In recent weeks, New York has had the chance to hear two Shostakovich symphonies that are seldom performed: his Symphony No. 9 and his Symphony No. 11. The first of these was played by the Orchestra of St. Luke’s; the second of them was played by the New York Philharmonic. Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9 is sometimes known as his “Mozart symphony”—his Classical symphony. In scale and form, it is a throwback to that era. It is also generally lighthearted. It is not a “traditional” Ninth.

Now, what do I mean by “‘traditional’ Ninth”? I mean a big, massive symphony—an Important Statement—à la Beethoven. The authorities in Moscow were looking forward to “the Soviet Ninth.” And that’s what Shostakovich planned, originally. World War II had just ended. Shostakovich had an opportunity and a duty – to glorify the nation in his Ninth. In the end, though, he served up a Mozart symphony.

The Symphony No. 11, written twelve years later, in 1957, has a nickname: “The Year 1905.” It commemorates and depicts the revolutionary events in Russia of that year.

Both the Symphony No. 11 and the Symphony No. 9 are masterpieces, seldom performed as they are (and different from each other as they are). Hearing them, I thought of the question, What are the most frequently performed Shostakovich symphonies, at least on American shores? The most performed, by far, is the Fifth. But what is the order after that? I’m not sure. I will hazard a list nonetheless:

The Tenth. The First (Shostakovich’s graduation piece, written when he was nineteen). The Seventh (“Leningrad”). The Thirteenth (“Babi Yar,” after poems of Yevtushenko). The Fourth. Maybe the Fourteenth? (Shostakovich wrote fifteen symphonies in all.)

I’m sure there are people who keep stats on this sort of thing...
 


In Zankel Hall, there was an English evening, featuring Purcell on the first half and Britten on the second. There were three singers: Ian Bostridge (tenor), Iestyn Davies (countertenor), and Joshua Hopkins (baritone). Their pianist was Julius Drake. All of these men are British, except for Hopkins, who’s Canadian, so therefore maybe a bit honorary. I write a little about this concert in my upcoming “chronicle” in The New Criterion.

But I wanted to add something here: All three singers, it appeared to me, were not quite ready to sing. They did some warming up onstage, in the first half. Again, it appeared that way to me. (Only they know for sure, probably.)

I thought of something that Marilyn Horne said, long ago: She said she was tired of hearing singers warm up onstage. They ought to be ready from the git. They should do any warming up beforehand. The public needs to hear you ready as soon as you open your mouth.
 


Also in my chronicle, I write a bit about a Penderecki work, Concerto grosso, written in 2000. It was performed by the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Charles Dutoit—and the piece calls for three cello soloists. They were Daniel Müller-Schott, Alisa Weilerstein, and Carter Brey (the Philharmonic’s principal). All three of these cellists are distinguished. And I mean no slight to the other two when I say that Weilerstein’s sound stood out. Not only was it different in character, it was different in volume: She sounded like she was amplified. I don’t believe she was trying to play loud. It simply emerged from her bow, or instrument, that way.

Before the Penderecki, Dutoit conducted Ravel’s Rapsodie espagnole—a piece he has lived with for a very long time. He was at his best in it (the night I attended). Dutoit can put himself on autopilot, and not very good autopilot at that: He can wave his arms indifferently, phoning it in. But sometimes he reminds you, “Ah—that’s how he became famous in the first place.”

In the Ravel, he was elegant, colorful, debonair. The second section, Malagueña, really swung, Spanish-style. The third, Habanera, was maybe too slow to succeed, fully. But in the closing Feria, Dutoit was smoky and fantastic. The concert concluded with a performance of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, in the Ravel arrangement. It was good. But the Rapsodie espagnole was an orchestral performance of a high order.
 


At the DiMenna Center for Classical Music, on West 37th Street, there was an evening of music by Michael Hersch (the American composer born in 1971). I write about one of his pieces in my chronicle.

I’d like to write about another one here. It is a piece for alto saxophone—alone. Unaccompanied. Called of ages manifest, it is inspired by poems of Jean Follain, a Frenchman who lived from 1903 to 1971. I said “inspired by”; one might also have said “based on.” In any case, this is music without words, but it is prompted by words, and those words were printed in our program. (Follain was translated by Christopher Middleton, the English poet.)

This is a piece, like so many of Hersch’s pieces, concerning death. As the soloist said in a program note, of ages manifest “seems to stare directly into the abyss.” He continued, “I actually have trouble describing the work because it has such a powerful effect on me.”

The soloist was Gary Louie, a professor at the Peabody Institute, where Hersch also teaches. Louie studied with Donald Sinta in my hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Sinta was legendary, as a saxophonist and teacher, even when he was young.

Hersch’s piece tests the saxophone, and the saxophonist, to what I take to be the limit. Louie looked like he might not survive the experience, mentally, emotionally, or physically. But he did—and when he was finished, he ran off the stage. Literally. If I’m remembering correctly, he did not return, to acknowledge the continuing and robust applause.

Michael Hersch has written an original and powerful work for an instrument that is underexploited. Underexploited in classical music, I mean—it has pride of place in jazz. But the saxophone is good for more than Debussy, Ravel, and other Frenchmen.
 


Let me tell you about another new piece—or one written in 2002, which is new enough. It is a bassoon concerto by Christopher Theofanidis, an American born in 1967. The concerto was performed during a concert by the American Composers Orchestra in Zankel Hall. (In my chronicle, I write about a brand-new piece performed that night: a piece by Peter Fahey, an Irishman born in 1982.)

Theofanidis wrote the concerto for a friend of his, Martin Kuuskmann—and he was the soloist with the ACO. Looking at Kuuskmann, I thought, “You know, I never see a bassoonist stand up.” A bassoon concerto, or any other work for that instrument, is relatively rare. Furthermore, Kuuskmann looks like his instrument: tall and thin.

The most striking of Theofanidis’s three movements, I think, is the middle one. It’s marked simply “beautiful.” It is like a shepherd’s song, with an “ethnic” flavor—a Central or Eastern European one. Kuuskmann never seemed to take a breath, which was astonishing. Throughout the concerto, he was virtuosic, as the soloist needs to be, given what Theofanidis demands of him. Hersch stretches the saxophone to the limit; Theofanidis does something like that here, I think.

Earlier, I mentioned Krzysztof Penderecki and his Concerto grosso, which calls for three cello soloists. In a nice touch, he makes significant use of the cello section—the cello section in the orchestra. Similarly, Theofanidis, in his bassoon concerto, makes significant use of the bassoon section.
 


Conducting this little orchestra, the American Composers Orchestra, was a man with a big job: Robert Spano, the music director of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. He is also music director of the Aspen Music Festival and School. Not long ago, he was the music director of an orchestra in New York, the Brooklyn Philharmonic.

He conducted the pieces on the ACO program with great care. He could not have lavished more care if he had been conducting the Mahler Seventh. This is one mark of a true conductor. Spano was extraordinarily clear in his beat – and in his conducting generally. At one point, I thought, “Boy, can he count.”
 


Toward the end of my chronicle, I discuss a recent Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera. That production is the work of Luc Bondy, the Swiss stage director. I thought that readers might like to know about his father: François Bondy, a journalist and novelist. He was an anti-Communist when it was hard and important to be one. People I admire and esteem speak of him with great admiration and esteem.

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