One of Gorbachev’s last acts, when he ran the USSR—when
there was a USSR—was to establish the Russian National
Orchestra. Or rather, to allow the establishment of it—it
was established by Mikhail Pletnev, the pianist. He is also
a conductor, and a composer, to boot. Easier to say that he
is a musician, and an invaluable one. It was as a conductor
that Pletnev appeared in Avery Fisher Hall, leading his
RNO.
They began with a tone poem of Tchaikovsky: Francesca da
Rimini. (Actually, the composer described this as a
“Symphonic Fantasy After Dante.”) Francesca is not
necessarily Tchaikovsky’s best piece, but it’s no dog, and
the right conductor can make it a knockout. Pletnev proved
such a conductor.
On the podium, he is unassuming and economical. But, like
many conductors who are that way, he gets bracing results.
Francesca was unusually strong, impassioned, and
stringent. There was not a drop of soup in it, or not an
ounce of fat. I have never heard this piece so gripping.
That is not to say it didn’t have loveliness and bloom,
where those are desired. The love music was duly swooning.
But you were always at the edge of your seat, or near it.
When the hellish winds came, you were buffeted, like
Francesca and her beau.
Pletnev is a modest guy, onstage (with much to be immodest
about), and when the piece was over he stood amidst the
orchestra, letting them soak up the glory. The audience
called him back over and over, which is unusual after the
first piece on a program. They would barely let him get on
with the concert. They acted as though something
extraordinary had taken place, and they were right.
Eventually, Nikolai Lugansky came out to play Rachmaninoff’s
Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini. Now, Pletnev is one of
the best Rachmaninoff pianists in the world (and one of the
best pianists period). I wondered what was going through
Lugansky’s mind. Was he slightly nervous? Or was he spurred
to play better than ever? In any case, Lugansky can hold his
own, as he showed here.
I have frequently said, “He’s the son of two scientists, and
plays like it.” Indeed, I believe I first used that line in
these pages, about five years ago, when Lugansky was
relatively new on the international scene. He is brainy,
disciplined, and exacting. So he was in the Rachmaninoff. He
was also clear, logical, and precise.
Tempos were fast, but not hasty. Soloist and conductor (and
orchestra) were admirably together. Lugansky was
methodical—scientific, you might say—but not plodding or
predictable (in the undesirable sense). He did not make an
especially beautiful sound: It was definitely not a fat,
Rubinstein-esque sound. It was on the bright and hard side.
But it was never ugly, and it was not ineffective.
You may ask, “How did the Eighteenth Variation go?” (This is
that D-flat-major beauty, the one the whole world loves, as
well it should.) It was tasteful and unmilked. Lugansky
knows that it requires no milking, Rachmaninoff having done
the work. And Lugansky played an encore—more Rachmaninoff:
the Prelude in G-sharp minor. Horowitz loved this piece, and
played it frequently, and Lugansky rendered it in
Horowitzian fashion: It was cool, gleaming, and haunting.
As I have insisted to you before, Lugansky is the genuine
article—and he is only thirty-five, meaning that listeners
should have decades more to enjoy him. And then there’s the
immortality of recordings …
After intermission, Pletnev conducted some Glazunov: the
Symphony No. 6 in C minor, Op. 58. Glazunov has undergone
something of a revival—or has at least been in the public
eye (ear?)—thanks to recordings by José Serebrier, the
Uruguayan conductor (and composer), and the Royal Scottish
National Orchestra. These recordings are on Warner Classics,
and I would particularly recommend the Symphony No. 5. The
last movement of this work—a maestoso movement—is
stirring almost beyond belief.
The Symphony No. 6 is probably an inferior work, but it’s
worth an acquaintance—and Pletnev, with his RNO, made a
very strong case. The playing was swirlingly Romantic, as it
must be, but also stringent, as in Francesca da Rimini. In
the second movement, particularly—a theme and
variations—Pletnev breathed beautifully, creating the right
space. The RNO’s brass were warm and solid, and the
orchestra as a whole glittered. I thought, in the final
variation of this movement, “This orchestra is really a
virtuosic machine.”
Like the Fifth, the Sixth ends with a maestoso movement,
although it is not as successful as the other. Still,
Pletnev gave it just about all the majesty, pride, and
fervor that can be mustered. If you don’t like Glazunov
after Pletnev is through with him, you probably can’t like
Glazunov.
But Pletnev wasn’t through with him—not on this concert.
He obliged his adoring audience with an encore, and it was
Glazunov’s Spanish Dance: giddy, tight, and delightful.
Incidentally, I don’t believe I have heard the RNO play any
music other than by Russian composers when they have toured
in America. There is no law that says Russian orchestras
must stick to Russian composers when abroad. After all, the
New York Philharmonic does not confine itself to Ives and
Copland. And Señor Serebrier and those Scots do extremely
well with Glazunov. Music is largely a universal pursuit.
But if you’re going to show off the homeland, you might as
well do it with style and conviction, and the Russian
National Orchestra surely does.
Leave the orchestral realm now to consider a voice
recital—one by Gerald Finley, a Canadian bass-baritone.
This event took place in Zankel Hall, the new space (né
2003) downstairs in the Carnegie building. Finley has a
multifaceted career, and he is perhaps especially known for
the low-male Mozart roles: Don Giovanni, Figaro, and the
gang. (Don Giovanni is a very low male, but I was thinking
in vocal terms.)
In his recital, Finley began with one of the most cherished
song-cycles, the Dichterliebe of Schumann. Just think of
the songs that man composed! (And some 170 of them in one
year: the miraculous 1840.) If he had never written anything
else—none of the symphonies, not a note of piano music, no
chamber music—we would still consider him a great,
certainly an important, composer. As for Dichterliebe, it
is sung by all types, and it bears all types: from a bassy
Hans Hotter to a light lyric Barbara Bonney.
From the beginning, it was clear that Finley was not in top
form. His onsets were rough, and there did not seem to be
enough air flowing through his sound. His pitch was low—not
flat-flat, but south of center. Things would continue this
way throughout the Dichterliebe, and for much of the
recital. It’s not so much that Finley had a “case of the
flats,” as I sometimes say; it’s more that he had a case of
the sags. And his singing in general was a bit unpolished.
But he did some good things in Dichterliebe. The bass
notes of “Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome” were stern and
impressive—Barbara Bonney can’t do that (although she can
do other things). And “Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen” was
nicely suave and understated. But Dichterliebe was less
involving and transfixing than it should be; it fell short
of its full effect. Take “Ich grolle nicht,” probably the
most popular item in the cycle (for good reason): It was
oddly plain, barely touched.
Having a good outing in the Schumann was the pianist, Julius
Drake. He was supportive, authoritative, and musical from
first song to last. He is not always that way, in the many
recitals he accompanies—but then, who is?
After intermission, the Canadian Mr. Finley was
all-American—maybe not quite an All-American, but
all-American. He sang groups of Ives, Rorem, and Barber (in
that order). The first of the Ives songs was—nice
touch—“Ich grolle nicht.” Ives set this Heine poem when he
was in his mid-twenties, and the song is not very
Ivesian—but it is a wonderful song, with a beautiful
nobility. Finley sang it fittingly.
Next came “The Swimmers,” which calls for a cataract of
sound from the piano—Drake provided it. And Finley was
rightly big-voiced, at times virtually shouting. A much
different song is “The Housatonic at Stockbridge.” (How
Ivesian a title is that?) It is dreamy, slow, and
mesmerizing, and both musicians performed it superbly.
Later, Finley sang “Tom Sails Away.” And he did so with what
I hope I am permitted to call a manly sensitivity.
The Rorem set was War Scenes, from 1969 (aha!). It treats
Specimen Days, the Civil War diary of Walt Whitman. In
these songs, Rorem makes plain his detestation of war. Boy
oh boy, does he hate war—really, really hates it. Unlike
the rest of us ignorant and bloodthirsty barbarians. These
are not Rorem’s best songs, but that is no great concern: He
has countless more. And “Inauguration Ball” is quite good,
with its creepy dancing.
Finley did well in War Scenes, although he was still
fighting the sags (speaking of fighting). The best thing he
did was avoid the maudlin—if these songs become maudlin,
they’re ruined.
And I should report that the composer was there, as he
usually is when his music is performed (at least in New
York). He had on his trademark white tennis shoes, and
looked understandably pleased. Do you know Rorem’s famous
definition of a concert? “That which precedes a party.” I
bet that Rorem, who celebrated his eightieth birthday four
years ago, attended a post-concert party.
Finley concluded his program with six songs of Barber, some
of them well-known, some of them relatively obscure. He did
not quite have the beauty and lyricism to pull off “There’s
Nae Lark,” and the same was true with the entrancing “Sleep
Now.” He was more persuasive elsewhere. The last Barber song
was that anthem of baritones, bass-baritones, and basses: “I
Hear an Army.” Finley was duly robust and jaunty.
But low-voiced men aren’t the only ones who sing this song:
Marilyn Horne was terrific in it. Then again, thanks to all
those trouser roles in military operas—khaki roles?—they
called her “General Horne,” didn’t they?
Back to the realm of orchestras, for a concert by the New
York Philharmonic. It was conducted—guest-conducted—by
Alan Gilbert, who is considered a candidate to succeed Lorin
Maazel as music director. That day is scheduled to come at
the end of the 2008–2009 season. Gilbert makes a nice
Philharmonic “story”: His father was a violinist in the
orchestra, and his mother still is. He is now leader of the
Royal Stockholm Philharmonic, as well as the Santa Fe Opera.
Gilbert’s program in New York was a Bachian one, and it
began with Leopold Stokowski’s famous arrangement of Bach’s
Toccata and Fugue in D minor. (It is now widely thought that
Bach didn’t write this piece, but A: he should have, and
B: we will not entertain that debate now.) I applaud
Gilbert—or whoever is responsible—for programming this
arrangement. Stokowski wrote it in 1926, and it was a
runaway hit. We see that the public is not always wrong.
In the Toccata, especially, Gilbert was less straight than
Stoki was. (The old wizard was much more rigorous than he is
remembered as being.) Gilbert went in for some big, somewhat
stagey gestures. And the Fugue was a little slow, a little
languid. But the guest conductor had the Philharmonic making
magnificent sounds—organ-like sounds. Stokowski wanted
opulence, and opulence is what these forces gave him.
Remember the phrase “sonic spectacular,” seen on many an
LP cover? This was a good old-fashioned sonic
spectacular.
The concerto on this program was Ligeti’s Violin Concerto,
composed in the early 1990s. It is a brainy piece, made from
daunting craft, but it is also emotional. I believe it
represents Ligeti at his best. The orchestration is heavy on
the percussion, in the modern fashion (almost obligatory).
There are even Swanee whistles—and they ain’t whistlin’
“Dixie.”
A brainy, talent-filled concerto deserves a brainy,
talent-filled performer, and it got one in Christian
Tetzlaff, the German violinist. He did everything Ligeti
asks. He played with amazing technical facility, and he was
musical in every bar. To every microtone—and there are
many—he was alert. At times he was jazzy, at times he was
stark, at times he was melting. One section is marked Presto
fluido—and that is exactly what we heard.
I should say, too, that Tetzlaff crafted his own cadenza,
harkening back to an earlier practice. (Ligeti of course
sanctions this, and even demands it.) I should say further
that Alan Gilbert and the New York Philharmonic were equal
to the soloist, and to the concerto. This was a solid, even
dazzling, performance all round.
And the second half of the program began with an arrangement
of what is indisputably Bach. I’m speaking of Webern’s
treatment of the Fuga (Ricercata) from the Musical
Offering. Webern, as you know, had a wonderful musical
mind, and Bach must have given him endless fascination. He
made this arrangement in the mid-1930s—and Gilbert and the
Philharmonic played it just as he intended: with beauty and
balance.
And to end the program was a Schumann symphony—the third
one, in E flat, called the “Rhenish.” What a glorious,
gladdening symphony (making one appreciate that Schumann did
not confine himself to songs)! Under Gilbert, the first
movement expressed appropriate Romantic heroism—it was
big-boned and a little blustery, but not bombastic. There
were a number of problems, however. For example, accents
were overemphasized, as though the conductor wanted to say,
“I know where the stresses are, yes, I do!” Gilbert has a
weakness for striking poses, musical and otherwise.
Indeed, he often uses big, emphatic, somewhat lumbering
gestures, which elicit relatively little reaction from an
orchestra. Different conductors—Fritz Reiner, most
famously, and the aforementioned Mikhail Pletnev—can give
minimal indications and produce jolts.
Schumann’s second movement was given a nice ländler feel,
and also had some sweep, some excitement. In the third, the
orchestra did not quite play together, but was otherwise
unobjectionable. The fourth movement calls up a
cathedral—Cologne’s, to be specific—and is satisfyingly
Bachian. Gilbert could have made this music more solemn,
portentous, and grand; the horns could have made fewer
errors—but the music made its point.
And how about the fifth and final movement? Gilbert was a
little relaxed, loose, and flagging here. Additional
strength and energy would have helped—even a dash of
giddiness. Still, it was a pleasure to hear this symphony,
capping a varied and most interesting program.
I should not dwell long on Murray Perahia, having written
about him so much in these pages over the years. You may
know my line by now: Once upon a time, Perahia was just
about the most refined, graceful, and admirable pianist
alive. He had tons of technique, and plenty of fire, but he
had taste above all. He was a model, not just for pianists,
but for every musician.
Then something happened to him: He apparently decided he was
too small-scale and poetic a pianist, and he wanted to be a
thunderous virtuoso, a keyboard-eater. He started to play
Liszt—and to pound, bang, and generally behave in an
un-Perahia-esque fashion. Indeed, an anti-Perahia-esque
fashion. In his recitals today, you can hear a mixture of
the Old Perahia and the New—although I am hearing ever
less of the Old, and the New Perahia is getting a little
long in the tooth. Perahia has been this way for about
fifteen years now.
At Avery Fisher Hall, he played a recital of Beethoven,
Bach, Schumann, and Chopin. His Beethoven consisted of two
sonatas, the one in E major, Op. 14, No. 1, and its
successor: the Sonata in G major, Op. 14, No. 2. These are
marvelous early Beethoven pieces, and they must not be
played like the “Hammerklavier.” Perahia did some lovely and
intelligent things in them, and I will single out the
Andante of the G-major: It was beautifully shaped.
But the New Perahia, unfortunately, carried the day. The
playing was often way too big, and it was occasionally crude
and coarse. It used to be there was never an accent out of
place—not anymore. Perahia used an excess of rubato, and
he especially liked to indulge in little rushings. These
made no musical sense. And even his technique was suspect:
For instance, turns were uncrisp.
Between the two sonatas, Perahia played a Bach partita—the
third one, in A minor. It was good to hear this work, for,
in recitals, we usually hear just three of the partitas:
Nos. 1, 2, and 6, in B flat, C minor, and E minor. Perahia
did some thoughtful playing
in the A minor. But some
sections—particularly the first and the last, the Fantasia
and the Gigue—were rattled off mechanically. Once, Perahia
would have presented them with pure fluidity.
His Schumann was Op. 12, the Fantasiestücke, or Fantasy
Pieces. Perahia used to own them; no one could touch him in
them. And, at Avery Fisher Hall, he played some of the
simpler, quieter pieces respectably. But the larger ones, he
tended to bang and slop his way through. He tried to make
these pieces bigger than they are, and some of his
interpretations were downright absurd. I’m afraid, however,
that his worst playing was yet to come.
It came in Chopin’s F-minor Ballade, the last piece on the
printed program. This, too, was overly big, and overly
sloppy. Perahia applied rubato far too early; his emphases
were unnatural; he missed a slew of notes; he pulled and
pushed the piece out of shape. And the coda had no
excitement whatsoever—zero. This was a guy merely flailing
away at the piano, and that is not Chopin, and that, really,
is not Perahia.
But he got his usual ovation, and he played three encores. I
have been attending Perahia recitals since the mid-1970s,
and I have never not heard him play Schubert’s Impromptu in
E flat at encore time. But he did not play it on this
occasion. Instead, he played Brahms and Chopin, and I found
myself looking at my watch, wanting to leave—which shocks
me, even all these years into the New Perahia.
But what was I saying, earlier, about recordings, and the
immortality they afford? For a dose of the True Perahia,
spin an old CD. And he will even give you doses today, live
and in the flesh—which provide some consolation.