Valery Gergiev is a man about New York, the principal guest conductor of the Metropolitan Opera, a sometime guest conductor of the Philharmonic, a frequent visitor and presence. Some say he’ll succeed James Levine as music director of the Met, should “Jimmy” ever decide to step down; if this comes to pass, the Met will not exactly have traded up. Gergiev has delivered some excellent, even memorable performances: one thinks of a Khovanshchina (Mussorgsky’s opera) and a Gambler (Prokofiev’s). But he has also delivered performances that were either undistinguished or downright inept: a Shostakovich Sixth with the Philharmonic was almost shocking, given the man’s acclaim. (Some critics contend that he is formidable in the Russian repertory, weak outside it; I myself have not found this the case, either way.) Gergiev is one of those hit-or-miss musicians, not unlike the pianist Martha Argerich, whom the public also adores. If nothing else, it makes attendance at their concerts something of an adventure.

Gergiev is certainly interesting for the public to look at (though, in music, this should be neither here nor there). A critic friend of mine cracked that he looks like Yul Brynner in Once More with Feeling, a 1960 comedy about a conductor. Gergiev is seen as kind of a mad magician, with his dark, forbidding looks and his wild gyrations. He sways and bends and lurches, and his hands flutter about. Leopold Stokowski, by comparison, was encased in one of those Hannibal Lecter body suits. Theatrics on the podium seldom serve the music; but then, every case is individual, and a conductor does what he thinks he must to obtain the results he desires. Gergiev’s podium style should not be held against him, but neither should it be counted in his favor.

In mid December, the conductor took up residence in Carnegie Hall with the Kirov Orchestra, the institution with which he has made his fame, and the better part of his recordings. He—and they—gave no fewer than four concerts, featuring almost exclusively Russian music. I will consider only one of them, all Rachmaninoff. It began with The Isle of the Dead. This is one of the great, evocative music-pictures in the whole of the Romantic orchestral repertory. When handled with care, it is spooky, haunting, and sometimes chilling. The Kirov presented a relatively coarse, rough sound, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and to be expected—even welcomed—from an east-of-the-Danube orchestra. Gergiev’s approach to the piece was quite blunt, lacking in mystery. The Isle ought to cast a spell, and yet Gergiev’s rendering was too obvious and too big for that. This is a piece that must build, layer upon layer. When the climax came, it was hardly a climax at all, because Gergiev had been too blunt and big, had spent too much. The performance lacked polish and precision, but, worse, it lacked musical intuition.

The soloist for the evening was the Russian émigré pianist Vladimir Feltsman, who did the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Feltsman is a worthy pianist of great seriousness and command. He played a minor part in Cold War cultural politics, applying to leave the Soviet Union in 1979 and thereby being banned from public performance. In 1986, shortly before he was to play a private recital at the American ambassador’s in Moscow, “someone” vandalized the piano. When Feltsman finally won release from the USSR in 1987, he played a recital at the White House—his first performance in North America.

In the Rachmaninoff, Feltsman displayed a rich and solid tone; his playing had iron and depth to it. But it was sometimes too heavy, not fleet enough—a bit lead-footed. This was not limpid or impish playing, which is desirable in the Rhapsody, nor was it particularly elegant. But there was a markedness and authority about his performance. And it is to his credit that he takes the work with complete seriousness, not regarding it as a showpiece to be tossed off. He was individualistic in rhythm, without violating the composer’s meaning. He understood what he, as the pianist, wanted to accomplish, in rhythm, color, and phrasing. Strangely, this wasn’t a very Russian performance, on anyone’s part; it was rather Germanic. This seems unlikely, given that everyone on the stage was a Russian, but it was so.

The latter half of the program was devoted to the Second Symphony, one of the most beloved symphonies ever written, and rightly so. When we think of this symphony, we tend to think of an exceptionally lush and beautiful sound—the Philadelphia Sound, for example (for both Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy loved this music and this composer). But Kirovian coarseness had a certain, savage appeal; this was, aurally, a Second of peasants and ruffians. Gergiev exhibited one of his habitual problems: if you do everything full throttle, you don’t really, when all is said and done, have a full throttle. He and his players didn’t worry overmuch about clean entrances. But the second movement was jolly, brisk, and bracing. The much-cherished Adagio—out of which a popular song (“Never Gonna Fall in Love Again”) was made—had its sweep, its panting beauty, and a touch of wildness. The clarinet solo was adequately executed, but with an ugly, nasal sound. The final movement was all climax, in the accustomed Gergiev way. It was extremely fast. The ending was a rushed, sloppy mess. But the electricity couldn’t be denied, and Carnegie Hall went mad.

Toward the end of the month, it was Hänsel und Gretel time at the Met. This is a “holiday favorite,” along with Amahl and the Night Visitors, The Nutcracker, and a few others—but it is a winsome and brilliantly crafted show, fit for all seasons. Indeed, Humperdinck’s little opera is, for my money, a minor masterpiece.

It deserved better from the Metropolitan Opera orchestra and the guest conductor, Charles Mackerras. The overture is a glorious, delightful, sumptuous thing, but Mackerras and the orchestra performed it dryly, limply, and indifferently. It seemed they didn’t care at all. The playing had no technical coordination, no sincerity, no bloom. It was ragged, spiritless, and disappointing. One could scarcely believe that this was the same orchestra that had performed so precisely and blazingly the night before, in Richard Strauss’s Die Frau ohne Schatten under the young German conductor Christian Thielemann.

The title roles were taken by Dawn Upshaw, soprano, and Jennifer Larmore, mezzo-soprano, two popular and accomplished American singers. The role of Gretel is practically made for Upshaw, as she enjoys being little-girl-like and hammy (as in, to name only one of many examples, Mussorgsky’s song-cycle The Nursery). She was most effective, however, when she was playing it, and singing it, rather straight. Unsurprisingly, she was cute as a button and a delicious actress. And one was reminded that her singing—in the upper register, in particular—can take on a liquid, quivering quality, a feeling of high speed through the sound, absolutely thrilling.

Among Jennifer Larmore’s gifts are strength, solidity, and accuracy. Her approach is usually no-nonsense, which makes her an especially fine Handelian. What was missing from her singing of Hänsel, however, was some caressing phrasing. Larmore, for all those gifts, is not really a creamy phraser. Humperdinck’s music is good for both voice and soul, and Larmore might have savored it just a bit more. Her opening scene with Upshaw was rather flat and disappointing, in part because there was no bubbling energy from the pit; Mackerras and the orchestra continued their carelessness throughout. Later on, the exquisite prayer—the duet and “signature song” from the opera—was dangerously slow, but the two women handled it well, despite some flatting by Upshaw.

The mother, Gertrude, was sung by Stephanie Blythe, another American mezzo who is an excellent Handelian (and who has, in fact, just put out a distinguished album of arias from both Handel and Bach). She contributed her big voice and musical common sense, and she impersonated her simple character to a T. The father, Peter, was taken by Kim Josephson, an American baritone. He was a jovial, welcome presence, the sort of father we want in this opera.

But taking the cake—or gingerbread house—was the veteran Canadian mezzo Judith Forst, who sang the Witch. This was hardly a Witch to hiss: Forst was incredibly charismatic, full of life, full of a kind of sadistic joy, and a delight to watch and hear. If she had a problem, it was that she was too likable. She clearly had a ball that night, and she lifted the entire occasion.

It is not my practice to mention recordings in this column, but I cannot help remarking that I have always thought it a shame that the conductor André Cluytens’s recording of this work—featuring the delectable twosome of Anneliese Rothenberger and Irmgard Seefried in the title roles—is so hard to find. The standard recording of Hänsel und Gretel is Herbert von Karajan’s, with two Elisabeths, Schwarzkopf and Grümmer. The Cluytens, though, is the one to dream about.

When it came time for the Met’s Don Carlo—one of the grandest of Verdi’s grand operas—who should be in the pit but the principal guest conductor, Gergiev? He handled the proceedings with technical competence, but long stretches of this impassioned opera were remarkably dull. There were moments, to be sure, that had tension and power. The masterly scene between King Philip and the Grand Inquisitor, for example, was well shaped, which is certainly in Gergiev’s favor. But much of the performance was routine, listless, mediocre. How to square Gergiev’s penchant for overexcitement with his equally marked tendency toward this dullness? A puzzle, Gergiev.

The soprano who began the performance was Galina Gorchakova, who should never have set foot on stage. She was clearly too sick to sing; at times, she was inaudible, and when she was audible, the effect was worse. Before the second act, a Met official announced her replacement, the Chilean soprano Veronica Villarroel. Gorchakova had done a disservice by giving it the old college try in the first place. This is neither heroic nor admirable, most of the time; instead, it is a form of self-indulgence and also disrespectful of the audience, who are, after all, paying customers. As for Villarroel, she sang acceptably. It is a curiosity about Spanish speakers that their accent in Italian is more pronounced, more conspicuous, than anyone else’s, particularly on the esses. It surely has to do with the closeness of the languages.

The tenor was the Canadian Richard Margison, who in the first act was almost as off-putting as Gorchakova. He was dry, stuffy, and pinched, and none too musical; also, there was a hint of a bark (though this word is commonly associated with Wagner). Eventually, he warmed up—freed up —and acquitted himself honorably. The timeless question posed by Marilyn Horne comes to mind: why don’t they warm up beforehand, before exposing themselves to the public?

The baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky sang Rodrigo, exhibiting his usual suaveté, musical intelligence, and command. His duet with Margison—one of the great “buddy,” or loyalty-oath, duets in all of opera, to go with another of Verdi’s in Otello—was insufficiently stirring, but this was as much the fault of Gergiev as the singers. Irina Mishura was a praiseworthy Eboli, with a smoky bottom register and a ringing, interesting top. She even showed admirable flashes of coloratura. Her “O don fatale” was perhaps not in the Shirley Verrett league, but it was gutsy and true.

Laurels, however, must go to the low singers, starting with Samuel Ramey, who, as he did his monologues, reminded one and all that they were listening to, quite simply, one of the greatest basses of this or any other age. There is more wavering in the voice now, but, in the main, the years simply rolled off as he sang (Ramey is sixty this year). In this way, he reminds one of that other time-defying marvel, Plácido Domingo. The Inquisitor opposite Ramey’s Philip was the Georgian bass Paata Burchuladze, who was astoundingly good. Coming from him was otherworldly, haunting, powerful, heartfelt, and house-shaking bass singing. The volume and quality of the voice were amazing, but the singing was quite sensitive as well. The sounds of Ramey and Burchuladze dueling, in a fashion, will not easily be forgotten.

Last, I might mention the continuing excellence of the Metropolitan Opera chorus, which was a significant player, especially in the first act, which was otherwise a wash-out. This chorus is one of the dependable pleasures of attending the Met, and that is no light thing.

At the beginning of January, Lincoln Center put on a Rachmaninoff festival, which is always a good idea—anytime, anywhere. A highly anticipated part of this festival was a performance of the composer’s Vespers by the St. Petersburg Chamber Choir in Park Avenue’s Church of St. Ignatius Loyola. This choir has won world renown through its tours and recordings, and its founder and leader, Nikolai Korniev, is regarded as the very model of the modern Russian choirmaster. Their recording of the Vespers (Philips 42344) is graced by the brief but inspiring solo turn of Russia’s prize mezzo-soprano, Olga Borodina.

In the church, Korniev’s performance was not exactly one to ascend to. His was a surprisingly secular Vespers, with very fast tempos and sudden, dramatic dynamics, full of blood and passion. It was almost operatic, having some of the qualities of a Muti-led Verdi Requiem. You could say for it that at least it wasn’t dainty or precious. But, as I mentioned earlier about The Isle of the Dead, this is the sort of piece—even more than that orchestral tone poem—that should cast a spell. It should envelop listeners in a haze of spirituality. This was an earthly, and earthy, performance, missing the twilight glow.

The mezzo soloist was dull and blunt, and badly flat. The tenor soloist—who is responsible for singing the beloved “Lord, let now Thy servant depart in peace,” which Rachmaninoff asked to be sung at his funeral—was thin and weak. The singing of the choir at large was often dutiful and mechanical; some of the attacks were faulty. This is not to say that the group is poorly trained or unprofessional; on the contrary, they exhibited a fair amount of polish and discipline. It may be that they have performed this, their signature piece—and the summit of Russian liturgical music—a little too often.

If there is the slightest doubt on the question of whether nationality is destiny, or whether nationality determines understanding, try the Californian Robert Shaw’s recording of the Vespers (Telarc 80172), which is a performance to ascend to, if you’re ready.

In the middle of January, the New York Philharmonic offered a boldly dancey evening. On the podium was the Briton Andrew Davis, and on the program were Ravel’s Valses nobles et sentimentales, Kodály’s Dances of Galánta, and Richard Strauss’s Rosenkavalier Suite, with its whirling waltzes. To borrow a phrase, they could have danced all night.

The Ravel was correct and largely inoffensive, if not swimming in French froth, insouciance, and wistfulness. It was rather without energy—an undercurrent—and panache. Davis’s tempos were on the slow side, which is fine, but the playing—or, better, the conducting—was a bit plodding. The Kodály was better, with the principal clarinetist, flutist, and oboist making fine gypsies. The Rosenkavalier Suite was even better than that: sumptuous, gay, alive, with the horn section whooping joyously, the strings invigorated, and Andrew Davis showing a real feeling for the rhapsodic part of Strauss’s soul. This is a warhorse, the kind many critics roll their eyes over—but it can be made to gallop, as though for the first time. All that’s required is musicianship.

Amidst all the dancing was the Lutoslawski Piano Concerto (1987–88), performed by the young Norwegian Leif Ove Andsnes. He is a critic’s darling, a versatile player who is celebrated for composers as diverse as Haydn, Liszt, and … well, Lutoslawski. He does two things that will endear him to critics forever, no matter what: he participates in chamber music and he plays contemporary music. No matter how well or badly he does, he is virtually assured raves and gratitude.

Which doesn’t mean, of course, that he is an unworthy player: he is, in fact, creditable. The Lutoslawski is a clever and exciting work, to which Andsnes did justice. He is a supple, nimble pianist, who employs power when he needs it. At times his playing seemed too retiring, too muted, and slightly undaring. Yet part of this may be attributed to Avery Fisher Hall, which is a notorious swallower of sound. Always, Andsnes was tasteful and judicious. If to my mind he could have used more dash and vivacity, he at least afforded the ending its fabulous drive. And it would only be right to add that Davis—who often seems workaday—handled the score exceptionally well. As for the Philharmonic players, they laid on the brilliant virtuosity of which they’re famously capable (but which they sometimes withhold).

And the Lutoslawski? This may well be a concerto that’s here to stay.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 20 Number 6, on page 49
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