Last night, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra spent its second night in Carnegie Hall. The orchestra had opened the hall’s season the night before. (For my review, go here.) Once more, Riccardo Muti was on the podium. He became the music director in Chicago in 2010 and is now the music director emeritus—“for life,” no less.
The second concert began with a new work, by Philip Glass: The Triumph of the Octagon. I will discuss it in my next “chronicle” for the print magazine. There is an interesting story behind the work. The composer was in the hall, for the performance.
Tonight, by chance, the New York Philharmonic will play a new work by Steve Reich. So, our city is treated to new works by America’s grand old men of minimalism two nights in a row. Quite a coincidence.
After Glass last night came Mendelssohn—his Symphony No. 4 in A major, the “Italian.” Where were you in 1979? Did you see the movie Breaking Away, set in Bloomington, Ind.? From that movie did many Americans learn this symphony, or at least the closing Saltarello.
The first movement, under Muti’s baton, was relaxed, unrushed, Mendelssohnian. I thought of the Italian word piacevole—“pleasant,” basically. You often hear this movement faster. It is marked “Allegro vivace.” Does “vivace” mean super-fast? It can, I suppose. But it also conveys a quality: vivaciousness.
The Chicagoans’ playing was certainly vivacious. But it was also relaxed and happy. I appreciated the tempo and spirit.
As is natural, many in the audience applauded after the first movement. With his hands, without turning around, Muti signaled them: Please don’t. He would have to do this all evening long.
Mendelssohn’s second movement is marked “Andante con moto.” Enjoy the music, the composer is saying. But don’t dawdle. This movement was beautiful, from the Chicagoans. They obeyed the line of the music, followed its contours. Beneath the line were precise pulses, almost metronomic. And the movement ended with accurate pizzicatos—which are always a blessing from an orchestra (because uncommon).
The third movement? A minuet, marked “Con moto moderato.” Hey, are “moto” and “moderato” contradictory? No. Mendelssohn simply wants a moderate motion, a moderate pace.
In this music, Muti was almost a dancer. The minuet was conducted and played with great fondness—with TLC (tender loving care). In the trio, the horn choir was warm and assured, and others were playful in their upward dotted scales.
The fourth movement, the Saltarello, is the great payoff. Last night, it was well-articulated and biting—biting, yes, but merrily so, not meanly so. As with the first movement, this movement is often played faster. But it ought not to be so fast as to detract from enjoyment. Muti knows this. When you dance, you’re not supposed to fall down.
Hey, what key is this symphony in? A major, right? Right. But it ends in A minor.
In any case, this whole performance of the “Italian” was covered in benevolence—a happy benevolence.
The Symphony No. 4 is a souvenir (an immortal one, to be sure). Mendelssohn was inspired by a trip to Italy. There are many such souvenirs in music. On the New York Philharmonic’s opening night last week, we heard another one: Tchaikovsky’s Capriccio italien. And, from the Chicagoans, we heard another after intermission: Aus Italien, by Strauss.
That would be Richard, mind you, not one of the waltz kings. Strauss wrote this piece when he was twenty-two. He was embarking on an extraordinary—an immortal—career.
What is it, by the way? What is Aus Italien? A tone poem? Yes, in four movements. You can call it a tone poem–symphony. Strauss himself called it a “symphonic fantasy.” But honestly, you don’t have to call it anything at all: “It is what it is.”
There is a danger in conducting, and playing, a work like this: frowsy-blowsiness. (There’s a homemade American word.) The music can get loose, wayward, flabby. At the same time, you don’t want to impose too much rigor on it. You don’t want to enchain it. Muti found, in my opinion, just the right medium.
The music was smooth, smooth—beautifully sculpted. It had no rough edges or wrong accents. It was panoramic. It had the desired storytelling quality.
And this is key: Aus Italien was not de trop or de minimis. Muti did not make too much of the music or too little of it. He let it be itself. Not everything has to be a big show.
In the final movement—“Neapolitan Folk Life”—Strauss plays with “Funiculì, Funiculà.” Goes to town on it. Clearly, he enjoyed himself in Italy. The final measures require a keen sense of timing. From Muti and the CSO, this ending was electric.
Let me tell you a secret: I have never much liked Aus Italien. I like it a lot better now.
The audience in Carnegie Hall certainly liked the performance, and asked for an encore. Muti gave them early—early-ish—Verdi: the overture to Joan of Arc. In this music, you have to be suspenseful and taut. Without tension—a proper musical and dramatic tension—the music is lost. It is, in fact, silly. Last night, it had all it needed.
Wish Verdi could have heard it. Glad we did.