Monday, December 14, 2015

September 11, 2009: Apotheosis (?) of the dance (?)

The opening program of the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra was entitled "Apotheosis of the Dance" because, according to the program notes by Steven Ledbetter, Richard Wagner had used this phrase to express his enthusiasm for the seventh symphony (in A major, Opus 92) of Ludwig van Beethoven.  Citing Wagner's text is a risky business.  Anyone familiar with the scurrilous twaddle of his polemics should probably know enough to approach his encomiums with caution, if not run madly in the opposite direction.  Fortunately, the quality of the performance itself at Herbst Theatre last night was not at all impacted by either the dubious naming of the program or the questionable informative value of the program book.  Beethoven's seventh was the highlight of the evening, the only work played after the intermission;  and the opportunity to hear it performed on instruments appropriate to the period (I try to steer away from more aggressive phrases like "historically accurate" or, worse yet, "authentic") provided a perfect complement to those of us who are familiar with performances on modern instruments.

I have read enough of the debates between those trying to honor the period and those who prefer working with what technology now provides to avoid coming down on either side.  It is sufficient to say that the two camps are different, and one of the best ways to hone one's listening skills is through acquaintance with a broad diversity of approaches to performing a familiar composition.  The nature of this particularly difference lies in two characteristic features.  Most important is the element of control.  At the risk of sounding too reductive, I would suggest that the history of instrument building has followed a path toward doing more with the instrument and doing it more reliably.  Those who oppose the "period" camp like to observe that those older instruments were ornery beasts played badly by those now taking them in hand (and probably by those who played them in their proper period).  The other feature is one of uniformity.  With the increase in control came the aspiration for an ensemble in which the individual voices blend, rather than stick out among each other.  Whatever the professed virtues of this goal, the composers we tend to like best have always recognized that too much of it can be a bad thing.  Indeed, the reductio ad absurdum of "acoustic blending" is Muzak, whose mind-numbing qualities were brilliantly captured in the soundtrack for the old 1956 movie of 1984, in which all public spaces were infused with the sound of Beethoven being played Muzak-style.

It is this quality of "going against the blend" that makes a "period" performance of Beethoven interesting;  and the seventh symphony serves as a prime example.  The orchestration makes a heavy commitment to both winds (pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons) and brass (pairs of "natural" horns and trumpets), along with two timpani.  In a contemporary orchestra these instruments provide supplemental coloration to the string section, which carries most of the weight of the composition;  but under the Philharmonia Baroque each instrument was a distinctive voice, escalating the symphony experience to a level of conversation that we tend to associate only with chamber music.  In this setting we can recognize that this symphony embodies a deeply dramatic (far more important than balletic) character.  Under Nicholas McGegan's direction this drama plays out as any good drama should, leaving us all on the edge of our respective seats wondering what will happen next, no matter how many times we may have previously heard this music.  This is not to say that contemporary orchestras miss out on that dramatic quality, but Philharmonia Baroque has sought to achieve it through means consistent with Beethoven's original resources.  We should celebrate this difference and enjoy the good fortune of being able to hear this music performed from both points of view.

The first half of the concert was devoted to Joseph Haydn, beginning with the D major "Clock" symphony (Hoboken I/101) and followed by the C major cello concerto (Hoboken VIIb/1) with soloist Steven Isserlis.  I must confess here to a strong personal bias on the "period" side where Haydn is concerned.  For all the attention we give to Haydn's inventiveness in matters of melody, harmony, counterpoint, and structural architecture, he had an equally inventive intuition in his conceptions of "the sound itself."  This is particularly apparent in his chamber music, and I first appreciated it through my exposure to his piano trios.  This same appreciation came easily in the first half of last night's concert, first through the interplay of sound qualities in the symphony and then through the sounds of the dialog between the solo cello and the orchestral ensemble.  From this point of view, McGegan served Haydn as well as he would then serve Beethoven;  and his engagement with Isserlis was all that one could hope for in the "acoustic intercourse" that lies at the heart of Haydn's approach to concerto form.

Let me close with one last twit to that dance metaphor.  In the entire evening there was only one movement explicitly marked as a dance form, the Menuetto third movement of the Haydn symphony.  However, in a typical gesture of Haydn wit, the composer specified an Allegretto tempo for this movement, making it entirely unsuitable for the execution of the steps of a minuet.  He clearly wanted it this way.  He did not want anyone dancing to music that was better served by listening!

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