pieces. Thus the rhythms danced and the progressions were suitably accented, not least the stomping middle section of Op.24 no.2, but this was accomplished through pianistic re-creation rather than slavish imitation. The painful sadness of Op. 33 no.4, marked Mesto, shone through as an exile’s longing for his homeland and his pain at that homeland’s suffering. At the same time, its dancing qualities ensured that it never descended into mawkishness. The larger pieces – the F sharp major Impromptu, the E major Scherzo, and the final F sharp minor Polonaise – received typically thoughtful performances. Effortless bravura is not Goode’s way, though this in no way implies any shortcomings in his technique. However, despite the thoroughly musical virtues of these performances, they could occasionally sound a little wanting in charm, when compared to the greatest Chopin players. Voice-leading, for instance, was for the most part carefully handled, with some revelations concerning inner parts; but the twinkle in the eye with which, say, Shura Cherkassky might have accomplished some such devilish feat was not to be seen (or heard, should that be possible). That said, the quasi-orchestral characterisation familiar from Goode’s Bach playing made a few appearances in his Chopin, and to equally good effect.
This was also apparent in the two selected Nocturnes, concerning whose performance I had no reservations whatsoever, at least after a slightly underwhelming opening to the great C minor Nocturne, Op.48 no.1. It is marked mezza voce, but this should not preclude, indeed it should encourage, a truly aristocratic poise. Thereafter, however, the growth of tension was unremitting, which owed a great deal to Goode’s understanding and projection of the underlying harmonic progression. The Doppio movimento section veritably seethed, all the more in retrospect, following the magical calming of the waves at the concluding diminuendo e rallentando. In the B major Nocturne, Op. 62 no.1, Goode’s expertise in part-leading came fully to the fore; here was the magic that was sometimes lacking in the larger Chopin works. There was magic too, in the purely pianistic roulades, spun with an almost Mendelssohnian gossamer. It was fitting that for his encore, Goode treated us to another Nocturne, that in E flat, Op. 55 no.2, whose fine performance reminded us of the virtues of its predecessors.
Bach – Prelude and Fugue in C major, BWV 870
Bach – French Suite no.3 in B minor, BWV 814
Chopin – Mazurka in C, Op.24 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in G, Op.50 no.1
Chopin – Mazurka in E minor, Op.41 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in B minor, Op.33 no.4
Chopin – Impromptu in F sharp major, Op.36
Mozart – Rondo in A minor, KV 511
Chopin – Scherzo no.4 in E major, Op.54
Debussy – Etude no.11: ‘Pour les Arpèges composés’
Debussy – Etude no.5: ‘Pour les Octaves’
Chopin – Nocturne in C minor, Op.48 no.1
Chopin – Nocturne in B major, Op.62 no.1
Chopin – Polonaise in F sharp minor, Op.44
Richard Goode (piano)
Richard Goode opened his Queen Elizabeth Hall recital, ‘Homage to Chopin’, with some of the best Bach playing I have heard. He took full advantage of the modern piano without ever straying into merely ‘pianistic’ vulgarity. The C major Prelude and Fugue from Book II of the ‘Forty-eight’ was a perfect curtain-raiser, functioning rather like an overture in an orchestral programme. Bach’s counterpoint was wonderfully clear throughout, yet never at the expense of the manifold harmonic implications of the score. ‘Implications’ seems an especially appropriate word for the Prelude, with its parts that grow into chords: Goode’s mastery of the numerous held notes on which this depends was something quite rare, in every sense. So was the splendidly vocal quality to his part-playing, both in the Prelude and in the little three-part fugue. To this was added, in the third French Suite, a markedly orchestral sense. Goode’s characterisation of individual lines was so apt that one could imagine this part being allotted to a flute, that to a ’cello. Moreover, he showed a rhythmic security, attentive to the harmonic implications of the work’s rhythms, characteristic of the best performances of the Orchestral Suites: Klemperer or Karl Richter, for example. This was never at the expense of the piano’s unique qualities, however; far from it. The hushed return of the fifth movement’s Menuet, for example, was quite magical in purely instrumental terms.
Chopin also adored Mozart, and the Rondo in A minor, perhaps Mozart’s single greatest work for solo piano, is more than suggestive of why. Some of its highly Romantic piano writing clearly looks forward to Chopin and even beyond. The music is often highly chromatic, as is the melodic line of the rondo theme, which suggests a vast range of harmonic possibilities, as in Bach. Textures are more complex than is often the case in the sonatas. Yet I did not feel that Goode responded strongly enough to these rewarding although admittedly treacherous possibilities. Whilst his Mozart was thankfully not of the ‘Dresden china’ persuasion, it still felt somewhat inhibited, despite marvellous incidental beauties, such as the perfectly articulated left hand staccato runs. The arrival of the A major episode, which should be a moment of utopian beauty, seemed oddly matter-of-fact. And where Mozart really goes for the jugular, at the beginning of the coda, Goode seemed far more wary of exploiting his modern instrument than he had in the Bach works.
Debussy’s celebrated line, that ‘Chopin is the greatest of them all, for through the piano he discovered everything,’ was quoted in the programme. One of Chopin’s greatest disciples was represented by two Etudes. The first, ‘Pour les Arpèges composés’, suffered from sounding excessively like a homage to Chopin. There was a full-blooded Romanticism, occasionally verging upon the heavy-handed, to its Scherzandere middle section, which, although it might have made sense in terms of the programme, did not really work in practice. ‘Pour les Octaves’, however, was marvellous, as full of suggestive wit as post-impressionistic ambiguity. Goode’s touch was fully equal here to whatever Debussy demanded. The composer’s marking, ‘Joyeux et emporté, librement rythmé,’ is an apt summation of Goode’s performance.
Chopin himself was well served. The selection of Mazurkas was masterfully characterised, both as a group and in terms of the individual character of the pieces. As with the Bach suite, Goode exhibited great sensitivity to the difficult balancing act between the dance origins of the works and their new life as instrumental pieces. Thus the rhythms danced and the progressions were suitably accented, not least the stomping middle section of Op.24 no.2, but this was accomplished through pianistic re-creation rather than slavish imitation. The painful sadness of Op. 33 no.4, marked Mesto, shone through as an exile’s longing for his homeland and his pain at that homeland’s suffering. At the same time, its dancing qualities ensured that it never descended into mawkishness. The larger pieces – the F sharp major Impromptu, the E major Scherzo, and the final F sharp minor Polonaise – received typically thoughtful performances. Effortless bravura is not Goode’s way, though this in no way implies any shortcomings in his technique. However, despite the thoroughly musical virtues of these performances, they could occasionally sound a little wanting in charm, when compared to the greatest Chopin players. Voice-leading, for instance, was for the most part carefully handled, with some revelations concerning inner parts; but the twinkle in the eye with which, say, Shura Cherkassky might have accomplished some such devilish feat was not to be seen (or heard, should that be possible). That said, the quasi-orchestral characterisation familiar from Goode’s Bach playing made a few appearances in his Chopin, and to equally good effect.
This was also apparent in the two selected Nocturnes, concerning whose performance I had no reservations whatsoever, at least after a slightly underwhelming opening to the great C minor Nocturne, Op.48 no.1. It is marked mezza voce, but this should not preclude, indeed it should encourage, a truly aristocratic poise. Thereafter, however, the growth of tension was unremitting, which owed a great deal to Goode’s understanding and projection of the underlying harmonic progression. The Doppio movimento section veritably seethed, all the more in retrospect, following the magical calming of the waves at the concluding diminuendo e rallentando. In the B major Nocturne, Op. 62 no.1, Goode’s expertise in part-leading came fully to the fore; here was the magic that was sometimes lacking in the larger Chopin works. There was magic too, in the purely pianistic roulades, spun with an almost Mendelssohnian gossamer. It was fitting that for his encore, Goode treated us to another Nocturne, that in E flat, Op. 55 no.2, whose fine performance reminded us of the virtues of its predecessors.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Salome, Royal Opera, 21 February 2008
Royal Opera House
Salome – Nadja Michael
Herodias – Michaela Schuster
Page to Herodias – Daniela Sindram
Herod – Robin Leggate
Narraboth – Joseph Kaiser
Jokanaan – Michael Volle
First Nazarene – Iain Paterson
Second Nazarene – Julian Tovey
First Soldier – Christian Sist
Second Soldier – Alan Ewing
First Jew – Adrian Thompson
Second Jew – Martyn Hill
Third Jew – Hubert Francis
Fourth Jew – Ji-Min Park
Fifth Jew – Jeremy White
A Cappadocian – Vuyani Mlinde
Slave – Pumeza Matshikiza
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Philippe Jordan (conductor)
David McVicar (director)
Es Devlin (designs)
Wolfgang Göbbel (lighting)
Andrew George (choreography)
Mark Grimmer and Leo Warner (video design)
David McVicar’s reputation seems to be riding high in the operatic world at the moment, especially amongst those impatient with the more or even less extreme instances of Continental Regietheater. His La Clemenza di Tito for the English National Opera was a very fine production, which truly breathed life into the characters of an opera seria that has often been deemed problematical (largely, I should add, on account of inappropriate expectations). I liked his Covent Garden Magic Flute, which, in spite of a strangely disappointing final scene, had plenty of magic to it and in that sense – praise be! – suggested engagement with the music, although much less with the work’s profounder themes. Handel’s Giulio Cesare he appears to have dealt with by sending it and its genre up. (I say ‘appears to’ since I have not seen it myself, so am relying on reports.) Spectacle clearly appeals to McVicar and to much of his audience: this was the first time in many years I can recall applause uncontaminated by booing for the production team. There is something populist about his general approach which risks becoming merely conservative, capitulating to notions of opera as a ‘show’, a ‘good night out’, rather than a critical force. Deconstruction can be taken too far and should never become the only game in town, but questioning of a work’s claims does no harm whatsoever; indeed, a viable work will thereby be reinvigorated, instead of being condemned to the slow and painful death of a museum piece.
This was certainly not a ‘conservative’ production in the sense of adhering to stage directions and period costume. Instead, the action was updated to what seemed to be the 1920s or ’30s, although little, so far as I could tell, was made of this; in which case, why bother? It is not as if Salome were written during the inter-war period. There was perhaps an implication of violence being endemic to this period, but is that not the case for any time one might choose – and certainly for the ancient world? More seriously, the production titillated rather than challenged. In one very important respect, I believe it misrepresented and domesticated the work: Salome emerged more as a house of controlled and ultimately somewhat camp horrors than as dangerously erotic. An exception was Salome’s treatment of John the Baptist’s severed head, which truly shocked and was justly both horrific and erotic. I am not at all sure why Naaman, the executioner, emerged naked from the cistern, nor why he had all along been wearing only an overcoat, but it gave the actor Duncan Meadows, who played his odd part very well, an opportunity to show off his muscular, albeit excessively bloodstained physique. It must have been a very messy beheading.
The set was striking in its way, with a split-level ‘upstairs-downstairs’ arrangement, so that we saw the Tetrarch’s dinner party proceeding upstairs as the action proceeded downstairs. However, it made little sense for the dining company to repair downstairs; it would be a very odd dinner party that ended up in the servants’ quarters. Wolfgang Göbbel conveyed a suggestion of moonlight, which of course is all too present in the score, but this sat awkwardly with the setting in a basement. The extras were attentively directed, although I thought the presence of the Jews was slightly exaggerated. This may have been a reference to the updating, but it did not seem to lead anywhere.
The Dance of the Seven Veils was especially odd. I suspect this may be the first case of Salome actually gaining rather than discarding clothes. This would certainly have defied expectations, not least given the melodramatic announcement that the production would contain scenes of nudity and violence – it would be an odd Salome that did not – but I am not sure to what end. This dance was more akin to a balletic pas de deux in which Salome and Herod danced through seven rooms and for some reason she tried on what appeared to be a wedding dress before petulantly rejecting it. There was something appropriately nauseating to the action, assisted by Philippe Jordan’s attentive conducting – attentive, that is, to the events on stage – but this was the only aspect I found comprehensible. The filmic ‘symbolism’ was predictably heavy-handed, as is usually the case with what, with rare exceptions, is a hyper-realistic medium. A doll presumably indicated that Herod’s lusts were of long standing; a slow, awkward, melodramatic unzipping must have been just that. The exploding light bulb defeated me. At any rate, I assume that the stage-film relationship was this way round: perhaps the film indicated what was ‘really’ going on, and the stage action was ‘symbolic’. Either way, it failed to cohere. None of the several people I asked after the performance had the faintest idea what had been intended on stage, let alone depicted.
Jordan’s reading of the score revelled in its phantasmagorical elements. There were wonderful instances of exotic woodwind lines twisting and swirling, which are often lost in Strauss’s luxurious orchestration. In this sense, it was quite a ‘French’-sounding reading, which, given the work’s roots in perfumed French décadence seems a perfectly legitimate approach. That said, there were too many errors from the brass early on. And one crucial element, arguably the most crucial of all, only revealed itself during later scenes, namely the glow of the strings. For at least the first half of the opera, they had sounded unduly muted and did not really form the bedrock of the sound. Jordan’s account also became structurally more cohesive as the work proceeded. The punctuation of Herod’s entreaties with Salome’s insistence upon the ‘Kopf des Jochanaan’ was very well handled in terms of tempo and orchestral response. Salome’s words, searingly delivered by Nadja Michael, functioned as a kind of ritornello. Perhaps subsequent performances will iron out the earlier difficulties experienced on this, the opening night.
In the title role, Michael impressed. She hit most of the right notes, and paid commendable attention to the words and their meaning. Not only can she act; she also looks the part. Given her recent conversion to soprano roles, it should not surprise that her voice lacked a little in sheer Straussian refulgence. She was not the ‘sixteen year old princess with the voice of an Isolde,’ which Strauss so cruelly suggested, but she was an excellent Salome of a slightly lighter variety. Michael Volle was a towering presence in the role of Jokaanan, although the production’s conception of him as a ‘Beckettian tramp soaked in sewage’ worked against the intrinsic nobility of the role. Robin Leggate, standing in for an ailing Thomas Moser, was a fine Herod. Here campness is quite justified, although it was not overdone. But the words and their vocal shaping matter too, as Leggate illustrated. Michaela Schuster’s vocal performance as Herodias was impressive, but the production again rather worked against her. Amongst the gratuitous ‘horrors’, she was presented for the most part as nothing more grotesque than a housewife. Mention should also go to Joseph Kaiser, noble of utterance and beautiful of tone in the role of Narraboth. The utter indifference to his suicide – perhaps most shockingly from the holy man himself – was a nice touch from the production. Greater, more focused concentration on harrowing moments such as this would have paid dividends.
If I have uncharacteristically dealt more with the production than with the musical performance, then this is at least partly a consequence of the rather overwhelming nature of the stage business. In that sense, I am reminded of last year’s Salzburg Benvenuto Cellini. Less is often more, as directors of all persuasions should remind themselves. It takes a Harry Kupfer, as for instance in his superb Berlin Salome, to show that more can occasionally be more too.
Salome – Nadja Michael
Herodias – Michaela Schuster
Page to Herodias – Daniela Sindram
Herod – Robin Leggate
Narraboth – Joseph Kaiser
Jokanaan – Michael Volle
First Nazarene – Iain Paterson
Second Nazarene – Julian Tovey
First Soldier – Christian Sist
Second Soldier – Alan Ewing
First Jew – Adrian Thompson
Second Jew – Martyn Hill
Third Jew – Hubert Francis
Fourth Jew – Ji-Min Park
Fifth Jew – Jeremy White
A Cappadocian – Vuyani Mlinde
Slave – Pumeza Matshikiza
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Philippe Jordan (conductor)
David McVicar (director)
Es Devlin (designs)
Wolfgang Göbbel (lighting)
Andrew George (choreography)
Mark Grimmer and Leo Warner (video design)
David McVicar’s reputation seems to be riding high in the operatic world at the moment, especially amongst those impatient with the more or even less extreme instances of Continental Regietheater. His La Clemenza di Tito for the English National Opera was a very fine production, which truly breathed life into the characters of an opera seria that has often been deemed problematical (largely, I should add, on account of inappropriate expectations). I liked his Covent Garden Magic Flute, which, in spite of a strangely disappointing final scene, had plenty of magic to it and in that sense – praise be! – suggested engagement with the music, although much less with the work’s profounder themes. Handel’s Giulio Cesare he appears to have dealt with by sending it and its genre up. (I say ‘appears to’ since I have not seen it myself, so am relying on reports.) Spectacle clearly appeals to McVicar and to much of his audience: this was the first time in many years I can recall applause uncontaminated by booing for the production team. There is something populist about his general approach which risks becoming merely conservative, capitulating to notions of opera as a ‘show’, a ‘good night out’, rather than a critical force. Deconstruction can be taken too far and should never become the only game in town, but questioning of a work’s claims does no harm whatsoever; indeed, a viable work will thereby be reinvigorated, instead of being condemned to the slow and painful death of a museum piece.
This was certainly not a ‘conservative’ production in the sense of adhering to stage directions and period costume. Instead, the action was updated to what seemed to be the 1920s or ’30s, although little, so far as I could tell, was made of this; in which case, why bother? It is not as if Salome were written during the inter-war period. There was perhaps an implication of violence being endemic to this period, but is that not the case for any time one might choose – and certainly for the ancient world? More seriously, the production titillated rather than challenged. In one very important respect, I believe it misrepresented and domesticated the work: Salome emerged more as a house of controlled and ultimately somewhat camp horrors than as dangerously erotic. An exception was Salome’s treatment of John the Baptist’s severed head, which truly shocked and was justly both horrific and erotic. I am not at all sure why Naaman, the executioner, emerged naked from the cistern, nor why he had all along been wearing only an overcoat, but it gave the actor Duncan Meadows, who played his odd part very well, an opportunity to show off his muscular, albeit excessively bloodstained physique. It must have been a very messy beheading.
The set was striking in its way, with a split-level ‘upstairs-downstairs’ arrangement, so that we saw the Tetrarch’s dinner party proceeding upstairs as the action proceeded downstairs. However, it made little sense for the dining company to repair downstairs; it would be a very odd dinner party that ended up in the servants’ quarters. Wolfgang Göbbel conveyed a suggestion of moonlight, which of course is all too present in the score, but this sat awkwardly with the setting in a basement. The extras were attentively directed, although I thought the presence of the Jews was slightly exaggerated. This may have been a reference to the updating, but it did not seem to lead anywhere.
The Dance of the Seven Veils was especially odd. I suspect this may be the first case of Salome actually gaining rather than discarding clothes. This would certainly have defied expectations, not least given the melodramatic announcement that the production would contain scenes of nudity and violence – it would be an odd Salome that did not – but I am not sure to what end. This dance was more akin to a balletic pas de deux in which Salome and Herod danced through seven rooms and for some reason she tried on what appeared to be a wedding dress before petulantly rejecting it. There was something appropriately nauseating to the action, assisted by Philippe Jordan’s attentive conducting – attentive, that is, to the events on stage – but this was the only aspect I found comprehensible. The filmic ‘symbolism’ was predictably heavy-handed, as is usually the case with what, with rare exceptions, is a hyper-realistic medium. A doll presumably indicated that Herod’s lusts were of long standing; a slow, awkward, melodramatic unzipping must have been just that. The exploding light bulb defeated me. At any rate, I assume that the stage-film relationship was this way round: perhaps the film indicated what was ‘really’ going on, and the stage action was ‘symbolic’. Either way, it failed to cohere. None of the several people I asked after the performance had the faintest idea what had been intended on stage, let alone depicted.
Jordan’s reading of the score revelled in its phantasmagorical elements. There were wonderful instances of exotic woodwind lines twisting and swirling, which are often lost in Strauss’s luxurious orchestration. In this sense, it was quite a ‘French’-sounding reading, which, given the work’s roots in perfumed French décadence seems a perfectly legitimate approach. That said, there were too many errors from the brass early on. And one crucial element, arguably the most crucial of all, only revealed itself during later scenes, namely the glow of the strings. For at least the first half of the opera, they had sounded unduly muted and did not really form the bedrock of the sound. Jordan’s account also became structurally more cohesive as the work proceeded. The punctuation of Herod’s entreaties with Salome’s insistence upon the ‘Kopf des Jochanaan’ was very well handled in terms of tempo and orchestral response. Salome’s words, searingly delivered by Nadja Michael, functioned as a kind of ritornello. Perhaps subsequent performances will iron out the earlier difficulties experienced on this, the opening night.
In the title role, Michael impressed. She hit most of the right notes, and paid commendable attention to the words and their meaning. Not only can she act; she also looks the part. Given her recent conversion to soprano roles, it should not surprise that her voice lacked a little in sheer Straussian refulgence. She was not the ‘sixteen year old princess with the voice of an Isolde,’ which Strauss so cruelly suggested, but she was an excellent Salome of a slightly lighter variety. Michael Volle was a towering presence in the role of Jokaanan, although the production’s conception of him as a ‘Beckettian tramp soaked in sewage’ worked against the intrinsic nobility of the role. Robin Leggate, standing in for an ailing Thomas Moser, was a fine Herod. Here campness is quite justified, although it was not overdone. But the words and their vocal shaping matter too, as Leggate illustrated. Michaela Schuster’s vocal performance as Herodias was impressive, but the production again rather worked against her. Amongst the gratuitous ‘horrors’, she was presented for the most part as nothing more grotesque than a housewife. Mention should also go to Joseph Kaiser, noble of utterance and beautiful of tone in the role of Narraboth. The utter indifference to his suicide – perhaps most shockingly from the holy man himself – was a nice touch from the production. Greater, more focused concentration on harrowing moments such as this would have paid dividends.
If I have uncharacteristically dealt more with the production than with the musical performance, then this is at least partly a consequence of the rather overwhelming nature of the stage business. In that sense, I am reminded of last year’s Salzburg Benvenuto Cellini. Less is often more, as directors of all persuasions should remind themselves. It takes a Harry Kupfer, as for instance in his superb Berlin Salome, to show that more can occasionally be more too.
Sunday, 17 February 2008
Pierre-Laurent Aimard, The Art of Fugue, 17 February 2008
Wigmore Hall
Bach – The Art of Fugue
Contrapunctus I
Contrapunctus II
Contrapunctus III
Contrapunctus IV
Contrapunctus VI, im Stile francese
Contrapunctus XIII, a 3 (rectus)
Contrapunctus VII, per Augmentationem et Diminutionem
Contrapunctus XIII, a 3 (inversus)
Contrapunctus V
Contrapunctus IX, alla Duodecima
Contrapunctus X
[interval]
Canon alla Duodecima in Contrapuncto alla Quinta
Canon alla Ottava
Canon alla Decima, Contrapuncto alla Terza
Canon per Augmentationem in contrario motu
Contrapunctus XIV (Fuga a 3 Soggetti)
Contrapunctus XII, a 4 (rectus)
Contrapunctus VIII, a 3
Contrapunctus XII (inversus)
Contrapunctus XI
Pierre-Laurent Aimard (piano)
This was a puzzling concert: impressive in many ways and yet also oddly unsatisfying. One might claim that any performance of Bach’s Art of Fugue is bound to fall short, especially given the uncertainties attendant to all issues regarding performance (even, for a few, its desirability). Yet one could with more or less equal justice claim the opposite, namely that Bach’s contrapuntal compendium should be able to satisfy like almost nothing else, at least if one leaves aside its lack of completion. I list the order above in which Pierre-Laurent Aimard performed its constituent parts. He adopted a different order – I-XIII; canons; XIV – for his recent recording, and it would seem that he had originally intended to perform the pieces in an entirely different order as lain out in the programme, to which we were offered a correction sheet. It would be interesting to know whether he regularly changes the order; there is certainly no reason why he should not. The unfinished fugue was left in mid-air, unfinished.
Much of Aimard’s performance was extremely un- or even anti-Romantic. I do not mean this in a sense of veering towards ‘period performance’ characteristics, an even more problematical concept in this work than any other. Rather, it seemed as though his was in many ways a brazenly modernist conception. This should perhaps not surprise. Aimard is, after all, most celebrated for his work in new music, not least in that of Ligeti and Messiaen. What emerged from the first half of the recital and a good part of the second was a presentation of what one might – hedged with all sorts of qualifications – characterise as Bach’s music as music at its purest. It was severe, didactic, note-perfect. It is no coincidence that Boulez was so drawn to the Art of Fugue that he conducted it in his Domaine Musical concerts. (It would be wonderful if a recording survived, although I have never heard of one.) Although the music is tonal, the harmony seemed not to matter. It might as well have been early or serialist polyphony: Bach as Ockeghem or Stockhausen.
So far, so good: a fascinating conception, with much reason behind it. Yet Aimard’s performance was also – with a few exceptions – quite unyielding and downright heavy-handed, extremely ‘un-French’, one might say. Not quite everything, but a great deal of the music nevertheless, was, quite simply, very loud. It also lacked inflection. No one would expect him to play the Art of Fugue like Debussy, but should one really pay so little attention to the instrument chosen for performance? This was clearly a decision on Aimard’s part, but I am not sure that it proved convincing in and as performance. If it is decided – rightly, in my view – to treat the score as music to be performed, then surely it should actually be performed. What rather muddies the waters is the fact that there were exceptions to this manner of presentation. Occasionally, the subject was hugely emphasised, arguably over-emphasised, as if it were being played out on a trombone. The final canon, for instance, was performed with a great deal of dynamic inflection, both on a short- and long-term basis. So were several of the later fugues, although to a lesser extent. I have to admit that I could not understand the reason for this transformation of interpretative stance. Far more convincing was the skill with which, especially during the canons, Aimard drew to our attention – without undue underlining – the relation between what we were hearing and the original subject. In this, he took advantage of the piano, and reaped musical rewards for doing so. However, I emerged from the recital impressed by the work, whose dazzling array of contrapuntal devices had been very clearly presented, yet also somewhat relieved that it was over. This is not at all the reaction for which I had been hoping.
Bach – The Art of Fugue
Contrapunctus I
Contrapunctus II
Contrapunctus III
Contrapunctus IV
Contrapunctus VI, im Stile francese
Contrapunctus XIII, a 3 (rectus)
Contrapunctus VII, per Augmentationem et Diminutionem
Contrapunctus XIII, a 3 (inversus)
Contrapunctus V
Contrapunctus IX, alla Duodecima
Contrapunctus X
[interval]
Canon alla Duodecima in Contrapuncto alla Quinta
Canon alla Ottava
Canon alla Decima, Contrapuncto alla Terza
Canon per Augmentationem in contrario motu
Contrapunctus XIV (Fuga a 3 Soggetti)
Contrapunctus XII, a 4 (rectus)
Contrapunctus VIII, a 3
Contrapunctus XII (inversus)
Contrapunctus XI
Pierre-Laurent Aimard (piano)
This was a puzzling concert: impressive in many ways and yet also oddly unsatisfying. One might claim that any performance of Bach’s Art of Fugue is bound to fall short, especially given the uncertainties attendant to all issues regarding performance (even, for a few, its desirability). Yet one could with more or less equal justice claim the opposite, namely that Bach’s contrapuntal compendium should be able to satisfy like almost nothing else, at least if one leaves aside its lack of completion. I list the order above in which Pierre-Laurent Aimard performed its constituent parts. He adopted a different order – I-XIII; canons; XIV – for his recent recording, and it would seem that he had originally intended to perform the pieces in an entirely different order as lain out in the programme, to which we were offered a correction sheet. It would be interesting to know whether he regularly changes the order; there is certainly no reason why he should not. The unfinished fugue was left in mid-air, unfinished.
Much of Aimard’s performance was extremely un- or even anti-Romantic. I do not mean this in a sense of veering towards ‘period performance’ characteristics, an even more problematical concept in this work than any other. Rather, it seemed as though his was in many ways a brazenly modernist conception. This should perhaps not surprise. Aimard is, after all, most celebrated for his work in new music, not least in that of Ligeti and Messiaen. What emerged from the first half of the recital and a good part of the second was a presentation of what one might – hedged with all sorts of qualifications – characterise as Bach’s music as music at its purest. It was severe, didactic, note-perfect. It is no coincidence that Boulez was so drawn to the Art of Fugue that he conducted it in his Domaine Musical concerts. (It would be wonderful if a recording survived, although I have never heard of one.) Although the music is tonal, the harmony seemed not to matter. It might as well have been early or serialist polyphony: Bach as Ockeghem or Stockhausen.
So far, so good: a fascinating conception, with much reason behind it. Yet Aimard’s performance was also – with a few exceptions – quite unyielding and downright heavy-handed, extremely ‘un-French’, one might say. Not quite everything, but a great deal of the music nevertheless, was, quite simply, very loud. It also lacked inflection. No one would expect him to play the Art of Fugue like Debussy, but should one really pay so little attention to the instrument chosen for performance? This was clearly a decision on Aimard’s part, but I am not sure that it proved convincing in and as performance. If it is decided – rightly, in my view – to treat the score as music to be performed, then surely it should actually be performed. What rather muddies the waters is the fact that there were exceptions to this manner of presentation. Occasionally, the subject was hugely emphasised, arguably over-emphasised, as if it were being played out on a trombone. The final canon, for instance, was performed with a great deal of dynamic inflection, both on a short- and long-term basis. So were several of the later fugues, although to a lesser extent. I have to admit that I could not understand the reason for this transformation of interpretative stance. Far more convincing was the skill with which, especially during the canons, Aimard drew to our attention – without undue underlining – the relation between what we were hearing and the original subject. In this, he took advantage of the piano, and reaped musical rewards for doing so. However, I emerged from the recital impressed by the work, whose dazzling array of contrapuntal devices had been very clearly presented, yet also somewhat relieved that it was over. This is not at all the reaction for which I had been hoping.
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 17 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.9 in E major, Op.14 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.4 in E flat major, Op.7
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.22 in F major, Op.54
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.32 in C minor, Op.111
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
What a wonderful and unexpected programme for Daniel Barenboim to select to complete his Beethoven cycle! To include two ‘early’ sonatas underlined what should long have been clear from these performances, namely that these works should in no sense be seen as preparatory to middle- and late-period Beethoven. They are stunningly original works, with roots in Mozart and Haydn – and what is wrong with that?! – but which could have been written by one man alone. There may actually be a case for accounting the young Beethoven as one of the most underrated of great composers. The two-movement Op.54 sonata is a relative rarity, which again can only have benefited from its placing in this final recital. And then, it would surely have been folly to have ended with any work other than Op.111, but more on that below.
The E major sonata, Op.14 no.1, received a splendid performance. Such judgement as to how one might shape staccato or semi-staccato articulation within phrases (e.g., first movement: bb.23-4, 50-54) is rarer than one might think. Rhythms were buoyantly sprung and the balance between rhythmic and harmonic momentum was judged to mutual benefit. The clarity of part-writing was notable, especially during the second movement, although never at the expense of expressing the music’s vertical dimension, especially its beautiful chordal writing. I especially liked the suggestions of how the music would lend itself to string-quartet writing – Beethoven subsequently arranged it, up a semitone in F major (Hess 34) – without any misguided attempt to imitate or to prefigure. The interplay between parts was attended to, but so was the sheer pianistic pleasure of the semiquaver figuration in the first and third movements. Sforzandi were not underplayed, but were relatively gentle, as befits the character of the piece. In the final movement, I entertained a suspicion that the syncopation of the rondo theme’s final statement was anticipated in bars 82-3, but then wondered whether my ears had been playing tricks upon me. Whatever the truth of the matter, it worked rather well.
A grander canvas is prepared for the sonata in E flat, Op.7. Indeed, the drive with which Barenboim opened the Allegro molto e con brio almost looked forward to the Eroica symphony. The perfect balance between harmonic and contrapuntal concerns could all so easily be overlooked, but without it work and performance would have seemed a far lesser achievement, and would also almost certainly have seemed longer in duration. Syncopated dissonances sounded fun as well as harsh, which is at it should be, for there is a great sparkle to this movement, or at least there is when it is well performed. The Largo is again written on a grand scale, and presents the performer with a profound – in every sense – challenge in terms of its numerous silences. Needless to say, Barenboim, an experienced conductor of Bruckner, had their measure. The rests punctuated but also belonged to the melodic line. Whatever Beethoven’s music may be, it is not pointillistic. Barenboim’s skill at presenting Beethoven’s part-writing was once again to the fore in the third movement; this enabled the harmonic surprises to stand out without sounded forced. The arpeggiated Minore trio possessed an almost Schubertian beauty: not just or even primarily a matter of touch, but also of understanding its harmonic progression. And rarely if ever have I heard the Rondo sound more magical. Barenboim’s basic tempo seemed spot on, as if it were the only correct solution, which is how a ‘right’ tempo will sound, even if there are in reality several ‘correct’ choices one might make. The texture of the rondo theme sounded like ‘filled-in’ Mozart, delicate yet also rich in harmonic possibilities. Although the tempo would subtly shift for different episodes, there was always a sense of being welcomed home for the return of the rondo theme: both the same, and yet transformed by its new context. The pianissimo conclusion could not have sounded more beautiful, nor more apt. Barenboim’s performance was utterly at one with Beethoven’s music: a Romantic farewell to the eighteenth century. The Rondo was certainly grazioso, but this was a fond grace such as could only result from the dusk at which the owl of Minerva spreads its wings.
By the time we reach the minuet-style opening of the first movement of Op.54, the owl has flown some distance. For this is definitely a recollection of the eighteenth-century minuet: fond, but standing at a distance that permits humour without condescension. Barenboim once again presented the gracefulness required without sounding precious. He also presented the somewhat alarming double-octave triplet contrasts with a surety and vigour that yet managed to console, for we knew that our guide would see us safely to the other side. The concluding integration of the two themes, aptly characterised in William Kinderman’s programme notes as feminine and masculine, was achieved so as to make the combination more than the sum of its parts. There was no loss of character, but there was also something surprising, something new, and a proper sense of necessity for the following Allegretto to resolve their differences. Here, as so often in Beethoven, the dialectic between rhythmic and harmonic momentum is the key to understanding and to performing. Barenboim both understood and performed. He once again proved a trustworthy guide to the movement’s tonal plan and its spinning perpetual motion. The Più Allegro coda duly thrilled without undue haste, and its sforzandi bit, though never gratuitously so. There was a true sense of arrival as the music reached its conclusion, which could only have arisen from a profound understanding of where it had been heading all along.
The last time I had heard the Op.111 sonata had been in January, in a recital given by Stephen Hough at the Wigmore Hall. That had been a creditable performance, with a number of positive attributes, but now, faced with an indisputably great performance, I realised just how insufficient ‘creditable’ is in this music. (More suitable programming helps too.) As the inevitable culmination to the cycle of thirty-two sonatas, this was always going to be something special, both for performer and audience (even for those of us who had not been fortunate enough to attend all eight concerts). I was nevertheless quite unprepared for what was to come. This performance was symphonic and personal, orchestral and instrumental, summing up and looking forward. Let there once again be no doubt that Barenboim’s piano technique is more than adequate to face any of the challenges Beethoven hurls his way, even in what is probably, with the exception of the Hammerklavier sonata, the most technically difficult of the late sonatas. Yet whilst Barenboim has command over his instrument, this is not the command that is generally called ‘pianistic’ in terms of drawing attention – intentionally or no – to pianistic matters. Beethoven’s music is presented first as music, second as music written for and performed upon the piano. At the same time, the hushed tones of the Arietta’s leggieramente passages were as beautifully conceived in purely pianistic terms as one could imagine; they were never, however, merely ends in themselves.
The first movement, with its Maestoso opening, diminished sevenths crucial, leading into the Allegro con brio ed appassionato, inevitably recalls the Pathétique sonata, but it is equally clear that something more is at stake. Barenboim’s vehemence was not only audible, but clearly visible. He did not try to conceal the enormous physical effort Beethoven requires, which perhaps bonded performer and audience still more closely. The fugato was clearly and powerfully projected. This counterpoint is not neat, and Barenboim did not present it as such; it is, rather, superhuman, which is how it sounded. Inner parts were not only heard but sang, whilst the composer’s C minor daemon drove onwards, the counterpoint working – and worked out – as much through blood and sweat as through intellectual rigour. (Note ‘as much’: I have no desire to elevate the ‘emotional’ over the ‘intellectual’, an irredeemably false distinction. However, I do wish to deny any notion of the hermetic to late Beethoven.) The subdominant colouring of the coda was wonderfully tender, leading with inexorable sadness to the non-triumphant C major of the final bars, and thus preparing the way for the Arietta. ‘Sublime’ may be a word over-used, but is entirely apt for both score and performance. Beethoven’s marking Adagio molto semplice e cantabile informed and infused the spirit of Barenboim’s reading. One was left in no doubt that the harmony, which is often very simple indeed, could not be other than it was, that Beethoven could now speak, or sing, with such noble, powerful simplicity, that we stood on the verge of something noumenal, both ineffably human and yet unutterably divine. The rhythms of the extraordinary ‘boogie-woogie’ variation were precise without any loss of warmth, never losing sight of the humanism that pervades this movement even at its most celestial. And ‘celestial’ is certainly the word to characterise the closing pages, with their awe-inspiring trills, insistent yet as far from hectoring as could be conceived. The swelling counterpoint above and beneath sounded perfectly in harmony – in every sense – with the magic of the arpeggiated accompaniment. No wonder that, for once, the conclusion met with true silence, followed by the inevitable rapturous standing ovation.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.9 in E major, Op.14 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.4 in E flat major, Op.7
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.22 in F major, Op.54
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.32 in C minor, Op.111
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
What a wonderful and unexpected programme for Daniel Barenboim to select to complete his Beethoven cycle! To include two ‘early’ sonatas underlined what should long have been clear from these performances, namely that these works should in no sense be seen as preparatory to middle- and late-period Beethoven. They are stunningly original works, with roots in Mozart and Haydn – and what is wrong with that?! – but which could have been written by one man alone. There may actually be a case for accounting the young Beethoven as one of the most underrated of great composers. The two-movement Op.54 sonata is a relative rarity, which again can only have benefited from its placing in this final recital. And then, it would surely have been folly to have ended with any work other than Op.111, but more on that below.
The E major sonata, Op.14 no.1, received a splendid performance. Such judgement as to how one might shape staccato or semi-staccato articulation within phrases (e.g., first movement: bb.23-4, 50-54) is rarer than one might think. Rhythms were buoyantly sprung and the balance between rhythmic and harmonic momentum was judged to mutual benefit. The clarity of part-writing was notable, especially during the second movement, although never at the expense of expressing the music’s vertical dimension, especially its beautiful chordal writing. I especially liked the suggestions of how the music would lend itself to string-quartet writing – Beethoven subsequently arranged it, up a semitone in F major (Hess 34) – without any misguided attempt to imitate or to prefigure. The interplay between parts was attended to, but so was the sheer pianistic pleasure of the semiquaver figuration in the first and third movements. Sforzandi were not underplayed, but were relatively gentle, as befits the character of the piece. In the final movement, I entertained a suspicion that the syncopation of the rondo theme’s final statement was anticipated in bars 82-3, but then wondered whether my ears had been playing tricks upon me. Whatever the truth of the matter, it worked rather well.
A grander canvas is prepared for the sonata in E flat, Op.7. Indeed, the drive with which Barenboim opened the Allegro molto e con brio almost looked forward to the Eroica symphony. The perfect balance between harmonic and contrapuntal concerns could all so easily be overlooked, but without it work and performance would have seemed a far lesser achievement, and would also almost certainly have seemed longer in duration. Syncopated dissonances sounded fun as well as harsh, which is at it should be, for there is a great sparkle to this movement, or at least there is when it is well performed. The Largo is again written on a grand scale, and presents the performer with a profound – in every sense – challenge in terms of its numerous silences. Needless to say, Barenboim, an experienced conductor of Bruckner, had their measure. The rests punctuated but also belonged to the melodic line. Whatever Beethoven’s music may be, it is not pointillistic. Barenboim’s skill at presenting Beethoven’s part-writing was once again to the fore in the third movement; this enabled the harmonic surprises to stand out without sounded forced. The arpeggiated Minore trio possessed an almost Schubertian beauty: not just or even primarily a matter of touch, but also of understanding its harmonic progression. And rarely if ever have I heard the Rondo sound more magical. Barenboim’s basic tempo seemed spot on, as if it were the only correct solution, which is how a ‘right’ tempo will sound, even if there are in reality several ‘correct’ choices one might make. The texture of the rondo theme sounded like ‘filled-in’ Mozart, delicate yet also rich in harmonic possibilities. Although the tempo would subtly shift for different episodes, there was always a sense of being welcomed home for the return of the rondo theme: both the same, and yet transformed by its new context. The pianissimo conclusion could not have sounded more beautiful, nor more apt. Barenboim’s performance was utterly at one with Beethoven’s music: a Romantic farewell to the eighteenth century. The Rondo was certainly grazioso, but this was a fond grace such as could only result from the dusk at which the owl of Minerva spreads its wings.
By the time we reach the minuet-style opening of the first movement of Op.54, the owl has flown some distance. For this is definitely a recollection of the eighteenth-century minuet: fond, but standing at a distance that permits humour without condescension. Barenboim once again presented the gracefulness required without sounding precious. He also presented the somewhat alarming double-octave triplet contrasts with a surety and vigour that yet managed to console, for we knew that our guide would see us safely to the other side. The concluding integration of the two themes, aptly characterised in William Kinderman’s programme notes as feminine and masculine, was achieved so as to make the combination more than the sum of its parts. There was no loss of character, but there was also something surprising, something new, and a proper sense of necessity for the following Allegretto to resolve their differences. Here, as so often in Beethoven, the dialectic between rhythmic and harmonic momentum is the key to understanding and to performing. Barenboim both understood and performed. He once again proved a trustworthy guide to the movement’s tonal plan and its spinning perpetual motion. The Più Allegro coda duly thrilled without undue haste, and its sforzandi bit, though never gratuitously so. There was a true sense of arrival as the music reached its conclusion, which could only have arisen from a profound understanding of where it had been heading all along.
The last time I had heard the Op.111 sonata had been in January, in a recital given by Stephen Hough at the Wigmore Hall. That had been a creditable performance, with a number of positive attributes, but now, faced with an indisputably great performance, I realised just how insufficient ‘creditable’ is in this music. (More suitable programming helps too.) As the inevitable culmination to the cycle of thirty-two sonatas, this was always going to be something special, both for performer and audience (even for those of us who had not been fortunate enough to attend all eight concerts). I was nevertheless quite unprepared for what was to come. This performance was symphonic and personal, orchestral and instrumental, summing up and looking forward. Let there once again be no doubt that Barenboim’s piano technique is more than adequate to face any of the challenges Beethoven hurls his way, even in what is probably, with the exception of the Hammerklavier sonata, the most technically difficult of the late sonatas. Yet whilst Barenboim has command over his instrument, this is not the command that is generally called ‘pianistic’ in terms of drawing attention – intentionally or no – to pianistic matters. Beethoven’s music is presented first as music, second as music written for and performed upon the piano. At the same time, the hushed tones of the Arietta’s leggieramente passages were as beautifully conceived in purely pianistic terms as one could imagine; they were never, however, merely ends in themselves.
The first movement, with its Maestoso opening, diminished sevenths crucial, leading into the Allegro con brio ed appassionato, inevitably recalls the Pathétique sonata, but it is equally clear that something more is at stake. Barenboim’s vehemence was not only audible, but clearly visible. He did not try to conceal the enormous physical effort Beethoven requires, which perhaps bonded performer and audience still more closely. The fugato was clearly and powerfully projected. This counterpoint is not neat, and Barenboim did not present it as such; it is, rather, superhuman, which is how it sounded. Inner parts were not only heard but sang, whilst the composer’s C minor daemon drove onwards, the counterpoint working – and worked out – as much through blood and sweat as through intellectual rigour. (Note ‘as much’: I have no desire to elevate the ‘emotional’ over the ‘intellectual’, an irredeemably false distinction. However, I do wish to deny any notion of the hermetic to late Beethoven.) The subdominant colouring of the coda was wonderfully tender, leading with inexorable sadness to the non-triumphant C major of the final bars, and thus preparing the way for the Arietta. ‘Sublime’ may be a word over-used, but is entirely apt for both score and performance. Beethoven’s marking Adagio molto semplice e cantabile informed and infused the spirit of Barenboim’s reading. One was left in no doubt that the harmony, which is often very simple indeed, could not be other than it was, that Beethoven could now speak, or sing, with such noble, powerful simplicity, that we stood on the verge of something noumenal, both ineffably human and yet unutterably divine. The rhythms of the extraordinary ‘boogie-woogie’ variation were precise without any loss of warmth, never losing sight of the humanism that pervades this movement even at its most celestial. And ‘celestial’ is certainly the word to characterise the closing pages, with their awe-inspiring trills, insistent yet as far from hectoring as could be conceived. The swelling counterpoint above and beneath sounded perfectly in harmony – in every sense – with the magic of the arpeggiated accompaniment. No wonder that, for once, the conclusion met with true silence, followed by the inevitable rapturous standing ovation.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 15 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.16 in G major, Op.31 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.14 in C sharp major, Op.27 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.6 in F major, Op.10 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.31 in A flat major, Op.110
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
It has been interesting to note the response of the press since the previous concert I attended from this cycle. If there has been an unenthusiastic voice, I have missed it. Daniel Barenboim has even appeared on Newsnight to be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman: what a welcome exchange for the usual dissembling politicians! (The sight this evening of a disgraced former Conservative Cabinet minister, far too self-important to engage in the plebeian business of applause, ostentatiously departing from the hall the moment both halves of the recital had finished, did not edify.) Yet in these reviews, I think it proper to concentrate upon the music – as Barenboim has constantly bade us do – rather than to discuss those activities which, to any person of sanity, would unreservedly commend him for a Nobel Peace Prize. I happen to think that politics and music are more awkwardly connected than Barenboim would have us believe, but this is a debate for another occasion.
That the press reaction has been so uniform is interesting in itself, for I should wager that a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies from him would have been more controversial. This has little or nothing to do with a difference in approach from Barenboim, and more or less everything to do with an unimaginative, doctrinaire attitude from more ‘authentically’ inclined critics when it comes to orchestral music. There will doubtless somewhere have been some sectarian gut-and-metronome obsessive fulminating against the use of a modern piano and issuing fatwas concerning Werktreue and the Urtext. For once, however, no one else cares.
Barenboim truly had the measure of Op.31 no.1. An understandable temptation in this sonata would be to underline the almost neo-classical exaggerations in the work, what William Kinderman in his excellent programme notes referred to as ‘a hint of sophisticated mockery’. Barenboim showed, however, that this playing with expectations, for instance in the excessively operatic roulades of the Adagio grazioso, needs to be balanced by a strong sense of the tradition on which such exaggeration is based. This is emphatically not Stravinsky; it may, however, have something in common with the Mahler of, say, the Fourth and Seventh Symphonies. Structural command becomes all the more crucial, not in the sense of imposing a formal straitjacket upon the work, although its form was commendably projected, but through allowing thematic development to inform the recounting of all other aspects of the work’s progress, not least the performer’s finely judged tempo fluctuations. This should not be taken to imply that there was a lack of attention to detail: syncopations were spot on; dynamic contrasts were carefully though never pedantically drawn, and the filigree, almost Chopinesque decoration was spun like gossamer. The pianissimo chords at the end of the finale were breathtaking, but this was as much on account of their placing within the whole as for themselves, which is as it should be.
The C sharp minor sonata was just as much a revelation. We are clearly stuck with the epithet Moonlight, whose saving grace that it is so absurdly inappropriate that it does little harm. Liszt’s description, quoted in the programme, of the second movement as ‘a flower between two abysses’ is far more apposite, and certainly was to this reading. I have often heard performances in which each movement simply appears to present a different mood, but here there was a clear progression from the all-too-celebrated arpeggios of the first movement to their raging equivalent in the Presto agitato. The harmonic direction of the opening Adagio sostenuto was never in doubt, and the biting right-hand minor ninth dissonances (bb. 52, 54) told as so rarely they do. This was owed in equal part to that sense of direction and to the careful balance between legato tone for the upper part and the disturbing implacability below. The phrasing in the Allegretto was a joy to hear: a master-class in true Classical style, and a true ‘flower between two abysses’. (Sadly, all too many members of the audience reacted angrily to Barenboim following Beethoven’s marking attacca subito il seguente, retorting with a barrage of bronchial commentary.) The final movement was duly Presto and duly agitato, but never ran away with itself. Barenboim’s pedalling – not at all easy to get right in this movement – was here every bit as impressive as his fingerwork. Everything moved inexorably towards a truly tragic conclusion.
The performance of the F major sonata, Op.10 no.2, was perhaps not on quite so exalted a level. For one thing was what sounded suspiciously like a brief memory lapse, albeit well covered up, during the F minor second movement. Its cross-rhythm sforzandi were splendidly presented, however, as was its unassuming lyricism. Whilst it was always clear where the outer movements were heading, I sensed – or imagined – a slight impatience, as if Barenboim were understandably anxious to reach the more rarefied world of the final work to be performed. The phrasing and articulation of the final Presto was nevertheless deeply impressive, and there was never any doubt about Beethoven’s slightly gruff humour during this work.
The sublimity – and let us not be shy about this word, for Beethoven’s music practically defines it – of Op.110 was projected for all to hear: both public and confidential. Tovey wrote of the opening dynamic marking: ‘The word sanft (added to the MS. by another hand, probably at Beethoven’s dictation) is intended to translate con amabilità. It does not mean “soft” but, as nearly as may be, “gentle” in the most ethical sense of the word.’ This ethical sense was present throughout: a product of Beethoven’s and Barenboim’s humanity and a rare beauty of touch and sustenance of melodic line. A couple of unfortunate smudgings slightly took the edge off what Tovey aptly described as ‘externally the clearest and most euphonious [movement] in all the last sonatas’. The closing bars, however, were truly magical, the final crescendo and diminuendo perfectly judged so as to portray without exaggeration the swelling and subsidence towards and from the dissonant F flat, duly resolved. Rhythmic definition was the key to the Allegro molto, whose secret Barenboim therefore unlocked. The syncopations of the coda, which can sometimes be lost, were wonderfully present here. No one could have been in any doubt, as Barenboim spun the recitative of the following Adagio ma non troppo, that here was a great opera conductor. Yet he proved himself – as if proof were needed – equally a great pianist, through the surety and beauty of his melodic tone. The transition to the Klagender Gesang opened out the chord of A flat minor like the German Romantics’ proverbial blue flower against the backdrop of a wintry landscape. (If ever anyone doubted a modern instrument’s ability in this respect, this performance ought to have led him forever to hold his peace.) Yet the flower’s arioso lamentation ultimately gave us hope not desolation; there was no attempt to turn this into late Schubert. This was partly, of course, owed to the consolation of the fugue, at first unable to prevail, yet persistent enough to attempt to return – and to succeed. Its stealthy una corda return was breathtakingly handled, with both mystery and certainty. Thereafter, the sheer obstinacy of Beethoven’s counterpoint was powerfully presented. With Barenboim’s performance, it clearly registered that the secret of the fugal victory, to quote Kinderman, ‘arise not naturally through traditional fugal procedures, but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits’. We may question whether such a musico-ethical victory does not partake in the highest sense of the political, but that question, as I said earlier, may await another day.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.16 in G major, Op.31 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.14 in C sharp major, Op.27 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.6 in F major, Op.10 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.31 in A flat major, Op.110
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
It has been interesting to note the response of the press since the previous concert I attended from this cycle. If there has been an unenthusiastic voice, I have missed it. Daniel Barenboim has even appeared on Newsnight to be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman: what a welcome exchange for the usual dissembling politicians! (The sight this evening of a disgraced former Conservative Cabinet minister, far too self-important to engage in the plebeian business of applause, ostentatiously departing from the hall the moment both halves of the recital had finished, did not edify.) Yet in these reviews, I think it proper to concentrate upon the music – as Barenboim has constantly bade us do – rather than to discuss those activities which, to any person of sanity, would unreservedly commend him for a Nobel Peace Prize. I happen to think that politics and music are more awkwardly connected than Barenboim would have us believe, but this is a debate for another occasion.
That the press reaction has been so uniform is interesting in itself, for I should wager that a cycle of the Beethoven symphonies from him would have been more controversial. This has little or nothing to do with a difference in approach from Barenboim, and more or less everything to do with an unimaginative, doctrinaire attitude from more ‘authentically’ inclined critics when it comes to orchestral music. There will doubtless somewhere have been some sectarian gut-and-metronome obsessive fulminating against the use of a modern piano and issuing fatwas concerning Werktreue and the Urtext. For once, however, no one else cares.
Barenboim truly had the measure of Op.31 no.1. An understandable temptation in this sonata would be to underline the almost neo-classical exaggerations in the work, what William Kinderman in his excellent programme notes referred to as ‘a hint of sophisticated mockery’. Barenboim showed, however, that this playing with expectations, for instance in the excessively operatic roulades of the Adagio grazioso, needs to be balanced by a strong sense of the tradition on which such exaggeration is based. This is emphatically not Stravinsky; it may, however, have something in common with the Mahler of, say, the Fourth and Seventh Symphonies. Structural command becomes all the more crucial, not in the sense of imposing a formal straitjacket upon the work, although its form was commendably projected, but through allowing thematic development to inform the recounting of all other aspects of the work’s progress, not least the performer’s finely judged tempo fluctuations. This should not be taken to imply that there was a lack of attention to detail: syncopations were spot on; dynamic contrasts were carefully though never pedantically drawn, and the filigree, almost Chopinesque decoration was spun like gossamer. The pianissimo chords at the end of the finale were breathtaking, but this was as much on account of their placing within the whole as for themselves, which is as it should be.
The C sharp minor sonata was just as much a revelation. We are clearly stuck with the epithet Moonlight, whose saving grace that it is so absurdly inappropriate that it does little harm. Liszt’s description, quoted in the programme, of the second movement as ‘a flower between two abysses’ is far more apposite, and certainly was to this reading. I have often heard performances in which each movement simply appears to present a different mood, but here there was a clear progression from the all-too-celebrated arpeggios of the first movement to their raging equivalent in the Presto agitato. The harmonic direction of the opening Adagio sostenuto was never in doubt, and the biting right-hand minor ninth dissonances (bb. 52, 54) told as so rarely they do. This was owed in equal part to that sense of direction and to the careful balance between legato tone for the upper part and the disturbing implacability below. The phrasing in the Allegretto was a joy to hear: a master-class in true Classical style, and a true ‘flower between two abysses’. (Sadly, all too many members of the audience reacted angrily to Barenboim following Beethoven’s marking attacca subito il seguente, retorting with a barrage of bronchial commentary.) The final movement was duly Presto and duly agitato, but never ran away with itself. Barenboim’s pedalling – not at all easy to get right in this movement – was here every bit as impressive as his fingerwork. Everything moved inexorably towards a truly tragic conclusion.
The performance of the F major sonata, Op.10 no.2, was perhaps not on quite so exalted a level. For one thing was what sounded suspiciously like a brief memory lapse, albeit well covered up, during the F minor second movement. Its cross-rhythm sforzandi were splendidly presented, however, as was its unassuming lyricism. Whilst it was always clear where the outer movements were heading, I sensed – or imagined – a slight impatience, as if Barenboim were understandably anxious to reach the more rarefied world of the final work to be performed. The phrasing and articulation of the final Presto was nevertheless deeply impressive, and there was never any doubt about Beethoven’s slightly gruff humour during this work.
The sublimity – and let us not be shy about this word, for Beethoven’s music practically defines it – of Op.110 was projected for all to hear: both public and confidential. Tovey wrote of the opening dynamic marking: ‘The word sanft (added to the MS. by another hand, probably at Beethoven’s dictation) is intended to translate con amabilità. It does not mean “soft” but, as nearly as may be, “gentle” in the most ethical sense of the word.’ This ethical sense was present throughout: a product of Beethoven’s and Barenboim’s humanity and a rare beauty of touch and sustenance of melodic line. A couple of unfortunate smudgings slightly took the edge off what Tovey aptly described as ‘externally the clearest and most euphonious [movement] in all the last sonatas’. The closing bars, however, were truly magical, the final crescendo and diminuendo perfectly judged so as to portray without exaggeration the swelling and subsidence towards and from the dissonant F flat, duly resolved. Rhythmic definition was the key to the Allegro molto, whose secret Barenboim therefore unlocked. The syncopations of the coda, which can sometimes be lost, were wonderfully present here. No one could have been in any doubt, as Barenboim spun the recitative of the following Adagio ma non troppo, that here was a great opera conductor. Yet he proved himself – as if proof were needed – equally a great pianist, through the surety and beauty of his melodic tone. The transition to the Klagender Gesang opened out the chord of A flat minor like the German Romantics’ proverbial blue flower against the backdrop of a wintry landscape. (If ever anyone doubted a modern instrument’s ability in this respect, this performance ought to have led him forever to hold his peace.) Yet the flower’s arioso lamentation ultimately gave us hope not desolation; there was no attempt to turn this into late Schubert. This was partly, of course, owed to the consolation of the fugue, at first unable to prevail, yet persistent enough to attempt to return – and to succeed. Its stealthy una corda return was breathtakingly handled, with both mystery and certainty. Thereafter, the sheer obstinacy of Beethoven’s counterpoint was powerfully presented. With Barenboim’s performance, it clearly registered that the secret of the fugal victory, to quote Kinderman, ‘arise not naturally through traditional fugal procedures, but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits’. We may question whether such a musico-ethical victory does not partake in the highest sense of the political, but that question, as I said earlier, may await another day.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Daniel Barenboim, Beethoven sonatas, 6 February 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.5 in C minor, Op.10 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.11 in B flat major, Op.22
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.19 in G minor, Op.49 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.20 in G major, Op.49 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.23 in F minor, Op.57, Appassionata
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
If only I had been able to attend all eight recitals in Daniel Barenboim’s Beethoven sonata cycle. Still, three may well prove to be the least bad alternative: seven would simply be perverse; five or six would be tantalisingly close; four would be frustratingly half-way there; one or two would be nowhere enough. At least this is what I shall try to tell myself by way of consolation, for this was a marvellous concert.
To begin with, I was rather surprised to find the dynamic contrasts a little constrained: the last thing one would expect from Barenboim, one of the most ‘orchestral’ of pianists. However, I think this may have been at least in part a product of where I was seated: further back in the stalls than I have been since the Royal Festival Hall reopened. At any rate, my ears soon more or less adjusted, although Barenboim did seem, consciously or no, to be holding something in reserve at least during the first movement of Op.10 no.1. There were also a few minor smudges: nothing to worry about, but enough to show that even great musicians sometimes need to warm up. With the Adagio molto, any reservations evaporated, never to return. The true profundity of Beethoven’s slow movements, even – indeed in some senses, especially – in his earlier sonatas, is one of the most difficult things for a pianist to express and appears to come only with experience. This is something Barenboim certainly possesses, and it shows: not only experience of Beethoven piano sonatas, but of vast swathes of the piano, chamber, orchestral, and operatic repertoire. Only connect – and he does, laying claim to the mantle of the great German-European humanistic tradition. The noble simplicity of the opening, which lies as much in the weighting of the chords as in the sustaining of line, was perfectly judged, and the progress of the sustained melodic line was vocally rapt, though never at the expense of lightness of touch in filigree decoration. In the final A flat chords, the pianissimo whispered confidence was at such a dynamic and emotional level that time could have stood still. Unfortunately, that must have been too much for some of the audience, since a barrage of coughing disturbed Barenboim’s attack of the third movement, although it failed to disrupt his urgency. For once, Prestissimo did not seem an exaggerated marking: the music verily hurtled by, yet with no shortness of change for contrapuntal clarity and breadth of tone where required (e.g., bb. 80-84). The humour of the ‘wrong’ chord just before the end registered and could be savoured just long enough before the properly quiet conclusion.
For reasons that have always eluded me, Op.22 has often been something of a Cinderella amongst the Beethoven sonatas. Barenboim certainly made no apology for it and it requires none. Sir Donald Tovey rightly pointed out that the third bar, with its necessary freedom of the right forearm, is more difficult technically than anything else in the sonata, but one would never have known. The single-line echo of this in the left hand (b. 11-12) was quite dazzling. I mention this, since one sometimes hears a great deal of nonsense about Barenboim the pianist (supposedly past his best, since he now ‘conducts too much’), just as much as about Barenboim the conductor (supposedly never quite as good as he is a pianist). True, one does not consider him primarily as a great technician, but that is because he is a great musician, his technique always at the service of the music. One would not catch him playing crowd-pleasing virtuoso fripperies, but nor would one Maurizio Pollini, and I do not think anyone has ever doubted his virtuosity. Small minds cannot conceive that one man could exhibit greatness in all of these respects – and more; so much the worse for them. The syncopated chords of the second group during the recapitulation were not only rhythmically precise but presented with great fullness and beauty of tone, and the abrupt dynamic contrasts of the coda duly told. I do not know why, but it always seems to take me a little time to accustom myself to the compound triple time of the slow movement. The understated implacability of those eighteen repeated E flat major chords in the left hand assisted greatly, as did the way Barenboim began to spin his melodic charm above. The first statement of the songful melody sounded a little neutral, but that is really as it should be, for the music needs time to breath and to bloom. Beethoven’s two final movements are amongst his loveliest creations, which is how they sounded here. There was a wonderfully poised swing to the minuet, whilst the allegretto of the Rondo was again perfectly judged. This beautiful movement, which in mood and harmony has a great deal in common with the ‘Spring’ Sonata for violin and piano, Op.24, can rarely have flowed so effortlessly. Each statement of the rondo theme sounded like the presentation of a new tale in an intimately connected anthology, with Beethoven – or should that be Barenboim – playing the role of the master story-teller. Every time, it was the same but different, a subtle product of context and progression. Like the Arabian Nights, one wished each tale would never end.
There should be no condescension toward the two so-called ‘sonatinas’ amongst the canonical thirty-two, for it takes a great musician to perform them meaningfully, just as it does in any of the other thirty sonatas. Barenboim presented both Op.49 works with a clarity of purpose that would have been a master-class to any young – or not-so-young – pianists embarking upon their exploration of Beethoven. The Mozartian textures and passage-work of the G minor sonata were never mere finger-exercises; to play them with perfect accuracy was but the prelude to making music. Quite rightly, the expressive contrasts were not exaggerated, but nor were they under-played. Likewise for Op.49 no.2, whose minuet, with its origins in that of the Septet, Op.20, once again had a wondrously joyous swing to it. Beethoven is not merely profound; he is also great fun.
But the best was yet to come: a truly great performance of the Appassionata. From the chillingly mysterious F minor octave arpeggios of the opening, it was clear that this would be an enthralling journey. I use the word ‘journey’ intentionally, not, I hope, in thrall to the banal language and preconceptions of modern reality television, but since the Beethovenian explorations of which Beethoven was our guide at times put me, rather to my surprise, in mind of Schubert, not least his Winterreise. This was a journey both physically scenic and metaphysically draining, which never strayed into the realms of false emoting, nor of ham virtuosity. Schubert sometimes – though not nearly so often as one might expect – sounds like Beethoven, but the converse is rarely the case, and I should not wish to exaggerate in this instance; nevertheless, Barenboim’s tragic sense, whilst not without its vehemence, also possessed a harrowing fatal resignation. The purely pianistic element was jawdropping; no one hearing the crossed hand arpeggios of the first movement or the tumultuous Presto conclusion to the third could ever doubt Barenboim’s technique. Yet the tone was so full of quasi-orchestral colour – ’cello-like richness on the sculpted bass line of the second movement’s theme, dashing high flutes and piccolos in the fury of the finale – that rarely if ever did one think of this as ‘pianism’. The programme notes quoted Igor Markevitch telling the young Barenboim’s father that his son played the piano orchestrally. There is a great deal of truth in this and, whatever his envious detractors might say, Barenboim was clearly born to conduct. Yet at the same time, this concerns at least as much his conception of pianism for purely musical ends as his destiny to lead an orchestra. Just as we rarely think of Beethoven as a great orchestrator, since his musical thought is so inextricably tied to its orchestration, so we understandably tend to forget the instrument as such when Barenboim plays.
After the tumult, which occasionally verged upon existential despair, of the first movement, the emotional heart of the sonata came with the second movement’s theme and variations. A vision of hope, however, fleeting, was set before us. If the slow movement of the Hammerklavier Sonata is, in the unforgettable words of J.W.N. Sullivan, like ‘the icy heart of some remote mountain lake’, then this was rightly different. It was more akin to having reached the quickening waters lake in the foothills, the surface ripples bathed in sunlight, yet barely concealing something more troubled in the depths. But of course, as is so often the case with middle-period Beethoven, the slow movement’s function is also to serve as a prelude to the finale. Barenboim’s rage was never unduly wild, but not did it pull any emotional punches. Those fatal rhythms tolled – and told, allied as they were to a profound understand of the movement’s harmonic direction. Beethoven’s vehemence was bluff and trenchant, yet also sang to us, reminding us through – in every sense of the word – the piano cascades of the narrative thread by which work and performance were conceived. It is a while since I have heard such a thrilling conclusion to any piano work, all the more thrilling on account of our wayfarer-performer’s refusal to countenance any but the most arduous path. The standing ovation could hardly have been more richly deserved.
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.5 in C minor, Op.10 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.11 in B flat major, Op.22
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.19 in G minor, Op.49 no.1
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.20 in G major, Op.49 no.2
Beethoven – Piano Sonata no.23 in F minor, Op.57, Appassionata
Daniel Barenboim (piano)
If only I had been able to attend all eight recitals in Daniel Barenboim’s Beethoven sonata cycle. Still, three may well prove to be the least bad alternative: seven would simply be perverse; five or six would be tantalisingly close; four would be frustratingly half-way there; one or two would be nowhere enough. At least this is what I shall try to tell myself by way of consolation, for this was a marvellous concert.
To begin with, I was rather surprised to find the dynamic contrasts a little constrained: the last thing one would expect from Barenboim, one of the most ‘orchestral’ of pianists. However, I think this may have been at least in part a product of where I was seated: further back in the stalls than I have been since the Royal Festival Hall reopened. At any rate, my ears soon more or less adjusted, although Barenboim did seem, consciously or no, to be holding something in reserve at least during the first movement of Op.10 no.1. There were also a few minor smudges: nothing to worry about, but enough to show that even great musicians sometimes need to warm up. With the Adagio molto, any reservations evaporated, never to return. The true profundity of Beethoven’s slow movements, even – indeed in some senses, especially – in his earlier sonatas, is one of the most difficult things for a pianist to express and appears to come only with experience. This is something Barenboim certainly possesses, and it shows: not only experience of Beethoven piano sonatas, but of vast swathes of the piano, chamber, orchestral, and operatic repertoire. Only connect – and he does, laying claim to the mantle of the great German-European humanistic tradition. The noble simplicity of the opening, which lies as much in the weighting of the chords as in the sustaining of line, was perfectly judged, and the progress of the sustained melodic line was vocally rapt, though never at the expense of lightness of touch in filigree decoration. In the final A flat chords, the pianissimo whispered confidence was at such a dynamic and emotional level that time could have stood still. Unfortunately, that must have been too much for some of the audience, since a barrage of coughing disturbed Barenboim’s attack of the third movement, although it failed to disrupt his urgency. For once, Prestissimo did not seem an exaggerated marking: the music verily hurtled by, yet with no shortness of change for contrapuntal clarity and breadth of tone where required (e.g., bb. 80-84). The humour of the ‘wrong’ chord just before the end registered and could be savoured just long enough before the properly quiet conclusion.
For reasons that have always eluded me, Op.22 has often been something of a Cinderella amongst the Beethoven sonatas. Barenboim certainly made no apology for it and it requires none. Sir Donald Tovey rightly pointed out that the third bar, with its necessary freedom of the right forearm, is more difficult technically than anything else in the sonata, but one would never have known. The single-line echo of this in the left hand (b. 11-12) was quite dazzling. I mention this, since one sometimes hears a great deal of nonsense about Barenboim the pianist (supposedly past his best, since he now ‘conducts too much’), just as much as about Barenboim the conductor (supposedly never quite as good as he is a pianist). True, one does not consider him primarily as a great technician, but that is because he is a great musician, his technique always at the service of the music. One would not catch him playing crowd-pleasing virtuoso fripperies, but nor would one Maurizio Pollini, and I do not think anyone has ever doubted his virtuosity. Small minds cannot conceive that one man could exhibit greatness in all of these respects – and more; so much the worse for them. The syncopated chords of the second group during the recapitulation were not only rhythmically precise but presented with great fullness and beauty of tone, and the abrupt dynamic contrasts of the coda duly told. I do not know why, but it always seems to take me a little time to accustom myself to the compound triple time of the slow movement. The understated implacability of those eighteen repeated E flat major chords in the left hand assisted greatly, as did the way Barenboim began to spin his melodic charm above. The first statement of the songful melody sounded a little neutral, but that is really as it should be, for the music needs time to breath and to bloom. Beethoven’s two final movements are amongst his loveliest creations, which is how they sounded here. There was a wonderfully poised swing to the minuet, whilst the allegretto of the Rondo was again perfectly judged. This beautiful movement, which in mood and harmony has a great deal in common with the ‘Spring’ Sonata for violin and piano, Op.24, can rarely have flowed so effortlessly. Each statement of the rondo theme sounded like the presentation of a new tale in an intimately connected anthology, with Beethoven – or should that be Barenboim – playing the role of the master story-teller. Every time, it was the same but different, a subtle product of context and progression. Like the Arabian Nights, one wished each tale would never end.
There should be no condescension toward the two so-called ‘sonatinas’ amongst the canonical thirty-two, for it takes a great musician to perform them meaningfully, just as it does in any of the other thirty sonatas. Barenboim presented both Op.49 works with a clarity of purpose that would have been a master-class to any young – or not-so-young – pianists embarking upon their exploration of Beethoven. The Mozartian textures and passage-work of the G minor sonata were never mere finger-exercises; to play them with perfect accuracy was but the prelude to making music. Quite rightly, the expressive contrasts were not exaggerated, but nor were they under-played. Likewise for Op.49 no.2, whose minuet, with its origins in that of the Septet, Op.20, once again had a wondrously joyous swing to it. Beethoven is not merely profound; he is also great fun.
But the best was yet to come: a truly great performance of the Appassionata. From the chillingly mysterious F minor octave arpeggios of the opening, it was clear that this would be an enthralling journey. I use the word ‘journey’ intentionally, not, I hope, in thrall to the banal language and preconceptions of modern reality television, but since the Beethovenian explorations of which Beethoven was our guide at times put me, rather to my surprise, in mind of Schubert, not least his Winterreise. This was a journey both physically scenic and metaphysically draining, which never strayed into the realms of false emoting, nor of ham virtuosity. Schubert sometimes – though not nearly so often as one might expect – sounds like Beethoven, but the converse is rarely the case, and I should not wish to exaggerate in this instance; nevertheless, Barenboim’s tragic sense, whilst not without its vehemence, also possessed a harrowing fatal resignation. The purely pianistic element was jawdropping; no one hearing the crossed hand arpeggios of the first movement or the tumultuous Presto conclusion to the third could ever doubt Barenboim’s technique. Yet the tone was so full of quasi-orchestral colour – ’cello-like richness on the sculpted bass line of the second movement’s theme, dashing high flutes and piccolos in the fury of the finale – that rarely if ever did one think of this as ‘pianism’. The programme notes quoted Igor Markevitch telling the young Barenboim’s father that his son played the piano orchestrally. There is a great deal of truth in this and, whatever his envious detractors might say, Barenboim was clearly born to conduct. Yet at the same time, this concerns at least as much his conception of pianism for purely musical ends as his destiny to lead an orchestra. Just as we rarely think of Beethoven as a great orchestrator, since his musical thought is so inextricably tied to its orchestration, so we understandably tend to forget the instrument as such when Barenboim plays.
After the tumult, which occasionally verged upon existential despair, of the first movement, the emotional heart of the sonata came with the second movement’s theme and variations. A vision of hope, however, fleeting, was set before us. If the slow movement of the Hammerklavier Sonata is, in the unforgettable words of J.W.N. Sullivan, like ‘the icy heart of some remote mountain lake’, then this was rightly different. It was more akin to having reached the quickening waters lake in the foothills, the surface ripples bathed in sunlight, yet barely concealing something more troubled in the depths. But of course, as is so often the case with middle-period Beethoven, the slow movement’s function is also to serve as a prelude to the finale. Barenboim’s rage was never unduly wild, but not did it pull any emotional punches. Those fatal rhythms tolled – and told, allied as they were to a profound understand of the movement’s harmonic direction. Beethoven’s vehemence was bluff and trenchant, yet also sang to us, reminding us through – in every sense of the word – the piano cascades of the narrative thread by which work and performance were conceived. It is a while since I have heard such a thrilling conclusion to any piano work, all the more thrilling on account of our wayfarer-performer’s refusal to countenance any but the most arduous path. The standing ovation could hardly have been more richly deserved.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Cardillac, Opéra National de Paris, 29 January 2008
Opéra Bastille
Cardillac – Franz Grundheber
The Daughter – Angela Denoke
The Officer – Christopher Ventris
The Lady – Hannah Esther Minutillo
The Cavalier – Charles Workman
The Gold Dealer – Roland Bracht
Leader of the Prévôté – David Bizic
Orchestra and Chorus of the Opéra National de Paris
Kazushi Ono (conductor)
Winfried Maczewski (chorus master)
André Engel (producer)
Nicky Rieti (designer)
Chantel de La Coste Messelière (costumes)
André Diot (lighting)
Frédérique Chauveaux and Françoise Grès (choreographers)
Perhaps only Paris could turn in so stylish a production of the terminally unfashionable Hindemith. When I saw this in 2006, I thought that the Opéra National de Paris had a hit on its hands, and I have no reason to revise my judgement upon its revival. Cardillac, based on Das Fräulein von Scuderi, a short story by E.T.A. Hoffmann, is a work imbued with Neue Sachlichkeit. It nevertheless looks forward to the chief preoccupation of works such as Mathis der Maler and Die Harmonie der Welt, namely the artist’s role in society. The musical style, however, remains very much of the 1920s: for the most part resolutely anti-sentimental and with a duly ‘objective’ instrumental polyphony characteristic, perhaps misconceived but genuinely held, of that age’s conception of Bach.
Kazushi Ono seemed very much on Hindemith’s wavelength in this respect. Anxious to relieve music of its subservience to the text Hindemith – somewhat like Busoni and even Berg in this respect – insisted upon small closed instrumental forms, following their own musical imperatives. Whilst not dissociated from what was going on onstage, Ono ensured that the motorised rhythms and the manifold polyphonic strands were possessed of their own motivation. His reading may not have evinced throughout quite the rhythmic drive – there were a few occasions when the tension sagged ever so slightly – brought to the score by Kent Nagano during the original production, but this is a minor criticism. The orchestra responded superbly: incisive and possessed of just the right wind- and percussion-dominated sound. (The strings, especially violins, are very few in number, to impart an almost Weill-like quality to the music.) A sure command of idiom was unfailingly apparent.
Franz Grundheber proved a charismatic Cardillac. His tone, his attention to the text, and equally importantly, bearing on stage were all exemplary. For the drama to be of consequence, one needs to believe in his tortured, Jekyll-and-Hyde conflict between his work and everything else, his daughter included. One certainly did in this case. Angela Denoke was every bit as impressive as his daughter; it is difficult to imagine her command of line and tone in this role bettered. As her suitor, Christopher Ventris also impressed – more so in the second than in the third act – although he was arguably outshone by Charles Workman in the smaller tenor role of the dashing Cavalier. The stage and vocal chemistry between the latter and the alluring Hannah Esther Minutillo as the Lady was an object lesson in such matters. One could all too well understand why he felt compelled to follow her fateful entreaty to procure for her ‘the finest object Cardillac ever produced,’ and why she in her turn was only too eager to await him in her bedroom. The chorus, attentively directed and choreographed, was every bit as impressive in its vocal blend and diction. It plays a crucial role – partly a homage to Bach’s Passions and Handel’s oratorios? – both at the opening and during the final scene, thus framing the action within a broader social context. It was no mean achievement for almost every word to be distinguishable, all the more impressive given the fullness of choral tone and the quantity of stage business.
The production was, as I have already mentioned, extremely stylish. The updating – to roughly the time of composition – worked well enough, although there were occasions, such as the beginning of the third act, when it became a little confusing. Nevertheless, the general impression of gold-fuelled opulence was most persuasive, as were all aspects of the Personenregie. The sets and costumes were lavish, which seemed not an extravagance but a necessary attribute of the action. A welcome aspect of the production was that it helped to remove any lingering prejudices one might have entertained about dryness or worthiness on the composer’s part. This was splendid musical theatre and must be accounted a triumph for Gérard Mortier’s house and company.
Cardillac – Franz Grundheber
The Daughter – Angela Denoke
The Officer – Christopher Ventris
The Lady – Hannah Esther Minutillo
The Cavalier – Charles Workman
The Gold Dealer – Roland Bracht
Leader of the Prévôté – David Bizic
Orchestra and Chorus of the Opéra National de Paris
Kazushi Ono (conductor)
Winfried Maczewski (chorus master)
André Engel (producer)
Nicky Rieti (designer)
Chantel de La Coste Messelière (costumes)
André Diot (lighting)
Frédérique Chauveaux and Françoise Grès (choreographers)
Perhaps only Paris could turn in so stylish a production of the terminally unfashionable Hindemith. When I saw this in 2006, I thought that the Opéra National de Paris had a hit on its hands, and I have no reason to revise my judgement upon its revival. Cardillac, based on Das Fräulein von Scuderi, a short story by E.T.A. Hoffmann, is a work imbued with Neue Sachlichkeit. It nevertheless looks forward to the chief preoccupation of works such as Mathis der Maler and Die Harmonie der Welt, namely the artist’s role in society. The musical style, however, remains very much of the 1920s: for the most part resolutely anti-sentimental and with a duly ‘objective’ instrumental polyphony characteristic, perhaps misconceived but genuinely held, of that age’s conception of Bach.
Kazushi Ono seemed very much on Hindemith’s wavelength in this respect. Anxious to relieve music of its subservience to the text Hindemith – somewhat like Busoni and even Berg in this respect – insisted upon small closed instrumental forms, following their own musical imperatives. Whilst not dissociated from what was going on onstage, Ono ensured that the motorised rhythms and the manifold polyphonic strands were possessed of their own motivation. His reading may not have evinced throughout quite the rhythmic drive – there were a few occasions when the tension sagged ever so slightly – brought to the score by Kent Nagano during the original production, but this is a minor criticism. The orchestra responded superbly: incisive and possessed of just the right wind- and percussion-dominated sound. (The strings, especially violins, are very few in number, to impart an almost Weill-like quality to the music.) A sure command of idiom was unfailingly apparent.
Franz Grundheber proved a charismatic Cardillac. His tone, his attention to the text, and equally importantly, bearing on stage were all exemplary. For the drama to be of consequence, one needs to believe in his tortured, Jekyll-and-Hyde conflict between his work and everything else, his daughter included. One certainly did in this case. Angela Denoke was every bit as impressive as his daughter; it is difficult to imagine her command of line and tone in this role bettered. As her suitor, Christopher Ventris also impressed – more so in the second than in the third act – although he was arguably outshone by Charles Workman in the smaller tenor role of the dashing Cavalier. The stage and vocal chemistry between the latter and the alluring Hannah Esther Minutillo as the Lady was an object lesson in such matters. One could all too well understand why he felt compelled to follow her fateful entreaty to procure for her ‘the finest object Cardillac ever produced,’ and why she in her turn was only too eager to await him in her bedroom. The chorus, attentively directed and choreographed, was every bit as impressive in its vocal blend and diction. It plays a crucial role – partly a homage to Bach’s Passions and Handel’s oratorios? – both at the opening and during the final scene, thus framing the action within a broader social context. It was no mean achievement for almost every word to be distinguishable, all the more impressive given the fullness of choral tone and the quantity of stage business.
The production was, as I have already mentioned, extremely stylish. The updating – to roughly the time of composition – worked well enough, although there were occasions, such as the beginning of the third act, when it became a little confusing. Nevertheless, the general impression of gold-fuelled opulence was most persuasive, as were all aspects of the Personenregie. The sets and costumes were lavish, which seemed not an extravagance but a necessary attribute of the action. A welcome aspect of the production was that it helped to remove any lingering prejudices one might have entertained about dryness or worthiness on the composer’s part. This was splendid musical theatre and must be accounted a triumph for Gérard Mortier’s house and company.
Die Frau ohne Schatten, Opéra National de Paris, 28 January 2008
Opéra Bastille
The Emperor – Jon Villars
The Empress – Eva-Maria Westbroek
The Nurse – Jane Henschel
Barak – Franz Hawlata
Barak’s Wife – Christine Brewer
The Spirit-Messenger – Ralf Lukas
Voice of the Apparition of Youth – Ryan MacPherson
Voice of the Falcon, Guardian of the Threshold of the Temple – Elena Tsallagova
Voice from Above – Jane Henschel
The One-Eyed – Yuri Kissin
The One-Armed – Gregory Reinhart
The Hunchback – John Easterlin
Orchestra and Chorus of the Opéra National de Paris
Maîtrise des Hauts-de-Seine
Children’s Choir of the Opéra National de Paris
Alessandro di Stefano (chorus master)
Gustav Kuhn (conductor)
Robert Wilson (producer and designer)
Giuseppe Fregeni (co-producer)
Christope Martin (co-designer)
Moidele Bickel (costumes)
Andreas Fuchs (lighting)
Strauss’s operas broadly tend to be either Wagnerian or Mozartian. One of the many extraordinary things about Die Frau ohne Schatten – or La femme sans ombre, as it was generally called at the Paris Opéra – is that it manages to be both. It certainly qualifies as post-Wagnerian music drama in terms of the leitmotivic writing that both spans and in large part constitutes the work’s structure. The descent of the Empress and Nurse from the spirit world to that of humanity is surely a conscious homage to Das Rheingold’s descent to Nibelheim and the night-watchmen (choral rather than solo) at the end of Act I cannot but recall Die Meistersinger, whilst the trials of the opera’s two couples are a clear and acknowledge reference to The Magic Flute. Wagner and Mozart combine in the musico-dramatic opposition between spirit and human world and in the clear progression from the former to the latter: a homage to and development of the stories both of Brünnhilde and of Tamino and Pamina. The epic Wagnerian element is most to the fore during the first two acts, with the Mozartian trials reserved for the third. However, this in no sense prevents Strauss from continuing that quasi-expressionistic writing which may surprise the listener aware that Der Rosenkavalier and Ariadne auf Naxos (in part) precede Die Frau. The polytonalism on offer here, although more sparing than that of Elektra, is every bit as ‘advanced’. This may seem less odd when we also consider the almost contemporary, all-too-readily underestimated Nietzschean (Anti-Christian) tone-poem, An Alpine Symphony¸ which ought already to have brought into question Strauss’s alleged ‘reversion’ in and after Rosenkavalier. In any case, Strauss – and to some extent, Hofmannsthal – is so often found to be playing with the history of music and of musical drama, ever more explicitly until its ultimate treatment in Capriccio.
The musical forces required in Strauss’s opera are huge too: the various choirs, the violas and ‘cellos split as well as the violins, the wind- and thunder-machines, quadruple winds and so forth. Like the Schoenberg of the Gurrelieder or the Op.8 Orchestral Songs, however, Strauss draws from a vast orchestral palette with chamber-music restraint as well as overpowering near-bombast. The colouristic variegation of the score remind us that he is a contemporary of Debussy and Bartók. Then, of course, there are the heavy demands placed upon the solo voices, not least the typically merciless writing for the tenor Emperor. Moreover, the manifold ambiguities in Hofmannsthal’s libretto – how should one weight the post-Wagner and Magic Flute elements respectively? – provide all sorts of pitfalls for directors. This, then, is not an easy work to perform, and resounding successes have not been so many.
During the first half of the first act, I had my doubts, and feared that we might be in for a prolonged evening. Gustav Kuhn revealed a myriad of colours from the orchestra, but his conducting otherwise came across as rather stiff. This seemed to match all too well the predictably static nature of Robert Wilson’s Japanese-influenced production, although already this exerted an undeniable theatrical fascination. Not long after reaching Barak’s hut, however, Kuhn appeared better able to think in long phrases and periods, and this transmitted itself to the orchestra and thence to the audience (or at least to this member thereof). Wilson’s production truly came into its own from this point onwards, both doing something quite different from the music and yet in tune with its demands. Indeed, one of the most impressive aspects of the production – and so lamentably rare in opera – was the attention Wilson and his team paid to the score. Movement, colour, and transformation were clearly, if sometimes surprisingly, connected to the orchestra in particular. If the production was not merely the obedient servant of the music – and why should it be? – nor did it ever jar. The designs were generally simple but powerful, not least in the striking use of different colours and their interactions both within and between scenes. There was much that I could not claim to ‘understand’, but to attempt this rather seemed to be missing the point, for I could tell that there was something purposeful, intelligent, and often quite magical going on: something which need not necessarily be translated into words. (After all, the same is often said, and not without reason, of music.) The choreographic direction of the falcon in particular impressed: here was beguiling and perhaps threatening mystery. Humour was present too, in the guise of Barak’s ghastly ne’er-do-well brothers, here portrayed as clowns. Their vocalisation was as impressive as their staged portrayal, indicating commendable attention to detail in depth as well as breadth of casting.
I do not think there was a weak link in the cast – which, in this of all operas, is a signal achievement. It was notable, moreover, that the improvement during the first act I mentioned in terms of the conducting was reflected, if perhaps less dramatically, in terms of the singing. For instance, Eva-Maria Westbroek’s pitching was initially somewhat approximate, but this problem seemed to disappear. Henceforth, she proved a ravishing Empress, thoughtful too in her transition from spirit to woman; her tone developed in tandem with her character. In the thankless role of the Emperor, Jon Villars was heroic if not exciting. I could have imagined a reading with greater variety of shading but, given the orchestral torrents raging against him, that is far easier said than done. Villars’s tone was strong and secure, and there was never any question of him failing to sustain his line. Franz Hawlata was a wonderful Barak. True, there were moments when his tone sounded just a little threadbare, but they were but moments and in a sense they enabled his humanity to shine through all the more. What a difference there is between such grateful writing for the baritone and that for the tenor! Christine Brewer was fully equal to the demands of Barak’s Wife. It was quite an achievement of the production, given her usual cheerful nature, to render her so severe of aspect earlier on; it was also quite an achievement on her part for her to portray this musically. Her tone blossomed like that of the Empress, for we should remember that Barak’s Wife gains immeasurably in humanity through her eventual appreciation of how close she comes to losing it through the near-sale of her shadow.
And then there was Jane Henschel, in the extraordinary role of the Nurse. After seeing her in Elektra at the Deutsche Oper in December, I wrote: ‘Jane Henschel is not the sort of artist to give so searingly nasty a reading of Klytämnestra as, say, Felicity Palmer.’ I confess that I misjudged her – or the production, which might have been urging her to accomplish something different; for here, as the Nurse, she positively oozed expressionistic, other-worldly malevolence. How clever Strauss’s writing is in this respect, since the part barely boasts a melody yet sears itself nevertheless into the memory as something quite different, allied to the darker, nocturnal realm otherwise only heard orchestrally. Henschel was every inch the vocal manifestation of this dangerous, perhaps evil presence, perfectly underlined by her menacing though never unduly exaggerated stage demeanour. The choral parts were all splendidly taken too, with a special mention due to the young singers, who sounded as children without ever tending towards the jejune or, as can often be the case, the verbally incomprehensible. Chorus-master Alessandro di Stefano had clearly done his preparatory work very well indeed.
For the orchestra, I have nothing but praise. The kaleidoscopic turns of Strauss’s extravagant orchestration held no fears whatsoever for the Parisian players. They sounded like a first-class international orchestra, which is of course what they are, although opera orchestras can often be underestimated in this respect. (Not for nothing is Pierre Boulez to conduct one of their symphonic concerts this season.) I should stress ‘international’, because, the concern for colour aside – and in any case this is probably more to be attributed to Kuhn – there was nothing especially ‘French’ about their sound. This may be regretted, but there is to be no going back to the days of those old Désormière and Ingelbrecht recordings; to attempt to do so would indeed represent an especially perverse form of historicism (which probably means that someone will soon inflict it upon us). If the orchestra lacked the quintessentially old German sound of the most natural of Straussian orchestras, such as, in their different ways, the Staatskapelle Dresden or the Vienna Philharmonic, it boasted far more than its undeniable and at times staggering virtuosity. The strings glowed yet were duly incisive. The production nicely highlighted the second – after Don Quixote – of Strauss’s almost-cello-concerti by having the soloist quite mesmerisingly hold our visual as well as aural attention on stage. Woodwind colour both complemented and sang out solistically in a variety of combinations. The brass and percussion did everything that could have been asked of them. However extreme the orchestral demands, the ensemble never lost a cultured sound, never sounded brash, which is as it should be. If Kuhn’s concern for colour was sometimes at the expense of a stronger feeling of line, this should not be exaggerated, at least not from the second half of the first act onwards. Die Frau was better conducted as a whole by Christoph von Dohnányi the last time it appeared at Covent Garden (in David Hockney’s wonderful production), but Kuhn certainly did not deserve the scattered booing he received at his curtain call.
One thing that is unusual, though not unique, about Die Frau in terms of the Strauss canon is that, in Wagnerian and often Mozartian style, it does appear to have a ‘message’ to impart. It would, I think, be ludicrous to claim this of Elektra or Salome – moral homilies concerning familial breakdown?! – but equally to do so of Rosenkavalier, Arabella, or Daphne. This is where the work could easily fall down, for on the face of it, the imperative to procreate is not the most promising of dramatic territory and could start to sound more than a little ridiculous; it might even end up enlisting Strauss and Hofmannsthal in the service of the more reactionary elements of the Roman Catholic Church. This is not the whole story, of course, for, especially earlier on, much attention is granted to the more promising subject matter of a woman’s longing for progeny. Yet what the production managed as a whole to accomplish was to give due attention to both, by imparting a sense of wonder at the mystery of life, rather than by dwelling unduly on the detail. In this, we could all share – and did.
The Emperor – Jon Villars
The Empress – Eva-Maria Westbroek
The Nurse – Jane Henschel
Barak – Franz Hawlata
Barak’s Wife – Christine Brewer
The Spirit-Messenger – Ralf Lukas
Voice of the Apparition of Youth – Ryan MacPherson
Voice of the Falcon, Guardian of the Threshold of the Temple – Elena Tsallagova
Voice from Above – Jane Henschel
The One-Eyed – Yuri Kissin
The One-Armed – Gregory Reinhart
The Hunchback – John Easterlin
Orchestra and Chorus of the Opéra National de Paris
Maîtrise des Hauts-de-Seine
Children’s Choir of the Opéra National de Paris
Alessandro di Stefano (chorus master)
Gustav Kuhn (conductor)
Robert Wilson (producer and designer)
Giuseppe Fregeni (co-producer)
Christope Martin (co-designer)
Moidele Bickel (costumes)
Andreas Fuchs (lighting)
Strauss’s operas broadly tend to be either Wagnerian or Mozartian. One of the many extraordinary things about Die Frau ohne Schatten – or La femme sans ombre, as it was generally called at the Paris Opéra – is that it manages to be both. It certainly qualifies as post-Wagnerian music drama in terms of the leitmotivic writing that both spans and in large part constitutes the work’s structure. The descent of the Empress and Nurse from the spirit world to that of humanity is surely a conscious homage to Das Rheingold’s descent to Nibelheim and the night-watchmen (choral rather than solo) at the end of Act I cannot but recall Die Meistersinger, whilst the trials of the opera’s two couples are a clear and acknowledge reference to The Magic Flute. Wagner and Mozart combine in the musico-dramatic opposition between spirit and human world and in the clear progression from the former to the latter: a homage to and development of the stories both of Brünnhilde and of Tamino and Pamina. The epic Wagnerian element is most to the fore during the first two acts, with the Mozartian trials reserved for the third. However, this in no sense prevents Strauss from continuing that quasi-expressionistic writing which may surprise the listener aware that Der Rosenkavalier and Ariadne auf Naxos (in part) precede Die Frau. The polytonalism on offer here, although more sparing than that of Elektra, is every bit as ‘advanced’. This may seem less odd when we also consider the almost contemporary, all-too-readily underestimated Nietzschean (Anti-Christian) tone-poem, An Alpine Symphony¸ which ought already to have brought into question Strauss’s alleged ‘reversion’ in and after Rosenkavalier. In any case, Strauss – and to some extent, Hofmannsthal – is so often found to be playing with the history of music and of musical drama, ever more explicitly until its ultimate treatment in Capriccio.
The musical forces required in Strauss’s opera are huge too: the various choirs, the violas and ‘cellos split as well as the violins, the wind- and thunder-machines, quadruple winds and so forth. Like the Schoenberg of the Gurrelieder or the Op.8 Orchestral Songs, however, Strauss draws from a vast orchestral palette with chamber-music restraint as well as overpowering near-bombast. The colouristic variegation of the score remind us that he is a contemporary of Debussy and Bartók. Then, of course, there are the heavy demands placed upon the solo voices, not least the typically merciless writing for the tenor Emperor. Moreover, the manifold ambiguities in Hofmannsthal’s libretto – how should one weight the post-Wagner and Magic Flute elements respectively? – provide all sorts of pitfalls for directors. This, then, is not an easy work to perform, and resounding successes have not been so many.
During the first half of the first act, I had my doubts, and feared that we might be in for a prolonged evening. Gustav Kuhn revealed a myriad of colours from the orchestra, but his conducting otherwise came across as rather stiff. This seemed to match all too well the predictably static nature of Robert Wilson’s Japanese-influenced production, although already this exerted an undeniable theatrical fascination. Not long after reaching Barak’s hut, however, Kuhn appeared better able to think in long phrases and periods, and this transmitted itself to the orchestra and thence to the audience (or at least to this member thereof). Wilson’s production truly came into its own from this point onwards, both doing something quite different from the music and yet in tune with its demands. Indeed, one of the most impressive aspects of the production – and so lamentably rare in opera – was the attention Wilson and his team paid to the score. Movement, colour, and transformation were clearly, if sometimes surprisingly, connected to the orchestra in particular. If the production was not merely the obedient servant of the music – and why should it be? – nor did it ever jar. The designs were generally simple but powerful, not least in the striking use of different colours and their interactions both within and between scenes. There was much that I could not claim to ‘understand’, but to attempt this rather seemed to be missing the point, for I could tell that there was something purposeful, intelligent, and often quite magical going on: something which need not necessarily be translated into words. (After all, the same is often said, and not without reason, of music.) The choreographic direction of the falcon in particular impressed: here was beguiling and perhaps threatening mystery. Humour was present too, in the guise of Barak’s ghastly ne’er-do-well brothers, here portrayed as clowns. Their vocalisation was as impressive as their staged portrayal, indicating commendable attention to detail in depth as well as breadth of casting.
I do not think there was a weak link in the cast – which, in this of all operas, is a signal achievement. It was notable, moreover, that the improvement during the first act I mentioned in terms of the conducting was reflected, if perhaps less dramatically, in terms of the singing. For instance, Eva-Maria Westbroek’s pitching was initially somewhat approximate, but this problem seemed to disappear. Henceforth, she proved a ravishing Empress, thoughtful too in her transition from spirit to woman; her tone developed in tandem with her character. In the thankless role of the Emperor, Jon Villars was heroic if not exciting. I could have imagined a reading with greater variety of shading but, given the orchestral torrents raging against him, that is far easier said than done. Villars’s tone was strong and secure, and there was never any question of him failing to sustain his line. Franz Hawlata was a wonderful Barak. True, there were moments when his tone sounded just a little threadbare, but they were but moments and in a sense they enabled his humanity to shine through all the more. What a difference there is between such grateful writing for the baritone and that for the tenor! Christine Brewer was fully equal to the demands of Barak’s Wife. It was quite an achievement of the production, given her usual cheerful nature, to render her so severe of aspect earlier on; it was also quite an achievement on her part for her to portray this musically. Her tone blossomed like that of the Empress, for we should remember that Barak’s Wife gains immeasurably in humanity through her eventual appreciation of how close she comes to losing it through the near-sale of her shadow.
And then there was Jane Henschel, in the extraordinary role of the Nurse. After seeing her in Elektra at the Deutsche Oper in December, I wrote: ‘Jane Henschel is not the sort of artist to give so searingly nasty a reading of Klytämnestra as, say, Felicity Palmer.’ I confess that I misjudged her – or the production, which might have been urging her to accomplish something different; for here, as the Nurse, she positively oozed expressionistic, other-worldly malevolence. How clever Strauss’s writing is in this respect, since the part barely boasts a melody yet sears itself nevertheless into the memory as something quite different, allied to the darker, nocturnal realm otherwise only heard orchestrally. Henschel was every inch the vocal manifestation of this dangerous, perhaps evil presence, perfectly underlined by her menacing though never unduly exaggerated stage demeanour. The choral parts were all splendidly taken too, with a special mention due to the young singers, who sounded as children without ever tending towards the jejune or, as can often be the case, the verbally incomprehensible. Chorus-master Alessandro di Stefano had clearly done his preparatory work very well indeed.
For the orchestra, I have nothing but praise. The kaleidoscopic turns of Strauss’s extravagant orchestration held no fears whatsoever for the Parisian players. They sounded like a first-class international orchestra, which is of course what they are, although opera orchestras can often be underestimated in this respect. (Not for nothing is Pierre Boulez to conduct one of their symphonic concerts this season.) I should stress ‘international’, because, the concern for colour aside – and in any case this is probably more to be attributed to Kuhn – there was nothing especially ‘French’ about their sound. This may be regretted, but there is to be no going back to the days of those old Désormière and Ingelbrecht recordings; to attempt to do so would indeed represent an especially perverse form of historicism (which probably means that someone will soon inflict it upon us). If the orchestra lacked the quintessentially old German sound of the most natural of Straussian orchestras, such as, in their different ways, the Staatskapelle Dresden or the Vienna Philharmonic, it boasted far more than its undeniable and at times staggering virtuosity. The strings glowed yet were duly incisive. The production nicely highlighted the second – after Don Quixote – of Strauss’s almost-cello-concerti by having the soloist quite mesmerisingly hold our visual as well as aural attention on stage. Woodwind colour both complemented and sang out solistically in a variety of combinations. The brass and percussion did everything that could have been asked of them. However extreme the orchestral demands, the ensemble never lost a cultured sound, never sounded brash, which is as it should be. If Kuhn’s concern for colour was sometimes at the expense of a stronger feeling of line, this should not be exaggerated, at least not from the second half of the first act onwards. Die Frau was better conducted as a whole by Christoph von Dohnányi the last time it appeared at Covent Garden (in David Hockney’s wonderful production), but Kuhn certainly did not deserve the scattered booing he received at his curtain call.
One thing that is unusual, though not unique, about Die Frau in terms of the Strauss canon is that, in Wagnerian and often Mozartian style, it does appear to have a ‘message’ to impart. It would, I think, be ludicrous to claim this of Elektra or Salome – moral homilies concerning familial breakdown?! – but equally to do so of Rosenkavalier, Arabella, or Daphne. This is where the work could easily fall down, for on the face of it, the imperative to procreate is not the most promising of dramatic territory and could start to sound more than a little ridiculous; it might even end up enlisting Strauss and Hofmannsthal in the service of the more reactionary elements of the Roman Catholic Church. This is not the whole story, of course, for, especially earlier on, much attention is granted to the more promising subject matter of a woman’s longing for progeny. Yet what the production managed as a whole to accomplish was to give due attention to both, by imparting a sense of wonder at the mystery of life, rather than by dwelling unduly on the detail. In this, we could all share – and did.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Prokofiev and Roussel, Kissin/Philharmonia/Ashkenazy, 24 January 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Roussel – Bacchus et Ariane: Suite no.1
Prokofiev – Piano Concerto no.3 in C major, Op.26
Prokofiev – Symphony no.6 in E flat minor, Op.111
Evgeny Kissin (piano)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Vladimir Ashkenazy (conductor)
Prokofiev greatly admired the music of Albert Roussel, and one could hear why in this first suite from the ballet Bacchus et Ariane. Roussel exhibits a splendid command of the orchestra, a sharp ear for rhythm, and a typically Gallic lack of sentimentality. Indeed, there were passages one might have been forgiven for attributing to the Parisian Prokofiev of the 1920s. The Fiery Angel and Le pas d’acier sprang to mind. Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia gave a good account of this suite. There was always a clear sense of the music’s direction and the dances were well characterised. The Stravinskian influence from The Rite of Spring was apparent at the moment when Theseus’s men rush at Bacchus, although Roussel never sounds quite so primitivist. A greater variety of orchestral colour would have benefited the performance; this is not Ravel, but there is some gorgeous orchestration nevertheless. However, the audience would still have had a good sense of the music and its character.
Evgeny Kissin joined the orchestra for Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto. His was a towering reading of what is probably the most popular of Prokofiev’s five piano concertos. The music suits Kissin perfectly, providing a great opportunity not only to showcase his phenomenal technique, but also for the various aspects of his individual sonority to shine through. His tone can melt as well as stab, and never loses its strikingly mature roundedness. Especially noteworthy was the careful weighting of each chord, however frenetic the context, so that even when Prokofiev is at his most percussive, every note is still made to tell. This is a far rarer gift than one might imagine. It clearly helped to have a conductor with intimate knowledge of the score under his fingers. Ashkenazy’s direction was always sure and was estimably synchronised with the soloist. An especially noteworthy instance was the third movement’s perfect alignment between the piano, percussion, and con legno strings. Elsewhere, the strings sometimes sounded a little thin, overshadowed by the fine contributions of the duly grotesque – where necessary – woodwind and the powerful brass.
Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony is a more sombre work than its immediate predecessor, the Fifth, and arguably the greater of these two great ‘war symphonies’. Ashkenazy, however, made it sound closer to the more triumphal Fifth than I can previously recall. The strange combination of darkness and other-worldliness that characterises the first movement was never made quite to tell as it should, nor was the driving sense of purpose that should once and for all give the lie to claims that Prokofiev was not a true symphonist. Songfulness replaced threnody in the second movement Largo: not unattractive in itself, but by the same token mistaking what seems to me to be the predominant quality of the movement. Ashkenazy’s direction here sometimes had a tendency to meander, where clarity and implacability of purpose should be all. Indeed, the brooding quality of dark tragedy was short-changed throughout, with the consequence that the masterly handled – at least in isolation – final explosion at the end of the otherwise almost carefree third movement seemed to come almost from nowhere, and lost its cyclical sense.
Ashkenazy’s reading sounded oddly like a work very much in progress, as if the symphony were new to him, which of course it is not. Once again, the woodwind and brass – trumpets and horns with wonderfully ‘Russian’ vibrato on occasion – outshone the strings. The 'cellos in particular sounded surprisingly thin, worlds apart from Mravinsky’s Leningrad Philharmonic, who premiered the work in 1947. Such weakness was not evenly spread throughout the section, for the violins on occasion at least captured an authentic Prokofiev bitter-sweetness, and the double basses impressed throughout. The latter, however, only served to highlight what was lacking above.
Roussel – Bacchus et Ariane: Suite no.1
Prokofiev – Piano Concerto no.3 in C major, Op.26
Prokofiev – Symphony no.6 in E flat minor, Op.111
Evgeny Kissin (piano)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Vladimir Ashkenazy (conductor)
Prokofiev greatly admired the music of Albert Roussel, and one could hear why in this first suite from the ballet Bacchus et Ariane. Roussel exhibits a splendid command of the orchestra, a sharp ear for rhythm, and a typically Gallic lack of sentimentality. Indeed, there were passages one might have been forgiven for attributing to the Parisian Prokofiev of the 1920s. The Fiery Angel and Le pas d’acier sprang to mind. Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia gave a good account of this suite. There was always a clear sense of the music’s direction and the dances were well characterised. The Stravinskian influence from The Rite of Spring was apparent at the moment when Theseus’s men rush at Bacchus, although Roussel never sounds quite so primitivist. A greater variety of orchestral colour would have benefited the performance; this is not Ravel, but there is some gorgeous orchestration nevertheless. However, the audience would still have had a good sense of the music and its character.
Evgeny Kissin joined the orchestra for Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto. His was a towering reading of what is probably the most popular of Prokofiev’s five piano concertos. The music suits Kissin perfectly, providing a great opportunity not only to showcase his phenomenal technique, but also for the various aspects of his individual sonority to shine through. His tone can melt as well as stab, and never loses its strikingly mature roundedness. Especially noteworthy was the careful weighting of each chord, however frenetic the context, so that even when Prokofiev is at his most percussive, every note is still made to tell. This is a far rarer gift than one might imagine. It clearly helped to have a conductor with intimate knowledge of the score under his fingers. Ashkenazy’s direction was always sure and was estimably synchronised with the soloist. An especially noteworthy instance was the third movement’s perfect alignment between the piano, percussion, and con legno strings. Elsewhere, the strings sometimes sounded a little thin, overshadowed by the fine contributions of the duly grotesque – where necessary – woodwind and the powerful brass.
Prokofiev’s Sixth Symphony is a more sombre work than its immediate predecessor, the Fifth, and arguably the greater of these two great ‘war symphonies’. Ashkenazy, however, made it sound closer to the more triumphal Fifth than I can previously recall. The strange combination of darkness and other-worldliness that characterises the first movement was never made quite to tell as it should, nor was the driving sense of purpose that should once and for all give the lie to claims that Prokofiev was not a true symphonist. Songfulness replaced threnody in the second movement Largo: not unattractive in itself, but by the same token mistaking what seems to me to be the predominant quality of the movement. Ashkenazy’s direction here sometimes had a tendency to meander, where clarity and implacability of purpose should be all. Indeed, the brooding quality of dark tragedy was short-changed throughout, with the consequence that the masterly handled – at least in isolation – final explosion at the end of the otherwise almost carefree third movement seemed to come almost from nowhere, and lost its cyclical sense.
Ashkenazy’s reading sounded oddly like a work very much in progress, as if the symphony were new to him, which of course it is not. Once again, the woodwind and brass – trumpets and horns with wonderfully ‘Russian’ vibrato on occasion – outshone the strings. The 'cellos in particular sounded surprisingly thin, worlds apart from Mravinsky’s Leningrad Philharmonic, who premiered the work in 1947. Such weakness was not evenly spread throughout the section, for the violins on occasion at least captured an authentic Prokofiev bitter-sweetness, and the double basses impressed throughout. The latter, however, only served to highlight what was lacking above.
Sunday, 20 January 2008
Angela Hewitt, The Well-tempered Clavier, Book I, 20 January 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Angela Hewitt (piano)
All the clichés concerning the ‘48’ are true: the Old Testament of the piano repertoire (Hans von Bülow, though I have also seen the quotation attributed to Liszt), and so forth. Speaking as a pianist, there is a great deal of music without which I should feel bereft but, were everything else somehow to be lost, I think I could just about cope so long as I were able to play the Well-tempered Clavier. One would be hard put, to put it mildly, to perform both books in a single sitting, although I can imagine Daniel Barenboim pulling it off one of these days, perhaps to preface a St Matthew Passion. Even performances of a whole book at a time are not all that common, which, given the challenges involved, is just as well; indeed, it is a good thing that such a performance should be a special occasion. And a special occasion this was. I was enormously moved by how visibly moved Angela Hewitt was at the end of the recital. It would be a scandal if to perform this music meant little to a performer, but one could see that Bach meant almost everything to her. Whatever qualifications I may voice below – and they generally relate to matters of taste rather than of judgement – this was a tremendous achievement from a fine pianist, a fine musician, and a fine Bachian.
Perhaps through nerves, the first Prelude and Fugue, in C major, was a little below par. Pianists are understandably eager to avoid sentimentalising the Prelude, given Gounod’s dreadful bowdlerisation, but I found Hewitt’s reading disappointingly plain, over-restricted in dynamic contrasts and crying out for a touch of pedal. Bach’s homage to the style brisé of the clavecinistes can bear a little romanticism at least. (Hewitt has shown herself unafraid to draw from a wider palette in Couperin.) The fugue had a couple of stumbles, though nothing about which to worry unduly. Thereafter, however, there was barely a weak link in the progression.
To begin with, I worried that Hewitt might be treating the music with kid-gloves. The C minor and D major Prelude and Fugues, for example, were beautifully performed, but might have been considered a little precious. The brightness of Hewitt’s Fazioli piano did not help, I thought, but she doubtless has her reasons for preferring this instrument. However, there were already exceptions: the stile antico C sharp minor Fugue evinced real gravity without ever becoming ponderous. And the sarabande E flat minor Prelude was gravely beautiful, the weighting of the second beat perfectly judged and varied so as to lilt without the slightest hint of period pedantry. I was put in mind of Busoni’s masterful Sarabande und Cortège.
Hewitt certainly had the measure of the E flat major Prelude and Fugue. Its tremendous Prelude – a toccata and double fugue in itself – was very well-judged, the toccata possessing enough of a sense of quasi-improvisatory freedom to contrast with the strictness of the fugue. Her voicing of its double counterpoint was a splendid example of variation in light and shade, of shifting perspectives, whilst remaining relatively ‘Classical’ in outlook. There are other, more ‘Romantic’ ways of accomplishing this, but Hewitt’s worked just as well. After the Prelude, the relative lightness of the Fugue proper came as a refreshing though far from insubstantial sorbet: Hewitt’s touch aptly had something of the Mendelssohn scherzo about it. The extraordinary variety of Bach’s imagination was well served by this inversion of what would usually be considered ‘typical’, namely a Prelude leading onto a more searching, ‘substantial’ Fugue. In fact, as Hewitt showed, there is nothing ‘typical’ in Bach’s wisdom: systematic in a positive rather than bureaucratic fashion. Classification in the sense of nineteenth-century theorisers such as Cherubini (Tovey’s bête noire) has no place here.
The F major Fugue flowed beautifully, thanks to Hewitt’s exquisite voicing (the and her finely judged sense of rhythmic momentum – which only seemed to desert her in the somewhat awkward-sounding G minor Fugue. (Nobody, bar perhaps Edwin Fischer, is perfect!) From the F minor Prelude and Fugue onwards, a new gravity was apparent. Initially, I put this down to the involved chromaticism of the fugue, but there was a sense thereafter of new metaphysical horizons. This is speculation, but I wondered whether Hewitt was attempting to impart more of a sense of progression within the ‘work’ as a whole, intending to climax in the extraordinary B minor Fugue (of which more below). There are many things one could say about this, both pro and contra, but I do not think we need bother ourselves here with the composer’s spurious intention, since the ‘work’, such as it is, was never ‘intended’ to be performed whole in any case. I think Hewitt’s approach, if I am correct in divining it, is a perfectly reasonably one, although it might slightly have undersold the earlier Preludes and Fugues.
I do not wish to imply that this necessarily involved romanticisation – or even Romanticisation – of the second half of the book, although there was more of a sense of the Gothic to the fugues, especially those in minor keys. However, it revealed Hewitt as a more Romantically-inclined Bach pianist than I had previously considered to be the case. There was still a great difference between her and, say, Fischer, let alone Barenboim or Richter (Sviatoslav, not Karl), but I was pleased to have my misconception corrected. Nor did this development preclude a declamatory, more ‘Baroque’ style where appropriate, as for instance at the opening of the A flat major Prelude. However, I was a little surprised – and not at all unpleasantly – to hear the B flat minor Prelude taken quite so slowly and its accompanying fugue achieving quite so pianist a climax. The bass of the B minor Prelude was taken non legato, as often seems to be the case. (Even Barenboim does this.) I tend to prefer it otherwise, but have to admit that I was convinced by the contrast between right hand and left hand, which somehow – I am not quite sure why – put me in mind of the texture of Mozart’s Bach homage in the Magic Flute’s choral prelude for the Two Armoured Men. The B minor Fugue was given quite a Romantic reading, not afraid to use the full resources of the modern instrument. Here, I prefer a more extreme, labyrinthine, almost Bergian approach to this extraordinary harmonic counterpoint, which is really not so far from the Second Viennese School; not for nothing did Schoenberg, pointing to this very fugue, call Bach ‘the first composer with twelve tones’. However, on its own terms, Hewitt’s account worked very well and brought the recital to an exciting climax. She thoroughly deserved her extended ovation.
Angela Hewitt (piano)
All the clichés concerning the ‘48’ are true: the Old Testament of the piano repertoire (Hans von Bülow, though I have also seen the quotation attributed to Liszt), and so forth. Speaking as a pianist, there is a great deal of music without which I should feel bereft but, were everything else somehow to be lost, I think I could just about cope so long as I were able to play the Well-tempered Clavier. One would be hard put, to put it mildly, to perform both books in a single sitting, although I can imagine Daniel Barenboim pulling it off one of these days, perhaps to preface a St Matthew Passion. Even performances of a whole book at a time are not all that common, which, given the challenges involved, is just as well; indeed, it is a good thing that such a performance should be a special occasion. And a special occasion this was. I was enormously moved by how visibly moved Angela Hewitt was at the end of the recital. It would be a scandal if to perform this music meant little to a performer, but one could see that Bach meant almost everything to her. Whatever qualifications I may voice below – and they generally relate to matters of taste rather than of judgement – this was a tremendous achievement from a fine pianist, a fine musician, and a fine Bachian.
Perhaps through nerves, the first Prelude and Fugue, in C major, was a little below par. Pianists are understandably eager to avoid sentimentalising the Prelude, given Gounod’s dreadful bowdlerisation, but I found Hewitt’s reading disappointingly plain, over-restricted in dynamic contrasts and crying out for a touch of pedal. Bach’s homage to the style brisé of the clavecinistes can bear a little romanticism at least. (Hewitt has shown herself unafraid to draw from a wider palette in Couperin.) The fugue had a couple of stumbles, though nothing about which to worry unduly. Thereafter, however, there was barely a weak link in the progression.
To begin with, I worried that Hewitt might be treating the music with kid-gloves. The C minor and D major Prelude and Fugues, for example, were beautifully performed, but might have been considered a little precious. The brightness of Hewitt’s Fazioli piano did not help, I thought, but she doubtless has her reasons for preferring this instrument. However, there were already exceptions: the stile antico C sharp minor Fugue evinced real gravity without ever becoming ponderous. And the sarabande E flat minor Prelude was gravely beautiful, the weighting of the second beat perfectly judged and varied so as to lilt without the slightest hint of period pedantry. I was put in mind of Busoni’s masterful Sarabande und Cortège.
Hewitt certainly had the measure of the E flat major Prelude and Fugue. Its tremendous Prelude – a toccata and double fugue in itself – was very well-judged, the toccata possessing enough of a sense of quasi-improvisatory freedom to contrast with the strictness of the fugue. Her voicing of its double counterpoint was a splendid example of variation in light and shade, of shifting perspectives, whilst remaining relatively ‘Classical’ in outlook. There are other, more ‘Romantic’ ways of accomplishing this, but Hewitt’s worked just as well. After the Prelude, the relative lightness of the Fugue proper came as a refreshing though far from insubstantial sorbet: Hewitt’s touch aptly had something of the Mendelssohn scherzo about it. The extraordinary variety of Bach’s imagination was well served by this inversion of what would usually be considered ‘typical’, namely a Prelude leading onto a more searching, ‘substantial’ Fugue. In fact, as Hewitt showed, there is nothing ‘typical’ in Bach’s wisdom: systematic in a positive rather than bureaucratic fashion. Classification in the sense of nineteenth-century theorisers such as Cherubini (Tovey’s bête noire) has no place here.
The F major Fugue flowed beautifully, thanks to Hewitt’s exquisite voicing (the and her finely judged sense of rhythmic momentum – which only seemed to desert her in the somewhat awkward-sounding G minor Fugue. (Nobody, bar perhaps Edwin Fischer, is perfect!) From the F minor Prelude and Fugue onwards, a new gravity was apparent. Initially, I put this down to the involved chromaticism of the fugue, but there was a sense thereafter of new metaphysical horizons. This is speculation, but I wondered whether Hewitt was attempting to impart more of a sense of progression within the ‘work’ as a whole, intending to climax in the extraordinary B minor Fugue (of which more below). There are many things one could say about this, both pro and contra, but I do not think we need bother ourselves here with the composer’s spurious intention, since the ‘work’, such as it is, was never ‘intended’ to be performed whole in any case. I think Hewitt’s approach, if I am correct in divining it, is a perfectly reasonably one, although it might slightly have undersold the earlier Preludes and Fugues.
I do not wish to imply that this necessarily involved romanticisation – or even Romanticisation – of the second half of the book, although there was more of a sense of the Gothic to the fugues, especially those in minor keys. However, it revealed Hewitt as a more Romantically-inclined Bach pianist than I had previously considered to be the case. There was still a great difference between her and, say, Fischer, let alone Barenboim or Richter (Sviatoslav, not Karl), but I was pleased to have my misconception corrected. Nor did this development preclude a declamatory, more ‘Baroque’ style where appropriate, as for instance at the opening of the A flat major Prelude. However, I was a little surprised – and not at all unpleasantly – to hear the B flat minor Prelude taken quite so slowly and its accompanying fugue achieving quite so pianist a climax. The bass of the B minor Prelude was taken non legato, as often seems to be the case. (Even Barenboim does this.) I tend to prefer it otherwise, but have to admit that I was convinced by the contrast between right hand and left hand, which somehow – I am not quite sure why – put me in mind of the texture of Mozart’s Bach homage in the Magic Flute’s choral prelude for the Two Armoured Men. The B minor Fugue was given quite a Romantic reading, not afraid to use the full resources of the modern instrument. Here, I prefer a more extreme, labyrinthine, almost Bergian approach to this extraordinary harmonic counterpoint, which is really not so far from the Second Viennese School; not for nothing did Schoenberg, pointing to this very fugue, call Bach ‘the first composer with twelve tones’. However, on its own terms, Hewitt’s account worked very well and brought the recital to an exciting climax. She thoroughly deserved her extended ovation.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Stephen Hough, Wigmore Hall, 17 January 2008
Wigmore Hall
Mendelssohn – Variations sérieuses in D minor, Op.54
Webern – Variations, Op.27
Beethoven – Piano Sonata in C minor, Op.111
Weber – Invitation to the Dance, Op.65
Chopin – Waltz in C sharp minor, Op.64 no.2
Chopin – Waltz in A flat major, Op.34 no.1
Saint-Saëns – Valse nonchalante, Op.110
Chabrier – Feuillet d’album
Debussy – La plus que lente
Liszt – Valse oubliée no.1
Liszt – Mephisto Waltz no.1
Stephen Hough (piano)
This recital fell clearly into two halves. The first focused upon variation form, the second upon the waltz. A packed Wigmore Hall was understandably eager to hear Stephen Hough, as was I. However, I came away feeling a little disappointed. Flashes of brilliance – sometimes, especially in the second half, rather more than that – were accompanied by some perfectly respectable yet surprisingly workmanlike pianism.
The Mendelssohn Variations sérieuses have had a number of advocates over the years, but I do not find an especially strong work here. The theme is a little dull, which need not betoken dull development; yet, despite some interesting moments, Mendelssohn does not seem particularly inspired for many of the variations. That said, the Variations found an able advocate in Hough. His touch was beautiful and there was a real sense of cumulative development as the variations gathered pace. The syncopations of the fifth variation were tellingly presented and the part-writing of the tenth variation’s fugato was projected with an admirable balance between contrapuntal clarity and harmonic progression. Hough hastened towards a dazzling peroration in the coda.
Webern fared less well. Hough’s was very much a horizontal rather than vertical reading, whereas the music requires an equilibrium and a dialectic between the two. The notes were very clear, crystal-clear even, but without the crystalline perfection – let alone the meaning – that, for example, Maurizio Pollini brings to this miraculous score. The second movement, marked Sehr schnell, sounded relentlessly loud, despite the acknowledged dynamic contrasts. Its notes sounded stabbed at, rather than sculpted. Usually this work is over in the twinkling of an eye; here, it threatened to overstay its welcome.
Beethoven’s final piano sonata received a reading somewhere in between. There was little about which one could justifiably complain, although, on the other hand, this was not a performance one will be likely to recall several years hence. An unusual aspect was the forthrightness of the opening Maestoso. One lost something in terms of harmonic ambiguity, but one sensed a kinship with Beethoven’s earlier masterpieces in C minor. Indeed, much of the first movement sounded closer to ‘middle-period’ Beethoven than to the more typically rarefied sublimity of ‘late’ Beethoven. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with that: holy ground does not always necessitate removal of one’s shoes. Yet something of this noble work’s secondary simplicity was lacking. Initial presentations of the first subject, in both the development and the recapitulation, sounded a little matter of fact and hard-driven, but there were also passages of considerable beauty, more in tune with the extraordinary metaphysical vistas Beethoven reveals. With the second-movement Arietta, we returned, of course, to variation form. There were once again some beautiful things here, not least those all-important trills, preparing their breathtaking modulatory way (all the more breathtaking for the movement’s general lack of modulation). Hough remained utterly secure in his technical command. He exhibited a clear understanding of the music’s structure, without ever quite appearing to be breathing its air of another planet.
It seemed a little cruel to position Weber’s rather trivial Invitation to the Dance – which sounds better in Berlioz’s orchestration – next to two of Chopin’s Waltzes. Despite a little haziness at one point in the passagework, Hough proved an able advocate for the Weber, but he could not entirely obscure its sectional writing and sometimes rather threadbare invention. To think that this was the work of the composer of Der Freischütz! The Chopin waltzes received generally fine readings, especially the C sharp minor work. Hough exhibited a sound command of idiom and style: not the most overtly ‘Polish’ of readings, but there are many ways to perform Chopin. Inner voices, of which there are fewer in the waltzes than in many other Chopin works, were made to tell where they did appear, but never at the expense of the longer line, nor indeed of a dancing grace. I retained a nagging doubt, however, that there remained unplumbed emotional depths.
Saint-Saëns’s Valse nonchalante did what it said on the tin. It was mildly interesting to make its acquaintance, but I doubt I should rush to hear it again. Chabrier’s Feuillet d’album, whilst hardly a profound work, exhibited more charm, both in itself and in Hough’s account. The pianist also had the measure of Debussy’s slyly ironic, yet far from un-affectionate La plus que lente. Debussy’s accomplishment, however, rather forcefully consigned his compatriots into the shade.
The one serious disappointment in terms of performance from the second half was the first Liszt Valse oubliée. Its technical challenges posed no problem to Hough, but he rather glided over the musical content. Liszt of all composers needs to be treated as more than an opportunity for pianistic display. Perhaps Hough was holding something in reserve for the first Mephisto Waltz, for this received an outstanding performance. The astonishing opening accretions of fifths underlined that we are but a stone’s throw, if that, from Bartók. Mephistopheles’s music was dangerous and enticing, though never in a flashy sense. Faust was dangerous, exciting – and beguiling. Hough played like a man – indeed a Faustian figure – possessed, and received a deservedly rapturous innovation at the end. It was worth having attended the performance simply for this final piece. The recital was being recorded for release by Hyperion.
Mendelssohn – Variations sérieuses in D minor, Op.54
Webern – Variations, Op.27
Beethoven – Piano Sonata in C minor, Op.111
Weber – Invitation to the Dance, Op.65
Chopin – Waltz in C sharp minor, Op.64 no.2
Chopin – Waltz in A flat major, Op.34 no.1
Saint-Saëns – Valse nonchalante, Op.110
Chabrier – Feuillet d’album
Debussy – La plus que lente
Liszt – Valse oubliée no.1
Liszt – Mephisto Waltz no.1
Stephen Hough (piano)
This recital fell clearly into two halves. The first focused upon variation form, the second upon the waltz. A packed Wigmore Hall was understandably eager to hear Stephen Hough, as was I. However, I came away feeling a little disappointed. Flashes of brilliance – sometimes, especially in the second half, rather more than that – were accompanied by some perfectly respectable yet surprisingly workmanlike pianism.
The Mendelssohn Variations sérieuses have had a number of advocates over the years, but I do not find an especially strong work here. The theme is a little dull, which need not betoken dull development; yet, despite some interesting moments, Mendelssohn does not seem particularly inspired for many of the variations. That said, the Variations found an able advocate in Hough. His touch was beautiful and there was a real sense of cumulative development as the variations gathered pace. The syncopations of the fifth variation were tellingly presented and the part-writing of the tenth variation’s fugato was projected with an admirable balance between contrapuntal clarity and harmonic progression. Hough hastened towards a dazzling peroration in the coda.
Webern fared less well. Hough’s was very much a horizontal rather than vertical reading, whereas the music requires an equilibrium and a dialectic between the two. The notes were very clear, crystal-clear even, but without the crystalline perfection – let alone the meaning – that, for example, Maurizio Pollini brings to this miraculous score. The second movement, marked Sehr schnell, sounded relentlessly loud, despite the acknowledged dynamic contrasts. Its notes sounded stabbed at, rather than sculpted. Usually this work is over in the twinkling of an eye; here, it threatened to overstay its welcome.
Beethoven’s final piano sonata received a reading somewhere in between. There was little about which one could justifiably complain, although, on the other hand, this was not a performance one will be likely to recall several years hence. An unusual aspect was the forthrightness of the opening Maestoso. One lost something in terms of harmonic ambiguity, but one sensed a kinship with Beethoven’s earlier masterpieces in C minor. Indeed, much of the first movement sounded closer to ‘middle-period’ Beethoven than to the more typically rarefied sublimity of ‘late’ Beethoven. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with that: holy ground does not always necessitate removal of one’s shoes. Yet something of this noble work’s secondary simplicity was lacking. Initial presentations of the first subject, in both the development and the recapitulation, sounded a little matter of fact and hard-driven, but there were also passages of considerable beauty, more in tune with the extraordinary metaphysical vistas Beethoven reveals. With the second-movement Arietta, we returned, of course, to variation form. There were once again some beautiful things here, not least those all-important trills, preparing their breathtaking modulatory way (all the more breathtaking for the movement’s general lack of modulation). Hough remained utterly secure in his technical command. He exhibited a clear understanding of the music’s structure, without ever quite appearing to be breathing its air of another planet.
It seemed a little cruel to position Weber’s rather trivial Invitation to the Dance – which sounds better in Berlioz’s orchestration – next to two of Chopin’s Waltzes. Despite a little haziness at one point in the passagework, Hough proved an able advocate for the Weber, but he could not entirely obscure its sectional writing and sometimes rather threadbare invention. To think that this was the work of the composer of Der Freischütz! The Chopin waltzes received generally fine readings, especially the C sharp minor work. Hough exhibited a sound command of idiom and style: not the most overtly ‘Polish’ of readings, but there are many ways to perform Chopin. Inner voices, of which there are fewer in the waltzes than in many other Chopin works, were made to tell where they did appear, but never at the expense of the longer line, nor indeed of a dancing grace. I retained a nagging doubt, however, that there remained unplumbed emotional depths.
Saint-Saëns’s Valse nonchalante did what it said on the tin. It was mildly interesting to make its acquaintance, but I doubt I should rush to hear it again. Chabrier’s Feuillet d’album, whilst hardly a profound work, exhibited more charm, both in itself and in Hough’s account. The pianist also had the measure of Debussy’s slyly ironic, yet far from un-affectionate La plus que lente. Debussy’s accomplishment, however, rather forcefully consigned his compatriots into the shade.
The one serious disappointment in terms of performance from the second half was the first Liszt Valse oubliée. Its technical challenges posed no problem to Hough, but he rather glided over the musical content. Liszt of all composers needs to be treated as more than an opportunity for pianistic display. Perhaps Hough was holding something in reserve for the first Mephisto Waltz, for this received an outstanding performance. The astonishing opening accretions of fifths underlined that we are but a stone’s throw, if that, from Bartók. Mephistopheles’s music was dangerous and enticing, though never in a flashy sense. Faust was dangerous, exciting – and beguiling. Hough played like a man – indeed a Faustian figure – possessed, and received a deservedly rapturous innovation at the end. It was worth having attended the performance simply for this final piece. The recital was being recorded for release by Hyperion.
Monday, 7 January 2008
Strauss (and other) Lieder, Wigmore Hall, 6 January 2007
Wigmore Hall
Strauss: Ständchen; Seitdem dein Aug’; Nur mut!; Das Geheimnis; Sehnsucht; Liebeshymnus; O süsser Mai; Himmelsboten
Ivor Gurney: On Wenlock Edge; Ha’nacker Mill; The Salley Gardens; Snow; Hawk and Buckle
Strauss: Freundliche Vision; Ich schwebe; Kling!
Strauss: Amor; Einkehr; Mit deinen blauen Augen; Ein Obdach gegen Sturm; Rote Rosen; Die erwachter Rose; Die heiligen drei Könige
Frank Bridge: Adoration; Go not, happy day; Berceuse; Come to me in my dreams; O that it were so!
Strauss: Mein Herz ist stumm; Wozu noch, Mädchen; Wie sollten wir geheim sie halten
Rebecca Bottone (soprano)
Nathan Vale (tenor)
Paul Plummer (piano)
This was the last of three Wigmore Hall concerts devoted to the Lieder of Richard Strauss. Common to all was the pianist and deviser of the programmes, Paul Plummer. Each programme had included songs by other composers: from France in the first, Russia in the second, and England in the third. I assume that these works were chosen with the evening’s singers in mind, since there did not seem to be an obvious connection between Ivor Gurney and Frank Bridge on the one hand, and Strauss on the other. No matter: if there were no especial connection, nor did the combination jar unduly, and the English songs certainly showed off the vocal soloists to advantage.
Paul Plummer’s contribution as pianist merits enthusiastic praise. Strauss’s piano parts can be treacherous indeed, though one would hardly have known it, such was Plummer’s finely-judged virtuosity: never drawing attention to itself for attention’s sake, but never unduly reticent either. The young singers could hardly have wished for a better guide. The pearly tones required in the opening Ständchen set a standard which Plummer continued to meet. The piano bells in Liebeshymnus were set in beautiful counterpoint with the underlying chords; this is not at all easy to accomplish. Sehnsucht’s almost Lisztian interlude between the third and fourth stanza resolved perfectly into the Tristan-esque harmony that opens the fourth. Strauss’s musical antecedents were pointed up without scoring points; the composer was situated in a tradition that goes beyond what is conventionally considered to be at the heart of Lieder-writing. I greatly appreciated this, since there can occasionally be a tendency from Lieder enthusiasts to cordon off their province from other musical realms, not least from that of opera. Song and opera are different of course, rather as chamber and orchestral music are different, but there is a great deal of interplay, and a songwriter such as Strauss can have more in common with Wagner than might necessarily be the case with another songwriter. And Plummer passed an especially stern test when it came to that wonderful Heine setting, Die heiligen drei Könige. The piano part is actually a transcription, the orchestral song being the original. When I heard Roger Vignoles at Edinburgh in August, even he seemed unable to rid one of the impression of loss. With Plummer, the music was taken more soberly, less overtly pictorially: one would never have guessed its orchestral origin. The horns of Mein Herz ist stumm’s ‘Hörnerklang’ were beautifully characterised, again without being overdone and making one wish there were a real orchestra present.
Rebecca Bottone’s contribution was more problematical. One does not have to be Jessye Norman to sing Strauss – although it certainly helps. However, I am not at all convinced that Bottone’s voice was appropriate. It reminded me immediately of Reri Grist; my next thought was that this sounded very much the sort of chirpy, rather shrill voice conductors seem fond of allotting to roles such as Mozart’s Blonde. (I am not quite sure why, but that is a different matter.) When I consulted Bottone’s biography, sure and enough Blonde was given pride of place. The voice, in any case, lacked richness of tone and adequate differentiation of colours. Her bearing, visual as well as vocal, could be excessively winsome, especially in Amor, Strauss’s Cupid song. That said, she coped very well in that setting with Strauss’ cruel demands in terms of coloratura. There were some distinctly odd German vowel sounds, and she rarely sounded as if she were singing from ‘within’ the language. Tuning, moreover, was not always as precise as it might have been. On the other hand, Bottone sounded far more at home with the Bridge settings, both vocally and linguistically. Rather surprisingly, her voice appeared to acquire greater colour than it had in Strauss. There was a lovely ending to the Tennyson setting, Go not, happy day: spot on in intonation and with an apt smile in the voice to complement ‘Roses are her cheeks,/And a rose her mouth.’ If some of Bridge’s music, especially the piano part, reminded one a little too much of the salon, or the Palm Court, that is hardly the singer’s fault. Following the Bridge settings, her remaining Strauss song, Wie sollten wir geheim sie halten, appeared to benefit. There was more colour, although it still did not really seem her thing.
Nathan Vale was a considerable improvement. I am not entirely sure that his was the most suitable voice for Strauss either, but there was certainly less of a mismatch. His voice is rather an ‘English’ tenor, albeit without the mannerisms that so often infect that vocal type. There were times when Strauss’s writing appeared to sit uncomfortably high, but then Strauss’s tenor writing is notorious, and the odd faltering aside, Vale put up a good fight. He was good at posing questions, for instance ‘Du fragst mich, Mädchen, was flüsternd der West/Vertraue den Blütenglocken?’ (Das Geheimnis). He imparted an aptly Schubertian chill to the openings of Sehnsucht and Mein Herz ist stumm. When the opening line of the latter song return at the end, there was truly something of the sepulchre or Winterreise to the revisiting. Die erwachter Rose brought a real sense of erwachen (awakening) as Friedrich von Sallet’s verse told of the nightingale’s sweet song and the bud blossoming into a rose. At times, I thought Vale could have sung out more freely. When he did, as in Die heiligen drei Könige, the results impressed. However, if the disparity were less great, he too sounded more at home in the English settings, in his case those by Gurney. Indeed, here he sang as if to the manor born. (It transpires that he and Plummer have recently recorded a disc of English song.) The poignancy of fading away in Edward Thomas setting, Snow, was rather special. And there was plenty of vigour to Robert Graves’s Hawk and Buckle. Indeed, this combination of youthful vigour and imploring, though never mawkish vulnerability seemed just right for the music of one whose career was so cruelly cut short by the First World War.
So if not always an ideal appreciation of Strauss, there was much to enjoy here. Many of these songs are not often encountered, which gave the recital extra value. Vale’s voice is still very young, and will doubtless open out more, but he was far from unequal to many of Strauss’s demands. Plummer was excellent, though I am not convinced that his programming matches his pianism. The encores, a group of five ‘very small’ (mercifully) songs by Sterndale Bennett were ‘humorous’ though not – at least to this listener – amusing. They seemed an odd conclusion to this recital, but would surely have seemed odder still had one attended the series of three Strauss recitals.
Strauss: Ständchen; Seitdem dein Aug’; Nur mut!; Das Geheimnis; Sehnsucht; Liebeshymnus; O süsser Mai; Himmelsboten
Ivor Gurney: On Wenlock Edge; Ha’nacker Mill; The Salley Gardens; Snow; Hawk and Buckle
Strauss: Freundliche Vision; Ich schwebe; Kling!
Strauss: Amor; Einkehr; Mit deinen blauen Augen; Ein Obdach gegen Sturm; Rote Rosen; Die erwachter Rose; Die heiligen drei Könige
Frank Bridge: Adoration; Go not, happy day; Berceuse; Come to me in my dreams; O that it were so!
Strauss: Mein Herz ist stumm; Wozu noch, Mädchen; Wie sollten wir geheim sie halten
Rebecca Bottone (soprano)
Nathan Vale (tenor)
Paul Plummer (piano)
This was the last of three Wigmore Hall concerts devoted to the Lieder of Richard Strauss. Common to all was the pianist and deviser of the programmes, Paul Plummer. Each programme had included songs by other composers: from France in the first, Russia in the second, and England in the third. I assume that these works were chosen with the evening’s singers in mind, since there did not seem to be an obvious connection between Ivor Gurney and Frank Bridge on the one hand, and Strauss on the other. No matter: if there were no especial connection, nor did the combination jar unduly, and the English songs certainly showed off the vocal soloists to advantage.
Paul Plummer’s contribution as pianist merits enthusiastic praise. Strauss’s piano parts can be treacherous indeed, though one would hardly have known it, such was Plummer’s finely-judged virtuosity: never drawing attention to itself for attention’s sake, but never unduly reticent either. The young singers could hardly have wished for a better guide. The pearly tones required in the opening Ständchen set a standard which Plummer continued to meet. The piano bells in Liebeshymnus were set in beautiful counterpoint with the underlying chords; this is not at all easy to accomplish. Sehnsucht’s almost Lisztian interlude between the third and fourth stanza resolved perfectly into the Tristan-esque harmony that opens the fourth. Strauss’s musical antecedents were pointed up without scoring points; the composer was situated in a tradition that goes beyond what is conventionally considered to be at the heart of Lieder-writing. I greatly appreciated this, since there can occasionally be a tendency from Lieder enthusiasts to cordon off their province from other musical realms, not least from that of opera. Song and opera are different of course, rather as chamber and orchestral music are different, but there is a great deal of interplay, and a songwriter such as Strauss can have more in common with Wagner than might necessarily be the case with another songwriter. And Plummer passed an especially stern test when it came to that wonderful Heine setting, Die heiligen drei Könige. The piano part is actually a transcription, the orchestral song being the original. When I heard Roger Vignoles at Edinburgh in August, even he seemed unable to rid one of the impression of loss. With Plummer, the music was taken more soberly, less overtly pictorially: one would never have guessed its orchestral origin. The horns of Mein Herz ist stumm’s ‘Hörnerklang’ were beautifully characterised, again without being overdone and making one wish there were a real orchestra present.
Rebecca Bottone’s contribution was more problematical. One does not have to be Jessye Norman to sing Strauss – although it certainly helps. However, I am not at all convinced that Bottone’s voice was appropriate. It reminded me immediately of Reri Grist; my next thought was that this sounded very much the sort of chirpy, rather shrill voice conductors seem fond of allotting to roles such as Mozart’s Blonde. (I am not quite sure why, but that is a different matter.) When I consulted Bottone’s biography, sure and enough Blonde was given pride of place. The voice, in any case, lacked richness of tone and adequate differentiation of colours. Her bearing, visual as well as vocal, could be excessively winsome, especially in Amor, Strauss’s Cupid song. That said, she coped very well in that setting with Strauss’ cruel demands in terms of coloratura. There were some distinctly odd German vowel sounds, and she rarely sounded as if she were singing from ‘within’ the language. Tuning, moreover, was not always as precise as it might have been. On the other hand, Bottone sounded far more at home with the Bridge settings, both vocally and linguistically. Rather surprisingly, her voice appeared to acquire greater colour than it had in Strauss. There was a lovely ending to the Tennyson setting, Go not, happy day: spot on in intonation and with an apt smile in the voice to complement ‘Roses are her cheeks,/And a rose her mouth.’ If some of Bridge’s music, especially the piano part, reminded one a little too much of the salon, or the Palm Court, that is hardly the singer’s fault. Following the Bridge settings, her remaining Strauss song, Wie sollten wir geheim sie halten, appeared to benefit. There was more colour, although it still did not really seem her thing.
Nathan Vale was a considerable improvement. I am not entirely sure that his was the most suitable voice for Strauss either, but there was certainly less of a mismatch. His voice is rather an ‘English’ tenor, albeit without the mannerisms that so often infect that vocal type. There were times when Strauss’s writing appeared to sit uncomfortably high, but then Strauss’s tenor writing is notorious, and the odd faltering aside, Vale put up a good fight. He was good at posing questions, for instance ‘Du fragst mich, Mädchen, was flüsternd der West/Vertraue den Blütenglocken?’ (Das Geheimnis). He imparted an aptly Schubertian chill to the openings of Sehnsucht and Mein Herz ist stumm. When the opening line of the latter song return at the end, there was truly something of the sepulchre or Winterreise to the revisiting. Die erwachter Rose brought a real sense of erwachen (awakening) as Friedrich von Sallet’s verse told of the nightingale’s sweet song and the bud blossoming into a rose. At times, I thought Vale could have sung out more freely. When he did, as in Die heiligen drei Könige, the results impressed. However, if the disparity were less great, he too sounded more at home in the English settings, in his case those by Gurney. Indeed, here he sang as if to the manor born. (It transpires that he and Plummer have recently recorded a disc of English song.) The poignancy of fading away in Edward Thomas setting, Snow, was rather special. And there was plenty of vigour to Robert Graves’s Hawk and Buckle. Indeed, this combination of youthful vigour and imploring, though never mawkish vulnerability seemed just right for the music of one whose career was so cruelly cut short by the First World War.
So if not always an ideal appreciation of Strauss, there was much to enjoy here. Many of these songs are not often encountered, which gave the recital extra value. Vale’s voice is still very young, and will doubtless open out more, but he was far from unequal to many of Strauss’s demands. Plummer was excellent, though I am not convinced that his programming matches his pianism. The encores, a group of five ‘very small’ (mercifully) songs by Sterndale Bennett were ‘humorous’ though not – at least to this listener – amusing. They seemed an odd conclusion to this recital, but would surely have seemed odder still had one attended the series of three Strauss recitals.
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