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!
No comments:
Post a Comment