CPE Bach – Symphony in G major, Wq.173
JS Bach – Wer mich liebet, der Wird mein Wort halten, BWV 59: ‘Die Welt mit allen Königreichen’
Ich bin in mir vergnügt, BWV 204: ‘Die Schätzbarkeit der weitern Enden’
Ich lasse dich nicht, du segnest mich denn, BWV 157: ‘Ja, ja, ich halte meinen Jesum feste’
CPE Bach – Symphony in A major, Wq.182/4: ‘Allegro assai’
JS Bach – Der zufriedene Aeolus, BWV 205: ‘Angenehmer Zephyrus’
Liebster Jesu, mein Verlangen, BWV 32: ‘Hier meines Vaters Stätte’
JS Bach (arr. Mendelssohn) – St Matthew Passion, BWV 244: ‘Erbarme dich’
JS Bach – Orchestral Suite no.2 in B minor, BWV 1067: Overture
Sei Lob und Ehr dem höchsten Gut, BWV 117: ‘Wenn Trost und Hülf ermangeln muss’
Mass in B minor, BWV 232: ‘Laudamus te’
Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, BWV 140: ‘Wann kommst du, mein Heil?’
Ach Gott, wie manches Herzeleid, : ‘Ich bin vergnügt in meinen Leiden’
St Matthew Passion, BWV 244: ‘Gebt mir meinem Jesum wieder’
Orchestral Suite no.3 in D major, BWV 1068: Air
Der Friede sei mit dir, BWV 158: ‘Welt ade! Ich bin dein müde’
Mojca Erdmann (soprano)
Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Hilary Hahn (violin)
Munich Chamber Orchestra
Alexander Liebreich (conductor)
A strange programme, this, with the appearance of little true rationale, beyond boosting sales of a recently released CD, featuring Hilary Hahn playing violin obbligato parts in Bach vocal movements, joined by Matthias Goerne, Christine Schäfer, the Munich Chamber Orchestra, and Alexander Liebreich. Schäfer having fallen ill, Mojca Erdmann came to the rescue. But the true problem lay with a programme that remained very much less than the sum of its parts, made odder by the seemingly random inclusion of a symphony and a bit from CPE Bach. A golden opportunity to present some of the latter’s largely ignored vocal music was shunned, the early symphonic music sounding merely out of place by itself, even on the debatable terms of the programme as it otherwise stood.
As for the Emanuel Bach performances, the first symphony came off reasonably well: more than a little abrasive, but alas, one more or less has to expect that nowadays. The Sturm und Drang seemed overdone to me, feeling that I wanted to tell the conductor to calm down a bit, but the hyperactivity had a certain place as a curtain raiser. Likewise, the movement from the A major symphony had a sense of the theatre to it, akin to an operatic interlude. The problem was that this was hardly appropriate to the excerpts from Bach père. Admittedly, this was a movement from a secular cantata, itself seeming somewhat out of place amongst the sacred music, but even so, the change of register was odd. And whilst Bach have employed formerly secular music for sacred purposes, the words changed – which was not the case here.
The lack of coherence was underlined by the abrupt change of performance style following the orchestral introduction. As soon as Hilary Hahn came to the stage, the violin tone we heard was unambiguously ‘modern’, as opposed to period. For the most part, she played alone with continuo or occasional other obbligato appearances (flute and, very briefly, oboe), so the contrast was underlined further. Indeed, the lack of something to do for the orchestra for much of the time itself contributed further to the problematical nature of the programme. But Hahn’s performances – much more Academy of St Martin in the Fields than present-day Munich CO, though listen to old recordings to hear how the orchestra used to sound… – were impeccably presented, clean of tone but never clinical. In this, she had much in common with Erdmann’s bell-like soprano; the two worked well together. From their first joint appearance, in the aria from BWV 204, there was a sense of objectivity that was not chilly, but which rather permitted Bach’s doctrine, theological and musical, to speak for itself.
Matthias Goerne’s contributions, fine in themselves, seemed less connected to what the other soloists were doing, or vice versa. In the closing duet – one of only two – there was little interplay between the two singers, though that between baritone and violinist on the one hand, and soprano and oboist for the chorale, was noteworthy. Some of the most distinguished playing, though arising from quite a different school of Bach interpretation, came from the continuo performers, especially Rosario Conte’s theorbo and Kristin von der Goltz’s plangent, almost gamba-like cello. Tempi, in the first half pleasantly unsurprising, tended to the more eccentric in the second half. The ‘Laudamus te’, shorn from the B minor Mass, was absurdly fast, likewise Goerne’s ‘Gebt mir meinem Jesum wieder,’ which sounded merely petulant. Liebreich should listen to his Klemperer and Richter. What sounded as though it might be an interesting curiosity, Mendelssohn’s arrangement for soprano of ‘Erbarme dich,’ presented nothing that was characteristic of its arranger. There is no harm in hearing the aria for soprano, I suppose, and Erdmann sang it with expressive restraint, but one is so used to hearing a lower voice – Christa Ludwig an ideal here – that it is probably more an opportunity for sopranos than audiences.
Doubtless fans of the artists concerned – though presumably not those of Christine Schäfer – went away happy. The programme, however, failed to satisfy: not quite a collection of encores, but with about as much integrity. To have heard a selection of, rather than from, Bach cantatas performed by these musicians would have constituted a far richer experience. Even to have been permitted to hear the recitatives that would have prefaced the arias would have afforded a measure of context. That the programme notes acknowledged Deutsche Grammophon for texts and translations told us what we needed to know concerning priorities.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
The Cunning Little Vixen, Royal Opera, 19 March 2010
(sung in English)
Royal Opera House, Covent Garden
Vixen Sharp-Ears – Emma Matthews
Gamekeeper – Christopher Maltman
Fox – Elisabeth Meister
Schoolmaster/Mosquito – Robin Leggate
Gamekeeper’s Wife/Owl – Madeleine Shaw
Priest/Badger – Jeremy White
Harašta – Matthew Rose
Innkeeper’s Wife – Elisabeth Sikora
Pásek – Alasdair Elliott
Pepík – Simona Mihai
Frantík – Elizabeth Cragg
Rooster/Jay – Deborah Peake-Jones
Dachshund – Gerald Thompson
Forester’s Wife – Madeleine Shaw
Cricket – Peter Shafran
Caterpillar – Talo Hanson (front), Korey Knight (back)
Young Vixen – Eleanor Burke
Blue Dragonfly – Tom Sapsford
Spirit of the Vixen – Lyn Routledge
Chief Hen – Glenys Groves
Woodpecker – Amanda Floyd
Hare – Marnie Carr
Flies, Foxcubs, Other Children, Dancers
Bill Bryden (director)
William Dudley (designs)
Paule Constable (lighting)
Stuart Hopps (movement)
Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Sir Charles Mackerras (conductor)
An enchanting evening at Covent Garden: what with this and The Gambler, things seem to be looking up, following a dispiriting spell in the Christof Loy doldrums. Indeed, the theatrical and musical magic woven here could not stand further removed from the pretentious dreariness inflicted upon new productions of Lulu and Tristan und Isolde. Bill Bryden’s production of The Cunning Little Vixen was first staged in 1990 but, twenty years on, it is yet to look tired. For this, William Dudley’s designs deserve a great deal of credit. There is to action and staging a crucial sense of life, in all its complexity, never more ambiguous than when it is apparently straightforward. The life-cycle, human or animal – should the distinction even be made? – is the guiding force, in every sense, of Janáček’s drama, and so, appropriately enough, one sees a huge circle on stage, which provides a treadmill for walking as well as a frame in which the first act’s acrobatic ‘Spirit of the Vixen’ may swing. Here, form is wondrously imparted to the Vixen’s dream, both for the eye and the ear. Humour, arguably more immediate, if less idiomatic, when sung in English, was present too, for instance in the portrayal of the clannish farmyard hens, large and contented, unable to heed the Vixen’s siren-voice of feminist revolt. It is, however, the interplay between wondrous machinery and Nature that penetrates to the very heart of the opera. This both highlighted such relationships in the score and put me in mind of another Royal Opera production: David McVicar’s Magic Flute – never more magical than when heard under Sir Colin Davis (available on DVD). Lighting (Paule Johnson), colours, and scenery ensure that Nature is present, overflowing in her abundance, without being domesticated or prettified; for there is wildness aplenty in Janáček’s score, and this must be reflected in the action.
It must, of course, above all be expressed by the orchestra, and so it was here. The name of Sir Charles Mackerras is so indelibly associated with Janáček’s music that one might take for granted his excellence. However, I doubt that even the most jaded listener – note that one must listen, rather than passively consume – could have done so in this case. The angularities of Janáček’s score, so often ironed out by conductors not so intimately attuned to the idiom, were immediate and telling, but they were always integrated into a longer line, never aggressive, let alone exhibitionistic, for their own sake: the opposing temptation to smoothing out. Equally apparent, and again never merely for their own sake, were the ravishing beauties of the score’s extraordinary sound-world – extraordinary even by Janáček’s standards. One example would be that utterly characteristic high string sound, split into several parts, which one might be tempted to call Straussian, but which is in reality quite different, if anything more akin to the Schoenberg of Gurrelieder. (Janáček was greatly interested in the music of the Second Viennese School.) Building of climaxes was masterly, above all in the great, pantheistic conclusion, so redolent, or rather prophetic, of the Glagolitic Mass. Life goes on, yet is transformed, transfigured. Tension had sagged slightly, I thought, both on stage and in the musical performance, during the first half of the third act, but this conclusion certainly compensated. As Sir Charles’s aforementioned knighted colleague sounds so effortlessly right in Mozart, so does Mackerras in Janáček. How odd, then, that this was the first time he had conducted the work at Covent Garden, though not quite so odd as the fact that Bryden’s production has no predecessors in the house. (Having said that, The Cunning Little Vixen received its Paris premiere as recently as 2008, and then in a production borrowed from Lyons.)
If Mackerras and the orchestra, which throughout played superlatively, a match for any other ensemble, were the brightest stars in the firmament, then they were ably supported by much of the cast. Most impressive of all was Christopher Maltman, whose Forester grew in stature, as he should, as the work progressed. The final transfiguration was as much his as the natural world’s. Elisabeth Meister, a Jette Paker Young Artist, had originally been slated to sing the roles of the Rooster and the Jay, but had to replace Emma Bell at very short notice, the latter having been rushed to hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Meister proved a winning replacement, moving in her love for the Vixen: an anthropomorphic fantasy, maybe, but an irresistible one. Sadly, Emma Matthews brought no especial individuality to the title role, though she did nothing especially wrong either. Many of the smaller roles, however, were sharply etched, most memorably Matthew Rose’s poacher, Harašta, Robin Leggate’s lovelorn Schoolmaster, and Jeremy White, both as priest and badger. The children, drawn from various London schools, did not disappoint either.
Performance in English did not disconcert me as much as I had feared. There is loss, of course, in terms of the music’s relationship to the language’s speech-rhythms, but this registered less than it had during ENO’s Katya Kabanova earlier in the week. Perhaps it was a better translation; there was certainly more opportunity, often very well taken, for wit. Banking jokes may be easy, but sometimes we should be grateful for any weapon we have. One gripe though: why start at 8 p.m.? It made no especial difference to me, but a 7.30 start would have been of help to those who had to travel out of London, or who simply wished to dine a little earlier. Such practical reservations should not detract, however, from a triumphant return to form for the Royal Opera.
The Cunning Little Vixen will be broadcast by BBC Radio 3 on Saturday 15 May at 6 p.m.
Royal Opera House, Covent Garden
Vixen Sharp-Ears – Emma Matthews
Gamekeeper – Christopher Maltman
Fox – Elisabeth Meister
Schoolmaster/Mosquito – Robin Leggate
Gamekeeper’s Wife/Owl – Madeleine Shaw
Priest/Badger – Jeremy White
Harašta – Matthew Rose
Innkeeper’s Wife – Elisabeth Sikora
Pásek – Alasdair Elliott
Pepík – Simona Mihai
Frantík – Elizabeth Cragg
Rooster/Jay – Deborah Peake-Jones
Dachshund – Gerald Thompson
Forester’s Wife – Madeleine Shaw
Cricket – Peter Shafran
Caterpillar – Talo Hanson (front), Korey Knight (back)
Young Vixen – Eleanor Burke
Blue Dragonfly – Tom Sapsford
Spirit of the Vixen – Lyn Routledge
Chief Hen – Glenys Groves
Woodpecker – Amanda Floyd
Hare – Marnie Carr
Flies, Foxcubs, Other Children, Dancers
Bill Bryden (director)
William Dudley (designs)
Paule Constable (lighting)
Stuart Hopps (movement)
Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Sir Charles Mackerras (conductor)
An enchanting evening at Covent Garden: what with this and The Gambler, things seem to be looking up, following a dispiriting spell in the Christof Loy doldrums. Indeed, the theatrical and musical magic woven here could not stand further removed from the pretentious dreariness inflicted upon new productions of Lulu and Tristan und Isolde. Bill Bryden’s production of The Cunning Little Vixen was first staged in 1990 but, twenty years on, it is yet to look tired. For this, William Dudley’s designs deserve a great deal of credit. There is to action and staging a crucial sense of life, in all its complexity, never more ambiguous than when it is apparently straightforward. The life-cycle, human or animal – should the distinction even be made? – is the guiding force, in every sense, of Janáček’s drama, and so, appropriately enough, one sees a huge circle on stage, which provides a treadmill for walking as well as a frame in which the first act’s acrobatic ‘Spirit of the Vixen’ may swing. Here, form is wondrously imparted to the Vixen’s dream, both for the eye and the ear. Humour, arguably more immediate, if less idiomatic, when sung in English, was present too, for instance in the portrayal of the clannish farmyard hens, large and contented, unable to heed the Vixen’s siren-voice of feminist revolt. It is, however, the interplay between wondrous machinery and Nature that penetrates to the very heart of the opera. This both highlighted such relationships in the score and put me in mind of another Royal Opera production: David McVicar’s Magic Flute – never more magical than when heard under Sir Colin Davis (available on DVD). Lighting (Paule Johnson), colours, and scenery ensure that Nature is present, overflowing in her abundance, without being domesticated or prettified; for there is wildness aplenty in Janáček’s score, and this must be reflected in the action.
It must, of course, above all be expressed by the orchestra, and so it was here. The name of Sir Charles Mackerras is so indelibly associated with Janáček’s music that one might take for granted his excellence. However, I doubt that even the most jaded listener – note that one must listen, rather than passively consume – could have done so in this case. The angularities of Janáček’s score, so often ironed out by conductors not so intimately attuned to the idiom, were immediate and telling, but they were always integrated into a longer line, never aggressive, let alone exhibitionistic, for their own sake: the opposing temptation to smoothing out. Equally apparent, and again never merely for their own sake, were the ravishing beauties of the score’s extraordinary sound-world – extraordinary even by Janáček’s standards. One example would be that utterly characteristic high string sound, split into several parts, which one might be tempted to call Straussian, but which is in reality quite different, if anything more akin to the Schoenberg of Gurrelieder. (Janáček was greatly interested in the music of the Second Viennese School.) Building of climaxes was masterly, above all in the great, pantheistic conclusion, so redolent, or rather prophetic, of the Glagolitic Mass. Life goes on, yet is transformed, transfigured. Tension had sagged slightly, I thought, both on stage and in the musical performance, during the first half of the third act, but this conclusion certainly compensated. As Sir Charles’s aforementioned knighted colleague sounds so effortlessly right in Mozart, so does Mackerras in Janáček. How odd, then, that this was the first time he had conducted the work at Covent Garden, though not quite so odd as the fact that Bryden’s production has no predecessors in the house. (Having said that, The Cunning Little Vixen received its Paris premiere as recently as 2008, and then in a production borrowed from Lyons.)
If Mackerras and the orchestra, which throughout played superlatively, a match for any other ensemble, were the brightest stars in the firmament, then they were ably supported by much of the cast. Most impressive of all was Christopher Maltman, whose Forester grew in stature, as he should, as the work progressed. The final transfiguration was as much his as the natural world’s. Elisabeth Meister, a Jette Paker Young Artist, had originally been slated to sing the roles of the Rooster and the Jay, but had to replace Emma Bell at very short notice, the latter having been rushed to hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Meister proved a winning replacement, moving in her love for the Vixen: an anthropomorphic fantasy, maybe, but an irresistible one. Sadly, Emma Matthews brought no especial individuality to the title role, though she did nothing especially wrong either. Many of the smaller roles, however, were sharply etched, most memorably Matthew Rose’s poacher, Harašta, Robin Leggate’s lovelorn Schoolmaster, and Jeremy White, both as priest and badger. The children, drawn from various London schools, did not disappoint either.
Performance in English did not disconcert me as much as I had feared. There is loss, of course, in terms of the music’s relationship to the language’s speech-rhythms, but this registered less than it had during ENO’s Katya Kabanova earlier in the week. Perhaps it was a better translation; there was certainly more opportunity, often very well taken, for wit. Banking jokes may be easy, but sometimes we should be grateful for any weapon we have. One gripe though: why start at 8 p.m.? It made no especial difference to me, but a 7.30 start would have been of help to those who had to travel out of London, or who simply wished to dine a little earlier. Such practical reservations should not detract, however, from a triumphant return to form for the Royal Opera.
The Cunning Little Vixen will be broadcast by BBC Radio 3 on Saturday 15 May at 6 p.m.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Mutter/LPO/Morlot - Wagner, Brahms, and Bartók, 17 March 2010
Royal Festival Hall
Wagner – Lohengrin: Prelude to Act One
Brahms – Violin Concerto in D major, op.77
Bartók – Concerto for Orchestra
Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Ludovic Morlot (conductor)
This was an attractive programme, but the performances did not really ignite as they might have done, despite Anne-Sophie Mutter’s sterling efforts. The prelude to Act One of Lohengrin creates a problem of coming back to earth in Wagner’s Romantic opera. It is also rather difficult to programme in concert, in terms of what might follow; I am not convinced about it introducing Brahms. In any case, despite some beautiful, ethereal string playing from the London Philharmonic, Ludovic Morlot’s direction remained laboured, over-emphasising the bar lines, so that the requisite upward ascent never quite materialised. The orchestra was on excellent form, never more so than at the moment of full climax, trombones magnificent, but the players could only do so much by themselves. Coughers were especially prominent during the closing bars; clearly the Grail had done them no good.
The first thing that struck me about the Brahms concerto performance was the decisive brilliance of Mutter’s entry. (It is perhaps telling that the orchestral introduction made little impression.) Sweetness and steel were equal parts of her armoury here and throughout. The pin-point precision of her intonation, double-stopping notwithstanding, was awe-inspiringly consistent, and the expressive quality of her vibrato, nicely imitated by the orchestral strings, was equally apparent. However, the orchestra rarely sounded inspired even in this opening movement, and what direction Morlot had provided seemed fully dissipated by the advent of the Adagio. (In between, we had to endure precipitate applause.) And so, although the slow movement’s woodwind solos sounded beautiful in themselves, the context was lacking, especially prior to Mutter’s re-entry. A lack of orchestral focus persisted until the finale, where things picked up somewhat, the LPO sounding reinvigorated. Mutter’s virtuosity was jaw-dropping, likewise her purely musical command. However, it was still very much – sadly, too much – her show. Memories of her magnificent 2008 performance with André Previn and the LSO were certainly not effaced.
The second half was better. Morlot sounded more at home in Bartók and the orchestra sounded focused throughout; perhaps more rehearsal time had been allocated to the Concerto for Orchestra. The strong bass line manifesting itself at the very opening of the first movement proved a good augury and was matched by a greater general sense of direction and a fuller string sound. Again, there was something of a tendency to stress bar lines, but the orchestra by now seemed better practised in evasion. Morlot shaped the climaxes well, though. The second movement brought especially nice work from the various pairs of woodwind instruments: what skilful writing this is! And I was pleasantly surprised by the degree of strangeness to the sonorities with which the Elegia opened. Greater flexibility aided the sense of onward movement. Bartók’s brilliant joke in the fourth movement registered; so did its political and æsthetic edge. Now there are different reasons to wish to send up Shostakovich, not least amongst which are his canonisation by the smug victors of the Cold War and, still closer to home, his consequent ubiquity in the concert hall. Bartók’s derision still demands to be heard. The finale suffered somewhat from an unduly fast main tempo, which necessitated too much of a gear change later on, disrupting continuity. However, the string counterpoint registered clearly. Whilst not, then, an unforgettable performance, there was much to enjoy, especially given the opportunities for the LPO players to shine, just so long as one were not expecting the excitement and fulfilment provided by the likes of Iván Fischer.
Wagner – Lohengrin: Prelude to Act One
Brahms – Violin Concerto in D major, op.77
Bartók – Concerto for Orchestra
Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin)
London Philharmonic Orchestra
Ludovic Morlot (conductor)
This was an attractive programme, but the performances did not really ignite as they might have done, despite Anne-Sophie Mutter’s sterling efforts. The prelude to Act One of Lohengrin creates a problem of coming back to earth in Wagner’s Romantic opera. It is also rather difficult to programme in concert, in terms of what might follow; I am not convinced about it introducing Brahms. In any case, despite some beautiful, ethereal string playing from the London Philharmonic, Ludovic Morlot’s direction remained laboured, over-emphasising the bar lines, so that the requisite upward ascent never quite materialised. The orchestra was on excellent form, never more so than at the moment of full climax, trombones magnificent, but the players could only do so much by themselves. Coughers were especially prominent during the closing bars; clearly the Grail had done them no good.
The first thing that struck me about the Brahms concerto performance was the decisive brilliance of Mutter’s entry. (It is perhaps telling that the orchestral introduction made little impression.) Sweetness and steel were equal parts of her armoury here and throughout. The pin-point precision of her intonation, double-stopping notwithstanding, was awe-inspiringly consistent, and the expressive quality of her vibrato, nicely imitated by the orchestral strings, was equally apparent. However, the orchestra rarely sounded inspired even in this opening movement, and what direction Morlot had provided seemed fully dissipated by the advent of the Adagio. (In between, we had to endure precipitate applause.) And so, although the slow movement’s woodwind solos sounded beautiful in themselves, the context was lacking, especially prior to Mutter’s re-entry. A lack of orchestral focus persisted until the finale, where things picked up somewhat, the LPO sounding reinvigorated. Mutter’s virtuosity was jaw-dropping, likewise her purely musical command. However, it was still very much – sadly, too much – her show. Memories of her magnificent 2008 performance with André Previn and the LSO were certainly not effaced.
The second half was better. Morlot sounded more at home in Bartók and the orchestra sounded focused throughout; perhaps more rehearsal time had been allocated to the Concerto for Orchestra. The strong bass line manifesting itself at the very opening of the first movement proved a good augury and was matched by a greater general sense of direction and a fuller string sound. Again, there was something of a tendency to stress bar lines, but the orchestra by now seemed better practised in evasion. Morlot shaped the climaxes well, though. The second movement brought especially nice work from the various pairs of woodwind instruments: what skilful writing this is! And I was pleasantly surprised by the degree of strangeness to the sonorities with which the Elegia opened. Greater flexibility aided the sense of onward movement. Bartók’s brilliant joke in the fourth movement registered; so did its political and æsthetic edge. Now there are different reasons to wish to send up Shostakovich, not least amongst which are his canonisation by the smug victors of the Cold War and, still closer to home, his consequent ubiquity in the concert hall. Bartók’s derision still demands to be heard. The finale suffered somewhat from an unduly fast main tempo, which necessitated too much of a gear change later on, disrupting continuity. However, the string counterpoint registered clearly. Whilst not, then, an unforgettable performance, there was much to enjoy, especially given the opportunities for the LPO players to shine, just so long as one were not expecting the excitement and fulfilment provided by the likes of Iván Fischer.
Zehetmair Quartet - Mozart, Holliger, and Beethoven, 16 March 2010
Wigmore Hall
Mozart – String Quartet no.3 in G major, KV 156
Heinz Holliger – String Quartet no.2
Beethoven – String Quartet no.16 in F major, op.135
Thomas Zehetmair, Matthias Metzger (violins)
Ruth Killius (viola)
Ursula Smith (violoncello)
This really was a splendid concert from one of the world’s great string quartets. Early Mozart, when it is performed at all, tends to be condescended to, but not here. Hans Keller’s dismissal of the early quartets as ‘on the whole, … quite abominable,’ could not have been better disproved. At first, I wondered whether the tempo for the first movement of KV 156 was going to prove too fast, but then I checked, to see it marked Presto; more to the point, nothing was rushed and the music was given space to breathe. Ever stylish, and ever attentive to each other, the members of the Zehetmair Quartet permitted a welcome sense of the outdoor serenade to permeate their reading. At times, their tone could veer a little towards ‘period’ sound, but never offensively so. Likewise, the Adagio, perhaps a little quick for the marking, never sounded rushed, for which the freedom of the players’ divination of the musical melos must be held responsible. Poised between the Baroque and Beethoven, the performance encompassed both moments of extraordinary stillness and instances of rhetorical boldness, whilst structure remained clear throughout. In the closing minuet, as elsewhere, not a single note was taken for granted. Contrapuntal interplay was very much to the fore, especially in the trio.
Heinz Holliger’s 2007 second string quartet, commissioned by KölnMusik for the Zehetmairs, followed the Mozart. It is a work full of ‘effects’ – retuning of strings, harmonics, playing on the bridge, and so forth – which yet never seem effects for their own sake. What might seem on paper like too much of a conspectus of techniques fits clearly and dramatically into a single movement structure, divided into six sections. The first is akin to a French overture, inspired by frescoes of angels’ music-making. Its contrary-motion glissandi certainly give a sense of the other-worldly, but equally apparent are glassy, angular energy and complexity of texture. The work, far from incidentally is dedicated to Elliott Carter) Next comes a Moderato section with a Hölderlin inscription, ‘… wie Wolken um die Zeiten legt …’ (‘… as clouds surround the times’.) The Zehetmair Quartet ensured a sense of the fragmentary – glimpsed through or beyond clouds? – which could yet, at least retrospectively, be pieced together. They made the most of Holliger’s post-Second Viennese School lyricism, a thread running throughout the quartet, presented with characteristic intensity. A chorale emerges in the form of an ‘embellished canon’, not unlike the emergence of the Bach chorale in Berg’s Violin Concerto, a work Holliger has recorded as conductor, with Thomas Zehetmair as soloist. There was to this section an unsettling stillness, as if one were viewing a lake, but a lake from an alien world. Neo-Bartókian night music follows, leading into the fifth, heterophonic section, which also carries the Hölderlin quotation: an extraordinary lyrical outpouring, as work and performance, overlapping entries creating greater intensity still. Finally comes the ‘singbarer Rest’ (‘singable remainder’), the phrase taken from Paul Celan. Whether consciously post-Holocaust or no, I sensed an effort and achievement to grant voice to the voiceless. The twelve parts are created by double-stopping and singing from each member of the quartet: a ‘human’ alternative to electronics? This may be fanciful, but I also was put in mind of mediæval music, Notre Dame even. Finally, voices of whatever kind faded into the ether. A wonderful work and a wonderful performance!
After the interval came Beethoven: his final quartet, op.135. The players adopted a more ‘modern’ sound than for Mozart, but there was still nothing comfortably ‘Romantic’ to their approach. Yet, if throughout, every note sounded considered, the approach never seemed self-consciously moulded. A Haydnesque sense of fun characterised the opening ‘Muss es sein?’ And as with Haydn, fun does not preclude something more serious, far from it. Such is the players’ sense of structure that the whole pretty much took care of itself, allowing one to concentrate upon motivic and dramatic incident; indeed, the work’s motivic integrity was powerfully portrayed, engendering an aptly late-Beethovenian dialectical tension between totality and fragmentation. Had Hegel been a composer, or Adorno a better composer, the music might have resembled this. Concision can present ‘difficulty’, as in the op.95 quartet, but not here, so convincing was the players’ presentation. A wonderful throwaway ending to the opening Allegretto made one ask once again, must it be? Who knows? Such is the shocking modernity of the scherzo that much of the music might have been by Holliger – except that Beethoven here perhaps sounds still more ‘new’. His truly extraordinary syncopations and harmonic clashes were relished but never exaggerated. A sense of alienation and yet equally of profound humanity brought one close to the world of the Missa Solemnis. The human spirit somehow can and did still triumph. In the slow movement, I was immediately put in mind of the final movement of Mahler’s Third Symphony, yet there was also something intriguingly veiled to the Zehetmairs’ presentation. And then the finale: there was no attempt to beautify, but Beethoven has his own strange beauty, and certainly did on this occasion. Stark, unvarnished, undoubtedly angry, the music is never impetuous; release, if only of a kind, will come – and the Zehetmairs ensured that it did. What sort of answer is this? Must it be? Again, who knows, but in this performance, the ambiguity of the Beethovenian oracle was now a recognition of complexity, not a signal of nonchalance. The ‘difficulty’ of Beethoven’s marking, Der schwer gefasste Entschluss, again brings one to the world of his late Mass. Should one even be here? There truly is no ‘newer’ music than late Beethoven.
Mozart – String Quartet no.3 in G major, KV 156
Heinz Holliger – String Quartet no.2
Beethoven – String Quartet no.16 in F major, op.135
Thomas Zehetmair, Matthias Metzger (violins)
Ruth Killius (viola)
Ursula Smith (violoncello)
This really was a splendid concert from one of the world’s great string quartets. Early Mozart, when it is performed at all, tends to be condescended to, but not here. Hans Keller’s dismissal of the early quartets as ‘on the whole, … quite abominable,’ could not have been better disproved. At first, I wondered whether the tempo for the first movement of KV 156 was going to prove too fast, but then I checked, to see it marked Presto; more to the point, nothing was rushed and the music was given space to breathe. Ever stylish, and ever attentive to each other, the members of the Zehetmair Quartet permitted a welcome sense of the outdoor serenade to permeate their reading. At times, their tone could veer a little towards ‘period’ sound, but never offensively so. Likewise, the Adagio, perhaps a little quick for the marking, never sounded rushed, for which the freedom of the players’ divination of the musical melos must be held responsible. Poised between the Baroque and Beethoven, the performance encompassed both moments of extraordinary stillness and instances of rhetorical boldness, whilst structure remained clear throughout. In the closing minuet, as elsewhere, not a single note was taken for granted. Contrapuntal interplay was very much to the fore, especially in the trio.
Heinz Holliger’s 2007 second string quartet, commissioned by KölnMusik for the Zehetmairs, followed the Mozart. It is a work full of ‘effects’ – retuning of strings, harmonics, playing on the bridge, and so forth – which yet never seem effects for their own sake. What might seem on paper like too much of a conspectus of techniques fits clearly and dramatically into a single movement structure, divided into six sections. The first is akin to a French overture, inspired by frescoes of angels’ music-making. Its contrary-motion glissandi certainly give a sense of the other-worldly, but equally apparent are glassy, angular energy and complexity of texture. The work, far from incidentally is dedicated to Elliott Carter) Next comes a Moderato section with a Hölderlin inscription, ‘… wie Wolken um die Zeiten legt …’ (‘… as clouds surround the times’.) The Zehetmair Quartet ensured a sense of the fragmentary – glimpsed through or beyond clouds? – which could yet, at least retrospectively, be pieced together. They made the most of Holliger’s post-Second Viennese School lyricism, a thread running throughout the quartet, presented with characteristic intensity. A chorale emerges in the form of an ‘embellished canon’, not unlike the emergence of the Bach chorale in Berg’s Violin Concerto, a work Holliger has recorded as conductor, with Thomas Zehetmair as soloist. There was to this section an unsettling stillness, as if one were viewing a lake, but a lake from an alien world. Neo-Bartókian night music follows, leading into the fifth, heterophonic section, which also carries the Hölderlin quotation: an extraordinary lyrical outpouring, as work and performance, overlapping entries creating greater intensity still. Finally comes the ‘singbarer Rest’ (‘singable remainder’), the phrase taken from Paul Celan. Whether consciously post-Holocaust or no, I sensed an effort and achievement to grant voice to the voiceless. The twelve parts are created by double-stopping and singing from each member of the quartet: a ‘human’ alternative to electronics? This may be fanciful, but I also was put in mind of mediæval music, Notre Dame even. Finally, voices of whatever kind faded into the ether. A wonderful work and a wonderful performance!
After the interval came Beethoven: his final quartet, op.135. The players adopted a more ‘modern’ sound than for Mozart, but there was still nothing comfortably ‘Romantic’ to their approach. Yet, if throughout, every note sounded considered, the approach never seemed self-consciously moulded. A Haydnesque sense of fun characterised the opening ‘Muss es sein?’ And as with Haydn, fun does not preclude something more serious, far from it. Such is the players’ sense of structure that the whole pretty much took care of itself, allowing one to concentrate upon motivic and dramatic incident; indeed, the work’s motivic integrity was powerfully portrayed, engendering an aptly late-Beethovenian dialectical tension between totality and fragmentation. Had Hegel been a composer, or Adorno a better composer, the music might have resembled this. Concision can present ‘difficulty’, as in the op.95 quartet, but not here, so convincing was the players’ presentation. A wonderful throwaway ending to the opening Allegretto made one ask once again, must it be? Who knows? Such is the shocking modernity of the scherzo that much of the music might have been by Holliger – except that Beethoven here perhaps sounds still more ‘new’. His truly extraordinary syncopations and harmonic clashes were relished but never exaggerated. A sense of alienation and yet equally of profound humanity brought one close to the world of the Missa Solemnis. The human spirit somehow can and did still triumph. In the slow movement, I was immediately put in mind of the final movement of Mahler’s Third Symphony, yet there was also something intriguingly veiled to the Zehetmairs’ presentation. And then the finale: there was no attempt to beautify, but Beethoven has his own strange beauty, and certainly did on this occasion. Stark, unvarnished, undoubtedly angry, the music is never impetuous; release, if only of a kind, will come – and the Zehetmairs ensured that it did. What sort of answer is this? Must it be? Again, who knows, but in this performance, the ambiguity of the Beethovenian oracle was now a recognition of complexity, not a signal of nonchalance. The ‘difficulty’ of Beethoven’s marking, Der schwer gefasste Entschluss, again brings one to the world of his late Mass. Should one even be here? There truly is no ‘newer’ music than late Beethoven.
Katya Kabanova, English National Opera, 15 March 2010
(sung in English)
The Coliseum
Katerina Kabanova – Patricia Racette
Marfa Kabanicha – Susan Bickley
Varvara – Anna Grevelius
Boris Grigoryevich – Stuart Skelton
Vanya Kudrjas – Alfie Boe
Tikhon Ivanich Kabanov – John Graham-Hall
Dikoy – Clive Bayley
Kuligin – Nicholas Folwell
David Alden (director)
Charles Edwards (set designs)
Jon Morrell (costumes)
Adam Silverman (lighting)
Maxine Braham (movement)
Orchestra and Chorus of the English National Opera
Mark Wigglesworth (conductor)
What a week for Janáček in London, with Katya Kabanova opening here at the Coliseum, and Covent Garden’s revival of The Cunning Little Vixen opening on Friday! It is a pity, both in itself and for the sake of contrast, that the latter will be sung in English, but let us remain with ENO for the moment. One misses the Czech, even if one does not understand it: for music so dependent upon the language’s speech rhythms, it would be vain to pretend that there is not significant loss. The translation employed is on the plain side too. Still, there is far more justification on ENO’s part; opera in the vernacular is, after all, the company’s raison d’être.
David Alden’s powerful Jenůfa for the same company is succeeded by a successful, if not quite unforgettable Katya. There seems to be no particular Konzept, but an approach not significantly different from the earlier production highlights the nasty claustrophobia of the community: vaguely the time of composition, I think, but not distant from the ‘original’ setting. More than once, I thought of Peter Grimes, though Janáček’s opera is of course the superior work. What Alden manages to do is to stress the nature of what is, as ever with Janáček, akin to a spoken play, and to a considerable extent permit the story to tell itself. There is no distracting folksiness, quite out of place in this work; instead, there is a degree of abstraction, for which Charles Edwards’s stunning set designs and Adam Silverman’s equally stunning lighting must receive a great deal of credit. Deep shadows are cast throughout and the contrast between those of Katya and Varvara in the Kabanicha’s house, is telling, likewise the way in which they merge to form a single figure at prayer (even though neither of the characters is praying on stage). The starkness of the sets shading from grey into darkness packs a powerful dramatic punch, even if it means that the house is unfeasibly large and minimalist. The icon on the wall does its job, though, and it is a powerful moment when its owner turns it around, so that it will not see what she is about to get up to with Dikoy: a properly sado-masochistic, alcohol-fuelled relationship with a history, but never wearyingly explicit. Nevertheless, I could not help wondering: is Alden becoming, or has he already become, something of a conservative? Not that it especially matters, but there is nothing provocative here.
Mark Wigglesworth impresses in the pit. The opening bars were slower, more Romantically yearning than I can recall hearing, and he certainly exerts command over the generally fine ENO orchestra (a few slips aside). The razor-sharp rhythms that Sir Charles Mackerras brings to the composer were not always quite there, but this remained a creditable performance. For whatever reason, Janáček seems to bring out the best in the company. And who would complain about that?
I wondered to begin with about Patricia Racette, her opening lines proving somewhat tremulous. But she inhabited the role of Katya, made us sympathise, drew us in, and led us to the final tragedy. Her acting and singing were as one, so to concern oneself too much with odd vocal imperfections is arguably to miss the point. Her diction varied, however, and in this, she was not alone – a particular issue for me, given that the titles were not visible from my seat. (Again, if one cannot hear every word clearly, why not sing in the original language, and permit the sounds at least to be correct? And is not the provision of titles an admission of defeat?) There are no such problems however with Susan Bickley’s magnificent Kabanicha. In many ways, this is not a rewarding role; one can only guess at what has made her the way she is, given the lack of even the slightest glimmer of humanity. This is not the Kostelnička. (Perhaps she once too was a Katya? Who knows?) But her stentorian malevolence can rarely if ever have been so searingly portrayed as here. Felicity Palmer was equally fine last time at Covent Garden. Both artists elicited a terrifying chill upon the apparently unmoved thanking of friends and neighbours for their kindness. Anna Grevelius and Alfie Boe made for a splendid pair of successful lovers; their carefree attitude contrasted strongly with the twin complexities of Katya and Boris, whose vacillation Stuart Skelton captured to a tee. John Graham-Hall’s mess – in a positive sense! – of a Tikhon was exemplary: it is no easy thing to portray weakness on stage without resorting to caricature. Clive Bayley’s Dikoy seemed, not unreasonably, to have stepped straight out of Mussorgsky’s catalogue of mendicants: no subtlety there, but it is not clear that the role invites subtlety.
And thank goodness ENO had the dramatic integrity to present the work without intervals! To have to repair to the bar between acts is utterly unwarranted, yet all too often financial reasons seem to win out. To remain in the theatre throughout makes for the requisite intensity of experience, despite audience chattering that too often endured into the dramatic presentation. (Coughers, I regret to say, were out in strength, nowhere more so than a few bars in.)
The Coliseum
Katerina Kabanova – Patricia Racette
Marfa Kabanicha – Susan Bickley
Varvara – Anna Grevelius
Boris Grigoryevich – Stuart Skelton
Vanya Kudrjas – Alfie Boe
Tikhon Ivanich Kabanov – John Graham-Hall
Dikoy – Clive Bayley
Kuligin – Nicholas Folwell
David Alden (director)
Charles Edwards (set designs)
Jon Morrell (costumes)
Adam Silverman (lighting)
Maxine Braham (movement)
Orchestra and Chorus of the English National Opera
Mark Wigglesworth (conductor)
What a week for Janáček in London, with Katya Kabanova opening here at the Coliseum, and Covent Garden’s revival of The Cunning Little Vixen opening on Friday! It is a pity, both in itself and for the sake of contrast, that the latter will be sung in English, but let us remain with ENO for the moment. One misses the Czech, even if one does not understand it: for music so dependent upon the language’s speech rhythms, it would be vain to pretend that there is not significant loss. The translation employed is on the plain side too. Still, there is far more justification on ENO’s part; opera in the vernacular is, after all, the company’s raison d’être.
David Alden’s powerful Jenůfa for the same company is succeeded by a successful, if not quite unforgettable Katya. There seems to be no particular Konzept, but an approach not significantly different from the earlier production highlights the nasty claustrophobia of the community: vaguely the time of composition, I think, but not distant from the ‘original’ setting. More than once, I thought of Peter Grimes, though Janáček’s opera is of course the superior work. What Alden manages to do is to stress the nature of what is, as ever with Janáček, akin to a spoken play, and to a considerable extent permit the story to tell itself. There is no distracting folksiness, quite out of place in this work; instead, there is a degree of abstraction, for which Charles Edwards’s stunning set designs and Adam Silverman’s equally stunning lighting must receive a great deal of credit. Deep shadows are cast throughout and the contrast between those of Katya and Varvara in the Kabanicha’s house, is telling, likewise the way in which they merge to form a single figure at prayer (even though neither of the characters is praying on stage). The starkness of the sets shading from grey into darkness packs a powerful dramatic punch, even if it means that the house is unfeasibly large and minimalist. The icon on the wall does its job, though, and it is a powerful moment when its owner turns it around, so that it will not see what she is about to get up to with Dikoy: a properly sado-masochistic, alcohol-fuelled relationship with a history, but never wearyingly explicit. Nevertheless, I could not help wondering: is Alden becoming, or has he already become, something of a conservative? Not that it especially matters, but there is nothing provocative here.
Mark Wigglesworth impresses in the pit. The opening bars were slower, more Romantically yearning than I can recall hearing, and he certainly exerts command over the generally fine ENO orchestra (a few slips aside). The razor-sharp rhythms that Sir Charles Mackerras brings to the composer were not always quite there, but this remained a creditable performance. For whatever reason, Janáček seems to bring out the best in the company. And who would complain about that?
I wondered to begin with about Patricia Racette, her opening lines proving somewhat tremulous. But she inhabited the role of Katya, made us sympathise, drew us in, and led us to the final tragedy. Her acting and singing were as one, so to concern oneself too much with odd vocal imperfections is arguably to miss the point. Her diction varied, however, and in this, she was not alone – a particular issue for me, given that the titles were not visible from my seat. (Again, if one cannot hear every word clearly, why not sing in the original language, and permit the sounds at least to be correct? And is not the provision of titles an admission of defeat?) There are no such problems however with Susan Bickley’s magnificent Kabanicha. In many ways, this is not a rewarding role; one can only guess at what has made her the way she is, given the lack of even the slightest glimmer of humanity. This is not the Kostelnička. (Perhaps she once too was a Katya? Who knows?) But her stentorian malevolence can rarely if ever have been so searingly portrayed as here. Felicity Palmer was equally fine last time at Covent Garden. Both artists elicited a terrifying chill upon the apparently unmoved thanking of friends and neighbours for their kindness. Anna Grevelius and Alfie Boe made for a splendid pair of successful lovers; their carefree attitude contrasted strongly with the twin complexities of Katya and Boris, whose vacillation Stuart Skelton captured to a tee. John Graham-Hall’s mess – in a positive sense! – of a Tikhon was exemplary: it is no easy thing to portray weakness on stage without resorting to caricature. Clive Bayley’s Dikoy seemed, not unreasonably, to have stepped straight out of Mussorgsky’s catalogue of mendicants: no subtlety there, but it is not clear that the role invites subtlety.
And thank goodness ENO had the dramatic integrity to present the work without intervals! To have to repair to the bar between acts is utterly unwarranted, yet all too often financial reasons seem to win out. To remain in the theatre throughout makes for the requisite intensity of experience, despite audience chattering that too often endured into the dramatic presentation. (Coughers, I regret to say, were out in strength, nowhere more so than a few bars in.)
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Martino Tirimo - Chopin, 12 March 2010
Hall One, Kings Place
Variations brillantes in B-flat major on a theme from Hérold's Ludovic, op.12
Polonaises, op.71: no.2 in B-flat major, and no.3 in F minor
Rondeau à la Mazur, op.5
Three Mazurkas, op.59
Ballade no.3 in A-flat major, op.47
Waltz in E-flat major, op.posth.
Two Waltzes, op.69
Two Nocturnes, Op.48
Etudes, op.10:
No.2 in A minor
No.6 in E-flat minor
No.7 in C major
No.9 in F minor
No.10 in A-flat major
No.12 in C minor
Three Mazurkas, op.posth.
Polonaise in A-flat major, op.53
I have doubtless been spoiled for Chopin recently, having been treated to twin ‘birthday’ recitals from both Krystian Zimerman and Maurizio Pollini. Nevertheless, this instalment of the Kings Place Chopin Unwrapped series – the composer’s entire œuvre – proved bitterly disappointing. Martino Tirimo is a much recorded and, it would seem, widely respected pianist but this was, I think, the first time I have heard him, live or otherwise. Laudable though his project to perform all of Chopin’s works may be, the impression was of a pianist whose (presumably) better days lay behind him.
I felt indulgent during the opening Variations brillantes, since it is difficult to care one way or the other about so vapid a work. (How could Chopin ever have descended so low?) But the performance was nevertheless disturbing; it sounded as though Tirimo were sight-reading and was littered with hesitations and errors. Despite their high opus number, the Polonaises, op.71, are early works: better than the dreadful Variations, yet of little more than documentary interest. The two we heard here were characterised by undue stiffness of rhythm. There was greater charm to the sixteen-year old composer’s Rondeau à la Mazur, a more individual, albeit flawed work. (It goes on a bit – all the more so in this performance.) But a greater freeness earlier on was most welcome, even if Tirimo’s performance later turned effortful, a word that often came to my mind this evening. Greater clarity of line was heard in the three Mazurkas that followed (op.59), though, especially during the first, direction seemed lacking and the central section again seemed effortful. A highly Romantic reading of the third surprised, not unpleasantly. Concluding the first half was the third Ballade. In general, it was technically secure – one would have hoped so, but this was not always to be taken for granted – yet heavy and plodding. The great climax sounded like laboured Liszt: odd for a pianist whose sympathies would seem more Classical.
The second half was better, though rarely impressive. The C minor Waltz, op.69 no.1, had its heavy-handed moments but showed more sense of direction. There was never, though, the sense of sovereign command that great Chopin interpreters display as if they can do no other. The C minor Nocturne was taken at a surprisingly swift tempo, or at least its opening was, for Tirimo made a meal out of the spread chord section. The central section of the companion Nocturne in F-sharp minor also dragged. For the selection of six Etudes from the op.10 set, only two really came off: best of all the F minor, given a full-blooded Romantic account, though the ‘Revolutionary’ Etude, despite a certain apparent caution, on the whole convinced too. The A minor Etude sounded like little more than a (none too successful) finger study, its E-flat minor successor – in Tirimo’s ordering – likewise lacking in song or poetry. The remaining pieces, those in C major and A-flat major, were gabbled. From the set of posthumous Mazurkas, I liked the sense of the untamed, the raw, in the C major piece, but that in B-flat major plodded along, its bar lines pedantically audible. To conclude with the A-flat Polonaise unwisely courted comparison - in practice, contrast - with Arthur Rubinstein. Suffice it to say that this account was often merely loud. The work hardly presents Chopin at his dreamiest, but even so… At least there was no encore.
Variations brillantes in B-flat major on a theme from Hérold's Ludovic, op.12
Polonaises, op.71: no.2 in B-flat major, and no.3 in F minor
Rondeau à la Mazur, op.5
Three Mazurkas, op.59
Ballade no.3 in A-flat major, op.47
Waltz in E-flat major, op.posth.
Two Waltzes, op.69
Two Nocturnes, Op.48
Etudes, op.10:
No.2 in A minor
No.6 in E-flat minor
No.7 in C major
No.9 in F minor
No.10 in A-flat major
No.12 in C minor
Three Mazurkas, op.posth.
Polonaise in A-flat major, op.53
I have doubtless been spoiled for Chopin recently, having been treated to twin ‘birthday’ recitals from both Krystian Zimerman and Maurizio Pollini. Nevertheless, this instalment of the Kings Place Chopin Unwrapped series – the composer’s entire œuvre – proved bitterly disappointing. Martino Tirimo is a much recorded and, it would seem, widely respected pianist but this was, I think, the first time I have heard him, live or otherwise. Laudable though his project to perform all of Chopin’s works may be, the impression was of a pianist whose (presumably) better days lay behind him.
I felt indulgent during the opening Variations brillantes, since it is difficult to care one way or the other about so vapid a work. (How could Chopin ever have descended so low?) But the performance was nevertheless disturbing; it sounded as though Tirimo were sight-reading and was littered with hesitations and errors. Despite their high opus number, the Polonaises, op.71, are early works: better than the dreadful Variations, yet of little more than documentary interest. The two we heard here were characterised by undue stiffness of rhythm. There was greater charm to the sixteen-year old composer’s Rondeau à la Mazur, a more individual, albeit flawed work. (It goes on a bit – all the more so in this performance.) But a greater freeness earlier on was most welcome, even if Tirimo’s performance later turned effortful, a word that often came to my mind this evening. Greater clarity of line was heard in the three Mazurkas that followed (op.59), though, especially during the first, direction seemed lacking and the central section again seemed effortful. A highly Romantic reading of the third surprised, not unpleasantly. Concluding the first half was the third Ballade. In general, it was technically secure – one would have hoped so, but this was not always to be taken for granted – yet heavy and plodding. The great climax sounded like laboured Liszt: odd for a pianist whose sympathies would seem more Classical.
The second half was better, though rarely impressive. The C minor Waltz, op.69 no.1, had its heavy-handed moments but showed more sense of direction. There was never, though, the sense of sovereign command that great Chopin interpreters display as if they can do no other. The C minor Nocturne was taken at a surprisingly swift tempo, or at least its opening was, for Tirimo made a meal out of the spread chord section. The central section of the companion Nocturne in F-sharp minor also dragged. For the selection of six Etudes from the op.10 set, only two really came off: best of all the F minor, given a full-blooded Romantic account, though the ‘Revolutionary’ Etude, despite a certain apparent caution, on the whole convinced too. The A minor Etude sounded like little more than a (none too successful) finger study, its E-flat minor successor – in Tirimo’s ordering – likewise lacking in song or poetry. The remaining pieces, those in C major and A-flat major, were gabbled. From the set of posthumous Mazurkas, I liked the sense of the untamed, the raw, in the C major piece, but that in B-flat major plodded along, its bar lines pedantically audible. To conclude with the A-flat Polonaise unwisely courted comparison - in practice, contrast - with Arthur Rubinstein. Suffice it to say that this account was often merely loud. The work hardly presents Chopin at his dreamiest, but even so… At least there was no encore.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Apollo et Hyacinthus, Rose Opera Company, 10 March 2010
Rose Theatre, Bankside
Oebalus – Andrew Boushell
Hyacinthus – Zoe Bonner
Melia – Eleanor Briggs
Apollo – Alison Nicholls
Zephyrus – Georgina-Rosanna Murray
Ensemble – Rebecca Ramsey, Chloe Morgan, Alex Mai, James Priest
Eleanor Briggs (director)
Rose Opera Orchestra
James Williams (conductor)
This is where it all began, with an intermezzo to accompany a five-act tragedy. Both intermezzo and tragedy, Clementia Croesi were written in Latin, their words penned by the Salzburg Benedictine Gymnasium teacher, Rufinus Widl. Here the Rose Opera Company performed Mozart’s contribution in the original Latin, without titles, and yet succeeded in communicating the plot, with a little help from one’s memory, one’s rusty Latin, and/or one’s programme synopsis (delete as appropriate). Opportunities to hear Apollo et Hyacinthus, KV 37, are unlikely ever to be frequent. Yet Mozart’s first opera is fully worthy of the occasional production, far more so than a number of works that bafflingly continue to hold the stage in our major opera houses. The present production, for a very small stage, made imaginative use of a small number of props, eighteenth-century costumes proving stylish and apposite.
Mozart, of course, wrote for boys, but here we had a mixture of young men and women. All of the singers had their strengths and crucially of them enunciated the text clearly, their diction an object lesson to many more established artists. If one singer stood out it was the multi-tasking Eleanor Briggs, not only the director of the production, but also the founder of the company, whose inaugural production this is. Her bright, flexible soprano coped extremely well with Mozart’s challenging coloratura. One wonders what on earth he thought he was doing writing such music for a cast aged between twelve and twenty-three, but the eleven-year old composer did not have a great deal of stage experience behind him. The arias were indeed generally well taken, the odd slip rarely detracting from the joy expressed in Mozart’s invention. He may not yet have developed his extraordinary genius for characterisation, but the music is surprisingly expressive, putting most of his contemporaries to shame. It was particularly impressive to hear such an estimable balance between individuality and blend in the ensemble singing.
Moreover, to prevent attention from waning during the recitatives was a signal achievement, for which James Williams, conducting from the harpsichord, must be awarded considerable credit. Indeed, his continuo realisation was consistently flexible and inventive. The only real blemish was the often scrawny and out-of-tune playing of the tiny orchestra, the strings in particular, which sometimes contributed to disconnection between band and stage. Whilst generally spirited, there were moments when one simply could not ignore painful intonation – perhaps a consequence of the cold temperatures on the site of Bankside’s oldest playhouse? Excavations continue beneath the temporary playing space, and the Rose Opera Company is donating the proceeds from ticket sales to the Rose Theatre Trust.
For further details concerning the Rose Opera Company, click here, and for the Rose Theatre, click here.
Oebalus – Andrew Boushell
Hyacinthus – Zoe Bonner
Melia – Eleanor Briggs
Apollo – Alison Nicholls
Zephyrus – Georgina-Rosanna Murray
Ensemble – Rebecca Ramsey, Chloe Morgan, Alex Mai, James Priest
Eleanor Briggs (director)
Rose Opera Orchestra
James Williams (conductor)
This is where it all began, with an intermezzo to accompany a five-act tragedy. Both intermezzo and tragedy, Clementia Croesi were written in Latin, their words penned by the Salzburg Benedictine Gymnasium teacher, Rufinus Widl. Here the Rose Opera Company performed Mozart’s contribution in the original Latin, without titles, and yet succeeded in communicating the plot, with a little help from one’s memory, one’s rusty Latin, and/or one’s programme synopsis (delete as appropriate). Opportunities to hear Apollo et Hyacinthus, KV 37, are unlikely ever to be frequent. Yet Mozart’s first opera is fully worthy of the occasional production, far more so than a number of works that bafflingly continue to hold the stage in our major opera houses. The present production, for a very small stage, made imaginative use of a small number of props, eighteenth-century costumes proving stylish and apposite.
Mozart, of course, wrote for boys, but here we had a mixture of young men and women. All of the singers had their strengths and crucially of them enunciated the text clearly, their diction an object lesson to many more established artists. If one singer stood out it was the multi-tasking Eleanor Briggs, not only the director of the production, but also the founder of the company, whose inaugural production this is. Her bright, flexible soprano coped extremely well with Mozart’s challenging coloratura. One wonders what on earth he thought he was doing writing such music for a cast aged between twelve and twenty-three, but the eleven-year old composer did not have a great deal of stage experience behind him. The arias were indeed generally well taken, the odd slip rarely detracting from the joy expressed in Mozart’s invention. He may not yet have developed his extraordinary genius for characterisation, but the music is surprisingly expressive, putting most of his contemporaries to shame. It was particularly impressive to hear such an estimable balance between individuality and blend in the ensemble singing.
Moreover, to prevent attention from waning during the recitatives was a signal achievement, for which James Williams, conducting from the harpsichord, must be awarded considerable credit. Indeed, his continuo realisation was consistently flexible and inventive. The only real blemish was the often scrawny and out-of-tune playing of the tiny orchestra, the strings in particular, which sometimes contributed to disconnection between band and stage. Whilst generally spirited, there were moments when one simply could not ignore painful intonation – perhaps a consequence of the cold temperatures on the site of Bankside’s oldest playhouse? Excavations continue beneath the temporary playing space, and the Rose Opera Company is donating the proceeds from ticket sales to the Rose Theatre Trust.
For further details concerning the Rose Opera Company, click here, and for the Rose Theatre, click here.
Jansen/Rysanov/Philharmonia/Luisi - Mozart and Schubert, 9 March 2010
Royal Festival Hall
Mozart – Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major for violin and viola, KV 364
Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944
Janine Jansen (violin)
Maxim Rysanov (viola)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Fabio Luisi (conductor)
I did not enter the Royal Festival Hall with especially high hopes, feeling disappointed that Christoph von Dohnányi had fallen ill. His last-minute replacement, Fabio Luisi, had recently been lauded in certain quarters for his Strauss and Bruckner. I had rather admired his conducting of Die Liebe der Danae a few years ago in Salzburg, also, as it happens, replacing Dohnányi, yet more recently, I had been somewhat nonplussed by an Edinburgh concert with the Staatskapelle Dresden. Luisi must have been having an off-day – or perhaps I was – since his conducting of Mozart and Schubert proved excellent, and I think it is fair to say that nowhere am I less easy to please than in Classical repertoire…
There were two other stars for the Mozart Sinfonia concertante, of course – well, three, since the brightest-shining of all is the composer of this imperishable masterpiece. It speaks extremely well of Luisi and his two soloists, Maxim Rysanov and Janine Jansen, that their musicianship ultimately returned the spotlight to Mozart himself. Everything sounded right: tempi, blend, sonority, character. That is not to say that there is one ‘correct’ way, but rather that the performance did its job in convincing one of its rightness for as long as it lasted – and a little while after. For the music does not play itself; it needs to be performed. The Philharmonia strings were of a decent size (10.8.6.4.3), the orchestra providing clarity, warmth, and a weight that did not preclude lightness of touch where necessary, for instance in beautiful, unanimous pizzicato and truly ravishing woodwind passages. It is grossly unfair even to mention it, but the only thing I missed was that true Viennese sweetness now so indelibly associated – and justly so – with this music: think, for instance of one of Karl Böhm’s recordings. In the first movement, the tempo, as elsewhere, seemed just right: unhurried, but by the same token never dragging. The great opening tutti crescendo was flawlessly handled, in a way that would surely have impressed Mozart and the fine (considerably larger) Paris orchestra for which he wrote. In a concerto, however, one awaits of course the entry of the soloist(s), and from the outset, Janine Jansen and Maxim Rysanov impressed, not only attentive to each other, but with an obvious rapport; indeed, the frisson seemed almost sexual, by which I do not mean to imply anything beyond the performance, but performing with another musician always involved shared intimacy, at least if it is done properly. There was a clear contrast between violin and viola, but equally a fine blend. If anything, Rysanov’s part impressed all the more, if only because one is less accustomed to hearing a solo violist: I certainly was led to wish that Mozart had written a viola concerto, not least since he clearly adored the instrument.
The slow movement flowed, in the proper rather than the modern ‘fast’ sense, yet retained its dignity. Jansen’s opening violin solo sounded veiled, as if it were muted, yet it was not; Rysanov’s response was rich – in every sense – in melancholy, exquisitely voiced and shaped. When the major mode came, Mozart smiled through tears as only he can. Luisi’s role was crucial, in that he ensured an unbroken line from beginning to end, not in the sense of a lack of phrasing or articulation, but in the long-distance hearing (Furtwängler’s Fernhören) that makes of this movement a single aria. The ineffable sadness of the cadenza proved the emotional climax, its chromatic intensity almost unbearable; nothing could have been more distant than mere solo display. A truly Mozartian quicksilver change of mood was brought about by the Puckish finale. Fun can be beautiful – and beauty can even be fun; such is Mozart’s lesson, as taught to us here. Interplay between all musicians was once again exemplary. A fine performance indeed!
For Schubert’s ‘Great’ C major symphony, Luisi opted for a full, Romantic orchestra (strings: 16.14.12.10.8). Thank goodness for that! He had no truck with the modern trend towards an absurdly fast introduction to the first movement. Instead, Schubert, quite rightly, looked forward to Bruckner, without foregoing the composer’s particular grace and charm. Cellos were suave, brass full of foreboding, and the oboe solo (Gordon Hunt) simply enchanting. The transition to the exposition was thrilling and arrival was decisive, underpinned by martial rhythm. I felt a certain regret – both times, since the exposition repeat was taken – that Luisi did not yield for the second subject, but this was part of his intriguingly, and ultimately convincingly, urgent account. The lightness of the opening to the development, woodwind in particular, suggested Mendelssohn, but the Philharmonia brass soon supplied military muscle, the scene set for battle, as kettledrum clouds underscored. Before we knew it, the recapitulation was upon us, but had battle been enjoined or deferred? Schubert’s goal-orientation is generally more ambivalent than that of Beethoven, and so it was here. Ambiguity continued into the coda, which sounded grand but unsettling: an apt summation of the symphony as a whole. In a sense, one might think of Furtwängler, but with very different means. The slow movement was taken relatively swiftly, but never sounded remotely trivial. Subtle rubato was employed where necessary, but onward, even martial drive won out. Cellos and double basses were especially important here in underpinning the rhythmic menace, whilst woodwind entwined gorgeously above: again, an unsettling combination. Consolation was to be heard, but would not quite endure. The climax was shattering, almost Brucknerian; I was truly shocked. After that, the sadness of cellos and oboe shone through, aided by Luisi’s astute relaxation of tempo. Resumption of the initial tempo could not remove the shadow cast; the urgency pertaining to the last terrified. The scherzo continued in a similar vein: urgent and graceful; it stomped, but with charm. There were odd bars in which ensemble and control lapsed slightly, only really noticeable in the face of such excellence elsewhere. The scale and oh-so-Austrian quality of the trio registered, but I felt that such might have been emphasised a little more, the music occasionally edging towards the neutral.
What to do for a finale? Ever since the Eroica, at least, this has been a great problem for the symphonist. Luisi drew Beethovenian parallels but equally emphasised Schubert’s own path. Command of line was all-important here and the conductor did not disappoint. Where Bruckner in the Seventh Symphony so signally failed, Schubert was permitted to succeed, resolving tensions without avoiding them. A motivic insistence clearly born of Beethoven sounded, but Schubert was never made to sound ‘like’ him. The one thing I missed here was the last ounce, and I only mean an ounce, of orchestral weight, so as truly to overwhelm prior to resolution, but the low unison blows nevertheless struck a Brucknerian terror into one’s heart. A stylish and intriguing touch, which somehow avoided mannerism, was the subtle diminuendo upon the final chord. The time for easy victory, if ever it had existed, was long gone in this understanding of Schubert.
It is a pity, then, that the audience seemed lacklustre in its response. For me, this was an extraordinarily memorable concert. Dresden may have lost Luisi, but I hope that London will hear more of him.
Mozart – Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major for violin and viola, KV 364
Schubert – Symphony no.9 in C major, ‘Great’, D 944
Janine Jansen (violin)
Maxim Rysanov (viola)
Philharmonia Orchestra
Fabio Luisi (conductor)
I did not enter the Royal Festival Hall with especially high hopes, feeling disappointed that Christoph von Dohnányi had fallen ill. His last-minute replacement, Fabio Luisi, had recently been lauded in certain quarters for his Strauss and Bruckner. I had rather admired his conducting of Die Liebe der Danae a few years ago in Salzburg, also, as it happens, replacing Dohnányi, yet more recently, I had been somewhat nonplussed by an Edinburgh concert with the Staatskapelle Dresden. Luisi must have been having an off-day – or perhaps I was – since his conducting of Mozart and Schubert proved excellent, and I think it is fair to say that nowhere am I less easy to please than in Classical repertoire…
There were two other stars for the Mozart Sinfonia concertante, of course – well, three, since the brightest-shining of all is the composer of this imperishable masterpiece. It speaks extremely well of Luisi and his two soloists, Maxim Rysanov and Janine Jansen, that their musicianship ultimately returned the spotlight to Mozart himself. Everything sounded right: tempi, blend, sonority, character. That is not to say that there is one ‘correct’ way, but rather that the performance did its job in convincing one of its rightness for as long as it lasted – and a little while after. For the music does not play itself; it needs to be performed. The Philharmonia strings were of a decent size (10.8.6.4.3), the orchestra providing clarity, warmth, and a weight that did not preclude lightness of touch where necessary, for instance in beautiful, unanimous pizzicato and truly ravishing woodwind passages. It is grossly unfair even to mention it, but the only thing I missed was that true Viennese sweetness now so indelibly associated – and justly so – with this music: think, for instance of one of Karl Böhm’s recordings. In the first movement, the tempo, as elsewhere, seemed just right: unhurried, but by the same token never dragging. The great opening tutti crescendo was flawlessly handled, in a way that would surely have impressed Mozart and the fine (considerably larger) Paris orchestra for which he wrote. In a concerto, however, one awaits of course the entry of the soloist(s), and from the outset, Janine Jansen and Maxim Rysanov impressed, not only attentive to each other, but with an obvious rapport; indeed, the frisson seemed almost sexual, by which I do not mean to imply anything beyond the performance, but performing with another musician always involved shared intimacy, at least if it is done properly. There was a clear contrast between violin and viola, but equally a fine blend. If anything, Rysanov’s part impressed all the more, if only because one is less accustomed to hearing a solo violist: I certainly was led to wish that Mozart had written a viola concerto, not least since he clearly adored the instrument.
The slow movement flowed, in the proper rather than the modern ‘fast’ sense, yet retained its dignity. Jansen’s opening violin solo sounded veiled, as if it were muted, yet it was not; Rysanov’s response was rich – in every sense – in melancholy, exquisitely voiced and shaped. When the major mode came, Mozart smiled through tears as only he can. Luisi’s role was crucial, in that he ensured an unbroken line from beginning to end, not in the sense of a lack of phrasing or articulation, but in the long-distance hearing (Furtwängler’s Fernhören) that makes of this movement a single aria. The ineffable sadness of the cadenza proved the emotional climax, its chromatic intensity almost unbearable; nothing could have been more distant than mere solo display. A truly Mozartian quicksilver change of mood was brought about by the Puckish finale. Fun can be beautiful – and beauty can even be fun; such is Mozart’s lesson, as taught to us here. Interplay between all musicians was once again exemplary. A fine performance indeed!
For Schubert’s ‘Great’ C major symphony, Luisi opted for a full, Romantic orchestra (strings: 16.14.12.10.8). Thank goodness for that! He had no truck with the modern trend towards an absurdly fast introduction to the first movement. Instead, Schubert, quite rightly, looked forward to Bruckner, without foregoing the composer’s particular grace and charm. Cellos were suave, brass full of foreboding, and the oboe solo (Gordon Hunt) simply enchanting. The transition to the exposition was thrilling and arrival was decisive, underpinned by martial rhythm. I felt a certain regret – both times, since the exposition repeat was taken – that Luisi did not yield for the second subject, but this was part of his intriguingly, and ultimately convincingly, urgent account. The lightness of the opening to the development, woodwind in particular, suggested Mendelssohn, but the Philharmonia brass soon supplied military muscle, the scene set for battle, as kettledrum clouds underscored. Before we knew it, the recapitulation was upon us, but had battle been enjoined or deferred? Schubert’s goal-orientation is generally more ambivalent than that of Beethoven, and so it was here. Ambiguity continued into the coda, which sounded grand but unsettling: an apt summation of the symphony as a whole. In a sense, one might think of Furtwängler, but with very different means. The slow movement was taken relatively swiftly, but never sounded remotely trivial. Subtle rubato was employed where necessary, but onward, even martial drive won out. Cellos and double basses were especially important here in underpinning the rhythmic menace, whilst woodwind entwined gorgeously above: again, an unsettling combination. Consolation was to be heard, but would not quite endure. The climax was shattering, almost Brucknerian; I was truly shocked. After that, the sadness of cellos and oboe shone through, aided by Luisi’s astute relaxation of tempo. Resumption of the initial tempo could not remove the shadow cast; the urgency pertaining to the last terrified. The scherzo continued in a similar vein: urgent and graceful; it stomped, but with charm. There were odd bars in which ensemble and control lapsed slightly, only really noticeable in the face of such excellence elsewhere. The scale and oh-so-Austrian quality of the trio registered, but I felt that such might have been emphasised a little more, the music occasionally edging towards the neutral.
What to do for a finale? Ever since the Eroica, at least, this has been a great problem for the symphonist. Luisi drew Beethovenian parallels but equally emphasised Schubert’s own path. Command of line was all-important here and the conductor did not disappoint. Where Bruckner in the Seventh Symphony so signally failed, Schubert was permitted to succeed, resolving tensions without avoiding them. A motivic insistence clearly born of Beethoven sounded, but Schubert was never made to sound ‘like’ him. The one thing I missed here was the last ounce, and I only mean an ounce, of orchestral weight, so as truly to overwhelm prior to resolution, but the low unison blows nevertheless struck a Brucknerian terror into one’s heart. A stylish and intriguing touch, which somehow avoided mannerism, was the subtle diminuendo upon the final chord. The time for easy victory, if ever it had existed, was long gone in this understanding of Schubert.
It is a pity, then, that the audience seemed lacklustre in its response. For me, this was an extraordinarily memorable concert. Dresden may have lost Luisi, but I hope that London will hear more of him.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Orchestra of St John's/Lubbock - Handel, Bach, Alec Roth, and Haydn, 6 March 2010
Handel – Solomon: ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’
Bach – Cantata no.51: Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen, BWV 51
Alec Roth – Departure of the Queen of Sheba
Haydn – Symphony no.44 in E minor, ‘Trauer’
Louise Wayman (soprano)
Orchestra of St John’s
John Lubbock (conductor)
There was much to enjoy in this, the third and final concert from the Orchestra of St John’s residency at Kings Place, which has sought to give a taste of the orchestra’s aversion to modish, ghettoising specialisation. ‘Specialists in nullity,’ was one of Boulez’s several dismissive remarks concerning the proponents of such an approach. For, as the OSJ’s founder and conductor, John Lubbock, comments:
More than forty years ago, when I set up this orchestra, many of my colleagues were doing very specialist things, like John Eliot Gardiner with his English Baroque Soloists and Christopher Hogwood with his Academy of Ancient Music, for example. We decided that we would go the other way, and play everything, from the late Baroque, to classical repertoire through twentieth-century works to the most contemporary music. So it’s that distinctive identity I wanted to communicate here: a good spread of all the different things we do, to show our versatility.
To that end, and what an increasingly rare blessing this is, the orchestra plays on modern instruments, albeit with chamber forces: perfectly appropriate for the venue, whose virtues Lubbock rightly extols:
I think Hall One is an absolute triumph – not only is it a beautiful hall acoustically and a pleasure for the audience to sit in, but it’s a pleasure to play in. The back stage facilities are second to none, and the technical and stage management team simply can’t do enough. We can get a thirty-seven piece orchestra on to the stage, that’s strings, thirteen [wood-]wind and brass, plus timps. That means we could do Beethoven symphonies. It’s ideal.
I am not sure that I harbour an overwhelming desire to hear Beethoven from such forces, but nevertheless the principle of a small hall requiring a smaller number of musicians holds – and for the most part worked well here. With strings scaled 4.3.2.2.1, there were only a few instances when the violins sounded undernourished. Moreover, there was none of that ghastly whining that passes for ‘Baroque style’ in fashionable quarters. Indeed, in the opening Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, an old ‘lollipop’ was made to taste, not through presenting an exhibitionistic attempt to be different or more likely ‘correct’, but by trusting Handel’s music to take care of itself, with a little assistance from Lubbock’s sensitive command. Dynamic contrasts and subtle shading played their part, as did a keen understanding of harmonic direction.
Bach may have been an exact contemporary of Handel, but his requirements are, in general, very different. Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen stands perhaps closer to Handel than many of Bach’s works, though even in this combination of rejoicing and vocal display, there is a great deal more at stake. Handel’s two oboes were replaced by Andrew Dunn’s trumpet: not so stunning as, say, Maurice André in such repertoire, but quietly impressive. And the orchestra retained something of its Handelian brightness of tone. Discreet organ continuo was provided by Christopher Bowers-Broadbent. Louise Wayman’s account of the soprano part grew in confidence. At first, she looked – and sounded – a little nervous, somewhat boyish in tone, but a greater level of engagement with the text was to be heard as the work progressed. Coloratura and ornamentation were generally well handled. Whilst verbal meaning was rarely stressed, there was a nicely imploring tone to ‘deine Kinder’ (the Lord’s children) in the aria, ‘Höchster, mache deine Güte,’ and greater use of vibrato in the ensuing chorale suggested the greater surety expressed in the text. Lubbock ensured that the recitative, ‘Wir beten zu dem Tempel an,’ sounded properly Bachian in tending more towards arioso. Indeed, the musical flow of the work was impressive throughout. If the final ‘Alleluia!’ were taken at a more sedate tempo than the blessed Elisabeth, there is much to be said for that. Admirable though Schwarzkopf may be here, there is a case for something a little more yielding.
The second half opened with Alec Roth’s Departure of the Queen of Sheba, written for the Academy of St Martin in the Fields in 1999, inspired by Ana Maria Pacheco’s painting, Queen of Sheba and King Solomon in the Garden of Earthly Delights. I am afraid I soon found myself wishing that the Queen would depart at least as quickly as she had arrived. That she took her time is doubtless in part owed to the programmatic concern, Solomon and his guest being loath to separate, but a little of this music would still have goned a considerable way. Beginning with a slowed down and otherwise somewhat varied version of Handel’s figuration, the lovers, offstage oboe representing the queen and English horn the king, soon commence their loquacious yet languorous dialogue. Unabashedly tonal, the mildness would not seem out of place in a television drama of a certain age or even a Merchant Ivory film: nothing to frighten away a Daily Mail reader, I should have thought. Vaughan Williams and Gershwin occasionally vied for attention, albeit with a little too much diluting to taste. There was nothing unpleasant; it was just blandly inconsequential. The performance, however, seemed to me excellent, not least from the soloists, Chris O’Neal and Alison Alty.
It was quite a relief, then, to turn to an invigorating performance of Haydn’s forty-forth symphony, the Trauer. Vigorous, urgent from the outset, Lubbock was clearly in his element, Haydn’s Sturm und Drang proving as tragic as and perhaps more single-minded than a great deal of Mozart. It is a rarer thing than one might expect to have someone so thoroughly understand Haydn’s language, not least in the demonstration that rhetoric and phrasing are anything but antithetical. The small number of strings made the first movement in particular glance back to the Baroque, especially if one thought of, say, Antal Doráti here, but the motival working out impressed upon one how, even at this stage, Haydn looks forward to Beethoven. The extraordinary ending to the exposition – repeated – in which the music subsides upwards, as it were, peers even further forward into the future. Die Jakobsleiter perhaps? And the intensity of the recapitulation’s chromaticism was fully, but never indulgently, expressed. Tragedy was again to the fore in the canonic minuet: intense, but never hard-driven. Just occasionally, the strings could sound a little thin, but they bloomed in the major mode of the trio, balm to the ears, and properly Haydnesque, in that there was little or none of the sadness, the smiling through tears, that Mozart would typically have brought to such a transformation. The Adagio was warmly affecting: poised without archness, the strings’ vibrato sensitively judged. Once again, I found myself thinking what a fine feeling Lubbock had for Haydn’s style, for the transformation in subjectivity that had taken place since the Baroque. The Presto finale brought fire and again did not confuse that with driving too hard. Its structure was as clear as its emotional import. Haydn proved – as if he had to! – that he is just as capable as Gluck at expressing the true nobility of tragedy. Why is everyone not queuing up to perform this magnificent music? One quibble: the conductor’s whistling throughout the symphony became a little distracting. This nevertheless remained an excellent performance.
Bach – Cantata no.51: Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen, BWV 51
Alec Roth – Departure of the Queen of Sheba
Haydn – Symphony no.44 in E minor, ‘Trauer’
Louise Wayman (soprano)
Orchestra of St John’s
John Lubbock (conductor)
There was much to enjoy in this, the third and final concert from the Orchestra of St John’s residency at Kings Place, which has sought to give a taste of the orchestra’s aversion to modish, ghettoising specialisation. ‘Specialists in nullity,’ was one of Boulez’s several dismissive remarks concerning the proponents of such an approach. For, as the OSJ’s founder and conductor, John Lubbock, comments:
More than forty years ago, when I set up this orchestra, many of my colleagues were doing very specialist things, like John Eliot Gardiner with his English Baroque Soloists and Christopher Hogwood with his Academy of Ancient Music, for example. We decided that we would go the other way, and play everything, from the late Baroque, to classical repertoire through twentieth-century works to the most contemporary music. So it’s that distinctive identity I wanted to communicate here: a good spread of all the different things we do, to show our versatility.
To that end, and what an increasingly rare blessing this is, the orchestra plays on modern instruments, albeit with chamber forces: perfectly appropriate for the venue, whose virtues Lubbock rightly extols:
I think Hall One is an absolute triumph – not only is it a beautiful hall acoustically and a pleasure for the audience to sit in, but it’s a pleasure to play in. The back stage facilities are second to none, and the technical and stage management team simply can’t do enough. We can get a thirty-seven piece orchestra on to the stage, that’s strings, thirteen [wood-]wind and brass, plus timps. That means we could do Beethoven symphonies. It’s ideal.
I am not sure that I harbour an overwhelming desire to hear Beethoven from such forces, but nevertheless the principle of a small hall requiring a smaller number of musicians holds – and for the most part worked well here. With strings scaled 4.3.2.2.1, there were only a few instances when the violins sounded undernourished. Moreover, there was none of that ghastly whining that passes for ‘Baroque style’ in fashionable quarters. Indeed, in the opening Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, an old ‘lollipop’ was made to taste, not through presenting an exhibitionistic attempt to be different or more likely ‘correct’, but by trusting Handel’s music to take care of itself, with a little assistance from Lubbock’s sensitive command. Dynamic contrasts and subtle shading played their part, as did a keen understanding of harmonic direction.
Bach may have been an exact contemporary of Handel, but his requirements are, in general, very different. Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen stands perhaps closer to Handel than many of Bach’s works, though even in this combination of rejoicing and vocal display, there is a great deal more at stake. Handel’s two oboes were replaced by Andrew Dunn’s trumpet: not so stunning as, say, Maurice André in such repertoire, but quietly impressive. And the orchestra retained something of its Handelian brightness of tone. Discreet organ continuo was provided by Christopher Bowers-Broadbent. Louise Wayman’s account of the soprano part grew in confidence. At first, she looked – and sounded – a little nervous, somewhat boyish in tone, but a greater level of engagement with the text was to be heard as the work progressed. Coloratura and ornamentation were generally well handled. Whilst verbal meaning was rarely stressed, there was a nicely imploring tone to ‘deine Kinder’ (the Lord’s children) in the aria, ‘Höchster, mache deine Güte,’ and greater use of vibrato in the ensuing chorale suggested the greater surety expressed in the text. Lubbock ensured that the recitative, ‘Wir beten zu dem Tempel an,’ sounded properly Bachian in tending more towards arioso. Indeed, the musical flow of the work was impressive throughout. If the final ‘Alleluia!’ were taken at a more sedate tempo than the blessed Elisabeth, there is much to be said for that. Admirable though Schwarzkopf may be here, there is a case for something a little more yielding.
The second half opened with Alec Roth’s Departure of the Queen of Sheba, written for the Academy of St Martin in the Fields in 1999, inspired by Ana Maria Pacheco’s painting, Queen of Sheba and King Solomon in the Garden of Earthly Delights. I am afraid I soon found myself wishing that the Queen would depart at least as quickly as she had arrived. That she took her time is doubtless in part owed to the programmatic concern, Solomon and his guest being loath to separate, but a little of this music would still have goned a considerable way. Beginning with a slowed down and otherwise somewhat varied version of Handel’s figuration, the lovers, offstage oboe representing the queen and English horn the king, soon commence their loquacious yet languorous dialogue. Unabashedly tonal, the mildness would not seem out of place in a television drama of a certain age or even a Merchant Ivory film: nothing to frighten away a Daily Mail reader, I should have thought. Vaughan Williams and Gershwin occasionally vied for attention, albeit with a little too much diluting to taste. There was nothing unpleasant; it was just blandly inconsequential. The performance, however, seemed to me excellent, not least from the soloists, Chris O’Neal and Alison Alty.
It was quite a relief, then, to turn to an invigorating performance of Haydn’s forty-forth symphony, the Trauer. Vigorous, urgent from the outset, Lubbock was clearly in his element, Haydn’s Sturm und Drang proving as tragic as and perhaps more single-minded than a great deal of Mozart. It is a rarer thing than one might expect to have someone so thoroughly understand Haydn’s language, not least in the demonstration that rhetoric and phrasing are anything but antithetical. The small number of strings made the first movement in particular glance back to the Baroque, especially if one thought of, say, Antal Doráti here, but the motival working out impressed upon one how, even at this stage, Haydn looks forward to Beethoven. The extraordinary ending to the exposition – repeated – in which the music subsides upwards, as it were, peers even further forward into the future. Die Jakobsleiter perhaps? And the intensity of the recapitulation’s chromaticism was fully, but never indulgently, expressed. Tragedy was again to the fore in the canonic minuet: intense, but never hard-driven. Just occasionally, the strings could sound a little thin, but they bloomed in the major mode of the trio, balm to the ears, and properly Haydnesque, in that there was little or none of the sadness, the smiling through tears, that Mozart would typically have brought to such a transformation. The Adagio was warmly affecting: poised without archness, the strings’ vibrato sensitively judged. Once again, I found myself thinking what a fine feeling Lubbock had for Haydn’s style, for the transformation in subjectivity that had taken place since the Baroque. The Presto finale brought fire and again did not confuse that with driving too hard. Its structure was as clear as its emotional import. Haydn proved – as if he had to! – that he is just as capable as Gluck at expressing the true nobility of tragedy. Why is everyone not queuing up to perform this magnificent music? One quibble: the conductor’s whistling throughout the symphony became a little distracting. This nevertheless remained an excellent performance.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Goerne/Deutsch - Schubert Lieder (II), 2 March 2010
Wigmore Hall
An die untergehende Sonne, D 457
Der Tod und das Mädchen, D 531
Die Rose, D 745
Erinnerung, D 101
Litanei auf das Fest aller Seelen, D 343
Auf dem Wasser zu singen, D 774
Abendbilder, D 650
Nach einem Gewitter, D 561
Der Zwerg, D 771
Im Frühling, D 882
Die Blumensprache, D 519
Viola, D 786
An die Entfernte, D 765
Bei dir allein! D 866/2
Ganymed, D 544
Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Helmut Deutsch (piano)
The second of Matthias Goerne’s and Helmut Deutsch’s Schubert recitals (see here for the first) was perhaps still more impressive than its predecessor, such difference as there was being in good part attributable to the higher quality of the verse. Franz von Schober’s tedious Viola was an exception, but Goerne and Deutsch gave it a better account than it perhaps deserved. What is one to make of Spring, the bridegroom, wresting his ice-weapon (Eiswehr) from Winter, or the ‘little breast’ of the violet? Quite a lot, perhaps; at least such instances amuse, unlike the catalogue of flowers, or the incomprehensible sounding of the snowdrop.
The recital opened as it meant to go on, however, with an appropriately leisurely An die untergehende Sonne, whose direction – sunset – was yet clear throughout. Death was given explicit form, indeed character, in Der Tod und das Mädchen. I find it impossible not to think of the quartet here, but Deutsch’s ineffable sadness to the piano prelude possessed its own character and prepared the way admirably for the maiden’s terror, so harrowingly and fleetingly portrayed by Goerne. Die Rose exuded the schöne Warme of Schlegel’s opening line, though death proved still more beautiful. And the whispers of dying breezes haunted Erinnerung too. What might happen after death can at best be glimpsed, which is perhaps what we did in the Jacobi setting, Litanei auf das Fest aller Seelen. Goerne’s beauty of tone rendered the ultimate repose a comforting, even seductive prospect, but this remained serious stuff: a litany, after all. The pregnancy of the pause before the final line, in which the hope of eternal peace is once again enunciated, was moving indeed. The piano is every inch the equal partner in the marvellous Auf dem Wasser zu singen. Here, Deutsch vouchsafed us intimations perhaps of Chopin, albeit within the content of still-Classical form. Deutsch’s projection of the vesper-bell in Abendbilder was an object lesion in meaningful tone-painting, which never once sought to draw attention to itself. Goerne’s drawing upon seemingly endless reserves of breath was equally impressive, as was the subtlety of his dynamic contrasts in Nach einem Gewitter. For the final number of the first half, we heard the Flying Dutchman-like Der Zwerg. Goerne turned Gothic storyteller, urgent and tender. The dwarf’s heart seemed almost literally to burn with desire for the queen, such was the intensity of the singer’s rendition. And the menace in the piano part managed both to suggest an orchestra and to remain impeccably pianistic in character.
Im Frühling is a truly lovely song, and so it sounded here. Its virtues are as much in musical form as in poetic response; Schubert’s modulations were given musical and verbal life. The advertised Stimme der Liebe was replaced, though I am afraid I know not by what. The generally lighter second half concluded with subtlety in its final three items. Goerne was not afraid to use his voice at something approaching, at least apparently, full throttle in the climaxes to An die Entfernte and Bei dir allein! At least as impressive, however, was once again the subtlety of his shading – and that of his partner. Mozartian poise and an almost Rococo-like melismatic flowering characterised the concluding Ganymed: not only beautiful in rendition but concerned with the essence and ambiguities of beauty itself. If it captured the heart, it also probed: a fitting tribute to Schubert himself.
An die untergehende Sonne, D 457
Der Tod und das Mädchen, D 531
Die Rose, D 745
Erinnerung, D 101
Litanei auf das Fest aller Seelen, D 343
Auf dem Wasser zu singen, D 774
Abendbilder, D 650
Nach einem Gewitter, D 561
Der Zwerg, D 771
Im Frühling, D 882
Die Blumensprache, D 519
Viola, D 786
An die Entfernte, D 765
Bei dir allein! D 866/2
Ganymed, D 544
Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Helmut Deutsch (piano)
The second of Matthias Goerne’s and Helmut Deutsch’s Schubert recitals (see here for the first) was perhaps still more impressive than its predecessor, such difference as there was being in good part attributable to the higher quality of the verse. Franz von Schober’s tedious Viola was an exception, but Goerne and Deutsch gave it a better account than it perhaps deserved. What is one to make of Spring, the bridegroom, wresting his ice-weapon (Eiswehr) from Winter, or the ‘little breast’ of the violet? Quite a lot, perhaps; at least such instances amuse, unlike the catalogue of flowers, or the incomprehensible sounding of the snowdrop.
The recital opened as it meant to go on, however, with an appropriately leisurely An die untergehende Sonne, whose direction – sunset – was yet clear throughout. Death was given explicit form, indeed character, in Der Tod und das Mädchen. I find it impossible not to think of the quartet here, but Deutsch’s ineffable sadness to the piano prelude possessed its own character and prepared the way admirably for the maiden’s terror, so harrowingly and fleetingly portrayed by Goerne. Die Rose exuded the schöne Warme of Schlegel’s opening line, though death proved still more beautiful. And the whispers of dying breezes haunted Erinnerung too. What might happen after death can at best be glimpsed, which is perhaps what we did in the Jacobi setting, Litanei auf das Fest aller Seelen. Goerne’s beauty of tone rendered the ultimate repose a comforting, even seductive prospect, but this remained serious stuff: a litany, after all. The pregnancy of the pause before the final line, in which the hope of eternal peace is once again enunciated, was moving indeed. The piano is every inch the equal partner in the marvellous Auf dem Wasser zu singen. Here, Deutsch vouchsafed us intimations perhaps of Chopin, albeit within the content of still-Classical form. Deutsch’s projection of the vesper-bell in Abendbilder was an object lesion in meaningful tone-painting, which never once sought to draw attention to itself. Goerne’s drawing upon seemingly endless reserves of breath was equally impressive, as was the subtlety of his dynamic contrasts in Nach einem Gewitter. For the final number of the first half, we heard the Flying Dutchman-like Der Zwerg. Goerne turned Gothic storyteller, urgent and tender. The dwarf’s heart seemed almost literally to burn with desire for the queen, such was the intensity of the singer’s rendition. And the menace in the piano part managed both to suggest an orchestra and to remain impeccably pianistic in character.
Im Frühling is a truly lovely song, and so it sounded here. Its virtues are as much in musical form as in poetic response; Schubert’s modulations were given musical and verbal life. The advertised Stimme der Liebe was replaced, though I am afraid I know not by what. The generally lighter second half concluded with subtlety in its final three items. Goerne was not afraid to use his voice at something approaching, at least apparently, full throttle in the climaxes to An die Entfernte and Bei dir allein! At least as impressive, however, was once again the subtlety of his shading – and that of his partner. Mozartian poise and an almost Rococo-like melismatic flowering characterised the concluding Ganymed: not only beautiful in rendition but concerned with the essence and ambiguities of beauty itself. If it captured the heart, it also probed: a fitting tribute to Schubert himself.
Maurizio Pollini - Chopin, 1 March 2010
Royal Festival Hall
Preludes, op.28 (complete)
Ballade no.1 in G minor, op.23
Two Nocturnes, op.27
Etudes, op.25:
No. 1 in A-flat major
No.2 in F minor
No.3 in F major
No.4 in A minor
No.7 in C-sharp minor
No.10 in B minor
No.11 in A minor
No.12 in C minor
The greatest living Chopin pianist, indeed the greatest living pianist, for an all-Chopin recital on the composer’s (alleged) two-hundred birthday: how could it fail? Despite some reservations, or stronger, I heard from some of those attending, I had very few cavils with the performance, which on the whole I found stunning, especially during the second half. Yet this, sadly, was insofar as I was able to concentrate. On far too many occasions recently I have been driven to bemoan audience ‘interaction’. (How very New Labour!) To have Maurizio Pollini perform the complete Chopin Preludes with a background – or should that be foreground – of incessant coughing, shuffling, chattering, and even, God help us, walking around the hall, was a dispiriting experience. One woman in front of me was sipping from a plastic cup of wine! I comfort myself with the fact that I shall hear him perform the same work next month in Berlin, in a Chopin-Debussy-Boulez programme, when I hope to be able to reach a more considered view.
What I can say is that, a few, largely irrelevant technical blemishes aside, Pollini presented a dazzling prospectus of Chopin’s tonal journey. Each prelude was very much integrated into a greater whole: a homage to Bach, but equally a vivid demonstration of what piano and pianist can do. We heard not so much a set of character pieces but a more ‘objective’ – loaded word, I know – but a journey through the tonal and pianistic universe. This is not to say that none of the individual preludes possessed character. The A major and ‘Raindrop’ Preludes brought tears to my eyes in their noble, unassuming dignity, whilst the violence of the D minor Prelude looked forward to Pollini’s (almost equally?) beloved Schoenberg’s Op.11. Allegro appassionato indeed! Much of the audience, however, seemed merely to resent the lack of pauses in which to cough. I cannot imagine why, however, since those people carried on doing so anyway.
The proto-Schoenbergian – Brahmsian? – darkness of that final prelude was intensified in the G minor Ballade: a towering performance, more ‘Romantic’ or expressionist even, than much of the first half. The Devil-may-care attitude Pollini seemed to adopt was in many respects quite unlike that of his former crystalline self, perhaps more akin to the unpredictability of Daniel Barenboim. The two Op.27 Nocturnes, by contrast, were seductive in the extreme. Siren voices called and bewitched, yet they exuded authority by virtue of Pollini’s supreme formal command. I do not wish to exaggerate, but there was perhaps a slight lessening of bronchial pollution here; otherwise, I might have found myself with little to say at all. Normal service, however, was resumed for the selection from the Op.25 set of Etudes. Here, Pollini’s trademark éclat was once again on show, insofar as one could manage to concentrate. It was perhaps slightly odd to perform eight out of the twelve, but if selection there must be, it was done well here. The sense of Chopin marrying technical and musical innovation, till death them do part, was superbly captured, with prescient hints of Debussy’s late marriage of classicism and experimentalism. Again, there were a few – and I mean a few – instances of less than perfect execution, but only a Beckmesser would care. Typically generous with encores, Pollini expanded Chopin’s world with another study, a mazurka, and a scherzo. The Revolutionary Study should have brought the house down and did, though one can only assume that tuberculosis had already brought down many of those present.
What, then, is to be done about audiences, or rather about the selfish minority – at least, I hope that it is a minority – increasingly insistent upon ruining performances for the rest of us? Short of installing a Stasi-like system of surveillance and reporting, a tempting thought, it is very difficult to know. I was surprised to notice that the Royal Festival Hall had deleted the later part of Sir Ian McKellen’s pre-concert announcement; the audience was no longer requested even ‘to keep coughing to a minimum’. This may or may not have had any effect, but it seems odd. Allowing those who are ill, perhaps in practice just anyone, to return tickets on the day of the performance would surely be sensible. Perhaps we have to be more strenuous in our disapproval, mortally embarrassing though we English may find such direct action. At this rate, however, the full house achieved for Pollini will become a thing of the past, if those who care about the music begin to reject live performance in favour of the uninterrupted recorded version at home. A positive footnote, though: it was good to see Matthias Goerne in the stalls.
Preludes, op.28 (complete)
Ballade no.1 in G minor, op.23
Two Nocturnes, op.27
Etudes, op.25:
No. 1 in A-flat major
No.2 in F minor
No.3 in F major
No.4 in A minor
No.7 in C-sharp minor
No.10 in B minor
No.11 in A minor
No.12 in C minor
The greatest living Chopin pianist, indeed the greatest living pianist, for an all-Chopin recital on the composer’s (alleged) two-hundred birthday: how could it fail? Despite some reservations, or stronger, I heard from some of those attending, I had very few cavils with the performance, which on the whole I found stunning, especially during the second half. Yet this, sadly, was insofar as I was able to concentrate. On far too many occasions recently I have been driven to bemoan audience ‘interaction’. (How very New Labour!) To have Maurizio Pollini perform the complete Chopin Preludes with a background – or should that be foreground – of incessant coughing, shuffling, chattering, and even, God help us, walking around the hall, was a dispiriting experience. One woman in front of me was sipping from a plastic cup of wine! I comfort myself with the fact that I shall hear him perform the same work next month in Berlin, in a Chopin-Debussy-Boulez programme, when I hope to be able to reach a more considered view.
What I can say is that, a few, largely irrelevant technical blemishes aside, Pollini presented a dazzling prospectus of Chopin’s tonal journey. Each prelude was very much integrated into a greater whole: a homage to Bach, but equally a vivid demonstration of what piano and pianist can do. We heard not so much a set of character pieces but a more ‘objective’ – loaded word, I know – but a journey through the tonal and pianistic universe. This is not to say that none of the individual preludes possessed character. The A major and ‘Raindrop’ Preludes brought tears to my eyes in their noble, unassuming dignity, whilst the violence of the D minor Prelude looked forward to Pollini’s (almost equally?) beloved Schoenberg’s Op.11. Allegro appassionato indeed! Much of the audience, however, seemed merely to resent the lack of pauses in which to cough. I cannot imagine why, however, since those people carried on doing so anyway.
The proto-Schoenbergian – Brahmsian? – darkness of that final prelude was intensified in the G minor Ballade: a towering performance, more ‘Romantic’ or expressionist even, than much of the first half. The Devil-may-care attitude Pollini seemed to adopt was in many respects quite unlike that of his former crystalline self, perhaps more akin to the unpredictability of Daniel Barenboim. The two Op.27 Nocturnes, by contrast, were seductive in the extreme. Siren voices called and bewitched, yet they exuded authority by virtue of Pollini’s supreme formal command. I do not wish to exaggerate, but there was perhaps a slight lessening of bronchial pollution here; otherwise, I might have found myself with little to say at all. Normal service, however, was resumed for the selection from the Op.25 set of Etudes. Here, Pollini’s trademark éclat was once again on show, insofar as one could manage to concentrate. It was perhaps slightly odd to perform eight out of the twelve, but if selection there must be, it was done well here. The sense of Chopin marrying technical and musical innovation, till death them do part, was superbly captured, with prescient hints of Debussy’s late marriage of classicism and experimentalism. Again, there were a few – and I mean a few – instances of less than perfect execution, but only a Beckmesser would care. Typically generous with encores, Pollini expanded Chopin’s world with another study, a mazurka, and a scherzo. The Revolutionary Study should have brought the house down and did, though one can only assume that tuberculosis had already brought down many of those present.
What, then, is to be done about audiences, or rather about the selfish minority – at least, I hope that it is a minority – increasingly insistent upon ruining performances for the rest of us? Short of installing a Stasi-like system of surveillance and reporting, a tempting thought, it is very difficult to know. I was surprised to notice that the Royal Festival Hall had deleted the later part of Sir Ian McKellen’s pre-concert announcement; the audience was no longer requested even ‘to keep coughing to a minimum’. This may or may not have had any effect, but it seems odd. Allowing those who are ill, perhaps in practice just anyone, to return tickets on the day of the performance would surely be sensible. Perhaps we have to be more strenuous in our disapproval, mortally embarrassing though we English may find such direct action. At this rate, however, the full house achieved for Pollini will become a thing of the past, if those who care about the music begin to reject live performance in favour of the uninterrupted recorded version at home. A positive footnote, though: it was good to see Matthias Goerne in the stalls.
Monday, 1 March 2010
Goerne/Deutsch - Schubert Lieder, 28 February 2010
Wigmore Hall
Der Jüngling und der Tod, D 545
Das Lied im Grünen, D 917
Die Herbstnacht, D 404
Lied (Ins stille Land), D 403
Der Herbstabend, D 405
Drang in die Ferne, D770
An mein Herz, D 860
Der Wanderer, D 649
Über Wildemann, D 884
Klage, D 371
Am Bach im Frühling, D 361
An die Laute, D 905
Des Fräuleins Liebeslauschen, D 698
Augenlied, D 297
Du bist die Ruh, D 776
An die Musik, D 547
An eine Quelle, D 530
Der Sänger am Felsen, D 482
Abschied von der Harfe, D 406
Liedesend, D 473
Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Helmut Deutsch (piano)
I hope it does not sound unduly eccentric to begin by addressing of the programme notes to this recital. For often, the first engagement an audience member experiences with a performance will be from the prospectus offered in the programme notes. In many respects, the notes, from Richard Stokes, were informative, yet at the same time, they proved apologetic and somewhat evasive. The opening reads as follows:
Only Friedrich Rückert and Friedrich von Schlegel of tonight’s poets feature in histories and anthologies of German Literature. But as W.H. Auden wrote in The Poet’s Tongue: ‘We do not want to read “great” poetry all the time, and a good anthology should contain poems for every mood” – a sentiment that is exemplified by tonight’s concert. Schubert was as literary as any of the great Lieder composers (witness his settings of Heine, Goethe, and Schiller), but he also had a capacity for making friends; and in the heady artistic ambience of Biedermeier Vienna, where so many of Schubert’s friends were poets, painters, or composers, it was entirely natural that he should treat his poet friends as seriously as they treated him – indeed, the success of the Schubertiaden depended on such mutual respect. If Schubert composes some 150 songs to the minor verse of his friends and acquaintances, that does not imply a lack of literary awareness, but rather a gift for friendship.
I am not sure that it is an effective strategy to open by effectively apologising for the quality of the verse, though on this occasion, I think that it would require a tin ear to fail to recognise the inferior nature of some of the texts – and, indeed, to fail to sense relief when the Schlegel setting, Der Wanderer, and the Rückert Du bist die Ruh were presented. (Strangely, the butterfly failed to show its wings in the promised but denied Schlegel Der Schmetterling.) It is true that great verse does not guarantee great song, and equally that mediocre verse may lend itself to great setting. But there was, especially earlier on, perhaps a little much of the strophic for my taste, and a little too much of the upbeat mood for Matthias Goerne: not that he did not sing well, but his truest gifts tend to lie in serious repertoire, the more serious the better.
So much, then, for apologia, but what of evasion? The programme focused heavily, though not exclusively, upon settings of ‘minor’ poets known personally to Schubert, works that would often be performed in the Schubertiaden to which Stokes refers. Nevertheless, the only reference to Schubert’s love-life was to his ‘unsuccessful wooing of Therese Grob … almost certainly reflected in the little known Klage’. Anyone not in the know could be forgiven for failing to realise that Schubert’s apparently harmless ‘Biedermeier’ milieu was bohemian-oppositionist in its politics and morals, its homosexuality often blatant, and that most reputable scholars today consider the case for Schubert’s own homosexuality to lie somewhere between the probable and the unarguable. For those, determined for reasons best known to themselves to ‘defend’ the composer from such ‘charges’, insisting upon concrete ‘evidence’ whilst conspicuously failing to provide any of their own, one might simply point to a composer’s guidance, Hans Werner Henze having expressed incredulity that anyone might doubt that Schubert was gay, for one can hear it in the music. Now, one can take different positions on these questions, but is it not a little odd to fail to mention them, especially in a programme to which they are so directly relevant? For instance – and there are many instances – a letter (8 August 1825) from Antonio Mayer to Franz von Schober, with whom Schubert lodged and the author of the text to two of the present evening’s songs, might fruitfully have been quoted:
I am the happiest of men … - I have a three-coloured cat! … Since you have gone, I have relied much more on cats; it’s better than going to the dogs. I have made the acquaintance of two slender, one imposing, one curious, and two hardworking cats. I could tell you a lot about that, but since I don’t know if my friends are also yours, it would be doubly indiscreet to talk about it, first because it could bore you, and second because I could compromise my cats.
There were reasons why Mayer might have to employ discretion – though it would surely take an exceptionally dull member of Metternich’s secret police not to discern the true concern of this passage – but is there any reason for us to do so? Might it not be enlightening in a recital such as this to explore a ‘gift for friendship’ (Stokes) by compromising Mayer’s cats?
My only real cavil concerning the performances was that Goerne and his pianist, Helmut Deutsch, took a while to suggest doing so themselves. The darker songs were darker, to be sure, but the apparently less consequential songs tended towards the Biedermeier as conventionally understood. Der Jüngling und der Tod sounded from both musicians as if it were a deeper, more considered brother to Erlkönig, the sepulchral piano postlude especially impressive. Then Das Lied im Grünen was beautifully gentle, yet hardly ecstatic. Fair enough, one might say, questioning whether it even should be ecstatic, but the preponderance of prettiness in the strophic songs might have benefited from the odd hint of subversion, if only for variety’s sake. That said, Das Lied im Grünen nevertheless exhibited touches of underlying melancholy, much to its advantage – and to ours. Similarly, Neapolitan harmony in Ins stille Land was made to tell in unexaggerated fashion, though just a touch of greater emphasis would have done no harm. It was certainly welcome to hear true Romantic agitation in An mein Herz, all the more so for being expressed within a tight formal framework. The tensions surely speak of something.
With Schlegel’s Der Wanderer, however, we entered another world, Deutsch unerringly portraying Schubert’s masterly sense of a lack of grounding in the moonlit harmony. Deutsch and Goerne enabled us almost to see, and certainly to feel, the silver of moonlight, its metaphysical import sensed as clearly as its more straightforward representation. One must never settle, always journey. Indeed. And whilst the ensuing Ernst Konrad Friedrich Schulze setting, Über Wildemann, speaks a different language, one also knew that the roaring winds were not simply a natural phenomenon. As the first half drew to a close, one gained the impression that Goerne in particular was seeking to impart unity to the songs by performing them without a break, almost as a cantata or perhaps a cycle of sorts. The sudden paleness of his voice for the words ‘Werd’ ich wieder hellen,’ in Klage, strongly suggested that death would be the only cure for the poet’s predicament. Thereafter, the Romantic sickness unto death, blue flower and all, in Schober’s Am Bach im Frühling, was readily apparent, as much in the subtlety of Deutsch’s brook ripples as in Goerne’s heavy-heartedness. Perhaps, then, the musicians had simply taken a little while fully to get into their stride.
An die Laute, which opened the second half, was charming in its evocation of the lute, hints of something darker emanating from the jealousy of the neighbours’ sons. It set the scene well for the serenade of Des Fräuleins Liebeslauschen. (The missing Schmetterling should have been heard in between.) I very much liked the post-Mozartian – there can be no real turning back – poise of Augenlied, recalled three songs later in the overt portrayal of true Mozartian pathos in Der Sänger am Felsen.
First, though, we heard two of my favourite Schubert Lieder, Du bist die Ruh, and An die Musik. The stillness of the first song was such that one hardly dared breathe – and the audience, unusually for London, behaved relatively well. Through this stillness, the limpidity of Deutsch’s piano part could sing with almost heartbreaking dignity. The Schober setting, An die Musik, was affecting in a more straightforward way – at least on first appearances, for here art conceals art, and perhaps something else too. Liedesend, which closed the recital, offered a conspectus of different moods: sternness, majesty, gentleness, vehemence, clemency, and finally foreboding. It does not quite convince me, though Goerne and Deutsch gave it their all; however, the final foreboding of the grave rather overshadowed the rest, as doubtless it must.
Der Jüngling und der Tod, D 545
Das Lied im Grünen, D 917
Die Herbstnacht, D 404
Lied (Ins stille Land), D 403
Der Herbstabend, D 405
Drang in die Ferne, D770
An mein Herz, D 860
Der Wanderer, D 649
Über Wildemann, D 884
Klage, D 371
Am Bach im Frühling, D 361
An die Laute, D 905
Des Fräuleins Liebeslauschen, D 698
Augenlied, D 297
Du bist die Ruh, D 776
An die Musik, D 547
An eine Quelle, D 530
Der Sänger am Felsen, D 482
Abschied von der Harfe, D 406
Liedesend, D 473
Matthias Goerne (baritone)
Helmut Deutsch (piano)
I hope it does not sound unduly eccentric to begin by addressing of the programme notes to this recital. For often, the first engagement an audience member experiences with a performance will be from the prospectus offered in the programme notes. In many respects, the notes, from Richard Stokes, were informative, yet at the same time, they proved apologetic and somewhat evasive. The opening reads as follows:
Only Friedrich Rückert and Friedrich von Schlegel of tonight’s poets feature in histories and anthologies of German Literature. But as W.H. Auden wrote in The Poet’s Tongue: ‘We do not want to read “great” poetry all the time, and a good anthology should contain poems for every mood” – a sentiment that is exemplified by tonight’s concert. Schubert was as literary as any of the great Lieder composers (witness his settings of Heine, Goethe, and Schiller), but he also had a capacity for making friends; and in the heady artistic ambience of Biedermeier Vienna, where so many of Schubert’s friends were poets, painters, or composers, it was entirely natural that he should treat his poet friends as seriously as they treated him – indeed, the success of the Schubertiaden depended on such mutual respect. If Schubert composes some 150 songs to the minor verse of his friends and acquaintances, that does not imply a lack of literary awareness, but rather a gift for friendship.
I am not sure that it is an effective strategy to open by effectively apologising for the quality of the verse, though on this occasion, I think that it would require a tin ear to fail to recognise the inferior nature of some of the texts – and, indeed, to fail to sense relief when the Schlegel setting, Der Wanderer, and the Rückert Du bist die Ruh were presented. (Strangely, the butterfly failed to show its wings in the promised but denied Schlegel Der Schmetterling.) It is true that great verse does not guarantee great song, and equally that mediocre verse may lend itself to great setting. But there was, especially earlier on, perhaps a little much of the strophic for my taste, and a little too much of the upbeat mood for Matthias Goerne: not that he did not sing well, but his truest gifts tend to lie in serious repertoire, the more serious the better.
So much, then, for apologia, but what of evasion? The programme focused heavily, though not exclusively, upon settings of ‘minor’ poets known personally to Schubert, works that would often be performed in the Schubertiaden to which Stokes refers. Nevertheless, the only reference to Schubert’s love-life was to his ‘unsuccessful wooing of Therese Grob … almost certainly reflected in the little known Klage’. Anyone not in the know could be forgiven for failing to realise that Schubert’s apparently harmless ‘Biedermeier’ milieu was bohemian-oppositionist in its politics and morals, its homosexuality often blatant, and that most reputable scholars today consider the case for Schubert’s own homosexuality to lie somewhere between the probable and the unarguable. For those, determined for reasons best known to themselves to ‘defend’ the composer from such ‘charges’, insisting upon concrete ‘evidence’ whilst conspicuously failing to provide any of their own, one might simply point to a composer’s guidance, Hans Werner Henze having expressed incredulity that anyone might doubt that Schubert was gay, for one can hear it in the music. Now, one can take different positions on these questions, but is it not a little odd to fail to mention them, especially in a programme to which they are so directly relevant? For instance – and there are many instances – a letter (8 August 1825) from Antonio Mayer to Franz von Schober, with whom Schubert lodged and the author of the text to two of the present evening’s songs, might fruitfully have been quoted:
I am the happiest of men … - I have a three-coloured cat! … Since you have gone, I have relied much more on cats; it’s better than going to the dogs. I have made the acquaintance of two slender, one imposing, one curious, and two hardworking cats. I could tell you a lot about that, but since I don’t know if my friends are also yours, it would be doubly indiscreet to talk about it, first because it could bore you, and second because I could compromise my cats.
There were reasons why Mayer might have to employ discretion – though it would surely take an exceptionally dull member of Metternich’s secret police not to discern the true concern of this passage – but is there any reason for us to do so? Might it not be enlightening in a recital such as this to explore a ‘gift for friendship’ (Stokes) by compromising Mayer’s cats?
My only real cavil concerning the performances was that Goerne and his pianist, Helmut Deutsch, took a while to suggest doing so themselves. The darker songs were darker, to be sure, but the apparently less consequential songs tended towards the Biedermeier as conventionally understood. Der Jüngling und der Tod sounded from both musicians as if it were a deeper, more considered brother to Erlkönig, the sepulchral piano postlude especially impressive. Then Das Lied im Grünen was beautifully gentle, yet hardly ecstatic. Fair enough, one might say, questioning whether it even should be ecstatic, but the preponderance of prettiness in the strophic songs might have benefited from the odd hint of subversion, if only for variety’s sake. That said, Das Lied im Grünen nevertheless exhibited touches of underlying melancholy, much to its advantage – and to ours. Similarly, Neapolitan harmony in Ins stille Land was made to tell in unexaggerated fashion, though just a touch of greater emphasis would have done no harm. It was certainly welcome to hear true Romantic agitation in An mein Herz, all the more so for being expressed within a tight formal framework. The tensions surely speak of something.
With Schlegel’s Der Wanderer, however, we entered another world, Deutsch unerringly portraying Schubert’s masterly sense of a lack of grounding in the moonlit harmony. Deutsch and Goerne enabled us almost to see, and certainly to feel, the silver of moonlight, its metaphysical import sensed as clearly as its more straightforward representation. One must never settle, always journey. Indeed. And whilst the ensuing Ernst Konrad Friedrich Schulze setting, Über Wildemann, speaks a different language, one also knew that the roaring winds were not simply a natural phenomenon. As the first half drew to a close, one gained the impression that Goerne in particular was seeking to impart unity to the songs by performing them without a break, almost as a cantata or perhaps a cycle of sorts. The sudden paleness of his voice for the words ‘Werd’ ich wieder hellen,’ in Klage, strongly suggested that death would be the only cure for the poet’s predicament. Thereafter, the Romantic sickness unto death, blue flower and all, in Schober’s Am Bach im Frühling, was readily apparent, as much in the subtlety of Deutsch’s brook ripples as in Goerne’s heavy-heartedness. Perhaps, then, the musicians had simply taken a little while fully to get into their stride.
An die Laute, which opened the second half, was charming in its evocation of the lute, hints of something darker emanating from the jealousy of the neighbours’ sons. It set the scene well for the serenade of Des Fräuleins Liebeslauschen. (The missing Schmetterling should have been heard in between.) I very much liked the post-Mozartian – there can be no real turning back – poise of Augenlied, recalled three songs later in the overt portrayal of true Mozartian pathos in Der Sänger am Felsen.
First, though, we heard two of my favourite Schubert Lieder, Du bist die Ruh, and An die Musik. The stillness of the first song was such that one hardly dared breathe – and the audience, unusually for London, behaved relatively well. Through this stillness, the limpidity of Deutsch’s piano part could sing with almost heartbreaking dignity. The Schober setting, An die Musik, was affecting in a more straightforward way – at least on first appearances, for here art conceals art, and perhaps something else too. Liedesend, which closed the recital, offered a conspectus of different moods: sternness, majesty, gentleness, vehemence, clemency, and finally foreboding. It does not quite convince me, though Goerne and Deutsch gave it their all; however, the final foreboding of the grave rather overshadowed the rest, as doubtless it must.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Krystian Zimerman, Chopin recital, 22 February 2010
Royal Festival Hall
Nocturne in F-sharp minor, op.15 no.2
Piano sonata no.2 in B-flat minor, op.35
Scherzo no.2 in B-flat minor, op.31
Piano sonata no.3 in B minor, op.58
Barcarolle in F-sharp major, op.60
After the mixed fortunes of Murray Perahia’s Chopin last week, here was a Chopin pianist on excellent form, so much so that Krystian Zimerman, known, amongst other things, for not giving encores, did just that, concluding with a magnificently poised yet flowing account of the C-sharp minor Waltz, op.64 no.2. The first half witnessed the second sonata framed by the F-sharp minor Nocturne, op.15 no.2 and the second scherzo. I liked the idea of starting with a nocturne, whose ternary form provided a splendid introduction to much of the music to follow; so did the magic with which Zimerman invested the reprise of the opening material, which was anything but a mere reprise. Structure was equally clear in the scherzo, so much more ‘natural’, less studied than much of what had been heard from Perahia, declamatory where necessary but with no loss to the musical line. The reversion to the minor mode was especially well handled.
With the opening of the B-flat minor Sonata, Zimerman plunged us in medias res. His flexibility of tempo was utterly convincing, following, as it did, the demands of the music. If sometimes extreme, navigation between extremes proved perhaps the most impressive aspect of all in projection of Chopin’s quite un-Classical handling of sonata form. The recapitulation was rightly better understood as a climax than a return – and what a climax! Sadly, some idiots in the audience, on whom more anon, decided they must disrupt the performance by applauding; Zimerman was more graceful in response than he had any need to be. Contrast between the extremes of scherzo and trio was handled with equal mastery, mediation between the two again proving the key to Zimerman’s success. If the trio were an oasis of calm in the middle, one could sense troubled waters beneath the surface, and seduction too: sirens perhaps? The pianist’s command of line throughout was matched by thoroughly musical virtuosity and the aristocratic touch Chopin’s music demands. Zimerman brought an inexorable, almost Mussorgskian tread to the funeral march, itself matched by poignant dignity in the central section. Rubato was unerringly ‘right’, whilst the hush for the cantilena, when coughers permitted, was something at which to marvel – and in which to be involved. There was nothing ‘observed’ about this performance. The grief occasioned by the return of the opening material was all the more powerful second time around: again, climax rather than mere reprise. And there was no short-changing Chopin in the strangeness, radicalism, and virtuosity of the finale.
Zimerman again meant business from the very opening of the third sonata – and again one could but marvel at his technique, never more so than in the evenness of the left-hand (and right-hand, for that matter) passagework. Transitions were again fundamental to his approach, which paid off handsomely. I did not, however, feel that the second subject in this first movement sang as sometimes it can, even if its structural integrity were never in doubt. Inevitability was not quite the right word, for we heard something arguably more appropriate to Chopin: narrative choices being made and followed. Zimerman seemed keen to highlight the work’s kinship with the second sonata, the scherzo clearly a brother not only to the scherzo of the second, but also to the latter’s finale. The relationship between the Largo and the cortège of the earlier Marcia funèbre was more subtle, yet equally apparent. Where Perahia last week had often seemed impatient with ‘mere’ ornamentation, Zimerman demonstrated the essential quality of what might seem inessential. Indeed, at times I was put in mind of the profound subtleties of late Brahms, not least in the interplay between voices and the cross-rhythms. Bach of course looms large, yet vocal melody always emerges supreme. In the finale, I wondered on occasion whether virtuosity was a little too much on open display, yet there remained a magnificent defiance to Zimerman’s approach, which ultimately meant that victory was hard-won enough. The following Barcarolle provided rhythmic lilt, seductive charm, and a real, if never unduly pictorial, sense of Venetian waters: a kindred spirit, I thought, for Luigi Nono. Chopin’s melodic and harmonic contours were finely traced, a rather Lisztian abandon announcing itself before the waters subsided.
So this was a fine recital indeed, a fully worthy contribution to the Chopin anniversary – and to London’s ongoing celebration of Polish culture, Polska! What a pity, then, that some in the audience did their best to blight it. Even by the usual standards, unstifled coughing was rampant and almost constant, whether between or during movements. The pianist was clearly exercised by one particular contributor, to whom he appeared to speak at one point. Applause again intruded during the third sonata. Bottles were opened, though I am pretty sure the Royal Festival Hall does not allow drinking during recitals. Near me, a heavy breather and a bracelet jangler ensured that their contributions could not go unnoticed. Is it really too much to ask that those attending musical performances show consideration for those attempting to concentrate upon the music?
Nocturne in F-sharp minor, op.15 no.2
Piano sonata no.2 in B-flat minor, op.35
Scherzo no.2 in B-flat minor, op.31
Piano sonata no.3 in B minor, op.58
Barcarolle in F-sharp major, op.60
After the mixed fortunes of Murray Perahia’s Chopin last week, here was a Chopin pianist on excellent form, so much so that Krystian Zimerman, known, amongst other things, for not giving encores, did just that, concluding with a magnificently poised yet flowing account of the C-sharp minor Waltz, op.64 no.2. The first half witnessed the second sonata framed by the F-sharp minor Nocturne, op.15 no.2 and the second scherzo. I liked the idea of starting with a nocturne, whose ternary form provided a splendid introduction to much of the music to follow; so did the magic with which Zimerman invested the reprise of the opening material, which was anything but a mere reprise. Structure was equally clear in the scherzo, so much more ‘natural’, less studied than much of what had been heard from Perahia, declamatory where necessary but with no loss to the musical line. The reversion to the minor mode was especially well handled.
With the opening of the B-flat minor Sonata, Zimerman plunged us in medias res. His flexibility of tempo was utterly convincing, following, as it did, the demands of the music. If sometimes extreme, navigation between extremes proved perhaps the most impressive aspect of all in projection of Chopin’s quite un-Classical handling of sonata form. The recapitulation was rightly better understood as a climax than a return – and what a climax! Sadly, some idiots in the audience, on whom more anon, decided they must disrupt the performance by applauding; Zimerman was more graceful in response than he had any need to be. Contrast between the extremes of scherzo and trio was handled with equal mastery, mediation between the two again proving the key to Zimerman’s success. If the trio were an oasis of calm in the middle, one could sense troubled waters beneath the surface, and seduction too: sirens perhaps? The pianist’s command of line throughout was matched by thoroughly musical virtuosity and the aristocratic touch Chopin’s music demands. Zimerman brought an inexorable, almost Mussorgskian tread to the funeral march, itself matched by poignant dignity in the central section. Rubato was unerringly ‘right’, whilst the hush for the cantilena, when coughers permitted, was something at which to marvel – and in which to be involved. There was nothing ‘observed’ about this performance. The grief occasioned by the return of the opening material was all the more powerful second time around: again, climax rather than mere reprise. And there was no short-changing Chopin in the strangeness, radicalism, and virtuosity of the finale.
Zimerman again meant business from the very opening of the third sonata – and again one could but marvel at his technique, never more so than in the evenness of the left-hand (and right-hand, for that matter) passagework. Transitions were again fundamental to his approach, which paid off handsomely. I did not, however, feel that the second subject in this first movement sang as sometimes it can, even if its structural integrity were never in doubt. Inevitability was not quite the right word, for we heard something arguably more appropriate to Chopin: narrative choices being made and followed. Zimerman seemed keen to highlight the work’s kinship with the second sonata, the scherzo clearly a brother not only to the scherzo of the second, but also to the latter’s finale. The relationship between the Largo and the cortège of the earlier Marcia funèbre was more subtle, yet equally apparent. Where Perahia last week had often seemed impatient with ‘mere’ ornamentation, Zimerman demonstrated the essential quality of what might seem inessential. Indeed, at times I was put in mind of the profound subtleties of late Brahms, not least in the interplay between voices and the cross-rhythms. Bach of course looms large, yet vocal melody always emerges supreme. In the finale, I wondered on occasion whether virtuosity was a little too much on open display, yet there remained a magnificent defiance to Zimerman’s approach, which ultimately meant that victory was hard-won enough. The following Barcarolle provided rhythmic lilt, seductive charm, and a real, if never unduly pictorial, sense of Venetian waters: a kindred spirit, I thought, for Luigi Nono. Chopin’s melodic and harmonic contours were finely traced, a rather Lisztian abandon announcing itself before the waters subsided.
So this was a fine recital indeed, a fully worthy contribution to the Chopin anniversary – and to London’s ongoing celebration of Polish culture, Polska! What a pity, then, that some in the audience did their best to blight it. Even by the usual standards, unstifled coughing was rampant and almost constant, whether between or during movements. The pianist was clearly exercised by one particular contributor, to whom he appeared to speak at one point. Applause again intruded during the third sonata. Bottles were opened, though I am pretty sure the Royal Festival Hall does not allow drinking during recitals. Near me, a heavy breather and a bracelet jangler ensured that their contributions could not go unnoticed. Is it really too much to ask that those attending musical performances show consideration for those attempting to concentrate upon the music?
Friday, 19 February 2010
Murray Perahia - Bach, Beethoven, and Chopin, 18 February 2010
Barbican Hall
Bach – Partita no.6 in E minor, BWV 830
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.30 in E major, op.109
Chopin – Ballade no.3 in A-flat major, op.47
Chopin – Etude in E minor, op.25 no.5
Chopin – Etude in A-flat major, op.25 no.1
Chopin – Etude in C-sharp minor, op.10 no.4
Chopin – Mazurka in A-flat major, op.59 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in C-sharp minor, op.50 no.3
Chopin – Mazurka in F-sharp minor, op.59 no.3
Chopin – Nocturne in C sharp minor, op.27 no.1
Chopin – Scherzo no.4 in E major, op.54
I was a little perplexed by this recital. It opened with a superlative account of Bach’s E minor Partita, followed by an excellent Beethoven op.109. However, the all-Chopin second half (with the exception of a decidedly odd, throwaway Brahms intermezzo encore) proved somewhat mixed. It is not that Murray Perahia cannot play Chopin, for of course he can, yet he seemed keen, perhaps surprisingly so, to present a revisionist view, which did not always convince.
The Partita opened commandingly: no doubt that this was Bach for the Steinway, and rightly so. As Ernst Bloch wrote, when attacking Bach’s ‘vicars’ for wishing ‘to transform these incomparably lofty works into proper sexton’s music’, for us, ‘the harpsichord’s sharp, short sound fulfils not a single one of Bach’s requirements. … there can be no doubt that only our own pianos, the incomparable Steinways that were born for the modern Bach, clear, booming, edged with silver, have revealed how the master should now be played.’ Ornamentation was very much to the fore, or rather was revealed to be so much more than ornamentation; there was something almost of the French Baroque brought to Leipzig in this. Throughout the Toccata and indeed the whole of the work, continuity and the musical line were projected unfailingly, but shading was equally impressive: impossible, of course, on the harpsichord. When it came to the reprise of the Toccata’s opening material, everything had changed. The Allemande received powerful rhythmic characterization, always integrated into the greater whole, occasionally offering hints of late Beethoven. Perahia’s lightness of touch marked the Corrente, without ever sounding light of idea or effete. Syncopations told but were never exaggerated, likewise Bach’s complementary chromaticisms. A charm straight out of Rameau announced itself in the Air, but, this being Bach, the movement proved so much more than that. In mood and declamation, the Sarabande took us back to the gravity of the opening Toccata, with an intensity that yet surpassed that movement, looking forward to Brahms, Berg, and even, despite Perahia’s avowed lack of sympathy with twelve-note music, Schoenberg. A lighter mood, a sense of fun even, was present in the ensuing Tempo di Gavotta, though certainly not at the cost of delineating Bach’s contrapuntal and harmonic meaning. Finally, the grandeur and astonishing richness of the Gigue were fully realised in Perahia’s reading. Defiantly 'inauthenticke', there was here, for me at least, more than a hint of Furtwängler, whose Fifth Brandenburg Concerto recording remains utterly in a class of its own. This was a Bach performance such that I do not imagine I shall ever hear it bettered.
I had perhaps expected Perahia’s Beethoven to be more Classical in outlook than it proved. Beethoven’s flights of fancy in the first movement were given their full improvisatory quality – though, crucially, never at the cost of meaning. Just as in the Bach, there was no question of mere ornamentation. This movement and the following Prestissimo received a surprisingly Romantic, grand reading, the latter highly dramatic, if never quite let loose. Instead, Perahia offered a magnificently ‘constructed’ account, coherent even in, perhaps particularly in, its discontinuities. Gesangvoll, mit innigster Empfindung, Beethoven marks the final movement, and so it proved. The theme was granted beauty of tone and dignity, with not a hint of self-regard. Unending melody was a hallmark of the first variation, whilst Perahia displayed a Lisztian ability to make two hands sound as one in the opening figuration of the second. How close to Webern this sounds! Yet song was of course ever present too. Bachian lessons had clearly been learned in the fifth variation, but there was also considerably fury, albeit ultimately controlled. Sublimity of utterance should always characterize performance of the sixth; Perahia did not fail. He made no attempt to round Beethoven’s corners; instead, he unleashed a torrential, authentically Beethovenian flow of lava. And then, as in the Bach Toccata, the return to the beginning was nothing of the sort; if too much had happened in between, there was, however, the hope of consolation, a hope that is perhaps as much as modernity can offer.
The revisionist stance of much of Perahia’s Chopin was immediately announced in the opening of the Third Ballade. (I am sure his Sony recording sounds nothing like this.) Direct, with nothing of the dreamily ‘poetic’ to it, there was instead an almost Beethovenian purpose, perhaps born of Perahia’s study of Heinrich Schenker, perhaps of the programming. Nothing wrong with that, one might say, and indeed so should I. Harmonic motion was always the driving force in a quasi-symphonic account: intriguing and mostly convincing. Yet there was also announced here a tendency that would equally characterize much of what was to follow, an apparent impatience with what some might, by erring contrast with Bach and Beethoven, think of as ‘mere’ ornamentation. Chopin’s fioritura was not really given its due, as if it were but an Italianate embarrassment. (To Schenker, I suppose it would have had to be.) Octaves sounded as if they were an unwelcome concession to virtuosity rather than a tool of Romantic expression; indeed, given Perahia’s technique, I was truly surprised to hear them sound so brittle. The first of the Etudes was more yielding, though still far from traditional, and the fioritura sounded much the same, as if divested of meaning. Following that, the ‘Aeolian Harp’ study was despatched a little too effortlessly, but op.10 no.4, much to my surprise, evinced real ferocity; it seemed to suit Perahia’s mood better. His almost diabolical virtuosity put me in mind not of his beloved Alfred Cortot but of his friend Vladimir Horowitz: again, not at all what I should have expected.
The Mazurkas fared rather well, I thought. Op.59 no.2 was not a whispered confidence, nor was it wistfully nostalgic. It sang, however, with what I am tempted to think of as a ‘purely musical’ charm, and brought no condescension to its smaller scale. And what command of line! At last the poet spoke in op.50 no.3, though there was great strength to the alternating sections. Perahia clearly enjoyed the (relatively) grand scale of this C-sharp minor Mazurka. Op.59 no.3 combined muscularity with a yielding sometimes lacking in earlier works, though that apparent impatience with ‘decoration’ again could be heard.
By contrast, the C-sharp minor Nocturne was ‘poetic’ from the outset, its strangeness, its sense of alienation there for all to hear. Melody sang and twisted against a truly unsettled left hand. (It is anything but mere ‘accompaniment’.) A Neapolitan sixth sounded pathetic in the strong, true sense, Perahia showing that what might sound clichéd is often just badly performed – not here though. Emotional intensification, vehemence even, followed, without the hardening of tone noted earlier, an uncharacteristic finger slip towards the end showing that the pianist is only human. Finally, the fourth scherzo proved capricious without sounding arbitrary: there was a clear sense of purpose, looking both forward and back. Perahia relaxed a little for the middle section, and I wondered thereafter whether the performance was just a touch too good-natured, for Chopin’s scherzi have no humour to them. The final peroration brought a return to the grand style, impressive in itself, but did it quite fit with the performance as a whole?
I have doubtless been harsher upon Perahia’s Chopin, whilst extolling his Bach from the rooftops, than I should with a less experienced musician, for, as I have tried to show, there was much to praise even in the second half of the recital. But there is another way of looking at these performances. That so eminent a musician as Perahia - Alfred Brendel, no less, was in the audience - refuses to rest upon his laurels, insists upon re-examining such familiar repertoire, is undoubtedly a good thing. It will be interesting to follow his path in Chopin, even if it be more Bach that I ultimately yearn to hear.
Bach – Partita no.6 in E minor, BWV 830
Beethoven – Piano sonata no.30 in E major, op.109
Chopin – Ballade no.3 in A-flat major, op.47
Chopin – Etude in E minor, op.25 no.5
Chopin – Etude in A-flat major, op.25 no.1
Chopin – Etude in C-sharp minor, op.10 no.4
Chopin – Mazurka in A-flat major, op.59 no.2
Chopin – Mazurka in C-sharp minor, op.50 no.3
Chopin – Mazurka in F-sharp minor, op.59 no.3
Chopin – Nocturne in C sharp minor, op.27 no.1
Chopin – Scherzo no.4 in E major, op.54
I was a little perplexed by this recital. It opened with a superlative account of Bach’s E minor Partita, followed by an excellent Beethoven op.109. However, the all-Chopin second half (with the exception of a decidedly odd, throwaway Brahms intermezzo encore) proved somewhat mixed. It is not that Murray Perahia cannot play Chopin, for of course he can, yet he seemed keen, perhaps surprisingly so, to present a revisionist view, which did not always convince.
The Partita opened commandingly: no doubt that this was Bach for the Steinway, and rightly so. As Ernst Bloch wrote, when attacking Bach’s ‘vicars’ for wishing ‘to transform these incomparably lofty works into proper sexton’s music’, for us, ‘the harpsichord’s sharp, short sound fulfils not a single one of Bach’s requirements. … there can be no doubt that only our own pianos, the incomparable Steinways that were born for the modern Bach, clear, booming, edged with silver, have revealed how the master should now be played.’ Ornamentation was very much to the fore, or rather was revealed to be so much more than ornamentation; there was something almost of the French Baroque brought to Leipzig in this. Throughout the Toccata and indeed the whole of the work, continuity and the musical line were projected unfailingly, but shading was equally impressive: impossible, of course, on the harpsichord. When it came to the reprise of the Toccata’s opening material, everything had changed. The Allemande received powerful rhythmic characterization, always integrated into the greater whole, occasionally offering hints of late Beethoven. Perahia’s lightness of touch marked the Corrente, without ever sounding light of idea or effete. Syncopations told but were never exaggerated, likewise Bach’s complementary chromaticisms. A charm straight out of Rameau announced itself in the Air, but, this being Bach, the movement proved so much more than that. In mood and declamation, the Sarabande took us back to the gravity of the opening Toccata, with an intensity that yet surpassed that movement, looking forward to Brahms, Berg, and even, despite Perahia’s avowed lack of sympathy with twelve-note music, Schoenberg. A lighter mood, a sense of fun even, was present in the ensuing Tempo di Gavotta, though certainly not at the cost of delineating Bach’s contrapuntal and harmonic meaning. Finally, the grandeur and astonishing richness of the Gigue were fully realised in Perahia’s reading. Defiantly 'inauthenticke', there was here, for me at least, more than a hint of Furtwängler, whose Fifth Brandenburg Concerto recording remains utterly in a class of its own. This was a Bach performance such that I do not imagine I shall ever hear it bettered.
I had perhaps expected Perahia’s Beethoven to be more Classical in outlook than it proved. Beethoven’s flights of fancy in the first movement were given their full improvisatory quality – though, crucially, never at the cost of meaning. Just as in the Bach, there was no question of mere ornamentation. This movement and the following Prestissimo received a surprisingly Romantic, grand reading, the latter highly dramatic, if never quite let loose. Instead, Perahia offered a magnificently ‘constructed’ account, coherent even in, perhaps particularly in, its discontinuities. Gesangvoll, mit innigster Empfindung, Beethoven marks the final movement, and so it proved. The theme was granted beauty of tone and dignity, with not a hint of self-regard. Unending melody was a hallmark of the first variation, whilst Perahia displayed a Lisztian ability to make two hands sound as one in the opening figuration of the second. How close to Webern this sounds! Yet song was of course ever present too. Bachian lessons had clearly been learned in the fifth variation, but there was also considerably fury, albeit ultimately controlled. Sublimity of utterance should always characterize performance of the sixth; Perahia did not fail. He made no attempt to round Beethoven’s corners; instead, he unleashed a torrential, authentically Beethovenian flow of lava. And then, as in the Bach Toccata, the return to the beginning was nothing of the sort; if too much had happened in between, there was, however, the hope of consolation, a hope that is perhaps as much as modernity can offer.
The revisionist stance of much of Perahia’s Chopin was immediately announced in the opening of the Third Ballade. (I am sure his Sony recording sounds nothing like this.) Direct, with nothing of the dreamily ‘poetic’ to it, there was instead an almost Beethovenian purpose, perhaps born of Perahia’s study of Heinrich Schenker, perhaps of the programming. Nothing wrong with that, one might say, and indeed so should I. Harmonic motion was always the driving force in a quasi-symphonic account: intriguing and mostly convincing. Yet there was also announced here a tendency that would equally characterize much of what was to follow, an apparent impatience with what some might, by erring contrast with Bach and Beethoven, think of as ‘mere’ ornamentation. Chopin’s fioritura was not really given its due, as if it were but an Italianate embarrassment. (To Schenker, I suppose it would have had to be.) Octaves sounded as if they were an unwelcome concession to virtuosity rather than a tool of Romantic expression; indeed, given Perahia’s technique, I was truly surprised to hear them sound so brittle. The first of the Etudes was more yielding, though still far from traditional, and the fioritura sounded much the same, as if divested of meaning. Following that, the ‘Aeolian Harp’ study was despatched a little too effortlessly, but op.10 no.4, much to my surprise, evinced real ferocity; it seemed to suit Perahia’s mood better. His almost diabolical virtuosity put me in mind not of his beloved Alfred Cortot but of his friend Vladimir Horowitz: again, not at all what I should have expected.
The Mazurkas fared rather well, I thought. Op.59 no.2 was not a whispered confidence, nor was it wistfully nostalgic. It sang, however, with what I am tempted to think of as a ‘purely musical’ charm, and brought no condescension to its smaller scale. And what command of line! At last the poet spoke in op.50 no.3, though there was great strength to the alternating sections. Perahia clearly enjoyed the (relatively) grand scale of this C-sharp minor Mazurka. Op.59 no.3 combined muscularity with a yielding sometimes lacking in earlier works, though that apparent impatience with ‘decoration’ again could be heard.
By contrast, the C-sharp minor Nocturne was ‘poetic’ from the outset, its strangeness, its sense of alienation there for all to hear. Melody sang and twisted against a truly unsettled left hand. (It is anything but mere ‘accompaniment’.) A Neapolitan sixth sounded pathetic in the strong, true sense, Perahia showing that what might sound clichéd is often just badly performed – not here though. Emotional intensification, vehemence even, followed, without the hardening of tone noted earlier, an uncharacteristic finger slip towards the end showing that the pianist is only human. Finally, the fourth scherzo proved capricious without sounding arbitrary: there was a clear sense of purpose, looking both forward and back. Perahia relaxed a little for the middle section, and I wondered thereafter whether the performance was just a touch too good-natured, for Chopin’s scherzi have no humour to them. The final peroration brought a return to the grand style, impressive in itself, but did it quite fit with the performance as a whole?
I have doubtless been harsher upon Perahia’s Chopin, whilst extolling his Bach from the rooftops, than I should with a less experienced musician, for, as I have tried to show, there was much to praise even in the second half of the recital. But there is another way of looking at these performances. That so eminent a musician as Perahia - Alfred Brendel, no less, was in the audience - refuses to rest upon his laurels, insists upon re-examining such familiar repertoire, is undoubtedly a good thing. It will be interesting to follow his path in Chopin, even if it be more Bach that I ultimately yearn to hear.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Deutsche Oper, 14 February 2010
Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Hans Sachs – James Johnson
Veit Pogner – Kristinn Sigmundsson
Kunz Vogelgsang – Thomas Blondelle
Konrad Nachtigall – Simon Pauly
Sixtus Beckmesser – Markus Brück
Fritz Kothner – Stephen Bronk
Balthasar Zorn – Jörg Schörner
Ulrich Eißlinger – Peter Maus
Augustin Moser – Burkhard Ulrich
Hermann Ortel – Klaus Lang
Hans Schwarz – Jörn Schümann
Hans Foltz – Hyung-Wook Lee
Walther von Stolzing – Klaus Florian Vogt
David – Paul Kaufmann
Eva – Michaela Kaune
Magdalena – Ulrike Helzel
Night-watchman – Krzysztof Szumanski
Götz Friedrich (director)
Peter Sykora (stage designs)
Kirsten Dephoff and Peter Sykora (costumes)
Gerlinde Pelkowski (revival director)
Chorus and Supplementary Chorus of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin (chorus master: William Spaulding)
Movement Chorus, Actors, Acrobats (choreography: Charlotte Butler and Carsten Meyer)
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Donald Runnicles (conductor)
And so, my brief sojourn in Charlottenburg drew to a close with a performance of the greatest of all comedies. From the host of idiocies one hears repeated about Wagner, the claims of a lack of humour must be amongst most preposterous. Whilst I missed out on the new Rienzi, an intriguing-sounding Flying Dutchman, and of course the Ring, at least I could be reminded of just what a magnificent work of art The Mastersingers of Nuremberg is: most welcome, since I still shudder when considering the sheer directorial ineptitude of my most recent stage encounter with the work, when Katharina Wagner presented it at Bayreuth.
Götz Friedrich was a far wiser director and his 1993 production holds up pretty well almost seventeen years on. It will doubtless be well known to many readers from the DVD recording, but this was my first acquaintance. Nuremberg is recognisably Nuremberg, but the costumes suggest the nineteenth century: the time of composition, I suppose. A vision of old Nuremberg and, more, briefly of the devastation of its twentieth successor, may be glimpsed during the opening prelude, thus framing the production’s terms of reference. We can never quite forget – especially when a Star of David is seen on stage with the Mastersingers’ guild: same symbol, different meaning, but the possibility of consequences? (By the way, obsessive purveyors of anti-Semitic interpretations of Wagner may care to ask themselves why the composer chose to mention King David. It would hardly have been beyond him to have chosen a different symbol.) This set me thinking that, in some respects at least, a city such as Nuremberg might well have been recognisably the same city, at least during the earlier nineteenth century. The guilds were breaking down, but not broken. They had their defenders, from Hegel to Wagner. And they presented their own solutions to the ‘social question’, represented their own version of community to an increasingly disenchanted world of liberal ‘free competition’. Not the least of the consequences of the 1848-9 revolutions was the boost given to ‘free trade’ and onslaught on impediments thereto: such sops to the bourgeoisie kept them on side with the restored order, far preferable to the red threat, from Wagner and his ilk, they had glimpsed during the uprisings.
Lest this sound one-sided – and I should emphasise that the thoughts are largely mine, sparked by the production, but not necessarily to be ‘found’ therein – the humour of Friedrich’s staging should certainly be mentioned. To take one example, I have never before found the reappearance of the Nightwatchman amusing. Here, the haplessness of his arrival once the riot is over was just that. The Malvolio-like quality of Beckmesser was emphasised throughout; there may or may not be uncomfortable questions to ask here, but the brilliance of Wagner’s humour is too often overlooked. Other nice touches include Walther threatening physical violence when impertinently asked whether he is frei und ehrlich geboren. Would not any self-respecting Junker do the same? Schopenhauer, however, barely registers.
Prior commitments meant that Donald Runnicles, who has recently become Music Director of the Deutsche Oper, was unable to lead a new production during this Wagner festival. We found him in the pit, however, for Meistersinger. He encourages a good, indeed an excellent, sound from the orchestra – which, during my three performances, I found on as good form as I can recall, perhaps better. The Viennese glint on which I have remarked in earlier reviews remained very much a characteristic of the strings. Warm and full of sound, this was an orchestra fully worthy of expressing the sentiments of heil’ge deutsche Kunst. On the negative side, to be mentioned though not exaggerated, Runnicles could sometimes drive the music too hard, veering occasionally towards the metronomic, the very antithesis of Wagner’s ever-varying melos. Moreover, there were too many disjunctions between stage and pit. Perhaps there was limited rehearsal time, but the excellent chorus was too often left adrift. It is worth here, however, commending chorus master William Spaulding for his work with the chorus, which once but no longer seemed a poor relation to its counterpart at the Linden opera.
Fortunes were somewhat mixed on stage. James Johnson was a likeable Hans Sachs, who grew in character as the performance progressed. He could sometimes, however, be overwhelmed by the orchestra and lacked the degree of personality – think Sir John Tomlinson! – that makes a true Sachs. The real fly in the ointment, however, was Michaela Kaune’s Eva. Her voice lacks beauty, even steadiness, and simply sounds ‘wrong’, too mezzo-like, for the role. The radiant lyricism that should flow so freely from this evocation of the Goethian Ewig-Weibliche was nowhere to be heard. I had wondered whether a different production from Bayreuth (!) might set her off to better advantage – sadly not. Indeed, I found myself wishing that she would swap roles with Ulrike Helzel, an artist new to me but a quite outstanding Magdalena. Here was beauty of tone, and a character in whom one could believe as an object of David’s love. Davids tend to be winning – what a gift of a role it is! – but Paul Kaufmann’s refusal to be an exception should nevertheless be cited approvingly. Kristinn Sigmundsson’s Pogner sounded tired – he had sung King Henry the night before – and Stephen Bronk’s Kothner simply sounded old. However, Markus Brück’s Beckmesser was a joy. If Sir Thomas Allen remains my gold standard in this role, this was an excellent assumption of the part, fully alive to the Shakespearean humour I mentioned above, unwilling to descend into even the slightest suspicion of caricature.
And then – there was Klaus Florian Vogt. Regular readers will know of my esteem for his near-miraculous voice. I almost tire of praising him, but not quite. Once again, he displayed his instrument’s strange, yet wonderful mixture of lyric tenor quality with the power of the heroic tenor: an ideal combination. The Prize Song was so beautiful as to bring one to tears, almost as if Fritz Wunderlich had turned Heldentenor. How could anyone resist? Vogt can act, too, as I had to admit even at Bayreuth…
Hans Sachs – James Johnson
Veit Pogner – Kristinn Sigmundsson
Kunz Vogelgsang – Thomas Blondelle
Konrad Nachtigall – Simon Pauly
Sixtus Beckmesser – Markus Brück
Fritz Kothner – Stephen Bronk
Balthasar Zorn – Jörg Schörner
Ulrich Eißlinger – Peter Maus
Augustin Moser – Burkhard Ulrich
Hermann Ortel – Klaus Lang
Hans Schwarz – Jörn Schümann
Hans Foltz – Hyung-Wook Lee
Walther von Stolzing – Klaus Florian Vogt
David – Paul Kaufmann
Eva – Michaela Kaune
Magdalena – Ulrike Helzel
Night-watchman – Krzysztof Szumanski
Götz Friedrich (director)
Peter Sykora (stage designs)
Kirsten Dephoff and Peter Sykora (costumes)
Gerlinde Pelkowski (revival director)
Chorus and Supplementary Chorus of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin (chorus master: William Spaulding)
Movement Chorus, Actors, Acrobats (choreography: Charlotte Butler and Carsten Meyer)
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Donald Runnicles (conductor)
And so, my brief sojourn in Charlottenburg drew to a close with a performance of the greatest of all comedies. From the host of idiocies one hears repeated about Wagner, the claims of a lack of humour must be amongst most preposterous. Whilst I missed out on the new Rienzi, an intriguing-sounding Flying Dutchman, and of course the Ring, at least I could be reminded of just what a magnificent work of art The Mastersingers of Nuremberg is: most welcome, since I still shudder when considering the sheer directorial ineptitude of my most recent stage encounter with the work, when Katharina Wagner presented it at Bayreuth.
Götz Friedrich was a far wiser director and his 1993 production holds up pretty well almost seventeen years on. It will doubtless be well known to many readers from the DVD recording, but this was my first acquaintance. Nuremberg is recognisably Nuremberg, but the costumes suggest the nineteenth century: the time of composition, I suppose. A vision of old Nuremberg and, more, briefly of the devastation of its twentieth successor, may be glimpsed during the opening prelude, thus framing the production’s terms of reference. We can never quite forget – especially when a Star of David is seen on stage with the Mastersingers’ guild: same symbol, different meaning, but the possibility of consequences? (By the way, obsessive purveyors of anti-Semitic interpretations of Wagner may care to ask themselves why the composer chose to mention King David. It would hardly have been beyond him to have chosen a different symbol.) This set me thinking that, in some respects at least, a city such as Nuremberg might well have been recognisably the same city, at least during the earlier nineteenth century. The guilds were breaking down, but not broken. They had their defenders, from Hegel to Wagner. And they presented their own solutions to the ‘social question’, represented their own version of community to an increasingly disenchanted world of liberal ‘free competition’. Not the least of the consequences of the 1848-9 revolutions was the boost given to ‘free trade’ and onslaught on impediments thereto: such sops to the bourgeoisie kept them on side with the restored order, far preferable to the red threat, from Wagner and his ilk, they had glimpsed during the uprisings.
Lest this sound one-sided – and I should emphasise that the thoughts are largely mine, sparked by the production, but not necessarily to be ‘found’ therein – the humour of Friedrich’s staging should certainly be mentioned. To take one example, I have never before found the reappearance of the Nightwatchman amusing. Here, the haplessness of his arrival once the riot is over was just that. The Malvolio-like quality of Beckmesser was emphasised throughout; there may or may not be uncomfortable questions to ask here, but the brilliance of Wagner’s humour is too often overlooked. Other nice touches include Walther threatening physical violence when impertinently asked whether he is frei und ehrlich geboren. Would not any self-respecting Junker do the same? Schopenhauer, however, barely registers.
Prior commitments meant that Donald Runnicles, who has recently become Music Director of the Deutsche Oper, was unable to lead a new production during this Wagner festival. We found him in the pit, however, for Meistersinger. He encourages a good, indeed an excellent, sound from the orchestra – which, during my three performances, I found on as good form as I can recall, perhaps better. The Viennese glint on which I have remarked in earlier reviews remained very much a characteristic of the strings. Warm and full of sound, this was an orchestra fully worthy of expressing the sentiments of heil’ge deutsche Kunst. On the negative side, to be mentioned though not exaggerated, Runnicles could sometimes drive the music too hard, veering occasionally towards the metronomic, the very antithesis of Wagner’s ever-varying melos. Moreover, there were too many disjunctions between stage and pit. Perhaps there was limited rehearsal time, but the excellent chorus was too often left adrift. It is worth here, however, commending chorus master William Spaulding for his work with the chorus, which once but no longer seemed a poor relation to its counterpart at the Linden opera.
Fortunes were somewhat mixed on stage. James Johnson was a likeable Hans Sachs, who grew in character as the performance progressed. He could sometimes, however, be overwhelmed by the orchestra and lacked the degree of personality – think Sir John Tomlinson! – that makes a true Sachs. The real fly in the ointment, however, was Michaela Kaune’s Eva. Her voice lacks beauty, even steadiness, and simply sounds ‘wrong’, too mezzo-like, for the role. The radiant lyricism that should flow so freely from this evocation of the Goethian Ewig-Weibliche was nowhere to be heard. I had wondered whether a different production from Bayreuth (!) might set her off to better advantage – sadly not. Indeed, I found myself wishing that she would swap roles with Ulrike Helzel, an artist new to me but a quite outstanding Magdalena. Here was beauty of tone, and a character in whom one could believe as an object of David’s love. Davids tend to be winning – what a gift of a role it is! – but Paul Kaufmann’s refusal to be an exception should nevertheless be cited approvingly. Kristinn Sigmundsson’s Pogner sounded tired – he had sung King Henry the night before – and Stephen Bronk’s Kothner simply sounded old. However, Markus Brück’s Beckmesser was a joy. If Sir Thomas Allen remains my gold standard in this role, this was an excellent assumption of the part, fully alive to the Shakespearean humour I mentioned above, unwilling to descend into even the slightest suspicion of caricature.
And then – there was Klaus Florian Vogt. Regular readers will know of my esteem for his near-miraculous voice. I almost tire of praising him, but not quite. Once again, he displayed his instrument’s strange, yet wonderful mixture of lyric tenor quality with the power of the heroic tenor: an ideal combination. The Prize Song was so beautiful as to bring one to tears, almost as if Fritz Wunderlich had turned Heldentenor. How could anyone resist? Vogt can act, too, as I had to admit even at Bayreuth…
Lohengrin, Deutsche Oper, 13 February 2010
Deutsche Oper, Berlin
King Henry the Fowler – Kristinn Sigmundsson
Lohengrin – Ben Heppner
Elsa – Ricarda Merbeth
Friedrich von Telramund – Eike Wilm Schulte
Ortrud – Waltraud Meier
King’s Herald – Markus Brück
Brabantian Nobles – Gregory Warren, Thomas Blondelle, Nathen De’shon Myers, Ben Wager
Bridesmaids – Rosemarie Arzt, Constance Gärtner, Brigitte Höcht, Antje Obenaus, Gabriele Goebbels, Christa Werron, Brigitte Bergmann, Martina Metzler
Götz Friedrich (director)
Peter Sykora (designs)
Gerlinde Pelkowski (revival director)
Chorus and Supplementary Chorus of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin (chorus master: William Spaulding)
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Michael Schønwandt (conductor)
The late Götz Friedrich’s 1990 production of Lohengrin is by now quite venerable, but on this showing, it could have a few years in it yet. It certainly compared favourably with both the previous instalment from the Deutsche Oper’s Wagner-Wochen, Kirsten Harms’s Tannhäuser, and with Covent Garden’s recent Lohengrin exhumation. In a repertoire production such as this, one is unlikely to experience the theatrical thrills and challenges experienced in recent offerings from Stefan Herheim (truly outstanding, across the city at the Staatsoper Unter den Linden) or Peter Konwitschny (Leipzig). Nevertheless, one has a relatively straightforward, yet coherent telling of the story, attentive to the music as well as the words, and possessed of a clear sense of what works in the theatre. The sets and other designs perhaps veer towards the old-fashioned – fashions change so quickly – but there is no fetishisation, whether of costumes or stage directions. I was puzzled to hear some members of the audience complain of the lack of a swan; it was perfectly clear to me – and rather on the large side too. It would be better to retain Friedrich’s production for a while longer than to err by rushing into replacing it.
The emphasis, then, tended to fall upon the musical side of the performance – which, as a rule of thumb, is not so bad an idea. Michael Schønwandt conducted well, with a clear sense of musico-dramatic structure, and a fine command of the orchestra. As in Tannhäuser, the golden, almost Viennese glow of the strings impressed, whilst the brass packed quite a punch, especially when it came to the thrilling surround sound effect of the third act fanfares. There were occasions, especially during the first act, when relatively slow tempi, unobjectionable in themselves, could not quite be sustained with the requisite sense of line. (Semyon Bychkov at Covent Garden last year was exemplary, and probably slower, in this respect; but sage advice might have been not to try that at home.) On the whole, however, there was little with which to quibble, and much to savour. The chorus once again proved a major asset, especially as the performance went on. Occasional discrepancies between pit and stage were swiftly resolved.
What of the soloists? Let me get the major, if not unanticipated, disappointment out of the way. Ben Heppner has clearly been experiencing difficulties for some time. The first time I recall hearing him was on Wolfgang Sawallisch’s Munich recording of Die Meistersinger, which revealed a Heldentenor of considerable accomplishment: not the most thrilling in operatic history, perhaps, but with great sustaining power and, that rare thing in this repertoire, someone who could be depended upon to sing the part accurately and securely. Some time later, a Peter Grimes for the Royal Opera was all over the place intonationally. His recent Tristan (Covent Garden again) showed worrying signs of disrepair, and seems to have deteriorated as the production’s run proceeded. (I was fortunate to hear Lars Cleveman on my second visit.) I was nonetheless surprised by the weakness of his Lohengrin. It offered symmetry, in that his closing ‘Mein Lieber Schwan’ was just as wildly out of tune as its first act counterpart. But even when making the notes, he was too often unable to project his voice, at times resorting to crooning. It sounded to me as though he really ought to have withdrawn. The house might not have been able at such notice to secure the services of a Jonas Kaufmann or a Klaus Florian Vogt (the latter was in any case to sing Meistersinger the following evening), but there are other, less celebrated tenors who might have answered the call, such as Cleveman or Stefan Vinke, whose Leipzig rendition in December impressed me greatly.
There is no avoiding the fact that this left a hole at the centre of the performance. However, the other parts were much better taken, above all by Waltraud Meier, who was, astonishingly, making her house debut. Ortrud has always been one of her finest roles, the tessitura fitting her voice extremely well, and the dramatic demands bringing the best out of her on stage. She can hold an audience in the palm of her hand even when silent. So it proved here. The malevolence in Ortrud’s character – Wagner spoke with disgust of her as a ‘female politician’ – is offset by a clear sense of conviction in the justice of her cause. Moreover, there is, in Friedrich’s production, an interesting possible twist at the end; it is perhaps suggested that the new Führer, Gottfried, may have fallen under her spell. With Meier in the role, one should certainly not write off Ortrud. Ricarda Merbeth’s Elsa was certainly not in this class, though it had its moments. Whether it were the dictates of the production or her own conception, this Elsa seemed a less pure, more sexually aware character than is usually the case. I missed the pure beauty of tone of an artist such as Gundula Janowitz, but I can see that this interpretation, intonational difficulties aside, would have its followers. Try not to look too close though: the facial expressions are a trial, and bear no evident relationship to the drama. Kristinn Sigmundsson was generally a stentorian King Henry, though his vowels sometimes sounded a bit odd, in a fashion I have noticed a few times amongst Scandinavian and Icelandic singers. There were moments during the first act when I wondered whether Eike Wilm Schulte’s Telramund would falter. It is a difficult role to bring off: to portray insecurity, leavened by Ortrud’s Lady Macbeth-like determination, without simply seeming like a weak singer. Schulte, however, presented an eminently credible portrayal, commendably attentive to music and text. I find it difficult at the best of times not to sympathise with this pair; on the present occasion, there was no contest. Perhaps, though, that bias has been present in the music all along.
King Henry the Fowler – Kristinn Sigmundsson
Lohengrin – Ben Heppner
Elsa – Ricarda Merbeth
Friedrich von Telramund – Eike Wilm Schulte
Ortrud – Waltraud Meier
King’s Herald – Markus Brück
Brabantian Nobles – Gregory Warren, Thomas Blondelle, Nathen De’shon Myers, Ben Wager
Bridesmaids – Rosemarie Arzt, Constance Gärtner, Brigitte Höcht, Antje Obenaus, Gabriele Goebbels, Christa Werron, Brigitte Bergmann, Martina Metzler
Götz Friedrich (director)
Peter Sykora (designs)
Gerlinde Pelkowski (revival director)
Chorus and Supplementary Chorus of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin (chorus master: William Spaulding)
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Michael Schønwandt (conductor)
The late Götz Friedrich’s 1990 production of Lohengrin is by now quite venerable, but on this showing, it could have a few years in it yet. It certainly compared favourably with both the previous instalment from the Deutsche Oper’s Wagner-Wochen, Kirsten Harms’s Tannhäuser, and with Covent Garden’s recent Lohengrin exhumation. In a repertoire production such as this, one is unlikely to experience the theatrical thrills and challenges experienced in recent offerings from Stefan Herheim (truly outstanding, across the city at the Staatsoper Unter den Linden) or Peter Konwitschny (Leipzig). Nevertheless, one has a relatively straightforward, yet coherent telling of the story, attentive to the music as well as the words, and possessed of a clear sense of what works in the theatre. The sets and other designs perhaps veer towards the old-fashioned – fashions change so quickly – but there is no fetishisation, whether of costumes or stage directions. I was puzzled to hear some members of the audience complain of the lack of a swan; it was perfectly clear to me – and rather on the large side too. It would be better to retain Friedrich’s production for a while longer than to err by rushing into replacing it.
The emphasis, then, tended to fall upon the musical side of the performance – which, as a rule of thumb, is not so bad an idea. Michael Schønwandt conducted well, with a clear sense of musico-dramatic structure, and a fine command of the orchestra. As in Tannhäuser, the golden, almost Viennese glow of the strings impressed, whilst the brass packed quite a punch, especially when it came to the thrilling surround sound effect of the third act fanfares. There were occasions, especially during the first act, when relatively slow tempi, unobjectionable in themselves, could not quite be sustained with the requisite sense of line. (Semyon Bychkov at Covent Garden last year was exemplary, and probably slower, in this respect; but sage advice might have been not to try that at home.) On the whole, however, there was little with which to quibble, and much to savour. The chorus once again proved a major asset, especially as the performance went on. Occasional discrepancies between pit and stage were swiftly resolved.
What of the soloists? Let me get the major, if not unanticipated, disappointment out of the way. Ben Heppner has clearly been experiencing difficulties for some time. The first time I recall hearing him was on Wolfgang Sawallisch’s Munich recording of Die Meistersinger, which revealed a Heldentenor of considerable accomplishment: not the most thrilling in operatic history, perhaps, but with great sustaining power and, that rare thing in this repertoire, someone who could be depended upon to sing the part accurately and securely. Some time later, a Peter Grimes for the Royal Opera was all over the place intonationally. His recent Tristan (Covent Garden again) showed worrying signs of disrepair, and seems to have deteriorated as the production’s run proceeded. (I was fortunate to hear Lars Cleveman on my second visit.) I was nonetheless surprised by the weakness of his Lohengrin. It offered symmetry, in that his closing ‘Mein Lieber Schwan’ was just as wildly out of tune as its first act counterpart. But even when making the notes, he was too often unable to project his voice, at times resorting to crooning. It sounded to me as though he really ought to have withdrawn. The house might not have been able at such notice to secure the services of a Jonas Kaufmann or a Klaus Florian Vogt (the latter was in any case to sing Meistersinger the following evening), but there are other, less celebrated tenors who might have answered the call, such as Cleveman or Stefan Vinke, whose Leipzig rendition in December impressed me greatly.
There is no avoiding the fact that this left a hole at the centre of the performance. However, the other parts were much better taken, above all by Waltraud Meier, who was, astonishingly, making her house debut. Ortrud has always been one of her finest roles, the tessitura fitting her voice extremely well, and the dramatic demands bringing the best out of her on stage. She can hold an audience in the palm of her hand even when silent. So it proved here. The malevolence in Ortrud’s character – Wagner spoke with disgust of her as a ‘female politician’ – is offset by a clear sense of conviction in the justice of her cause. Moreover, there is, in Friedrich’s production, an interesting possible twist at the end; it is perhaps suggested that the new Führer, Gottfried, may have fallen under her spell. With Meier in the role, one should certainly not write off Ortrud. Ricarda Merbeth’s Elsa was certainly not in this class, though it had its moments. Whether it were the dictates of the production or her own conception, this Elsa seemed a less pure, more sexually aware character than is usually the case. I missed the pure beauty of tone of an artist such as Gundula Janowitz, but I can see that this interpretation, intonational difficulties aside, would have its followers. Try not to look too close though: the facial expressions are a trial, and bear no evident relationship to the drama. Kristinn Sigmundsson was generally a stentorian King Henry, though his vowels sometimes sounded a bit odd, in a fashion I have noticed a few times amongst Scandinavian and Icelandic singers. There were moments during the first act when I wondered whether Eike Wilm Schulte’s Telramund would falter. It is a difficult role to bring off: to portray insecurity, leavened by Ortrud’s Lady Macbeth-like determination, without simply seeming like a weak singer. Schulte, however, presented an eminently credible portrayal, commendably attentive to music and text. I find it difficult at the best of times not to sympathise with this pair; on the present occasion, there was no contest. Perhaps, though, that bias has been present in the music all along.
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