St Paul's Cathedral
Mahler - Symphony no.8 in E-flat major
Victoria Yastrebova (soprano)
Ailish Tynan (soprano)
Liudmilla Dudinova (soprano)
Lili Paasikivi (mezzo-soprano)
Zlata Bulycheva (mezzo-soprano)
Sergey Semishkur (tenor)
Alexey Markov (baritone)
Evgeny Nitikin (bass)
The Choir of Eltham College
London Symphony Chorus
The Choral Arts Society of Washington
London Symphony Orchestra
Valery Gergiev (conductor)
This was the culmination of 'Gergiev's Mahler' and also part of the City of London Festival. I attended two previous performances in the cycle: an intermittently impressive Seventh, and a catastrophic Ninth (plus the Adagio from the Tenth). I had little idea, then, what to expect, although I did not really expect this. Put simply, it would have been difficult, perhaps impossible, to reach any kind of judgement or even to gain any real impression concerning this performance, on account of the acoustic. St Paul's Cathedral is always likely to be a problematic venue for musical performances, although a performance I heard two or three years ago of Bruckner's Seventh Symphony (Hallé/Mark Elder) fared much better, not least since Elder appeared willing to use the acoustic to transform what would usually be silences into heavenly echoes. I am not sure that Valery Gergiev could have done much with Mahler's Eighth however: the problems appeared insuperable. Gergiev was never likely to have turned in a performance of the almost incredible marriage of tonal warmth and analytical clarity of Pierre Boulez last year, not to mention Boulez's awe-inspiring symphonic coherence. Yet Boulez had the Berlin Philharmonie; Gergiev had St Paul's. Most of the sound was swallowed up under the great dome; that which remained was mostly turned into a homogeneous mush. Sounds drifted into or - more often - out of focus. Everything sounded extremely distant. Oddly, the few sounds that fared well were those one might have expected to vanish from one's perceptions altogether: the violin solo, the outstanding boys' voices of the Choir of St Eltham's College, and even - just once - the mandolin.
My impression - and it can really be nothing more than this - was that otherwise, much of this most kaleidoscopic of works sounded laboured. Even though it was not an exceptionally slow reading by the clock (just about eighty minutes, I think), it sounded like it. Gergiev's tempo changes did not make much sense, sounding merely arbitrary. And the solo vocal contributions from an almost entirely Russian set of singers (perhaps a repeat from Gergiev's performance in St Petersburg?) sounded almost uniformly 'operatic' in nature, missing much of the point of Mahler's very singular approach in this symphony. Their vocalising sounded more akin to Verdi and Puccini than to Schubert or Wagner, let alone to Mahler himself. Perhaps they were just straining to be heard; after all, I heard Evgeni Nikitin give an excellent performance in Dallapiccola's Il prigioniero earlier this year. Lest one suspect that this shortcoming were a product of nationality, it was just as much the case with Ailish Tynan, with the exception that she added an absence - if one can add an absence - of vocal weight to the handicap of inappropriate style. As for Liudmilla Dudinova's hopelessly out-of-sync and out-of-tune Una Poenitentum, which reached us - eventually - from somewhere above, it was nothing short of a catastrophe. The choral contributions often sounded muted, although there was an impressive rise in temperature for the final peroration, Mahler's setting of some of the most celebrated words in the German language. Gergiev seemingly rose to the occasion here too, with the orchestral contribution for the last five minutes or so impressively stentorian and resolutely un-sentimental. This must all remain, however, hesitant and provisional. I can appreciate that the Barbican might not have been appropriate for this work, but it would have been better off performed in the Royal Albert Hall, or indeed in several other venues. Perhaps financial pressures played their part; perhaps some City subsidy was received. Whatever the story, the decision to perform this symphony at St Paul's proved disastrous.
Friday, 11 July 2008
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Festival d'Aix en Provence: Siegfried, 7 July 2008
(Images - copyright: Elisabeth Carecchio)Grand Théâtre de Provence
Siegfried – Ben Heppner
Mime – Burkhard Ulrich
The Wanderer – Sir Willard White
Alberich – Dale Duesing
Fafner – Alfred Reiter
Erda – Anna Larsson
Brünnhilde – Katarina Dalayman
Woodbird – Mojca Erdmann
Stéphane Braunschweig (director, designs, and video)
Thibault Vancraenenbroeck (costumes)
Marion Hewlett (lighting)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Sir Simon Rattle (conductor)
I was at something of a disadvantage in seeing this, the third instalment of the Aix Ring, without having seen the first two parts. (The dramas are being staged in turn year by year, repeated at the following year’s Salzburg Easter Festival.) Siegfried is arguably the least well-suited of the four dramas to viewing in isolation. There may also have been visual references on which I failed to pick up, although I tried to do a bit of homework beforehand. However, I suspect that there were not many such references, given the minimalist quality of the staging.
Stéphane Braunschweig’s designs provided a stylish frame for the action within, although little appeared to be said about the natural and (un-)social environment in which that action was taking place. This need not be portrayed naturalistically, but the forest is crucial to understanding of the drama in many ways. Siegfried’s home should remind the musician of Der Freischütz, the German Romantic opera par excellence. More broadly, there is any number of cultural references, which might fruitfully here be played with. As Simon Schama observed, in his book, Landscape and memory, it is ‘virtually impossible … to think of the Grimm tales without immediately conjuring up a forest’. It was in 1813, the year of Wagner’s birth in Leipzig – and of that city’s eponymous battle, in which Napoleon was roundly defeated – that the Brothers Grimm had begun to publish their collection of tales, poetry, proverbs, songs, and so forth, entitled Altdeutsche Wälder (‘Old German forests’). Moreover, the forest, writes Schama, is a world in which ‘Roman rules do not apply’. In the aftermath of the Wars of Liberation, one might justly have substituted French for Roman, echoing Caspar David Friedrich’s celebrated painting of a French chasseur lost in the German forest. Wotan’s spear of (Roman) law has made little headway in this fearful, uncivilised, world. It is no coincidence that Fafner has settled in a forest cave in order to protect the Nibelung hoard, nor that the Brünnhilde in Die Walküre has had Sieglinde hurry eastward to the forest, that she and her child might escape Wotan’s wrath. It is certainly no coincidence that Siegfried is thereby born and raised in the forest, a lawless and fearless child of Nature, unaffected by Mime’s attempts to ‘civilise’ him Since Braunschweig, by his own testimony, wished to present a psychoanalytical fairy-tale, I should have expected him to pick up at least upon the aspect of the forest as a space of magic, menace, and primitive redress, even if the political implications were largely to be eschewed. Not that I think they should be: a Siegfried in which the importance of a charismatic hero coming from nowhere to strike down Wotan’s spear of law is minimised seems to me fundamentally flawed. It is no coincidence that the young Engels would describe himself as a ‘first-class mythologist,’ and long for ‘Siegfried’s sons’ to be shown those ‘heroic deeds reserved for the nineteenth century’. The video-projection of fire worked very well; something along such lines for the forest – and perhaps its inhabitants too? – might have made an important contribution on many interpretative levels.
But what else of Brausnchweig’s fairy-tale? If it declined to be political, as Wagner and many of his contemporaries – not to mention successors – would have wished, was it convincingly psychoanalytical? The Personenregie on its own terms seemed to work quite well; there were no embarrassments of inept acting here, although some of the cast undoubtedly impressed more than others. Yet, apart from presenting the drama as Brünnhilde’s dream – we witnessed her asleep at the opening, to be awakened in more than one sense by Siegfried at the end – there was not a huge amount to go on. Mime’s attempt to teach Siegfried fear with a toy dragon presumably fell into this category, but it did not really seem integrated into the greater Konzept. Indeed, this did not seem properly thought through on its own terms; even if it had been, it would probably have begged more questions than it answered. Notung’s shattering of the spear could doubtless work in terms of an attack upon a father figure’s authority, but some aspects of the drama – those involving Alberich, for example – would have been extremely difficult to integrate, and there was little success in that respect here. Whilst I appreciate that any one production must make choices, decide upon aspects to be emphasised and so forth, it seems to me that, on the whole, the more successful productions will highlight at least some of the tensions between various aspects of the drama, rather than press too single-mindedly upon a single idea. Patrice Chéreau remains a gold standard in this regard, without any sacrifice to the guiding line of his – or Pierre Boulez’s – interpretation.
This brings me to the music. I did not feel especially convinced that Sir Simon Rattle’s interpretation was closely allied to Braunschweig’s. Considered on its own terms, however, there was much to enjoy. The Berlin Philharmonic provided a richly upholstered, deluxe account of the score. One may regret – and I certainly do – the loss of what was once its characteristically ‘German’ sound; for that, one must visit the Staatskapelle Berlin or indeed Wagner’s own orchestra in Dresden. That said, the orchestra remains a truly virtuoso international ensemble. My only real cavil would have been the surprising harshness of the brass at some of the climaxes, especially at the end of the final act. One might have feared that from an American orchestra but one does not expect that from Berlin. The section’s contribution elsewhere, however, was magnificent, not least during the strange preludes to the first two acts. The combination of Wagner tuba, bassoons, and kettledrums at the very opening was never ugly but was certainly spooky, invoking a good deal of the atmosphere that the staging would lack. Rattle’s daringly slow yet controlled speed here – perhaps contravening Wagner’s marking, Mässig bewegt, yet if so, fruitfully – certainly contributed to the impression of Freischütz-meets-Schoenberg. The woodwind, not least in the ‘Forest Murmurs’, sounded truly delectable, whilst the warm, if less individual, strings rarely put a foot – or rather, finger – wrong. One would not necessarily expect a ‘great’ interpretation from a conductor tackling Siegfried for the first time. Rattle, however, has by now considerable experience in terms of Parsifal and Tristan and certainly knows his way around Mahler. He provided as good as account of the score I can recall hearing since Bernard Haitink for the Royal Opera, which is praise indeed. There was a compelling sense of line for most of the work and there was certainly none of the frustratingly unstructured, stop-go quality to Antonio Pappano’s Covent Garden Ring. (That said, Pappano seemed stronger the last time round in Siegfried than in the other dramas of the cycle.) Unsurprisingly for one expert in the music of Debussy, Rattle was alert to the colouristic potential of the score, for instance in the balance between orchestral blend and characteristic solo quality in the first act Prelude as cited above, likewise for the unrelieved lugubriousness of that to the second act.
The undoubted star on stage was Burkhard Ulrich’s Mime: perhaps the most complete portrayal I have heard, let alone seen. There was, as Wagner insisted, nothing of the caricature to him. His horizons were fatally limited but it was not difficult to imagine him as the master craftsman who had invented the Tarnhelm. He was mellifluous of line, expressing the tragedy of Mime’s position and the wickedness of his will to power through the text and through musical inflection, but not through exaggerated screaming. Indeed, Mime often sounded stronger than Siegfried during the first act. Ben Heppner’s first Siegfried appeared – understandably yet still disappointingly – to be saving himself for what was to come. He was certainly superior to the catastrophic assumptions of the role we must generally endure, but his vocal heft did not sound to be what it once was: a worrying sign. If his tone rarely sounded truly heroic, his stage presence was anything but. Suspension of disbelief only goes so far: one could not credit this Siegfried as the bringer of revolution or the German Apollo. Sir Willard White proved an intermittently impressive Wanderer. Had I not recently been treated to Sir John Tomlinson’s towering portrayal at Covent Garden, I might have been more enthusiastic. White nevertheless paid considerable attention to word and line, although his diction was variable (and occasionally, as during his scene with Erda, just incorrect). He possessed a certain nobility, but the requisite impression of world-weary experience was not so apparent. Erdas rarely disappoint, yet Anna Larsson was outstanding in her imaginative attention to the score. Hers was a true contralto, of the kind one despairs of hearing nowadays. If her all-too-elegant costume somewhat detracted from a sense of the primæval, that was not her fault. Dale Duesing was a fine Alberich: ever alert to the possibilities of the text, malevolent yet once again never caricatured. I should like to hear him in the rest of the cycle. Alfred Reiter proved an excellent Fafner, stentorian in his possession and moving in his mortality. The Woodbird, Mojca Erdmann, was perfectly good, without making a great impression. Meanwhile, Katarina Dalayman sounded in good voice as Brünnhilde, despite her notoriously lengthy wait to appear on stage (bar her brief presence at the beginning, in this case). She evinced a brilliant yet flexible tone, which sadly overshadowed some of Heppner’s contribution. Musically then, this was as good a Siegfried as one is likely to hear today and I am sure that Rattle’s already commendable understanding will deepen.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Festival d'Aix en Provence: BPO/Rattle - Haydn, 6 July 2008
Grand Théâtre de Provence
Haydn – Symphony no.88, in G major, ‘Letter V’
Haydn – Sinfonia concertante in B-flat major, for oboe, bassoon, violin, and violoncello
Haydn – Symphony no.92 in G major, ‘Oxford’
Toru Yasunaga (violin)
Ludwig Quandt (’cello)
Albrecht Meyer (oboe)
Daniele Damiano (bassoon)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Sir Simon Rattle (conductor)
Sir Donald Tovey called him ‘Haydn the Inaccessible’. Not much has changed. A concert consisting of three Haydn symphonic works remains a rarity. Even Haydn’s most popular symphonies, which tend to be those having arbitrarily acquired nicknames, feature less frequently on concert programmes or on recordings than many vastly inferior works. (I shall resist the strong temptation to name any.) As for the rest of his symphonic œuvre, or indeed for considerably more than ninety per cent of his prolific output, enthusiasts esteem whilst the rest of the world ignores. This is some of the most life-affirming, intellectually and emotionally satisfying music ever composed. I find the situation incomprehensible, as, it would seem, do many others; yet we clearly cannot be many enough. Sir Simon Rattle has long been on the side of the angels. In fact, I seem to remember him once calling Haydn his favourite composer, although I am unable to find a source for my apparent recollection. The Berlin Philharmonic made memorable Haydn recordings under Wilhelm Furtwängler (probably still the greatest ever made of the first of this programme’s symphonies) and Herbert von Karajan (including what is for me unquestionably the greatest of The Creation). I am not, however, aware of any arising from Claudio Abbado’s tenure. It is therefore heartening to have Haydn performed and recorded once again from this source. Whilst the string section was smaller than it would have been under Furtwängler or Karajan, working its way down from nine first violins, it did not sound underpowered. One may miss the richer upholstery of the older BPO, but this music can work with fewer strings.
I shall deal with the second work first: the Sinfonia concertante. This is a much misunderstood genre, especially popular in later eighteenth-century Paris, which alone produced more than 150 between 1768 and 1789; it furthered greater independence and indeed virtuosity for all orchestral instruments and their performers. Haydn’s work was written for London in 1792 and certainly fulfilled these criteria, but I cannot account this amongst his stronger works; it pales beside Mozart’s towering contributions. It undoubtedly provided opportunities for all four Berlin Philharmonic soloists to shine, yet I slightly regretted that another symphony – given the wealth of choice – had not taken its place. I tended to think that it would have been better off programmed alongside works by other composers rather than with other (superior) Haydn. There were, nevertheless, promising hints – one could not really do more than hint – of darker undercurrents during the sunny first movement. If occasionally the orchestra sounded a little too micro-managed, Rattle’s heart was clearly in the right place; there are far worse crimes than loving Haydn a little too much. He wisely left the deluxe soloists to themselves during the cadenzas. Toru Yasunaga proved an attentive, if occasionally over-prominent, violinist and Ludwig Quandt an intensely musical and impressively agile ’cellist, whilst Albrecht Meyer and Daniele Damiano provided creamy tone and bubbly delight on the oboe and bassoon. The Andante was charming enough, even if some of the material finds Haydn on auto-pilot. The sense of recitative between violin and orchestra was well caught at the opening of the third movement and thereafter we were treated, alongside stellar solo contributions, to some splendid orchestral contrasts, not least from the second violins.
The meat of the programme, however, was to be found in the two G major symphonies. Rattle has been performing no.88 for many years now; I had heard him do so twice before. The Adagio introduction to the first movement imparted a true sense of occasion, without sounding unduly portentous. That simple joy to be alive which Haydn so often captures was certainly captured as Rattle launched into the Allegro. Rhythms were spruce and articulation was keen, although not in the unduly point-scoring fashion that disfigures so many contemporary performances. Although the tempo was considerably faster than Furtwängler’s, it never sounded rushed; indeed, it simply sounded juste. The development section was full of excitement, as Rattle, the players, and we traced its twists and turns. Crucial to this was the very real sense that every cell, every phrase had meaning. It is worth noting here that he woodwind, not least Mayer and Emmanuel Pahud, was almost unutterably beautiful in tone throughout. The slow movement was flowingly sung. Here again, Mayer shone, as did the superb ’cello section. The violins’ pizzicato was quite something too. I can imagine some listeners finding the expressive dynamic contrasts – including some breathtaking pianissimi from the strings – overdone, but I thought them delightful. The movement’s sterner movements were bracing but never ugly in the regrettable ‘authenticke’ fashion. This movement brought the first – but sadly not the last – bizarre intervention of a key-jangler in the row behind me. Was he expressing his disapproval, after the fashion of early Viennese opposition towards Schoenberg and his music? It is difficult to understand why. Rattle conducted the minuet, marked Allegretto, in the modern fashion, one-to-a-bar. I should have preferred it otherwise, but it did not sound unduly rushed and he maintained some sense of grace. Its trio, however, provided unalloyed delight. It was deliciously rustic, with the various soloists and the conductor all contributing towards the impression of a (very superior) village band. The trio was considerably more relaxed – both in terms of the general tempo, and in its touches of rubato – than the minuet, and benefited greatly from this. I had a few doubts concerning the finale. It was perhaps a little too consciously moulded and can certainly sound far more ‘natural’ – however much art may have to go into the impression – than it did here. Still, there always seemed to be reasons for what Rattle was doing; the pointing was never merely arbitrary. The counterpoint was admirably clear, far more so than the sense of harmonic progression, which I have heard sound far more inevitable than it did here. The final bars presented a fun and never tasteless dash to the finishing line.
The ‘Oxford’ symphony again opened with a mysterious and ravishingly beautiful introduction. What extraordinary music Haydn furnished for his symphonic introductions, preparing the way for the ‘Representation of Chaos’ in his Creation! Then the dam burst, as we hurtled excitingly into the Allegro spirituoso. As throughout these performances, seating the violins to left and right really paid off. And once again, the woodwind sounded simply delectable. Imaginative but never narcissistic inflections made one realise how deeply Rattle had thought about this music and how it might be performed. As with the first movement of no.88, this movement seemed over in the twinkling of an eye, leaving one wanting more. The Adagio cantabile was arguably a little on the fast side for an adagio, but the beautifully warm string opening, the inner parts teeming throughout with meaning, soon made one forget such a cavil. Joined by an equally warm horn and by Mayer’s beguiling oboe, Haydn’s fields sounded truly Elysian. There was vigour in the central section, although once again this never translated into anything coarse or ugly. We heard thereafter a hint of tragedy from the strings, before returning to the original material. Shortly before the conclusion, we were treated to a duet of straightforward perfection between Pahud and Mayer. On this occasion, I am afraid that the minuet was simply taken too fast. It sounded breathless and, whilst it may have boasted a polished vigour, the requisite aristocratic grace was nowhere to be heard. The trio fared better. Its astounding syncopations really told, although it could profitably have been taken at a more measured tempo, to heighten their effect. Rattle’s prolonged pause before the end would doubtless have irritated those inclined to be irritated, but I thought that it heightened expectation in a very winning fashion. The finale, like that to no.88, was once again exciting and full of humour. However, I felt that on this occasion, it was perhaps unduly hard-driven. The tremendous rhythmic drive was quite something in itself, but I am not sure that Haydn should sound turbo-charged. The counterpoint once again registered keenly, yet the movement as a whole wanted grace. I should not want to make too much of this slight disappointment, for on the whole, Rattle and his orchestra served Haydn proud.
Haydn – Symphony no.88, in G major, ‘Letter V’
Haydn – Sinfonia concertante in B-flat major, for oboe, bassoon, violin, and violoncello
Haydn – Symphony no.92 in G major, ‘Oxford’
Toru Yasunaga (violin)
Ludwig Quandt (’cello)
Albrecht Meyer (oboe)
Daniele Damiano (bassoon)
Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra
Sir Simon Rattle (conductor)
Sir Donald Tovey called him ‘Haydn the Inaccessible’. Not much has changed. A concert consisting of three Haydn symphonic works remains a rarity. Even Haydn’s most popular symphonies, which tend to be those having arbitrarily acquired nicknames, feature less frequently on concert programmes or on recordings than many vastly inferior works. (I shall resist the strong temptation to name any.) As for the rest of his symphonic œuvre, or indeed for considerably more than ninety per cent of his prolific output, enthusiasts esteem whilst the rest of the world ignores. This is some of the most life-affirming, intellectually and emotionally satisfying music ever composed. I find the situation incomprehensible, as, it would seem, do many others; yet we clearly cannot be many enough. Sir Simon Rattle has long been on the side of the angels. In fact, I seem to remember him once calling Haydn his favourite composer, although I am unable to find a source for my apparent recollection. The Berlin Philharmonic made memorable Haydn recordings under Wilhelm Furtwängler (probably still the greatest ever made of the first of this programme’s symphonies) and Herbert von Karajan (including what is for me unquestionably the greatest of The Creation). I am not, however, aware of any arising from Claudio Abbado’s tenure. It is therefore heartening to have Haydn performed and recorded once again from this source. Whilst the string section was smaller than it would have been under Furtwängler or Karajan, working its way down from nine first violins, it did not sound underpowered. One may miss the richer upholstery of the older BPO, but this music can work with fewer strings.
I shall deal with the second work first: the Sinfonia concertante. This is a much misunderstood genre, especially popular in later eighteenth-century Paris, which alone produced more than 150 between 1768 and 1789; it furthered greater independence and indeed virtuosity for all orchestral instruments and their performers. Haydn’s work was written for London in 1792 and certainly fulfilled these criteria, but I cannot account this amongst his stronger works; it pales beside Mozart’s towering contributions. It undoubtedly provided opportunities for all four Berlin Philharmonic soloists to shine, yet I slightly regretted that another symphony – given the wealth of choice – had not taken its place. I tended to think that it would have been better off programmed alongside works by other composers rather than with other (superior) Haydn. There were, nevertheless, promising hints – one could not really do more than hint – of darker undercurrents during the sunny first movement. If occasionally the orchestra sounded a little too micro-managed, Rattle’s heart was clearly in the right place; there are far worse crimes than loving Haydn a little too much. He wisely left the deluxe soloists to themselves during the cadenzas. Toru Yasunaga proved an attentive, if occasionally over-prominent, violinist and Ludwig Quandt an intensely musical and impressively agile ’cellist, whilst Albrecht Meyer and Daniele Damiano provided creamy tone and bubbly delight on the oboe and bassoon. The Andante was charming enough, even if some of the material finds Haydn on auto-pilot. The sense of recitative between violin and orchestra was well caught at the opening of the third movement and thereafter we were treated, alongside stellar solo contributions, to some splendid orchestral contrasts, not least from the second violins.
The meat of the programme, however, was to be found in the two G major symphonies. Rattle has been performing no.88 for many years now; I had heard him do so twice before. The Adagio introduction to the first movement imparted a true sense of occasion, without sounding unduly portentous. That simple joy to be alive which Haydn so often captures was certainly captured as Rattle launched into the Allegro. Rhythms were spruce and articulation was keen, although not in the unduly point-scoring fashion that disfigures so many contemporary performances. Although the tempo was considerably faster than Furtwängler’s, it never sounded rushed; indeed, it simply sounded juste. The development section was full of excitement, as Rattle, the players, and we traced its twists and turns. Crucial to this was the very real sense that every cell, every phrase had meaning. It is worth noting here that he woodwind, not least Mayer and Emmanuel Pahud, was almost unutterably beautiful in tone throughout. The slow movement was flowingly sung. Here again, Mayer shone, as did the superb ’cello section. The violins’ pizzicato was quite something too. I can imagine some listeners finding the expressive dynamic contrasts – including some breathtaking pianissimi from the strings – overdone, but I thought them delightful. The movement’s sterner movements were bracing but never ugly in the regrettable ‘authenticke’ fashion. This movement brought the first – but sadly not the last – bizarre intervention of a key-jangler in the row behind me. Was he expressing his disapproval, after the fashion of early Viennese opposition towards Schoenberg and his music? It is difficult to understand why. Rattle conducted the minuet, marked Allegretto, in the modern fashion, one-to-a-bar. I should have preferred it otherwise, but it did not sound unduly rushed and he maintained some sense of grace. Its trio, however, provided unalloyed delight. It was deliciously rustic, with the various soloists and the conductor all contributing towards the impression of a (very superior) village band. The trio was considerably more relaxed – both in terms of the general tempo, and in its touches of rubato – than the minuet, and benefited greatly from this. I had a few doubts concerning the finale. It was perhaps a little too consciously moulded and can certainly sound far more ‘natural’ – however much art may have to go into the impression – than it did here. Still, there always seemed to be reasons for what Rattle was doing; the pointing was never merely arbitrary. The counterpoint was admirably clear, far more so than the sense of harmonic progression, which I have heard sound far more inevitable than it did here. The final bars presented a fun and never tasteless dash to the finishing line.
The ‘Oxford’ symphony again opened with a mysterious and ravishingly beautiful introduction. What extraordinary music Haydn furnished for his symphonic introductions, preparing the way for the ‘Representation of Chaos’ in his Creation! Then the dam burst, as we hurtled excitingly into the Allegro spirituoso. As throughout these performances, seating the violins to left and right really paid off. And once again, the woodwind sounded simply delectable. Imaginative but never narcissistic inflections made one realise how deeply Rattle had thought about this music and how it might be performed. As with the first movement of no.88, this movement seemed over in the twinkling of an eye, leaving one wanting more. The Adagio cantabile was arguably a little on the fast side for an adagio, but the beautifully warm string opening, the inner parts teeming throughout with meaning, soon made one forget such a cavil. Joined by an equally warm horn and by Mayer’s beguiling oboe, Haydn’s fields sounded truly Elysian. There was vigour in the central section, although once again this never translated into anything coarse or ugly. We heard thereafter a hint of tragedy from the strings, before returning to the original material. Shortly before the conclusion, we were treated to a duet of straightforward perfection between Pahud and Mayer. On this occasion, I am afraid that the minuet was simply taken too fast. It sounded breathless and, whilst it may have boasted a polished vigour, the requisite aristocratic grace was nowhere to be heard. The trio fared better. Its astounding syncopations really told, although it could profitably have been taken at a more measured tempo, to heighten their effect. Rattle’s prolonged pause before the end would doubtless have irritated those inclined to be irritated, but I thought that it heightened expectation in a very winning fashion. The finale, like that to no.88, was once again exciting and full of humour. However, I felt that on this occasion, it was perhaps unduly hard-driven. The tremendous rhythmic drive was quite something in itself, but I am not sure that Haydn should sound turbo-charged. The counterpoint once again registered keenly, yet the movement as a whole wanted grace. I should not want to make too much of this slight disappointment, for on the whole, Rattle and his orchestra served Haydn proud.
Festival d'Aix en Provence: Zaide, 5 July 2008
(Images - copyright: Elisabeth Carecchio)Théâtre de l’Archevêché
Zaide – Ekaterina Lekhina
Gomatz – Sean Panikkar
Allazim – Alfred Walker
Sultan Soliman – Russell Thomas
Osmin – Morris Robinson
Peter Sellars (director)
Georges Tsypin (designs)
Gabriel Berry (costumes)
James F. Ingalls (lighting)
Ibn Zaydoun Chorus (director: Moneim Adwan)
Camerata Salzburg
Louis Langrée (conductor)
Zaide – Ekaterina Lekhina
Gomatz – Sean Panikkar
Allazim – Alfred Walker
Sultan Soliman – Russell Thomas
Osmin – Morris Robinson
Peter Sellars (director)
Georges Tsypin (designs)
Gabriel Berry (costumes)
James F. Ingalls (lighting)
Ibn Zaydoun Chorus (director: Moneim Adwan)
Camerata Salzburg
Louis Langrée (conductor)
I had been looking forward to this: my first Zaide in the theatre, a controversial but undeniably talented director, and the open air of the courtyard to the archepiscopal palace in Aix. What unfolded was the stuff of nightmares: a production as crass as – if doubtless more well-meaning than – Jonathan Miller’s appalling travesty of Così fan tutte for the Royal Opera, albeit without the extraordinary musical redemption of Sir Colin Davis and his superlative cast.
That Zaide is a problem piece, no one would deny. The music is far too good to lie unperformed but it is frustratingly incomplete: something clearly must be done. It seems to me that there are three principal paths one could take. One could make a virtue of the incomplete nature of the ‘work’ as it stands, either by taking up and developing the theme of fragmentation. One might commission some new music and either provide it with a companion-piece (as the Salzburg Festival in 2006 did) or transform it into a new work. Or one could attempt to make it cohere as it stands, perhaps by adding further music by Mozart. The incidental music to Thamos, King of Egypt is a favoured candidate for this approach, and this is what happened here. Except that it did not. There was at root a glaring contradiction, perhaps resolvable or perhaps not, but certainly not resolved in this particular case, between a quasi-traditional path of Mozartian completion and Sellars’s understanding of the work.
There is nothing wrong in principle with providing a work with a new or modified message, although it needs to be done well – and rarely is. Sellars, however, actually seems to believe that Zaide itself is about what he decided to put on stage. I can say this with some confidence by virtue of his comments in the programme. Take the following extract from his ‘synopsis’, informing us what is going on in that most celebrated of the work’s arias, ‘Ruhe sanft’: ‘From her sewing machine above, Zaide (a Muslim) hears Gomatz struggle. She sings a lullaby to ease his pain and lowers his ID card to him, hoping her picture will bring him comfort and strength…’ Or this commentary on Osmin’s ‘Wer hungrig bei der Tafel sitzt’: ‘This escape is not a problem for Osmin. As a slave trader, his speciality is outsourcing and there is an endless supply of desperate people who will work under any conditions. From his point of view, Soliman is behaving like one big fool. Modern management techniques offer a huge profit from a disposable work force. The lesson is: if there is food, eat your fill.’ For Mozart, Sellars tells us, ‘belonged to a generation of artists, activists, intellectuals, and religious leaders who dedicated an important part of their œuvre to the abolition of slavery.’ This, apparently, is what the Enlightenment was about. Except it was not – and nor is Mozart’s unfinished Singspiel. Mozart was not the egalitarian Sellars explicitly calls him. A little while after composing the music to Zaide, Mozart dismissively reported to his father of Joseph II’s inclusion of the ‘Viennese rabble’ (Pöbel) at a Schönbrunn ball. Such rabble, he wrote, would always remain just that. This does not place Mozart at odds with the Enlightenment; it places him at its heart, along with Voltaire’s plea to his guests not to discuss the non-existence of God in front of the servants, lest the latter should forget their place. And as for the American plantations… The Enlightenment in general and Mozart in particular are far more complex than a modern, liberal American mind – or at least this one – appears able to comprehend. Hierarchy is sometimes undermined in Mozart’s operas but never to the extent of threatening the social order. Le nozze di Figaro is, after all, but a ‘folle journée’, from which most of Beaumarchais’s menacing rhetoric has been expunged.
It gets worse however, when Sellars comes to staging this misunderstanding. (Some misunderstandings can be fruitful, but not this.) Zaide takes place in a modern sweatshop, replete with the ‘ID cards’, ‘modern management techniques’, and so on, which I quoted above. Somehow the issue of Palestinian liberation becomes embroiled in this issue and that more broadly of modern slavery; it is all about ‘freedom’, I suppose. I hope that it should not need saying that I abhor all forms of slavery, ancient and modern, including the repression of Palestine, but that does not in itself make the issue relevant to an unfinished work which is about something quite different, nor to a production which, through its generally ‘right-on’ contradictions, could not make up its mind what it was really about. We therefore had a ‘chorus’ of six modern slaves traipse on to stage following the appropriated ‘overture’, for an oud – I think – to strike up by way of introduction to the harmless little song they presented. Mozart was then permitted to return, providing different music to what I believe were the same words. We never heard again from the Ibn Zaydoun chorus, associated with the admirable organisation Esclavage Tolérance Zéro, nor from the chorus’s director, Moneim Adwan. Their inclusion was offensively tokenistic and added nothing to the botched drama on stage; they sang well enough in an amateur fashion. The Aix audience was made to suffer ever so slightly by the turning on of glaring strobe lighting at the ends of musical numbers: irritating enough to be discourteous, and obscene if the suggestion were that we could in any sense thereby participate in the very real agonies of modern slavery, be it in a sweatshop or the Gaza Strip. East-West tension might fruitfully have been addressed in a work such as this, but here it was not.
Camerata Salzburg sounded as it generally does nowadays, post-Norrington. Sándor Végh would turn in his grave to hear the low-vibrato, short-bowed, small-in-number (7.6.5.4.2) string contribution, although there were moments when the section was allowed greater musical freedom. The opening bar confronted us with the perversely rasping sound of natural brass and with the ‘authentic’ bashing of hard sticks upon kettledrums. It was left to the superlative woodwind section to provide Mozartian consolation. Louis Langrée drove the score quite hard, sometimes with dramatic flair, often with a harshness that has no place in Mozart. He was able, however, to provide considerable dramatic continuity both within and between numbers. Perhaps surprisingly, the Thamos items often fared better.
That Zaide is a problem piece, no one would deny. The music is far too good to lie unperformed but it is frustratingly incomplete: something clearly must be done. It seems to me that there are three principal paths one could take. One could make a virtue of the incomplete nature of the ‘work’ as it stands, either by taking up and developing the theme of fragmentation. One might commission some new music and either provide it with a companion-piece (as the Salzburg Festival in 2006 did) or transform it into a new work. Or one could attempt to make it cohere as it stands, perhaps by adding further music by Mozart. The incidental music to Thamos, King of Egypt is a favoured candidate for this approach, and this is what happened here. Except that it did not. There was at root a glaring contradiction, perhaps resolvable or perhaps not, but certainly not resolved in this particular case, between a quasi-traditional path of Mozartian completion and Sellars’s understanding of the work.
There is nothing wrong in principle with providing a work with a new or modified message, although it needs to be done well – and rarely is. Sellars, however, actually seems to believe that Zaide itself is about what he decided to put on stage. I can say this with some confidence by virtue of his comments in the programme. Take the following extract from his ‘synopsis’, informing us what is going on in that most celebrated of the work’s arias, ‘Ruhe sanft’: ‘From her sewing machine above, Zaide (a Muslim) hears Gomatz struggle. She sings a lullaby to ease his pain and lowers his ID card to him, hoping her picture will bring him comfort and strength…’ Or this commentary on Osmin’s ‘Wer hungrig bei der Tafel sitzt’: ‘This escape is not a problem for Osmin. As a slave trader, his speciality is outsourcing and there is an endless supply of desperate people who will work under any conditions. From his point of view, Soliman is behaving like one big fool. Modern management techniques offer a huge profit from a disposable work force. The lesson is: if there is food, eat your fill.’ For Mozart, Sellars tells us, ‘belonged to a generation of artists, activists, intellectuals, and religious leaders who dedicated an important part of their œuvre to the abolition of slavery.’ This, apparently, is what the Enlightenment was about. Except it was not – and nor is Mozart’s unfinished Singspiel. Mozart was not the egalitarian Sellars explicitly calls him. A little while after composing the music to Zaide, Mozart dismissively reported to his father of Joseph II’s inclusion of the ‘Viennese rabble’ (Pöbel) at a Schönbrunn ball. Such rabble, he wrote, would always remain just that. This does not place Mozart at odds with the Enlightenment; it places him at its heart, along with Voltaire’s plea to his guests not to discuss the non-existence of God in front of the servants, lest the latter should forget their place. And as for the American plantations… The Enlightenment in general and Mozart in particular are far more complex than a modern, liberal American mind – or at least this one – appears able to comprehend. Hierarchy is sometimes undermined in Mozart’s operas but never to the extent of threatening the social order. Le nozze di Figaro is, after all, but a ‘folle journée’, from which most of Beaumarchais’s menacing rhetoric has been expunged.
It gets worse however, when Sellars comes to staging this misunderstanding. (Some misunderstandings can be fruitful, but not this.) Zaide takes place in a modern sweatshop, replete with the ‘ID cards’, ‘modern management techniques’, and so on, which I quoted above. Somehow the issue of Palestinian liberation becomes embroiled in this issue and that more broadly of modern slavery; it is all about ‘freedom’, I suppose. I hope that it should not need saying that I abhor all forms of slavery, ancient and modern, including the repression of Palestine, but that does not in itself make the issue relevant to an unfinished work which is about something quite different, nor to a production which, through its generally ‘right-on’ contradictions, could not make up its mind what it was really about. We therefore had a ‘chorus’ of six modern slaves traipse on to stage following the appropriated ‘overture’, for an oud – I think – to strike up by way of introduction to the harmless little song they presented. Mozart was then permitted to return, providing different music to what I believe were the same words. We never heard again from the Ibn Zaydoun chorus, associated with the admirable organisation Esclavage Tolérance Zéro, nor from the chorus’s director, Moneim Adwan. Their inclusion was offensively tokenistic and added nothing to the botched drama on stage; they sang well enough in an amateur fashion. The Aix audience was made to suffer ever so slightly by the turning on of glaring strobe lighting at the ends of musical numbers: irritating enough to be discourteous, and obscene if the suggestion were that we could in any sense thereby participate in the very real agonies of modern slavery, be it in a sweatshop or the Gaza Strip. East-West tension might fruitfully have been addressed in a work such as this, but here it was not.
Camerata Salzburg sounded as it generally does nowadays, post-Norrington. Sándor Végh would turn in his grave to hear the low-vibrato, short-bowed, small-in-number (7.6.5.4.2) string contribution, although there were moments when the section was allowed greater musical freedom. The opening bar confronted us with the perversely rasping sound of natural brass and with the ‘authentic’ bashing of hard sticks upon kettledrums. It was left to the superlative woodwind section to provide Mozartian consolation. Louis Langrée drove the score quite hard, sometimes with dramatic flair, often with a harshness that has no place in Mozart. He was able, however, to provide considerable dramatic continuity both within and between numbers. Perhaps surprisingly, the Thamos items often fared better.
There were some promising young voices on stage, although they had a tendency to present excessively broad-brushed, unshaded interpretations – and were sometimes just far too loud. Sean Panikkar possesses a winningly ardent tenor, which impressed more in the first than in the second act. Thankfully he had more to do in the first. Alfred Walker was dignified earlier on but subsequently unfocused. What were we to make of Ekaterina Lekhina in the title role? She delivered her second act arias rather well, but was all over the place in ‘Ruhe sanft’: tremulous and out-of-tune in an almost caricatured ‘operatic’ fashion. More worryingly, why was she, a Russian soprano, included in what was otherwise clearly a purposely-selected non-white cast? I cannot for one moment imagine that this was the intention, but I almost had the impression that here was a white woman, threatened and surrounded by coloured men. Whatever the actual intention was, I am afraid that it entirely eluded me. The impression of abject incoherence was nevertheless intensified still further. I think that I have now said enough.
Saturday, 5 July 2008
Festival d'Aix en Provence: Pascal Dusapin - Passion, 4 July 2008
(Images - copyright: Elisabeth Carecchio)Théâtre du Jeu de paume
Lei (Her) – Barbara Hannigan
Lui (Him) – Georg Nigl
Gli Altri (The Others) – Ensemble Musicatreize (direction: Roland Hayrabedian)
Giuseppe Frigeni (director, designs)
Amélie Haas (costumes)
Dominique Bruguière (lighting)
Thierry Coduys (electronics)
Ensemble Modern Frankfurt
Franck Ollu (conductor)
Passion is Pascal Dusapin’s sixth opera. Having received its premiere on 29 June, this was its fourth performance. Interviewed in Le Figaro, Dusapin speaks of the inspiration he has derived from Monteverdi and his age: ‘‘I have a very profound relationship with this period in musical history, which greatly resembles our own in its taste and its experimental research.’ The idea of music as research has a clear kinship with IRCAM and, before that, Darmstadt. Dusapin, following a brief spell of study with Messiaen, became Iannis Xenakis’s sole acknowledged pupil in composition. Yet Dusapin’s comparison, rooted as it may be in his own experience, is not without historical merit. The Florentine Camerata was a group of intellectuals whose theoretical discussions and experiments, attempting to restore a posited unity in Attic drama of speech and song, fully bore fruit in the operas and indeed many of the madrigals of Monteverdi. Use of Italian, in a libretto put together by Dusapin himself and Rita di Letteriis, inevitably brought one a little closer, as did the subject matter: another revisiting of the Orpheus myth, although here the ‘characters’ are not even named. An especially noteworthy aspect of Dusapin’s work is the greater interest shown in Eurydice.
That said, ‘influence’ upon Dusapin would seem, to be more a matter of working in a similar spirit – as the Camerata had renewed the spirit of Greece – than of any real stylistic revival, although there were a few instances if not of quotation than of affinity. An exception might appear to be the use of the harpsichord (Ueli Wiget), synthesiser (Hermann Kretzschmar), and harp (Saara Linnea Rautio), but their – extremely effective – employment was not really of a continuo variety; instead, the instruments were used both in solo and chamber contexts. It seemed to me that the instruments tended to be used separately from one another earlier on, with some sort of fulfilment or at least climax being denoted by their subsequent combination, a practice putting me in mind of – this may denote nothing other than coincidence – Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements. A memorable instance of solo employment is in the lengthy harpsichord music – sometimes punctuated by other instruments, but essentially a solo – that accompanies Orpheus’s mime as he dons the unicorn’s head. This seemed to me to hark back less to the Italian than to the French Baroque and there was indeed some music that approached the frankly tonal. The contributions from all members of the Ensemble Modern were excellent, with Franck Ollu keeping a tight but expressive grip upon proceedings. Extended instrumental techniques were sometimes used, though nowhere near so often as one might expect in, say, the work of Helmut Lachenmann, and there was no amplification. Insofar as I could tell from a first hearing, the role of Thierry Coduys in terms of electronic spatial direction appeared beyond reproach. In all of these respects, I cannot imagine that the score could readily have been served better.
Barbara Hanningan, whom I have recently heard give outstanding performances of music by Nono, Berg, and Webern, shone once again here. Occasionally I felt that she lacked the warmth of tone I had heard her project on previous occasions, but in a new work it is often difficult to know how much this might have been attributable to the demands of the music and interpretation. Certainly her range and precision were as impressive as ever, as was her acting. Georg Nigl was subjected to equally great demands in his part. He appeared to grow into the part, his tone sounding a little pinched earlier on but extraordinarily impressive subsequently in terms of ranging from the baritonal to the haut-contre. Once again, his acting skills were noteworthy. The varied contributions of the Marseilles-based Ensemble Musikatreize were throughout of the very highest order. Its members’ musical and dramatic versatility, both individually and corporately, would have been apparent to all. Their interventions on stage and throughout the theatre always looked and sounded well-judged.
The production also seemed to me a triumph. Giuseppe Frigeni eschewed an overly naturalistic presentation, in terms of a stylisation that worked. Every movement – unlike so many current productions one could name – appeared to have a justification, and therefore told most effectively. The production drew inspiration from, rather than pointlessly railing against, the text and music, although this should in no sense be taken to betoken an unimaginative literalism. Symbolism rather was the order of the day. Lighting and costumes contributed to an impeccable team effort. In the programme, Frigeni also drew our attention – although he hardly needed to – to the centrality of the sun, or ‘le sol(o)eil’, as he put it, punning on the French words for sun and eye. The senses of watching, of being watched, and also, crucially, of transformation of time, were simply but powerfully portrayed by the figure of the sun on stage and its movements. This helped deliver us to our destination, the unsettling conclusion, in which score, performance, and production worked so closely together, to ask us whether Orpheus and Eurydice had ever really been listening to each other – or, indeed, whether they had truly been looking at each other. Passion left us asking more questions than had been answered: not a bad sign at all.
Lei (Her) – Barbara Hannigan
Lui (Him) – Georg Nigl
Gli Altri (The Others) – Ensemble Musicatreize (direction: Roland Hayrabedian)
Giuseppe Frigeni (director, designs)
Amélie Haas (costumes)
Dominique Bruguière (lighting)
Thierry Coduys (electronics)
Ensemble Modern Frankfurt
Franck Ollu (conductor)
Passion is Pascal Dusapin’s sixth opera. Having received its premiere on 29 June, this was its fourth performance. Interviewed in Le Figaro, Dusapin speaks of the inspiration he has derived from Monteverdi and his age: ‘‘I have a very profound relationship with this period in musical history, which greatly resembles our own in its taste and its experimental research.’ The idea of music as research has a clear kinship with IRCAM and, before that, Darmstadt. Dusapin, following a brief spell of study with Messiaen, became Iannis Xenakis’s sole acknowledged pupil in composition. Yet Dusapin’s comparison, rooted as it may be in his own experience, is not without historical merit. The Florentine Camerata was a group of intellectuals whose theoretical discussions and experiments, attempting to restore a posited unity in Attic drama of speech and song, fully bore fruit in the operas and indeed many of the madrigals of Monteverdi. Use of Italian, in a libretto put together by Dusapin himself and Rita di Letteriis, inevitably brought one a little closer, as did the subject matter: another revisiting of the Orpheus myth, although here the ‘characters’ are not even named. An especially noteworthy aspect of Dusapin’s work is the greater interest shown in Eurydice.
That said, ‘influence’ upon Dusapin would seem, to be more a matter of working in a similar spirit – as the Camerata had renewed the spirit of Greece – than of any real stylistic revival, although there were a few instances if not of quotation than of affinity. An exception might appear to be the use of the harpsichord (Ueli Wiget), synthesiser (Hermann Kretzschmar), and harp (Saara Linnea Rautio), but their – extremely effective – employment was not really of a continuo variety; instead, the instruments were used both in solo and chamber contexts. It seemed to me that the instruments tended to be used separately from one another earlier on, with some sort of fulfilment or at least climax being denoted by their subsequent combination, a practice putting me in mind of – this may denote nothing other than coincidence – Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements. A memorable instance of solo employment is in the lengthy harpsichord music – sometimes punctuated by other instruments, but essentially a solo – that accompanies Orpheus’s mime as he dons the unicorn’s head. This seemed to me to hark back less to the Italian than to the French Baroque and there was indeed some music that approached the frankly tonal. The contributions from all members of the Ensemble Modern were excellent, with Franck Ollu keeping a tight but expressive grip upon proceedings. Extended instrumental techniques were sometimes used, though nowhere near so often as one might expect in, say, the work of Helmut Lachenmann, and there was no amplification. Insofar as I could tell from a first hearing, the role of Thierry Coduys in terms of electronic spatial direction appeared beyond reproach. In all of these respects, I cannot imagine that the score could readily have been served better.
Barbara Hanningan, whom I have recently heard give outstanding performances of music by Nono, Berg, and Webern, shone once again here. Occasionally I felt that she lacked the warmth of tone I had heard her project on previous occasions, but in a new work it is often difficult to know how much this might have been attributable to the demands of the music and interpretation. Certainly her range and precision were as impressive as ever, as was her acting. Georg Nigl was subjected to equally great demands in his part. He appeared to grow into the part, his tone sounding a little pinched earlier on but extraordinarily impressive subsequently in terms of ranging from the baritonal to the haut-contre. Once again, his acting skills were noteworthy. The varied contributions of the Marseilles-based Ensemble Musikatreize were throughout of the very highest order. Its members’ musical and dramatic versatility, both individually and corporately, would have been apparent to all. Their interventions on stage and throughout the theatre always looked and sounded well-judged.
The production also seemed to me a triumph. Giuseppe Frigeni eschewed an overly naturalistic presentation, in terms of a stylisation that worked. Every movement – unlike so many current productions one could name – appeared to have a justification, and therefore told most effectively. The production drew inspiration from, rather than pointlessly railing against, the text and music, although this should in no sense be taken to betoken an unimaginative literalism. Symbolism rather was the order of the day. Lighting and costumes contributed to an impeccable team effort. In the programme, Frigeni also drew our attention – although he hardly needed to – to the centrality of the sun, or ‘le sol(o)eil’, as he put it, punning on the French words for sun and eye. The senses of watching, of being watched, and also, crucially, of transformation of time, were simply but powerfully portrayed by the figure of the sun on stage and its movements. This helped deliver us to our destination, the unsettling conclusion, in which score, performance, and production worked so closely together, to ask us whether Orpheus and Eurydice had ever really been listening to each other – or, indeed, whether they had truly been looking at each other. Passion left us asking more questions than had been answered: not a bad sign at all.
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Brahms: the Romantic - Philharmonia/Maazel, 28 June 2008 (2)
Royal Festival Hall
Brahms – Variations on a theme by Joseph Haydn, Op.56a
Brahms – Ein deutsches Requiem, Op.45
Heidi Grant Murphy (soprano)
Simon Keenlyside (baritone)
Philharmonia Chorus
Philharmonia Voices
Philharmonia Orchestra
Lorin Maazel (conductor)
With this concert, the Philharmonia and Lorin Maazel’s series, ‘Brahms: the Romantic’ reached its conclusion. It is perhaps a pity that none of the smaller vocal and choral works, or indeed the serenades and concertos, were included, but one cannot have everything. After a somewhat sluggish Third Symphony, I rather feared for the Haydn Variations. However, the statement of the St Anthony Chorale struck quite a different note. Deftly articulated and winningly phrased, it was followed by a series of well-characterised variations. The third, for instance, was rather swift – quite a relief! – and struck an aptly serenade-like note. Indeed, throughout the wind were pleasingly characterful. Christopher Cowie’s solo oboe shone in the fourth, as did the violas, once again commandingly led by the excellent Joel Hunter. There followed a lively, rhythmically taut fifth variation and a perky sixth with excellent horns. The seventh variation was graceful, without being skated over; Kenneth Smith was especially notable on the flute here, as once more were the oboe and violas. Hushed, confiding violins in the eighth led us into a noble finale, which exhibited both grace and a good sense of rhythmic and harmonic momentum. The whole orchestra, not least David Corkhill’s triangle, was permitted to shine in the final peroration. This was a fine reading of a work that often receives far less.
There could be no complaints of sluggishness in the German Requiem either; if anything, Maazel’s speeds may have erred on the other side. Certainly the opening sounded a little hasty, although one could appreciated a splendidly cultivated sound to the lower strings. Whilst the second movement, ‘Denn alles Fleisch es ist wie Gras,’ was also on the fast side, it possessed a convincing sense of onward tread, although I found its ending somewhat perfunctory. It was only really the conclusion to the third movement, ‘Herr, lehre doch mich,’ that proved something of a scramble: a pity really, given the convincing role the preceding pulsating of the tonic pedal had played in providing an apt sense of security to the musical events above. In general, the orchestra did an excellent job, ably directed by Maazel. For instance, one could well imagine the woodwind section in the first movement as purveyors of funereal Harmoniemusik, should the near-contradiction be permitted. There was a true sense of passage from darkness into light in the transition to the fugal section of the second movement: the brass section was resplendent and the organ (Malcolm Hicks) added a great deal too. The same could be said of their role in the sixth movement, ‘Denn wir haben hier keine bleibende Statt’, although the raising of the dead incorruptible was a little rushed; the section, ‘Tod, wo ist dein Stachel? …’ was much better in this respect. It is quite a tribute to successful orchestral balancing that one could clearly hear the Beethovenian piccolo (Keith Bragg) above all of this. Violins sounded especially sweet-toned in the consoling fourth movement, ‘Wie lieblich sind deine Wohunungen’, although, after a slightly galumphing fugal section, it was a relief to return to the preceding mood of a celestial Liebeslieder waltz. Schützian trombones were given a welcome opportunity to shine in the final movement, ‘Selig sind die Toten’, an invitation they accepted wholeheartedly. The harps added a welcome glimpse of something hereafter at the very end, whilst they had sounded strangely prominent in the first movement.
What of the singing? The combined forces of the Philharmonia Chorus and Philharmonia Voices sounded very good on the whole and proved attentive to the demands of the words as well as the music. There was, for example, a wonderful filling out of tone on the word ‘Freuden’ (‘joy’) in the first movement, although the sopranos here could occasionally sound a little shrill. The first return of the opening material in the second movement (and parallel passages) again provided a good, full sound from both chorus and orchestra, splendidly underlain by the kettledrums. I mentioned the somewhat effortful contribution from the chorus in the Handelian fugal section of the fourth movement, but this was very much the exception. The other shortcoming – although I am not sure whose fault this was – was a couple of cases of slight disjuncture between chorus and orchestra in the final movement. However, this movement on the whole evinced an apt sense of reprise, return, and yet progress too, in coming to terms with whatever loss may have afflicted us. Heidi Grant Murphy was adequate as a soprano soloist. I have heard worse but she was overly tremulous, if appropriately maternal. Many of her words, especially later on, were incomprehensible, which was a pity, since Maazel had enabled her movement, the fifth, ‘Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit’, to flow rather nicely. She was not much of an angel. Simon Keenlyside, on the other hand, brought an expected Lieder-singer’s attention to detail to his contributions; this may have been anticipated but was no less welcome for it. There was an occasional slight dryness to his tone, but this was only remarkable on account of the richness that characterised the rest of his part. In the third movement, there was a true sense of him narrating, with the chorus providing Bachian commentary; in the sixth, he proved ardent and eloquent. If this performance did not provide an unforgettable, implacable, Klemperer-like statement, then it boasted many excellent qualities, notably the contributions from the orchestra and from Keenlyside.
Brahms – Variations on a theme by Joseph Haydn, Op.56a
Brahms – Ein deutsches Requiem, Op.45
Heidi Grant Murphy (soprano)
Simon Keenlyside (baritone)
Philharmonia Chorus
Philharmonia Voices
Philharmonia Orchestra
Lorin Maazel (conductor)
With this concert, the Philharmonia and Lorin Maazel’s series, ‘Brahms: the Romantic’ reached its conclusion. It is perhaps a pity that none of the smaller vocal and choral works, or indeed the serenades and concertos, were included, but one cannot have everything. After a somewhat sluggish Third Symphony, I rather feared for the Haydn Variations. However, the statement of the St Anthony Chorale struck quite a different note. Deftly articulated and winningly phrased, it was followed by a series of well-characterised variations. The third, for instance, was rather swift – quite a relief! – and struck an aptly serenade-like note. Indeed, throughout the wind were pleasingly characterful. Christopher Cowie’s solo oboe shone in the fourth, as did the violas, once again commandingly led by the excellent Joel Hunter. There followed a lively, rhythmically taut fifth variation and a perky sixth with excellent horns. The seventh variation was graceful, without being skated over; Kenneth Smith was especially notable on the flute here, as once more were the oboe and violas. Hushed, confiding violins in the eighth led us into a noble finale, which exhibited both grace and a good sense of rhythmic and harmonic momentum. The whole orchestra, not least David Corkhill’s triangle, was permitted to shine in the final peroration. This was a fine reading of a work that often receives far less.
There could be no complaints of sluggishness in the German Requiem either; if anything, Maazel’s speeds may have erred on the other side. Certainly the opening sounded a little hasty, although one could appreciated a splendidly cultivated sound to the lower strings. Whilst the second movement, ‘Denn alles Fleisch es ist wie Gras,’ was also on the fast side, it possessed a convincing sense of onward tread, although I found its ending somewhat perfunctory. It was only really the conclusion to the third movement, ‘Herr, lehre doch mich,’ that proved something of a scramble: a pity really, given the convincing role the preceding pulsating of the tonic pedal had played in providing an apt sense of security to the musical events above. In general, the orchestra did an excellent job, ably directed by Maazel. For instance, one could well imagine the woodwind section in the first movement as purveyors of funereal Harmoniemusik, should the near-contradiction be permitted. There was a true sense of passage from darkness into light in the transition to the fugal section of the second movement: the brass section was resplendent and the organ (Malcolm Hicks) added a great deal too. The same could be said of their role in the sixth movement, ‘Denn wir haben hier keine bleibende Statt’, although the raising of the dead incorruptible was a little rushed; the section, ‘Tod, wo ist dein Stachel? …’ was much better in this respect. It is quite a tribute to successful orchestral balancing that one could clearly hear the Beethovenian piccolo (Keith Bragg) above all of this. Violins sounded especially sweet-toned in the consoling fourth movement, ‘Wie lieblich sind deine Wohunungen’, although, after a slightly galumphing fugal section, it was a relief to return to the preceding mood of a celestial Liebeslieder waltz. Schützian trombones were given a welcome opportunity to shine in the final movement, ‘Selig sind die Toten’, an invitation they accepted wholeheartedly. The harps added a welcome glimpse of something hereafter at the very end, whilst they had sounded strangely prominent in the first movement.
What of the singing? The combined forces of the Philharmonia Chorus and Philharmonia Voices sounded very good on the whole and proved attentive to the demands of the words as well as the music. There was, for example, a wonderful filling out of tone on the word ‘Freuden’ (‘joy’) in the first movement, although the sopranos here could occasionally sound a little shrill. The first return of the opening material in the second movement (and parallel passages) again provided a good, full sound from both chorus and orchestra, splendidly underlain by the kettledrums. I mentioned the somewhat effortful contribution from the chorus in the Handelian fugal section of the fourth movement, but this was very much the exception. The other shortcoming – although I am not sure whose fault this was – was a couple of cases of slight disjuncture between chorus and orchestra in the final movement. However, this movement on the whole evinced an apt sense of reprise, return, and yet progress too, in coming to terms with whatever loss may have afflicted us. Heidi Grant Murphy was adequate as a soprano soloist. I have heard worse but she was overly tremulous, if appropriately maternal. Many of her words, especially later on, were incomprehensible, which was a pity, since Maazel had enabled her movement, the fifth, ‘Ihr habt nun Traurigkeit’, to flow rather nicely. She was not much of an angel. Simon Keenlyside, on the other hand, brought an expected Lieder-singer’s attention to detail to his contributions; this may have been anticipated but was no less welcome for it. There was an occasional slight dryness to his tone, but this was only remarkable on account of the richness that characterised the rest of his part. In the third movement, there was a true sense of him narrating, with the chorus providing Bachian commentary; in the sixth, he proved ardent and eloquent. If this performance did not provide an unforgettable, implacable, Klemperer-like statement, then it boasted many excellent qualities, notably the contributions from the orchestra and from Keenlyside.
Brahms: the Romantic - Philharmonia/Maazel, 28 June 2008 (1)
Royal Festival Hall
Brahms – Symphony no.3 in F major, Op.90
Brahms – Symphony no.4 in E minor, Op.98
Philharmonia Orchestra
Lorin Maazel (conductor)
This was the second of three concerts entitled ‘Brahms: the Romantic,’ with Lorin Maazel now conducting the Philharmonia, having previously presented the series with both the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic. The size of the orchestra encouraged: none of this miniaturist nonsense concerning a supposed re-creation of Brahms in Meiningen, as if that were the only orchestra with which he worked. Even if it had been, that would have precious little to tell us today. Rather we had a ‘standard’ Romantic string section of proportions 16.14.12.10.8. Nor was there any hint of the frankly ludicrous non-vibrato approach trumpeted by Roger Norrington. In other words, music rather than dubious ‘historical’ claims – which, in fact, are characterised by a complete lack of historical understanding – came first. Division of the first and second violins – a practice the ‘authenticists’ have outrageously claimed as their own, as if Furtwängler and countless other conductors had never lived – was not followed, but Maazel showed that one can still register the interplay between them without a fully antiphonal physical separation. He also showed that there are passages which can benefit from having the lower strings seated further away: a salutary reminder to those of us who are too ready dogmatically to favour the alternative.
The fullness of the Third Symphony’s opening wind chords was most encouraging, as was the subsequent richness of the lower strings: one might have been in Dresden. There were fine contributions from the principal oboe (Christopher Cowie) and the pizzicato strings. However, the first movement as a whole was surprisingly sombre, not least on account of its slow tempo. There are of course all sorts of ways to understand Allegro con brio, but I felt that this performance often lacked both components of its job-description. Added to that, there were numerous instances of slowing down, with the result that the music almost ground to a halt. Somehow the structure remained admirably clear, as it would throughout both symphonic performances, but drama was often lacking. Maazel wrote in the programme that a conductor ‘conversant with the sonatas, trios, quartets et al., can learn to eschew rhetorical flourishes, saccharine pulping of phrases and maudlin dawdling’. There was not much of the first two qualities but I can only wish that he had followed his own advice with regard to the third. The opening of the second movement was better. Clarinets and bassoons sounded positively Mozartian in the opening, attentively answered first by a pair of horns and then by lower strings. The violins sounded silky-smooth when they finally entered. Although the general tempo was again rather slow, it was ruminative and yet forward-moving; it did not drag. This allowed some gorgeous – if at times a little Tchaikovskian – sounds to emanate from the orchestra, not least from the ’cellos. They also took the lead at the opening of third movement, with the first violins once again silky in their response. This was a case when the orchestral seating truly paid off. Horn (Nigel Black) and oboes solos were especially remarkable for their warmth. The movement retained its intermezzo-like character despite the slow speed, although it was a somewhat sombre example of its kind. The opening of the finale brought with it some much-needed tension, yet the movement soon became a little too stately. The celebrated quiet ending sounded exhausted rather than peaceful, in spite of a splendidly ominous kettledrum roll from Andrew Smith. Maazel’s interpretation on clearly resulted from a considered approach, if sometimes a little exaggerated in that respect; yet its sombre, even somnolent quality was not really successful, at least for me. Brahms sounded sapped of his vitality – and this in a work in which I at least think of him as standing close to the spirit of Haydn.
The Fourth sounded very different and was on the whole more successful. Those celebrated opening thirds, from which the whole of the symphony’s Schoenbergian developing variation results, sounded a little too sectionalised. I certainly have nothing against underlining the legacy for Schoenberg, Webern, and even Stockhausen, but the intervals form part of greater structures too. The analytical approach began to pay off more clearly, however, when one heard far more of the crucial inner parts, for instance the violas, than is often the case; this aided rhythmic impetus as well as motivic development. It is worth remarking here the outstanding contribution from the violas throughout, and that of their guest principal, Joel Hunter; one could see as well as hear the dynamic leadership he offered to his colleagues. The icy tragedy of the first movement’s conclusion was extremely well judged. However, the opening of the Andante moderato sounded a little too stentorian; the horn solo sounded far more beguiling the second time around. That said, the contribution of pizzicato strings was faultless; moreover, when the violins took up their bows against the plucked lower strings, they truly took flight. Full vibrato intensified the strings’ consoling role. At times, however, the movement dragged a little, as was highlighted by the vigorous opening of the scherzo. This movement sounded magnificent; every section shone, and one should not here forget the crucial contribution of the triangle. Tension was maintained throughout, which continued into the finale. There was an ominous tread from the very beginning, although this was occasionally imperilled thereafter by excessive sectionalisation. (At least the great passacaglia’s structure was crystal clear.) That said, there was a majesty to the slowest sections that impressed on its own terms; to the rest, there was a vehemence that ultimately struck the right sort of tragic note.
Brahms – Symphony no.3 in F major, Op.90
Brahms – Symphony no.4 in E minor, Op.98
Philharmonia Orchestra
Lorin Maazel (conductor)
This was the second of three concerts entitled ‘Brahms: the Romantic,’ with Lorin Maazel now conducting the Philharmonia, having previously presented the series with both the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic. The size of the orchestra encouraged: none of this miniaturist nonsense concerning a supposed re-creation of Brahms in Meiningen, as if that were the only orchestra with which he worked. Even if it had been, that would have precious little to tell us today. Rather we had a ‘standard’ Romantic string section of proportions 16.14.12.10.8. Nor was there any hint of the frankly ludicrous non-vibrato approach trumpeted by Roger Norrington. In other words, music rather than dubious ‘historical’ claims – which, in fact, are characterised by a complete lack of historical understanding – came first. Division of the first and second violins – a practice the ‘authenticists’ have outrageously claimed as their own, as if Furtwängler and countless other conductors had never lived – was not followed, but Maazel showed that one can still register the interplay between them without a fully antiphonal physical separation. He also showed that there are passages which can benefit from having the lower strings seated further away: a salutary reminder to those of us who are too ready dogmatically to favour the alternative.
The fullness of the Third Symphony’s opening wind chords was most encouraging, as was the subsequent richness of the lower strings: one might have been in Dresden. There were fine contributions from the principal oboe (Christopher Cowie) and the pizzicato strings. However, the first movement as a whole was surprisingly sombre, not least on account of its slow tempo. There are of course all sorts of ways to understand Allegro con brio, but I felt that this performance often lacked both components of its job-description. Added to that, there were numerous instances of slowing down, with the result that the music almost ground to a halt. Somehow the structure remained admirably clear, as it would throughout both symphonic performances, but drama was often lacking. Maazel wrote in the programme that a conductor ‘conversant with the sonatas, trios, quartets et al., can learn to eschew rhetorical flourishes, saccharine pulping of phrases and maudlin dawdling’. There was not much of the first two qualities but I can only wish that he had followed his own advice with regard to the third. The opening of the second movement was better. Clarinets and bassoons sounded positively Mozartian in the opening, attentively answered first by a pair of horns and then by lower strings. The violins sounded silky-smooth when they finally entered. Although the general tempo was again rather slow, it was ruminative and yet forward-moving; it did not drag. This allowed some gorgeous – if at times a little Tchaikovskian – sounds to emanate from the orchestra, not least from the ’cellos. They also took the lead at the opening of third movement, with the first violins once again silky in their response. This was a case when the orchestral seating truly paid off. Horn (Nigel Black) and oboes solos were especially remarkable for their warmth. The movement retained its intermezzo-like character despite the slow speed, although it was a somewhat sombre example of its kind. The opening of the finale brought with it some much-needed tension, yet the movement soon became a little too stately. The celebrated quiet ending sounded exhausted rather than peaceful, in spite of a splendidly ominous kettledrum roll from Andrew Smith. Maazel’s interpretation on clearly resulted from a considered approach, if sometimes a little exaggerated in that respect; yet its sombre, even somnolent quality was not really successful, at least for me. Brahms sounded sapped of his vitality – and this in a work in which I at least think of him as standing close to the spirit of Haydn.
The Fourth sounded very different and was on the whole more successful. Those celebrated opening thirds, from which the whole of the symphony’s Schoenbergian developing variation results, sounded a little too sectionalised. I certainly have nothing against underlining the legacy for Schoenberg, Webern, and even Stockhausen, but the intervals form part of greater structures too. The analytical approach began to pay off more clearly, however, when one heard far more of the crucial inner parts, for instance the violas, than is often the case; this aided rhythmic impetus as well as motivic development. It is worth remarking here the outstanding contribution from the violas throughout, and that of their guest principal, Joel Hunter; one could see as well as hear the dynamic leadership he offered to his colleagues. The icy tragedy of the first movement’s conclusion was extremely well judged. However, the opening of the Andante moderato sounded a little too stentorian; the horn solo sounded far more beguiling the second time around. That said, the contribution of pizzicato strings was faultless; moreover, when the violins took up their bows against the plucked lower strings, they truly took flight. Full vibrato intensified the strings’ consoling role. At times, however, the movement dragged a little, as was highlighted by the vigorous opening of the scherzo. This movement sounded magnificent; every section shone, and one should not here forget the crucial contribution of the triangle. Tension was maintained throughout, which continued into the finale. There was an ominous tread from the very beginning, although this was occasionally imperilled thereafter by excessive sectionalisation. (At least the great passacaglia’s structure was crystal clear.) That said, there was a majesty to the slowest sections that impressed on its own terms; to the rest, there was a vehemence that ultimately struck the right sort of tragic note.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Alfred Brendel's final London recital, 27 June 2008
Royal Festival Hall
Haydn – Variations in F minor, Hob.XVII/6
Mozart – Sonata in F major, KV 533/494
Beethoven – Sonata no.13 in E-flat major, ‘Quasi una fantasia,’ Op. 27 no.1
Schubert – Sonata in B-flat major, D 960
Alfred Brendel (piano)
Alfred Brendel’s final recital in the city that has become his adopted home could never have failed to be a very special occasion. The warmth of his reception and of the almost innumerable standing ovations at the end attested to that. There is no need to worry oneself asking how this would have stood up to scrutiny had it been ‘just another recital’; it was not. Yet, circumstances notwithstanding, Brendel delivered piano-playing and musicianship of the highest order – that is, at a level quite different from the relatively disappointing performance of Mozart’s C minor piano concerto with the LSO and Bernard Haitink earlier in the month.
Then I had felt that Brendel only really came into his own in his encore; here, we were treated to a fine account of Haydn’s F minor variations, which captivated from the supremely well-judged rise and fall of the opening theme (and its repetitions) onwards. The use Brendel made of its dotted rhythms in itself provided a master-class in attention to detail: not merely articulated for their own sake, but also providing subtle rhythmic impetus and highlighting motivic connections. In this, he was aided by impeccable control of line, the sole upset being a nervous-sounding slip during the second half of the first theme. Rubato was more present than one might have expected, yet never drew attention to itself, serving instead a greater strategic plan. The maggiore theme – this is a masterly set of double variations, in F minor and F major – brought an exquisite grace, especially in Brendel’s handling of its characteristic septuplets, and also a sense, which penetrates to the very heart of the Classical style, that oscillation between tonic minor and major presents two sides of the same tonal coin. To that end, pathos was not overdone in the return to F minor for the syncopated first variation; it nevertheless shone through with dignity. The trills of the first major variation told melodically: there was no question of Haydn’s variation form being merely ornamental. When in the left hand, these trills formed a strong foundation for the right hand’s developmental flights of fancy. Likewise, the arpeggios at the close of the second minor variation were given their true melodic worth rather than being treated simply as figuration. Brendel’s wonderfully-judged fermata when the repeated minor theme broke off to introduce something quite new, in the guise of the variations’ finale, pointed to an unerring sense of dramatic timing. He similarly brought a heart-stopping moment of stasis immediately before the noble coda.
In the Mozart sonata, the opening Allegro had a fast tempo indeed: faster than I might have preferred, although I admit that it never sounded merely rushed. There was also a commendable flexibility when required. Brendel imparted a duly Bachian quality to Mozart’s decidedly ‘late’ counterpart, without sacrifice to what turned out to be the complementary rather than opposing demands of the Mozartian cantilena. It was clear, moreover, that Brendel was able and willing to relate the style of the piano sonatas to the rest of Mozart’s œuvre. There was a true sense of orchestral entry to the left-hand chords (beginning in bar 82) underlying the triplet runs. During the exposition repeat, I felt that we had entered into the world of opera, through Brendel’s sharp characterisation of the themes and their presentation. The left hand’s presentation of the first subject announced the arrival on stage of a buffo baritone somewhere between Figaro and the Count. And the world of the concerto returned with the opening of the development section, reminding us that Mozart’s style is always dramatic. That difficult final chord of the development was disappointingly anti-climatic, but the fresh impetus of the recapitulation – no mere repetition here – more or less straight away made one forget such a niggardly complaint. The counterpoint was integral to the dramatic flow, never sounding ‘additional’. A wonderful sense of exaltation in the closing triplet arpeggios brought the movement to a close. The Andante, quite rightly, brought not repose but emotional intensification in a movement of extreme chromaticism. (A watch alarm irritated but could not unduly disrupt.) Relative relaxation had to wait for the brief moment of the opening of the second subject. The exposition repeat had considerable ornamentation lavished upon it, including some entirely convincing syncopation. If one is going to do this, this is how it should be done. Duly vocal leaps at the conclusions of the exposition and recapitulation reminded us once again of the proximity to Mozartian opera, as did the sense of yearning in the return of the second subject. In between, however, Mozart – and Brendel – had taken us, during the development, very close to Tristan, with even greater harmonic instability, and yet expert hands leading us towards the climax. With the recapitulation, we could relax somewhat, although the sometimes heavy – yet never unduly so – ornamentation provided its own intensification. The rondo finale began in contrasting fashion with a telling suggestion of the music box. Semiquavers flowed, as Mozart demanded, ‘like oil’, yet with a winningly impish quality too. Heightened drama came with the turn towards the relative minor. Syncopation was truly made to tell through Brendel’s underlying rhythmic security. In the lead up to the cadenza, we were once again – unsurprisingly – reminded of Mozart’s piano concertos. The control and mastery of both composer and pianist was then displayed in its flowering of mock-fugal counterpoint. After this, the clarity and grace of the deceptively straightforward coda – extremely difficult to voice satisfactorily – rounded off a very fine performance.
The expertly handled rise and fall of the left-hand phrases in the opening theme of the Beethoven sonata pointed to the connection with Haydn. Even the ringing of a mobile telephone – let us hope that the culprit will have something very nasty in store during the after-life – could not detract from what was once again a supreme display of thoughtful musicianship. Climaxes were not merely exciting but, more importantly, rapt in their sublimity. Brendel proved himself alert to the subtitle, ‘Sonata quasi una fantasia’, for the C major outburst imparted a sense of (controlled) improvisatory fantasy and, indeed, of formal boundaries already beginning to break down: there is much that is ‘late’ in earlier Beethoven. A fierce passion, allied to unerring and rhythmic formal control, characterised the second movement, leading us surely into the sublimity of the Adagio con espressione. Once again, the rise and fall of phrases was expertly judged, as were their integration into the formal whole and harmonic momentum. The tension thereby produced became almost unbearable until the music sounded transmuted by trills, which in turn led us into the fourth movement. This brought a perfect sense of release, and also gave voice to Beethoven’s and Brendel’s twin senses of humour, not least in the voicing of the counterpoint. Sterner moments lacked nothing, however, in necessary weight. The arpeggios were here as exultant as they had been in Mozart, although they sounded, quite rightly, more complex in Beethoven’s fuller textures. The return of the sonata’s opening theme marked a return to that earlier rapt sublimity – and also a sense of true homecoming, the opening of the fourth movement now understood in retrospect as a false culmination. The Presto coda rounded things off perfectly. Almost everything had been said; now everything had.
With Schubert, we came to the second half – and to the final member of Brendel’s quartet of Classical gods. Schubert’s final sonata could not fail to impart something of a valedictory quality to proceedings, but Brendel was determined that this quality should not be exaggerated. The opening Molto moderato was certainly not fast; nor, however, was it an existentially devastated, overly-laden-with-pathos counterpart to Winterreise. Instead, it emerged as remarkably clear-sighted. There was stoical vehemence in the forte restatement of the first subject, as we were led into the second, but there was nothing hysterical to it. It was left to the second subject, in F-sharp minor, to impart a sense of the tragic, albeit without a hint of anything maudlin. The development section brought with its triplets an appropriate sense of strenuous working out. We had a sure guide, however, to its wondrous harmonic explorations, the pianist’s rhythmic command as crucial in this respect as his tonal understanding. The left hand trills were clear and yet brooding, their positioning truly made to tell. And the second subject emerged defiant in the recapitulation, before yielding to what Brendel, quoted in the programme note, has aptly described as a feeling of being ‘blissfully fatigued’. ‘Clear-sighted melancholy’ (Brendel again) characterised the second movement. There was, however, also a sense of something very close to the unfolding of tragedy, which emerged through that very quality Brendel cited. Brendel refused to linger, always heading forwards. The central section was songlike, yet it sang defiantly. That most miraculous of Schubert’s modulations, from C-sharp minor to C major, heralded, as it must, the opening up of a new world before our ears – and perhaps our eyes too – unbearably tantalising in the brevity of its epiphany. We were thereby, however, enabled to reach some sort of peace in the justly equivocal C-sharp major conclusion. In the programme notes, Nick Breckenfield characterised the Scherzo as reintroducing ‘the hustle and bustle of daily life’. This was certainly how it felt on this occasion. One could almost see, let alone hear, the operatic chorus of maids chattering and attending to their business, by way of contrast to the previous dramatic and metaphysical revelations. Brendel’s description – ‘soaring and playful’ – was equally true of his reading. Yet I am sure that I heard – perhaps even despite his efforts – darker undercurrents, which simply could not be banished. This is a weak B-flat major, not unlike that of Mozart’s final piano concerto. The Trio was ‘muffled and obstinate’ (Brendel), the pianist’s handling of its sforzandi reinforcing its strange obstinacy. The finale, unlike the other movements, followed without a break. That defiance on which I remarked earlier was once again present, yet so too was a rare beauty through grace: a word, which may here be appropriately understood in a theological as well as a secular sense. I shall quote in full Brendel’s summary: ‘“Fatigue and resignation”? No, rather: graceful resolution, playful vigour. Ironic twinkle; generous singing line; stubborn pugnacity. Surmounting of C minor fixation after the ninth assault: precious moment of self-abandonment. Assertive coda.’ This Schubert, then, would not go quietly into the night. Yet there was also, as there had to be, a profound ambivalence, a reluctance or indeed inability to sound a note of Beethovenian triumph. Schubert and Brendel here looked into the abyss and somehow also managed to console. And then, in the coda, they laughed too.
In normal circumstances, such would have been quite enough. Here, however, we were treated to no fewer than three encores. The slow movement from the Italian Concerto reminded us of Brendel’s all-too-infrequently credentials as a Bachian. In its unending melody and its unrelenting tragic nobility, it was as if Edwin Fischer were once again amongst us. Liszt’s Au lac de Wallenstadt was beautifully controlled, reminding us of the sterling efforts Brendel has made throughout his career to restore Liszt to the position that is rightly his. It was a hymn to the Romantic conception of Nature, whose final note faded as exquisitely as the previous voice-leading. To conclude, however, we simply had to hear Schubert’s G-flat Impromptu, and we did. The bass undercurrents reminded us of the trills in the first movement of the Schubert sonata. Romantic passion was present in the central section, yet it was not unbridled and was all the stronger for not being so. The return of the opening material was ineffably moving. There was no need to attempt to dissociate performance from occasion, for the two were as one. So too were composer and pianist.
Haydn – Variations in F minor, Hob.XVII/6
Mozart – Sonata in F major, KV 533/494
Beethoven – Sonata no.13 in E-flat major, ‘Quasi una fantasia,’ Op. 27 no.1
Schubert – Sonata in B-flat major, D 960
Alfred Brendel (piano)
Alfred Brendel’s final recital in the city that has become his adopted home could never have failed to be a very special occasion. The warmth of his reception and of the almost innumerable standing ovations at the end attested to that. There is no need to worry oneself asking how this would have stood up to scrutiny had it been ‘just another recital’; it was not. Yet, circumstances notwithstanding, Brendel delivered piano-playing and musicianship of the highest order – that is, at a level quite different from the relatively disappointing performance of Mozart’s C minor piano concerto with the LSO and Bernard Haitink earlier in the month.
Then I had felt that Brendel only really came into his own in his encore; here, we were treated to a fine account of Haydn’s F minor variations, which captivated from the supremely well-judged rise and fall of the opening theme (and its repetitions) onwards. The use Brendel made of its dotted rhythms in itself provided a master-class in attention to detail: not merely articulated for their own sake, but also providing subtle rhythmic impetus and highlighting motivic connections. In this, he was aided by impeccable control of line, the sole upset being a nervous-sounding slip during the second half of the first theme. Rubato was more present than one might have expected, yet never drew attention to itself, serving instead a greater strategic plan. The maggiore theme – this is a masterly set of double variations, in F minor and F major – brought an exquisite grace, especially in Brendel’s handling of its characteristic septuplets, and also a sense, which penetrates to the very heart of the Classical style, that oscillation between tonic minor and major presents two sides of the same tonal coin. To that end, pathos was not overdone in the return to F minor for the syncopated first variation; it nevertheless shone through with dignity. The trills of the first major variation told melodically: there was no question of Haydn’s variation form being merely ornamental. When in the left hand, these trills formed a strong foundation for the right hand’s developmental flights of fancy. Likewise, the arpeggios at the close of the second minor variation were given their true melodic worth rather than being treated simply as figuration. Brendel’s wonderfully-judged fermata when the repeated minor theme broke off to introduce something quite new, in the guise of the variations’ finale, pointed to an unerring sense of dramatic timing. He similarly brought a heart-stopping moment of stasis immediately before the noble coda.
In the Mozart sonata, the opening Allegro had a fast tempo indeed: faster than I might have preferred, although I admit that it never sounded merely rushed. There was also a commendable flexibility when required. Brendel imparted a duly Bachian quality to Mozart’s decidedly ‘late’ counterpart, without sacrifice to what turned out to be the complementary rather than opposing demands of the Mozartian cantilena. It was clear, moreover, that Brendel was able and willing to relate the style of the piano sonatas to the rest of Mozart’s œuvre. There was a true sense of orchestral entry to the left-hand chords (beginning in bar 82) underlying the triplet runs. During the exposition repeat, I felt that we had entered into the world of opera, through Brendel’s sharp characterisation of the themes and their presentation. The left hand’s presentation of the first subject announced the arrival on stage of a buffo baritone somewhere between Figaro and the Count. And the world of the concerto returned with the opening of the development section, reminding us that Mozart’s style is always dramatic. That difficult final chord of the development was disappointingly anti-climatic, but the fresh impetus of the recapitulation – no mere repetition here – more or less straight away made one forget such a niggardly complaint. The counterpoint was integral to the dramatic flow, never sounding ‘additional’. A wonderful sense of exaltation in the closing triplet arpeggios brought the movement to a close. The Andante, quite rightly, brought not repose but emotional intensification in a movement of extreme chromaticism. (A watch alarm irritated but could not unduly disrupt.) Relative relaxation had to wait for the brief moment of the opening of the second subject. The exposition repeat had considerable ornamentation lavished upon it, including some entirely convincing syncopation. If one is going to do this, this is how it should be done. Duly vocal leaps at the conclusions of the exposition and recapitulation reminded us once again of the proximity to Mozartian opera, as did the sense of yearning in the return of the second subject. In between, however, Mozart – and Brendel – had taken us, during the development, very close to Tristan, with even greater harmonic instability, and yet expert hands leading us towards the climax. With the recapitulation, we could relax somewhat, although the sometimes heavy – yet never unduly so – ornamentation provided its own intensification. The rondo finale began in contrasting fashion with a telling suggestion of the music box. Semiquavers flowed, as Mozart demanded, ‘like oil’, yet with a winningly impish quality too. Heightened drama came with the turn towards the relative minor. Syncopation was truly made to tell through Brendel’s underlying rhythmic security. In the lead up to the cadenza, we were once again – unsurprisingly – reminded of Mozart’s piano concertos. The control and mastery of both composer and pianist was then displayed in its flowering of mock-fugal counterpoint. After this, the clarity and grace of the deceptively straightforward coda – extremely difficult to voice satisfactorily – rounded off a very fine performance.
The expertly handled rise and fall of the left-hand phrases in the opening theme of the Beethoven sonata pointed to the connection with Haydn. Even the ringing of a mobile telephone – let us hope that the culprit will have something very nasty in store during the after-life – could not detract from what was once again a supreme display of thoughtful musicianship. Climaxes were not merely exciting but, more importantly, rapt in their sublimity. Brendel proved himself alert to the subtitle, ‘Sonata quasi una fantasia’, for the C major outburst imparted a sense of (controlled) improvisatory fantasy and, indeed, of formal boundaries already beginning to break down: there is much that is ‘late’ in earlier Beethoven. A fierce passion, allied to unerring and rhythmic formal control, characterised the second movement, leading us surely into the sublimity of the Adagio con espressione. Once again, the rise and fall of phrases was expertly judged, as were their integration into the formal whole and harmonic momentum. The tension thereby produced became almost unbearable until the music sounded transmuted by trills, which in turn led us into the fourth movement. This brought a perfect sense of release, and also gave voice to Beethoven’s and Brendel’s twin senses of humour, not least in the voicing of the counterpoint. Sterner moments lacked nothing, however, in necessary weight. The arpeggios were here as exultant as they had been in Mozart, although they sounded, quite rightly, more complex in Beethoven’s fuller textures. The return of the sonata’s opening theme marked a return to that earlier rapt sublimity – and also a sense of true homecoming, the opening of the fourth movement now understood in retrospect as a false culmination. The Presto coda rounded things off perfectly. Almost everything had been said; now everything had.
With Schubert, we came to the second half – and to the final member of Brendel’s quartet of Classical gods. Schubert’s final sonata could not fail to impart something of a valedictory quality to proceedings, but Brendel was determined that this quality should not be exaggerated. The opening Molto moderato was certainly not fast; nor, however, was it an existentially devastated, overly-laden-with-pathos counterpart to Winterreise. Instead, it emerged as remarkably clear-sighted. There was stoical vehemence in the forte restatement of the first subject, as we were led into the second, but there was nothing hysterical to it. It was left to the second subject, in F-sharp minor, to impart a sense of the tragic, albeit without a hint of anything maudlin. The development section brought with its triplets an appropriate sense of strenuous working out. We had a sure guide, however, to its wondrous harmonic explorations, the pianist’s rhythmic command as crucial in this respect as his tonal understanding. The left hand trills were clear and yet brooding, their positioning truly made to tell. And the second subject emerged defiant in the recapitulation, before yielding to what Brendel, quoted in the programme note, has aptly described as a feeling of being ‘blissfully fatigued’. ‘Clear-sighted melancholy’ (Brendel again) characterised the second movement. There was, however, also a sense of something very close to the unfolding of tragedy, which emerged through that very quality Brendel cited. Brendel refused to linger, always heading forwards. The central section was songlike, yet it sang defiantly. That most miraculous of Schubert’s modulations, from C-sharp minor to C major, heralded, as it must, the opening up of a new world before our ears – and perhaps our eyes too – unbearably tantalising in the brevity of its epiphany. We were thereby, however, enabled to reach some sort of peace in the justly equivocal C-sharp major conclusion. In the programme notes, Nick Breckenfield characterised the Scherzo as reintroducing ‘the hustle and bustle of daily life’. This was certainly how it felt on this occasion. One could almost see, let alone hear, the operatic chorus of maids chattering and attending to their business, by way of contrast to the previous dramatic and metaphysical revelations. Brendel’s description – ‘soaring and playful’ – was equally true of his reading. Yet I am sure that I heard – perhaps even despite his efforts – darker undercurrents, which simply could not be banished. This is a weak B-flat major, not unlike that of Mozart’s final piano concerto. The Trio was ‘muffled and obstinate’ (Brendel), the pianist’s handling of its sforzandi reinforcing its strange obstinacy. The finale, unlike the other movements, followed without a break. That defiance on which I remarked earlier was once again present, yet so too was a rare beauty through grace: a word, which may here be appropriately understood in a theological as well as a secular sense. I shall quote in full Brendel’s summary: ‘“Fatigue and resignation”? No, rather: graceful resolution, playful vigour. Ironic twinkle; generous singing line; stubborn pugnacity. Surmounting of C minor fixation after the ninth assault: precious moment of self-abandonment. Assertive coda.’ This Schubert, then, would not go quietly into the night. Yet there was also, as there had to be, a profound ambivalence, a reluctance or indeed inability to sound a note of Beethovenian triumph. Schubert and Brendel here looked into the abyss and somehow also managed to console. And then, in the coda, they laughed too.
In normal circumstances, such would have been quite enough. Here, however, we were treated to no fewer than three encores. The slow movement from the Italian Concerto reminded us of Brendel’s all-too-infrequently credentials as a Bachian. In its unending melody and its unrelenting tragic nobility, it was as if Edwin Fischer were once again amongst us. Liszt’s Au lac de Wallenstadt was beautifully controlled, reminding us of the sterling efforts Brendel has made throughout his career to restore Liszt to the position that is rightly his. It was a hymn to the Romantic conception of Nature, whose final note faded as exquisitely as the previous voice-leading. To conclude, however, we simply had to hear Schubert’s G-flat Impromptu, and we did. The bass undercurrents reminded us of the trills in the first movement of the Schubert sonata. Romantic passion was present in the central section, yet it was not unbridled and was all the stronger for not being so. The return of the opening material was ineffably moving. There was no need to attempt to dissociate performance from occasion, for the two were as one. So too were composer and pianist.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Mutter/LSO/Previn, 22 June 2008
Barbican Hall
Mozart - Serenade in G major, KV 525, 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik'
Mozart - Symphony no.39 in E-flat major, KV 543
Brahms - Violin Concerto in D major, Op.77
Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
André Previn (conductor)
This was a wonderful concert. The LSO sounded on better Mozartian form than I have heard it for a long time, certainly more so than under Bernard Haitink earlier this month and arguably even than under Sir Colin Davis at the beginning of this season. As if this were not enough to surprise me, I was also surprised by the fact that, reduced to chamber-size, with a smaller body of strings than under Haitink or Davis, it boasted a fuller and arguably more cultured sound. André Previn has long been a fine conductor of Mozart and Haydn, although rarely if ever has he been duly acknowledged as such. (Present-day mania for the 'authenticke' does not help.) Although I am perhaps more difficult to impress in Mozart's music than in that of any other composer, I was certainly impressed here. Mozart does not, one might say, require many things, only perfection; he certainly leaves nowhere to hide. Eine kleine Nachtmusik received no condescension, such as the musical nouveaux riches might accord it. Instead, it was given a straightforward, yet charmingly attentive account. No 'points' were being made; rather, a delightful example of Mozart's serenade style was played with grace, affection, and a beguiling sense of the Salzburg the composer had left behind. The warmth of the LSO's string section erased memories of that slight acid, which, somewhat surprisingly, had affected it under Haitink. Previn showed how the second movement could gracefully flow without being subjected to the perverse fast speeds of so many contemporary, modish performances. Likewise, the minuet can - and should - be taken three-to-a-bar, without any sense of dragging; this simply requires musicianship. The final movement was taken relatively slowly, yet it never seemed too slow and we were thereby permitted to savour the true Mozartian grace.
Similar virtues characterised the great E-flat major symphony, for which the strings were of course joined by woodwind, brass, and kettledrums. The surprise of the performance was that hard sticks were used for the latter. I should have preferred this not to have been the case; however, they were not used in the typical aggressive, exhibitionistic style of the 'authenticists' and this was my sole cavil. The relatively small number of strings had no trouble in sounding almost as warm in bloom as their Viennese counterparts, whilst the woodwind led us into a veritable garden of sonorous delights, especially during the third movement's trio. Tempi throughout were expertly judged; there was little in the way of rubato, but there did not need to be. Sterner moments, for instance the extraordinary minor-mode outbursts in the slow movement, were given their due, yet remained integrated into the whole; likewise, the strong, measured introduction to the first movement, whose unerring sense of direction governed the entire movement, indeed the entire symphony. Again, Previn did not seem out to make points, to present 'his' interpretation; yet, at the same time, this did not indicate a lack of imagination, merely a willingness to let this miraculous score speak (more or less) for itself.
Anne-Sophie Mutter was on exceptional form for the Brahms concerto. There could be no doubting the virtuosity and musicianship of her response to that violin concerto which I am tempted to describe as the greatest of all. Her tone was without fail expertly modulated to the requirements of the score, without this precluding great excitement. Moreover, she was -audibly and visibly - able and willing to engage in chamber music with the orchestra's principals when required. The same must be said for her dialogue with the conductor and orchestra as a whole. Mutter and Previn must have performed the concerto a good many times together and it showed; however, this appeared to inspire rather than to suggest any sense of routine. The lengthy phrases and paragraphs of the first movement were expertly handled, with an unerring sense of their place in the greater whole. Previn showed that there is absolutely no need to rush and, indeed, every reason not to do so, so long as one knows what one is doing. Needless to say, the cadenza was flawlessly despatched. In the second movement, there was an interesting impression of a Schumannesque intermezzo, suggesting delicacy, intimacy, and repose rather than the more typically weighty response to the score. Both approaches, it seems to me, can work, but I was fascinated to hear a somewhat lighter reading that worked rather than skimming over the musical surface. I had been about to claim that the gypsy fireworks of the finale were electric - although never in a shallow, merely virtuosic sense - when I realised that some metaphors were better left unmixed. The give and take between Mutter and the orchestral strings was often breathtaking, whilst all musicians' sense of the movement's harmonic progression ensured that Brahms's unerring sense of form won through. May we hear her - and Previn - in London again soon!
Mozart - Serenade in G major, KV 525, 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik'
Mozart - Symphony no.39 in E-flat major, KV 543
Brahms - Violin Concerto in D major, Op.77
Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin)
London Symphony Orchestra
André Previn (conductor)
This was a wonderful concert. The LSO sounded on better Mozartian form than I have heard it for a long time, certainly more so than under Bernard Haitink earlier this month and arguably even than under Sir Colin Davis at the beginning of this season. As if this were not enough to surprise me, I was also surprised by the fact that, reduced to chamber-size, with a smaller body of strings than under Haitink or Davis, it boasted a fuller and arguably more cultured sound. André Previn has long been a fine conductor of Mozart and Haydn, although rarely if ever has he been duly acknowledged as such. (Present-day mania for the 'authenticke' does not help.) Although I am perhaps more difficult to impress in Mozart's music than in that of any other composer, I was certainly impressed here. Mozart does not, one might say, require many things, only perfection; he certainly leaves nowhere to hide. Eine kleine Nachtmusik received no condescension, such as the musical nouveaux riches might accord it. Instead, it was given a straightforward, yet charmingly attentive account. No 'points' were being made; rather, a delightful example of Mozart's serenade style was played with grace, affection, and a beguiling sense of the Salzburg the composer had left behind. The warmth of the LSO's string section erased memories of that slight acid, which, somewhat surprisingly, had affected it under Haitink. Previn showed how the second movement could gracefully flow without being subjected to the perverse fast speeds of so many contemporary, modish performances. Likewise, the minuet can - and should - be taken three-to-a-bar, without any sense of dragging; this simply requires musicianship. The final movement was taken relatively slowly, yet it never seemed too slow and we were thereby permitted to savour the true Mozartian grace.
Similar virtues characterised the great E-flat major symphony, for which the strings were of course joined by woodwind, brass, and kettledrums. The surprise of the performance was that hard sticks were used for the latter. I should have preferred this not to have been the case; however, they were not used in the typical aggressive, exhibitionistic style of the 'authenticists' and this was my sole cavil. The relatively small number of strings had no trouble in sounding almost as warm in bloom as their Viennese counterparts, whilst the woodwind led us into a veritable garden of sonorous delights, especially during the third movement's trio. Tempi throughout were expertly judged; there was little in the way of rubato, but there did not need to be. Sterner moments, for instance the extraordinary minor-mode outbursts in the slow movement, were given their due, yet remained integrated into the whole; likewise, the strong, measured introduction to the first movement, whose unerring sense of direction governed the entire movement, indeed the entire symphony. Again, Previn did not seem out to make points, to present 'his' interpretation; yet, at the same time, this did not indicate a lack of imagination, merely a willingness to let this miraculous score speak (more or less) for itself.
Anne-Sophie Mutter was on exceptional form for the Brahms concerto. There could be no doubting the virtuosity and musicianship of her response to that violin concerto which I am tempted to describe as the greatest of all. Her tone was without fail expertly modulated to the requirements of the score, without this precluding great excitement. Moreover, she was -audibly and visibly - able and willing to engage in chamber music with the orchestra's principals when required. The same must be said for her dialogue with the conductor and orchestra as a whole. Mutter and Previn must have performed the concerto a good many times together and it showed; however, this appeared to inspire rather than to suggest any sense of routine. The lengthy phrases and paragraphs of the first movement were expertly handled, with an unerring sense of their place in the greater whole. Previn showed that there is absolutely no need to rush and, indeed, every reason not to do so, so long as one knows what one is doing. Needless to say, the cadenza was flawlessly despatched. In the second movement, there was an interesting impression of a Schumannesque intermezzo, suggesting delicacy, intimacy, and repose rather than the more typically weighty response to the score. Both approaches, it seems to me, can work, but I was fascinated to hear a somewhat lighter reading that worked rather than skimming over the musical surface. I had been about to claim that the gypsy fireworks of the finale were electric - although never in a shallow, merely virtuosic sense - when I realised that some metaphors were better left unmixed. The give and take between Mutter and the orchestral strings was often breathtaking, whilst all musicians' sense of the movement's harmonic progression ensured that Brahms's unerring sense of form won through. May we hear her - and Previn - in London again soon!
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Ariadne auf Naxos, Royal Opera, 16 June 2008
Royal Opera House
Prima Donna/Ariadne – Deborah Voigt
Composer – Kristine Jepson
Music Master – Sir Thomas Allen
Dancing Master – Alan Oke
Wigmaker – Jacques Imbrailo
Lackey – Dean Robinson
Officer – Nikola Matišić
Tenor/Bacchus – Robert Dean Smith
Zerbinetta – Gillian Keith
Harlequin – Markus Werba
Scaramuccio – Ji-Min Park
Truffaldino – Jeremy White
Brighella – Haoyin Xue
Naiad – Anita Watson
Dryad – Sarah Castle
Echo – Anna Leese
Major Domo – Alexander Pereira
Christof Loy (director)
Andrew Sinclair (revival director)
Herbert Murauer (designs)
Jennifer Tipton (lighting)
Beate Vollack (choreographer)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Mark Elder (conductor)
Of the three occasions on which I have now seen this production of Ariadne auf Naxos, I enjoyed this the least. It still had its good points but there was in general less focus than upon either of the previous outings. Christof Loy’s production had been the first of Antonio Pappano’s new regime at Covent Garden. As such, it had made a considerable impression, with smart theatrical values lavished upon an extremely well-chosen work: in some senses, the ultimate ‘opera about opera’, which manages both to celebrate and gently to send up all of our ideas concerning what the art-form is and what it should be.
The opening scene, in which the house of the ‘richest man in Vienna’ is displayed, the ground floor gradually rising to reveal beneath stairs the multifarious preparations for the forthcoming entertainment, remains a considerable coup de théâtre. However, the recurrence of a problem from the very first night, in which the change of scenery had necessitated an interval longer even that that planned, seemed less excusable and more irritating on a second revival. The point of the production is surely that, by mirroring in the Prologue the surroundings of the Royal Opera House itself, the audience realises that the attitudes being expressed on stage relate to its own preferences and opinions. To quote Horace, as so many have since, ‘Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur’ (‘Change but the name, and the tale is told of you’). If attention is unduly drawn to the stage machinery, especially the on-stage lift, in itself, then the work is vulgarised; one can step out to the foyer during the interval, should one really wish to watch a lift in action. It seemed to me, then, that the tightness of Loy’s original production was lost in Andrew Sinclair’s revival. The Personenregie seemed at times somewhat aimless, more so in the Opera than in the Prologue. This applied especially to Zerbinetta’s troupe. The original delight one had taken in the inappropriate juxtaposition of the antics of a motley commedia dell’arte crew with Ariadne’s opera seria was replaced, at least at times, with a sense of the arbitrary. For one thing, the choreography sometimes seemed straightforwardly embarrassing, rather than representing embarrassment. I was also puzzled by an inconsistency, which I assume must have been there all along, although I do not recall it. It was not clear why Zerbinetta’s men all changed into white tie and tails at the end of the Prologue, in order to appear on stage, only to emerge on stage during the Opera dressed quite differently. I then realised that the other characters also emerged alternatively attired. If the preparation we had witnessed had not indeed been preparation at all but something quite separate, dissociated from the following entertainment, then Strauss and Hofmannsthal’s finely-wrought interplay between Prologue and Opera was considerably slighted.
Musically too, this was a less impressive performance than had previously been the case. Pappano’s direction of the initial performances remains one of the best things I have heard him do, although it was eclipsed by the subsequent wisdom of Sir Colin Davis. Mark Elder received extremely warm applause on arriving in the pit, which was perhaps a response to the news that he too will soon be a musical knight. His view of the work, however, did not really seem to have settled; it certainly lacked coherence. There were moments, often the most Romantic ones, at which everything, or almost everything, came together and sounded glorious, not least the daringly slow speeds at which some of the Composer’s most beautiful music was taken. During the Opera, however, some stretches of the score merely sounded inappropriately slow, even dragging. The earlier stages of the Prologue, moreover, often sounded rushed and there was little sense of a greater symphonic whole. Insofar as one may consider the orchestra separately from its direction, it generally sounded good, though not outstanding. There were some magical Mozartian moments from the woodwind and the strings, when given their head, soared as if they were no longer of chamber-sized proportions. On the other hand, there were a few rough edges and minor slips.
The cast also proved more mixed than on previous occasions. Sir Thomas Allen approached perfection in reprising the role of the Music Master. Every word and every phrase were made to tell, although it was a pity that he was saddled with a silly wig. Jacques Imbrailo presented a vivid, wonderfully camp cameo as the Wigmaker; this Jette Parker Young Artist deserves to go far. I was less sure about the Scaramuccio and Brighella, who were adequate, no more. As for the rest of Zerbinetta’s troupe, Jeremy White acted well and sang reasonably, but Markus Werba was truly first-class. Possessed of a charismatic and most imaginatively dark stage presence, he proceeded to lavish a Lieder singer’s attention to verbal and musical detail upon his part. He may be renowned as a Papageno, a role he assumed splendidly for the Salzburg Festival under Riccardo Muti, but I should now dearly love to hear – and to see – him as Don Giovanni. He and Allen outshone the rest of the cast, which is not really as it should be. It was nevertheless fun to have Alexander Pereira, director of the Zurich Opera, add another wryly nonchalant - and on this occasion, unscheduled - appearance as the Major Domo to his roster; it was also good to see the health fascists confounded by having him smoke on stage. Gillian Keith seemed to grow into the character of Zerbinetta during the Opera, having sounded a little too anonymously light of voice in the Prologue. She delivered her coloratura fearlessly but wanted the depth of character that many artists have brought to this most delightful of roles. Kristine Jepson was no Irmgard Seefried. Her closing moments, in which the Composer appears finally to be voicing Strauss’s own beliefs, were movingly delivered, yet too many of her earlier lines were curiously lacking in shading. It is a cliché to describe Bacchus, or indeed any of Strauss’s tenor roles, as thankless, yet it is and they are. Robert Dean Smith sounded better than many, although there were uncharacteristic moments of strain after Bacchus’s arrival. He rose splendidly, however, to the demands of his final peroration. Deborah Voigt, however, delivered rather less than I had expected. She proved a convincing Prima Donna but an oddly wayward Ariadne. There were moments at which her soprano sounded truly glorious: both secure and lustrous. There were also far too many passages in which not only was her vibrato unflatteringly wide but she was also simply out of tune. I have heard her in a number of Strauss roles; this was by some degree her weakest.
Of course, one must try to make the best of what circumstances throw at one. Such is the message of the Prologue. Yet, despite those three truly estimable performances to which I have referred, the sheer enchantment of Ariadne deserved better than it generally received here; its intricate constructivism needs surer hands on the directorial and musical tillers.
Prima Donna/Ariadne – Deborah Voigt
Composer – Kristine Jepson
Music Master – Sir Thomas Allen
Dancing Master – Alan Oke
Wigmaker – Jacques Imbrailo
Lackey – Dean Robinson
Officer – Nikola Matišić
Tenor/Bacchus – Robert Dean Smith
Zerbinetta – Gillian Keith
Harlequin – Markus Werba
Scaramuccio – Ji-Min Park
Truffaldino – Jeremy White
Brighella – Haoyin Xue
Naiad – Anita Watson
Dryad – Sarah Castle
Echo – Anna Leese
Major Domo – Alexander Pereira
Christof Loy (director)
Andrew Sinclair (revival director)
Herbert Murauer (designs)
Jennifer Tipton (lighting)
Beate Vollack (choreographer)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Mark Elder (conductor)
Of the three occasions on which I have now seen this production of Ariadne auf Naxos, I enjoyed this the least. It still had its good points but there was in general less focus than upon either of the previous outings. Christof Loy’s production had been the first of Antonio Pappano’s new regime at Covent Garden. As such, it had made a considerable impression, with smart theatrical values lavished upon an extremely well-chosen work: in some senses, the ultimate ‘opera about opera’, which manages both to celebrate and gently to send up all of our ideas concerning what the art-form is and what it should be.
The opening scene, in which the house of the ‘richest man in Vienna’ is displayed, the ground floor gradually rising to reveal beneath stairs the multifarious preparations for the forthcoming entertainment, remains a considerable coup de théâtre. However, the recurrence of a problem from the very first night, in which the change of scenery had necessitated an interval longer even that that planned, seemed less excusable and more irritating on a second revival. The point of the production is surely that, by mirroring in the Prologue the surroundings of the Royal Opera House itself, the audience realises that the attitudes being expressed on stage relate to its own preferences and opinions. To quote Horace, as so many have since, ‘Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur’ (‘Change but the name, and the tale is told of you’). If attention is unduly drawn to the stage machinery, especially the on-stage lift, in itself, then the work is vulgarised; one can step out to the foyer during the interval, should one really wish to watch a lift in action. It seemed to me, then, that the tightness of Loy’s original production was lost in Andrew Sinclair’s revival. The Personenregie seemed at times somewhat aimless, more so in the Opera than in the Prologue. This applied especially to Zerbinetta’s troupe. The original delight one had taken in the inappropriate juxtaposition of the antics of a motley commedia dell’arte crew with Ariadne’s opera seria was replaced, at least at times, with a sense of the arbitrary. For one thing, the choreography sometimes seemed straightforwardly embarrassing, rather than representing embarrassment. I was also puzzled by an inconsistency, which I assume must have been there all along, although I do not recall it. It was not clear why Zerbinetta’s men all changed into white tie and tails at the end of the Prologue, in order to appear on stage, only to emerge on stage during the Opera dressed quite differently. I then realised that the other characters also emerged alternatively attired. If the preparation we had witnessed had not indeed been preparation at all but something quite separate, dissociated from the following entertainment, then Strauss and Hofmannsthal’s finely-wrought interplay between Prologue and Opera was considerably slighted.
Musically too, this was a less impressive performance than had previously been the case. Pappano’s direction of the initial performances remains one of the best things I have heard him do, although it was eclipsed by the subsequent wisdom of Sir Colin Davis. Mark Elder received extremely warm applause on arriving in the pit, which was perhaps a response to the news that he too will soon be a musical knight. His view of the work, however, did not really seem to have settled; it certainly lacked coherence. There were moments, often the most Romantic ones, at which everything, or almost everything, came together and sounded glorious, not least the daringly slow speeds at which some of the Composer’s most beautiful music was taken. During the Opera, however, some stretches of the score merely sounded inappropriately slow, even dragging. The earlier stages of the Prologue, moreover, often sounded rushed and there was little sense of a greater symphonic whole. Insofar as one may consider the orchestra separately from its direction, it generally sounded good, though not outstanding. There were some magical Mozartian moments from the woodwind and the strings, when given their head, soared as if they were no longer of chamber-sized proportions. On the other hand, there were a few rough edges and minor slips.
The cast also proved more mixed than on previous occasions. Sir Thomas Allen approached perfection in reprising the role of the Music Master. Every word and every phrase were made to tell, although it was a pity that he was saddled with a silly wig. Jacques Imbrailo presented a vivid, wonderfully camp cameo as the Wigmaker; this Jette Parker Young Artist deserves to go far. I was less sure about the Scaramuccio and Brighella, who were adequate, no more. As for the rest of Zerbinetta’s troupe, Jeremy White acted well and sang reasonably, but Markus Werba was truly first-class. Possessed of a charismatic and most imaginatively dark stage presence, he proceeded to lavish a Lieder singer’s attention to verbal and musical detail upon his part. He may be renowned as a Papageno, a role he assumed splendidly for the Salzburg Festival under Riccardo Muti, but I should now dearly love to hear – and to see – him as Don Giovanni. He and Allen outshone the rest of the cast, which is not really as it should be. It was nevertheless fun to have Alexander Pereira, director of the Zurich Opera, add another wryly nonchalant - and on this occasion, unscheduled - appearance as the Major Domo to his roster; it was also good to see the health fascists confounded by having him smoke on stage. Gillian Keith seemed to grow into the character of Zerbinetta during the Opera, having sounded a little too anonymously light of voice in the Prologue. She delivered her coloratura fearlessly but wanted the depth of character that many artists have brought to this most delightful of roles. Kristine Jepson was no Irmgard Seefried. Her closing moments, in which the Composer appears finally to be voicing Strauss’s own beliefs, were movingly delivered, yet too many of her earlier lines were curiously lacking in shading. It is a cliché to describe Bacchus, or indeed any of Strauss’s tenor roles, as thankless, yet it is and they are. Robert Dean Smith sounded better than many, although there were uncharacteristic moments of strain after Bacchus’s arrival. He rose splendidly, however, to the demands of his final peroration. Deborah Voigt, however, delivered rather less than I had expected. She proved a convincing Prima Donna but an oddly wayward Ariadne. There were moments at which her soprano sounded truly glorious: both secure and lustrous. There were also far too many passages in which not only was her vibrato unflatteringly wide but she was also simply out of tune. I have heard her in a number of Strauss roles; this was by some degree her weakest.
Of course, one must try to make the best of what circumstances throw at one. Such is the message of the Prologue. Yet, despite those three truly estimable performances to which I have referred, the sheer enchantment of Ariadne deserved better than it generally received here; its intricate constructivism needs surer hands on the directorial and musical tillers.
Lott/LSO/Haitink, 15 June 2008
Barbican Hall
Mozart - Symphony no.25 in G minor, KV 183
Strauss - Das Rosenband
Strauss - Wiegenlied
Strauss - Ruhe, meine Seele!
Strauss - Freundliche Vision
Strauss - Die heiligen drei Könige
Strauss - Ein Heldenleben
Dame Felicity Lott (soprano)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)
I was not entirely convinced by the programming here. This was the second of the LSO's Mozart and Strauss concerts under Bernard Haitink, part of a larger series vacuously entitled 'Pairs'. (Another 'pair' of composers had been Schubert and Bruckner.) The LSO's management seems a little too keen on these series-for-their-own-sake, since the concert also slotted into the 'Great Conductors' category. No one in his right mind would deny that Bernard Haitink was a great conductor; likewise, no one remotely interested in music would need to be told that he was. In any case, there was a sense of the 'Little' G minor symphony being tacked on to the beginning of a Strauss programme, which might have been better off with, say, Don Juan as a similarly substantial curtain-raiser. Alternatively, we might have heard in addition to the symphony a Mozart concert aria, thus highlighting the symphonic and vocal works of the chosen 'pair' of the composers. Mozart was, of course, a great influence on and inspiration to Strauss, but not especially in the works performed on this occasion.
At any rate, the symphony received a good performance. The orchestra, as in the preceding Mozart-Strauss concert, was perhaps a little more slimmed down than necessary, sounding more like the Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields than the LSO. That said, there were no irritating 'period' mannerisms, for which we must nowadays be eternally grateful. Tempi were uncontroversial. We should again be most grateful for the fact that Haitink took the Minuet three-to-a-bar. The LSO's woodwind burbled beautifully during the Trio, putting one in mind of the Salzburg - and subsequent - serenades. And the finale was a true Allegro, with enough but never too much Sturm und Drang, to bring the work to a fine conclusion.
That said, there was a distinct transformation of aspiration and achievement in the Strauss items. Felicity Lott did everything one could have asked. She imparted grace, beauty, and line to individually-tailored, truly heartfelt readings of each of her songs. One could discern every single word, so that, although the Barbican had considerately printed texts and translations in the (free) programme, those of us knowing Strauss and/or German never needed them. Hers is not, of course, a Jessye Norman sort of voice, yet there is plenty of potential, fully realised here, to soar above the orchestra when required. The contribution from Haitink and the LSO was truly beyond compare. I have never heard an orchestral contribution so full of lustrous tone and meaning. Several times, perhaps especially during the Freundliche Vision, I was reminded of just how great a Wagnerian Haitink is and how much we miss him. The direction imparted to the songs and the un-self-conscious moulding of the various instrumental lines was an object lesson in something far too elevated to be relegated to the category of 'accompaniment'. The only thing missing was Morgen! To my delight, Lott and Haitink performed it as an encore, which, more or less immediately - not least thanks to guest leader Sebastian Breuninger's exquisite solo - brought tears to my eyes.
Haitink brought all of these qualities - and more - to the fine performance of Ein Heldenleben. Whatever slight acidity the LSO's strings had acquired in the previous concert's Alpine Symphony had now evaporated (or however one might characterise such disappearance). Indeed, all sections of the orchestra were on top form, as once again was the guest leader. I wondered whether his solos were on occasion just a little too wayward, but then thought again: Pauline was more than a little inclined in that direction. It almost goes without saying, but should not, that Haitink proved a sure, symphonic guide to a score that can easily sound sprawling in lesser hands. Here its proportions were almost Classical, albeit with a clear lineage in the colouristic and formal experiments of Liszt's symphonic poems, which Haitink recorded superbly many years ago with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. One is never going to rid Ein Heldenleben of bombast; nor should one even try, since it is integral to the very idea of the composition. (The number of those who somehow fail to appreciate Strauss's irony is legion.) Yet this was never empty display; it was tailored to the musico-dramatic line of one of the very finest of Strauss's symphonic poems, all the sharper for Haitink's predictable yet still laudable refusal to play to the gallery.
Mozart - Symphony no.25 in G minor, KV 183
Strauss - Das Rosenband
Strauss - Wiegenlied
Strauss - Ruhe, meine Seele!
Strauss - Freundliche Vision
Strauss - Die heiligen drei Könige
Strauss - Ein Heldenleben
Dame Felicity Lott (soprano)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)
I was not entirely convinced by the programming here. This was the second of the LSO's Mozart and Strauss concerts under Bernard Haitink, part of a larger series vacuously entitled 'Pairs'. (Another 'pair' of composers had been Schubert and Bruckner.) The LSO's management seems a little too keen on these series-for-their-own-sake, since the concert also slotted into the 'Great Conductors' category. No one in his right mind would deny that Bernard Haitink was a great conductor; likewise, no one remotely interested in music would need to be told that he was. In any case, there was a sense of the 'Little' G minor symphony being tacked on to the beginning of a Strauss programme, which might have been better off with, say, Don Juan as a similarly substantial curtain-raiser. Alternatively, we might have heard in addition to the symphony a Mozart concert aria, thus highlighting the symphonic and vocal works of the chosen 'pair' of the composers. Mozart was, of course, a great influence on and inspiration to Strauss, but not especially in the works performed on this occasion.
At any rate, the symphony received a good performance. The orchestra, as in the preceding Mozart-Strauss concert, was perhaps a little more slimmed down than necessary, sounding more like the Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields than the LSO. That said, there were no irritating 'period' mannerisms, for which we must nowadays be eternally grateful. Tempi were uncontroversial. We should again be most grateful for the fact that Haitink took the Minuet three-to-a-bar. The LSO's woodwind burbled beautifully during the Trio, putting one in mind of the Salzburg - and subsequent - serenades. And the finale was a true Allegro, with enough but never too much Sturm und Drang, to bring the work to a fine conclusion.
That said, there was a distinct transformation of aspiration and achievement in the Strauss items. Felicity Lott did everything one could have asked. She imparted grace, beauty, and line to individually-tailored, truly heartfelt readings of each of her songs. One could discern every single word, so that, although the Barbican had considerately printed texts and translations in the (free) programme, those of us knowing Strauss and/or German never needed them. Hers is not, of course, a Jessye Norman sort of voice, yet there is plenty of potential, fully realised here, to soar above the orchestra when required. The contribution from Haitink and the LSO was truly beyond compare. I have never heard an orchestral contribution so full of lustrous tone and meaning. Several times, perhaps especially during the Freundliche Vision, I was reminded of just how great a Wagnerian Haitink is and how much we miss him. The direction imparted to the songs and the un-self-conscious moulding of the various instrumental lines was an object lesson in something far too elevated to be relegated to the category of 'accompaniment'. The only thing missing was Morgen! To my delight, Lott and Haitink performed it as an encore, which, more or less immediately - not least thanks to guest leader Sebastian Breuninger's exquisite solo - brought tears to my eyes.
Haitink brought all of these qualities - and more - to the fine performance of Ein Heldenleben. Whatever slight acidity the LSO's strings had acquired in the previous concert's Alpine Symphony had now evaporated (or however one might characterise such disappearance). Indeed, all sections of the orchestra were on top form, as once again was the guest leader. I wondered whether his solos were on occasion just a little too wayward, but then thought again: Pauline was more than a little inclined in that direction. It almost goes without saying, but should not, that Haitink proved a sure, symphonic guide to a score that can easily sound sprawling in lesser hands. Here its proportions were almost Classical, albeit with a clear lineage in the colouristic and formal experiments of Liszt's symphonic poems, which Haitink recorded superbly many years ago with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. One is never going to rid Ein Heldenleben of bombast; nor should one even try, since it is integral to the very idea of the composition. (The number of those who somehow fail to appreciate Strauss's irony is legion.) Yet this was never empty display; it was tailored to the musico-dramatic line of one of the very finest of Strauss's symphonic poems, all the sharper for Haitink's predictable yet still laudable refusal to play to the gallery.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Brendel/LSO/Haitink: Mozart and Strauss, 10 June 2008
Barbican Hall
Mozart - Piano Concerto no.24 in C minor, KV 491
Strauss - Eine Alpensinfonie
Alfred Brendel (piano)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)
This was always going to be a special occasion: one of Alfred Brendel's final London performances and in collaboration with none other than Bernard Haitink. Yet I felt the occasion was perhaps greater than the performance itself, when it came to the Mozart C minor piano concerto. There was certainly nothing wrong with the performance, aside from a slightly acidic quality to the LSO's violins. I wondered whether this was an unlikely sacrifice towards the false god of 'authenticism' but its continuation in some at least of the Strauss suggested not; the paucity of strings, from ten first violins down, was disappointing in this respect, however. The woodwind generally sounded beautiful, even if they lacked the last ounce of Viennese individuality. String articulation was on occasion slightly fussy, although one would generally hear far worse today. Perhaps it was the fault of where I was sitting, rather further forward in the stalls than might have been advisable, yet the orchestral blend left a little to be desired. There was no question that Brendel and Haitink both understood the piece inside out but there remained a want of passion, of drive even, especially during the first movement. Recall Beethoven's passion for this work and his claim that no one in his own age could have written it. Structurally everything was as sound as one would expect, save for a surprising slowing down, noticeably rectified by a somewhat abrupt resumption of tempo, in the final movement. Brendel's touch was its usual truthful self: not plain but simply revealing the music, apparently in itself. There were even hints of old masters such as Schnabel and Edwin Fischer, both of course great Mozartians. The opening of the slow movement was an especial highlight in this regard. Yet it seemed to me that he only reached his heights in the encore, the Schubert A-flat major impromptu, D.935/2. Here a lifetime's wisdom was distilled and Brendel's powerful imagination was given freer rein. Every note was made to tell, intellectually and emotionally. The final bars were moving as only Schubert can be - and only when performed like this. This in itself was more than worth the price of admission.
Haitink gave a very strong account of Strauss's Alpine Symphony. The work has had so many detractors that one might be tempted to wonder oneself. Even Karajan once claimed to conduct it for the epilogue alone and one can almost understand what he meant, whilst at the same time hearing that he did no such thing. By all means criticise Strauss for moral shortcomings but his compositional mastery here cannot be gainsaid. What An Alpine Symphony needs however is a truly symphonic account, which pays heed to or at least corresponds with its originally-intended subtitle, 'The Anti-Christ'. This it received here. Haitink refused to indulge the score - and goodness knows, there are enough temptations to do so here; the result was that its archlike structure emerged all the more clearly and meaningfully, with the pictorial elements very much taking a backseat. This is not to say that they were absent, for how could they be? The appearance of the waterfall was as beautiful as I have heard, yet the refusal to linger paid off handsomely. The extraordinarily tricky solo violin figurations were superbly handled, as the LSO's upper strings gradually acquired a greater bloom. Woodwind instruments were generally beguiling, with the oboe solo at the summit especially moving. And the brass, with but one brief movement of relative crudity, were resplendent throughout, not least in the case of the mass of hunting horns. However, when night fell, the structural strength of Haitink's reading reminded us that the day's journey had been primarily metaphysical - or, rather, in properly Nietzschean terms, anti-metaphysical.
Mozart - Piano Concerto no.24 in C minor, KV 491
Strauss - Eine Alpensinfonie
Alfred Brendel (piano)
London Symphony Orchestra
Bernard Haitink (conductor)
This was always going to be a special occasion: one of Alfred Brendel's final London performances and in collaboration with none other than Bernard Haitink. Yet I felt the occasion was perhaps greater than the performance itself, when it came to the Mozart C minor piano concerto. There was certainly nothing wrong with the performance, aside from a slightly acidic quality to the LSO's violins. I wondered whether this was an unlikely sacrifice towards the false god of 'authenticism' but its continuation in some at least of the Strauss suggested not; the paucity of strings, from ten first violins down, was disappointing in this respect, however. The woodwind generally sounded beautiful, even if they lacked the last ounce of Viennese individuality. String articulation was on occasion slightly fussy, although one would generally hear far worse today. Perhaps it was the fault of where I was sitting, rather further forward in the stalls than might have been advisable, yet the orchestral blend left a little to be desired. There was no question that Brendel and Haitink both understood the piece inside out but there remained a want of passion, of drive even, especially during the first movement. Recall Beethoven's passion for this work and his claim that no one in his own age could have written it. Structurally everything was as sound as one would expect, save for a surprising slowing down, noticeably rectified by a somewhat abrupt resumption of tempo, in the final movement. Brendel's touch was its usual truthful self: not plain but simply revealing the music, apparently in itself. There were even hints of old masters such as Schnabel and Edwin Fischer, both of course great Mozartians. The opening of the slow movement was an especial highlight in this regard. Yet it seemed to me that he only reached his heights in the encore, the Schubert A-flat major impromptu, D.935/2. Here a lifetime's wisdom was distilled and Brendel's powerful imagination was given freer rein. Every note was made to tell, intellectually and emotionally. The final bars were moving as only Schubert can be - and only when performed like this. This in itself was more than worth the price of admission.
Haitink gave a very strong account of Strauss's Alpine Symphony. The work has had so many detractors that one might be tempted to wonder oneself. Even Karajan once claimed to conduct it for the epilogue alone and one can almost understand what he meant, whilst at the same time hearing that he did no such thing. By all means criticise Strauss for moral shortcomings but his compositional mastery here cannot be gainsaid. What An Alpine Symphony needs however is a truly symphonic account, which pays heed to or at least corresponds with its originally-intended subtitle, 'The Anti-Christ'. This it received here. Haitink refused to indulge the score - and goodness knows, there are enough temptations to do so here; the result was that its archlike structure emerged all the more clearly and meaningfully, with the pictorial elements very much taking a backseat. This is not to say that they were absent, for how could they be? The appearance of the waterfall was as beautiful as I have heard, yet the refusal to linger paid off handsomely. The extraordinarily tricky solo violin figurations were superbly handled, as the LSO's upper strings gradually acquired a greater bloom. Woodwind instruments were generally beguiling, with the oboe solo at the summit especially moving. And the brass, with but one brief movement of relative crudity, were resplendent throughout, not least in the case of the mass of hunting horns. However, when night fell, the structural strength of Haitink's reading reminded us that the day's journey had been primarily metaphysical - or, rather, in properly Nietzschean terms, anti-metaphysical.
Thursday, 5 June 2008
LSO/Gergiev: Mahler, 5 June 2008
Barbican Hall
Mahler – Symphony no.10 in F sharp major: Adagio
Mahler – Symphony no.9
London Symphony Orchestra
Valery Gergiev (conductor)
‘Gergiev’s Mahler’ has raised more than a few critical hackles. I had only attended one concert previous to this, that of the Seventh, and, given the general reception awarded to earlier performances, had found it rather better than expected. I should in no sense have described it as a great performance, but it signified a considered, if still evolving, interpretation. Would that I could say the same of these performances.
I shall admit that I am yet to be convinced of the validity of nowadays presenting the Adagio from the Tenth Symphony by itself. One can present just about any movement by itself if one wishes, but it does not necessarily make for satisfying listening. Now that we know at the very least Mahler’s conception for the rest of the symphony, it seems odd that many conductors who appear, for instance, to have no difficulty in conducting Mozart’s Requiem, in whatever completion, still baulk at performing this far more ‘completed’ work. That terrible cataclysmic dissonance towards the end of the Adagio needs to be resolved, but will only achieve resolution in the symphony’s final movement. It can, I suppose, be left hanging prophetically, but one might say the same of many symphonic first movements. Or it might be underplayed, so as to permit some sort of scaled-down resolution within the Adagio. If I were to be excessively charitable, I might possibly entertain the proposition that this is what happened in Gergiev’s performance; I fear, however, that I should be clutching at some very thin straws indeed. The climax never came, which was emphatically not the fault of the trumpeter, who performed impeccably. He utterly lacked support and the performance utterly lacked terror. In a generally disappointing Adagio-only performance a few years ago at the Proms, Pierre Boulez had at least managed that. At any rate, the Barbican performance left nothing to be resolved, so the problem vanished into thin air. Nor had the rest of this reading been stronger. The opening, Parsifalian viola line was assiduously micro-managed; one could see and hear this. Here and upon any of its reprises – including that on the violins towards the very end – it was laboriously shaped rather than sinuously sung. The balance was often very odd, especially when brass entries overpowered the strings: quite an achievement in so string-saturated a movement. This was less of a problem when the Hauptstimme fell to the horns but, in general, it did not even sound perverse, merely careless. There were a couple of incidents of positive note. Guest leader, Anton Barakhovsky’s solos were taken exquisitely, here and elsewhere. There was a telling febrile intensity, almost Webern-like, to the violins, as they prepared the way for the would-be chords of terror. That, however, was about it. I was about to say that we should have been thankful for Gergiev’s fastish tempo, in that the performance finished sooner than would usually have been the case, but I suspect that this made little difference in practice.
The Andante comodo of the Ninth opened hesitantly: not, it seemed, a hesitancy born of interpretative choice, but merely out of unsteadiness. Matters did not improve when Gergiev once again resorted to fussy and arbitrary moulding of lines. Balances were once again odd: whether by design or omission was difficult to tell. The movement was often extremely rushed; the climaxes in particular were never given time to tell. There was little sense of the movement’s architecture. And the brass sounded as if they were playing Shostakovich rather than Mahler. This was a characterisation I had resisted during the earlier performance of the Seventh, suspecting that it would lazily have relied upon the cliché of an almost-Russian conductor understanding too much through the prism of the Soviet composer. Here, however, it was almost impossible to overlook. Military marches made their presence felt in quite the ‘wrong’ sort of sense: merely cheap rather than ironically so. For me at least, Mahler cannot now fail to be understood in terms of his legacy to the Second Viennese School and, indeed, to its successors. This is what continues to inspire in his music, not occasional correspondences with the dead end of ‘socialist realism’. As Boulez remarked in 2000, 'Well, Shostakovich plays with clichés most of the time, I find. It's like olive oil, when you have a second and even third pressing, and I think of Shostakovich as the second, or even third, pressing of Mahler.' On account of all of the above, what has often with good reason been accounted Mahler’s single greatest movement – I feel that I should attach ‘allegedly’ to the word comodo – felt tediously extended, again despite its sometimes frenetic pace.
The second movement started more promisingly, with the second violins really digging into their strings. Gergiev’s antiphonal division of the violins certainly paid off here. I initially thought there was a splendid sense of rhythm; this soon, however, became rigid in a fashion utterly inimical to Mahler and more akin to the worst of Toscanini’s Beethoven. There was something unpleasantly and indiscriminately aggressive to the entire movement, when a Ländler should surely be the most yielding of dances. Once again, I began to suspect a Shostakovich-inspired parody of Mahler.
The Rondo-Burleske came off better, perhaps because the general approach was more suited to this particular movement; what had seemed brazenly inappropriate was not necessarily so here. Even the shriekingly militaristic piccolo and percussion were not entirely out of place. Biting counterpoint was well projected, with a welcome note of sarcasm, and for perhaps the only time in the entire concert, there was a hint of new metaphysical vistas opening up during the middle section: a frustrating hint of what might have been. The harps sounded gorgeous and added suspense, as did shimmering violins. Even the helter-skelter rush at the end did not matter too much.
Then, however, we reverted to the bad old story. Indeed, the opening line exhibited precisely the same fussy micro-management as that of the Tenth had. The strings as a whole exhibited a good, full tone, securely underpinned by splendid double-basses, but then the principal horn entered, bringing with him the air of another planet, albeit that of DSCH rather than ASCH. The horn player in question was none other than David Pyatt, who has few if any rivals in the world today, whether technically or musically, so I can only assume that his brazen entry was a case of following orders. I have certainly never heard him play with such Russian-sounding vibrato – and yes, I tried to resist the cliché but this is genuinely what I heard. Some of the high violin lines might have been from Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk; there was not the slightest hint of standing only a stone’s throw, if that, from Berg. Gergiev’s direction was urgent in the wrong sense; in fact, it was simply hard-driven. He seemed to have forgotten that this was an Adagio; at times, it seemed barely to be an Andante. Had it not been – thankfully – for the strings’ vibrato, I might have wondered whether the spirit of Roger Norrington had taken possession of the conductor’s body. This was, I think, less a matter of tempo as such, although that played its part, as of a strange reluctance to yield. At any rate, I found myself saying under my breath: ‘Come back Leonard Bernstein. All, and I mean all, is forgiven!’ A couple of the climaxes were at last a little more yielding; yet by now, this merely sounded arbitrary, unmotivated by anything that had preceded them. The movement drifted on to its conclusion. Despite some beautifully hushed string playing, it was all too late; nothing could have salvaged this performance. Much of the audience appeared to differ, waiting for a considerable number of seconds in silence, albeit a silence punctuated by a generous number of coughs, as Gergiev’s hands remained frozen in mid-air. This seemed as arbitrary as the climaxes. As members of the audience stood to applaud, I resolved that it was high time to leave the hall, resorting to memories of Sir Simon Rattle’s great performance of this great work with the very same orchestra in 2000. I realised that, on the present occasion, not once, during a performance of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and part of his Tenth, had I been moved. There had clearly been something very wrong either with the performance or with me.
Mahler – Symphony no.10 in F sharp major: Adagio
Mahler – Symphony no.9
London Symphony Orchestra
Valery Gergiev (conductor)
‘Gergiev’s Mahler’ has raised more than a few critical hackles. I had only attended one concert previous to this, that of the Seventh, and, given the general reception awarded to earlier performances, had found it rather better than expected. I should in no sense have described it as a great performance, but it signified a considered, if still evolving, interpretation. Would that I could say the same of these performances.
I shall admit that I am yet to be convinced of the validity of nowadays presenting the Adagio from the Tenth Symphony by itself. One can present just about any movement by itself if one wishes, but it does not necessarily make for satisfying listening. Now that we know at the very least Mahler’s conception for the rest of the symphony, it seems odd that many conductors who appear, for instance, to have no difficulty in conducting Mozart’s Requiem, in whatever completion, still baulk at performing this far more ‘completed’ work. That terrible cataclysmic dissonance towards the end of the Adagio needs to be resolved, but will only achieve resolution in the symphony’s final movement. It can, I suppose, be left hanging prophetically, but one might say the same of many symphonic first movements. Or it might be underplayed, so as to permit some sort of scaled-down resolution within the Adagio. If I were to be excessively charitable, I might possibly entertain the proposition that this is what happened in Gergiev’s performance; I fear, however, that I should be clutching at some very thin straws indeed. The climax never came, which was emphatically not the fault of the trumpeter, who performed impeccably. He utterly lacked support and the performance utterly lacked terror. In a generally disappointing Adagio-only performance a few years ago at the Proms, Pierre Boulez had at least managed that. At any rate, the Barbican performance left nothing to be resolved, so the problem vanished into thin air. Nor had the rest of this reading been stronger. The opening, Parsifalian viola line was assiduously micro-managed; one could see and hear this. Here and upon any of its reprises – including that on the violins towards the very end – it was laboriously shaped rather than sinuously sung. The balance was often very odd, especially when brass entries overpowered the strings: quite an achievement in so string-saturated a movement. This was less of a problem when the Hauptstimme fell to the horns but, in general, it did not even sound perverse, merely careless. There were a couple of incidents of positive note. Guest leader, Anton Barakhovsky’s solos were taken exquisitely, here and elsewhere. There was a telling febrile intensity, almost Webern-like, to the violins, as they prepared the way for the would-be chords of terror. That, however, was about it. I was about to say that we should have been thankful for Gergiev’s fastish tempo, in that the performance finished sooner than would usually have been the case, but I suspect that this made little difference in practice.
The Andante comodo of the Ninth opened hesitantly: not, it seemed, a hesitancy born of interpretative choice, but merely out of unsteadiness. Matters did not improve when Gergiev once again resorted to fussy and arbitrary moulding of lines. Balances were once again odd: whether by design or omission was difficult to tell. The movement was often extremely rushed; the climaxes in particular were never given time to tell. There was little sense of the movement’s architecture. And the brass sounded as if they were playing Shostakovich rather than Mahler. This was a characterisation I had resisted during the earlier performance of the Seventh, suspecting that it would lazily have relied upon the cliché of an almost-Russian conductor understanding too much through the prism of the Soviet composer. Here, however, it was almost impossible to overlook. Military marches made their presence felt in quite the ‘wrong’ sort of sense: merely cheap rather than ironically so. For me at least, Mahler cannot now fail to be understood in terms of his legacy to the Second Viennese School and, indeed, to its successors. This is what continues to inspire in his music, not occasional correspondences with the dead end of ‘socialist realism’. As Boulez remarked in 2000, 'Well, Shostakovich plays with clichés most of the time, I find. It's like olive oil, when you have a second and even third pressing, and I think of Shostakovich as the second, or even third, pressing of Mahler.' On account of all of the above, what has often with good reason been accounted Mahler’s single greatest movement – I feel that I should attach ‘allegedly’ to the word comodo – felt tediously extended, again despite its sometimes frenetic pace.
The second movement started more promisingly, with the second violins really digging into their strings. Gergiev’s antiphonal division of the violins certainly paid off here. I initially thought there was a splendid sense of rhythm; this soon, however, became rigid in a fashion utterly inimical to Mahler and more akin to the worst of Toscanini’s Beethoven. There was something unpleasantly and indiscriminately aggressive to the entire movement, when a Ländler should surely be the most yielding of dances. Once again, I began to suspect a Shostakovich-inspired parody of Mahler.
The Rondo-Burleske came off better, perhaps because the general approach was more suited to this particular movement; what had seemed brazenly inappropriate was not necessarily so here. Even the shriekingly militaristic piccolo and percussion were not entirely out of place. Biting counterpoint was well projected, with a welcome note of sarcasm, and for perhaps the only time in the entire concert, there was a hint of new metaphysical vistas opening up during the middle section: a frustrating hint of what might have been. The harps sounded gorgeous and added suspense, as did shimmering violins. Even the helter-skelter rush at the end did not matter too much.
Then, however, we reverted to the bad old story. Indeed, the opening line exhibited precisely the same fussy micro-management as that of the Tenth had. The strings as a whole exhibited a good, full tone, securely underpinned by splendid double-basses, but then the principal horn entered, bringing with him the air of another planet, albeit that of DSCH rather than ASCH. The horn player in question was none other than David Pyatt, who has few if any rivals in the world today, whether technically or musically, so I can only assume that his brazen entry was a case of following orders. I have certainly never heard him play with such Russian-sounding vibrato – and yes, I tried to resist the cliché but this is genuinely what I heard. Some of the high violin lines might have been from Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk; there was not the slightest hint of standing only a stone’s throw, if that, from Berg. Gergiev’s direction was urgent in the wrong sense; in fact, it was simply hard-driven. He seemed to have forgotten that this was an Adagio; at times, it seemed barely to be an Andante. Had it not been – thankfully – for the strings’ vibrato, I might have wondered whether the spirit of Roger Norrington had taken possession of the conductor’s body. This was, I think, less a matter of tempo as such, although that played its part, as of a strange reluctance to yield. At any rate, I found myself saying under my breath: ‘Come back Leonard Bernstein. All, and I mean all, is forgiven!’ A couple of the climaxes were at last a little more yielding; yet by now, this merely sounded arbitrary, unmotivated by anything that had preceded them. The movement drifted on to its conclusion. Despite some beautifully hushed string playing, it was all too late; nothing could have salvaged this performance. Much of the audience appeared to differ, waiting for a considerable number of seconds in silence, albeit a silence punctuated by a generous number of coughs, as Gergiev’s hands remained frozen in mid-air. This seemed as arbitrary as the climaxes. As members of the audience stood to applaud, I resolved that it was high time to leave the hall, resorting to memories of Sir Simon Rattle’s great performance of this great work with the very same orchestra in 2000. I realised that, on the present occasion, not once, during a performance of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and part of his Tenth, had I been moved. There had clearly been something very wrong either with the performance or with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)