The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center staged a
noteworthy concert—only it wasn’t at Lincoln Center. Alice
Tully Hall, CMS’s home, is undergoing renovation (like much
of the Lincoln Center campus). So this concert was at the
New York Society for Ethical Culture, a few blocks away at
Sixty-fourth Street and Central Park West. You might
consider this a temple of humanism, and it is beautifully
built—with abundant wood. In gilt letters over the stage
is a small-s scripture: “The Place Where People Meet to Seek
the Highest Is Holy Ground.” Under such a banner, one has
almost a duty to play well.
And the St. Lawrence String Quartet plays well. They are a
group from Canada, as the name should tell you, and, in
2006, they made an outstanding recording of three
Shostakovich quartets (for EMI Classics). Their guests in
the CMS concert were Heidi Grant Murphy, the celebrated
soprano from Washington state, and her husband, Kevin
Murphy, a pianist and conductor associated with both the
Metropolitan Opera and the Paris Opera. The first work on
this program was the Chanson perpétuelle for soprano and
piano quintet by Ernest Chausson. He is the French composer
who lived in the second half of the nineteenth century and
died—in 1899—at the age of forty-four. Chanson
perpétuelle sets a poem by Charles Cros, a contemporary of
Chausson. And this is the composer’s final work (completed
work). It’s a wonderful piece, melancholy but serene,
blending words and notes with mastery, and offering a dose
of the fantastic.
“HGM,” as the soprano is sometimes known, and the piano
quintet performed this work very well—exquisitely.
“Exquisite,” in whatever form, can be a bad word, suggesting
perfume and daintiness—an overprettiness. But the
exquisiteness of this performance was that of good, French
taste. The performers maintained an intensity, never
becoming too soupy, cautious, or delicate. HGM is
perpetually described as “luminous,” or “radiant,” and that
she was. The piece was like a dream, taking you to a distant
place, and not even car horns outside could invade the
atmosphere.
The St. Lawrence String Quartet, without the Murphys,
continued with Franck, the Belgian, his Quartet in D, from
1889. This is widely considered a masterwork, although I am
not quite onboard: I find it markedly inferior to Franck’s
Violin Sonata, for example. And I believe that the quartet
suffers from an excess of length. But it must be
acknowledged that Franck has done all right in the world
without me or my advice. And the SLSQ gave a fine account of
his quartet. They were often not pure or neat, and they
would not have won prizes for sound. But they were
committed, passionate, and sincere. The main problem with
this performance is that it lapsed into a monotony, indeed a
dullness. Whether this was more the piece or the players, I
can’t say with total confidence.
And after intermission, Schumann, his String Quartet in F,
Op. 41, No. 2. This is
a not-terribly-famous work by a
terribly famous composer—and, of course, a distinguished
work. Schumann being Schumann, he can’t help including a
song or two in his string quartet. He wrote songs as
naturally as other people write e-mails—actually, more
naturally, probably. Eighteen-forty was his legendary “Year
of Song,” during which he wrote between 130 and 150 of them
(tallies differ). But every year, for him—no matter what
he was writing—was a year of song, really.
The Chamber Music Society concert ended with a new work—of
songs, in fact. This was Songs from the Diaspora for
soprano and piano quintet by Roberto Sierra, a Puerto
Rican-born composer in his mid-fifties. He studied with
Ligeti, among others, and has long taught at Cornell. In
CMS’s program notes, Christopher Costanza, the St. Lawrence
cellist, wrote something interesting. You could even say
that he confided it. Originally, he said, the SLSQ
“programmed the piece in that safe ‘new music’ slot, before
intermission, with meaty, intense quartet repertoire filling
the second half.” But when they spent a little time with the
Songs,
we realized that we had a true tour de force
on our hands—a beautiful, varied, inspired, creative, and
memorable work nearly 30 minutes in length. There was only
one place on the program for such a profound work, we
decided: it would have to close the program. What a huge
compliment to Roberto Sierra that his remarkable new piece
has proven to be, over several performances … , a fully
successful program closer!
You may want to remember what this cellist has said next
time you see a recent composition placed right before
intermission: “Ah, the safe new-music slot!”
And I can endorse what he has said about the Sierra work: It
is beautiful, varied, creative—all that. There are seven
songs here, all using Spanish texts. Singers from every
nation love to sing in this language, a most musical—and
singer-friendly—language. In the course of Sierra’s songs,
we get some Hebraic wailing and other features of Sephardic
music. “Mi suegra la negra” (“My Mother-in-Law the Evil
One”!) is terrifically high-spirited, viperous. It may
remind you of something out of Falla’s Siete canciones
populares españolas (speaking of cycles with seven songs).
Of special note is Sierra’s “El rey de Francia tres hijas
tenía” (“The King of France Had Three Daughters”). I have
said that the Chanson perpétuelle is dream-like, or can
be. This song, too, is a dream, relating a dream. Where the
text says, “she became sleepy,” the music follows admirably.
As I listened to this new cycle, I thought of how the late
Victoria de los Angeles would have enjoyed singing these
songs. But Roberto Sierra would be hard-pressed to find a
better advocate than Heidi Grant Murphy. She sang them
luminously, purely, seamlessly, but also with plenty of
character—with flavor and bite. There are a lot of
Sephardic songs in the world; de los Angeles sang many of
them. But they keep coming, and Sierra’s work deserves a
proud place among them.
You are not accustomed to reading about Salzburg and its
festivals at this time of year—at least from me. The
Easter Festival is at, well, Easter, and the summer festival
is in late July and August. And yet these festivals staged a
couple of events in New York, to provide some music, stir
some interest, raise some money—to plant a flag on
American soil. First to do this was the Easter Festival,
while the Berlin Philharmonic was in town. The Berliners are
the orchestra of the Easter Festival. And they were at
Carnegie Hall for a series called “Berlin in Lights.” On a
night off, some of them dropped by the Knickerbocker Club,
at Fifth Avenue and Sixty-second Street. There was a
reception, a concert, and a dinner. The concert—which
concerns us—was held in a stately, not-very-large room,
with a sumptuous chandelier overhead. Knickerbockers past
looked on soberly from their oil portraits.
Beginning the concert, Sir Simon Rattle, who conducts the
Berlin Philharmonic, played the piano. That is, he
accompanied the famed bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff in two
songs of Mahler. Before touching the keyboard, Sir Simon
made some charming remarks to the audience. He explained
that he was no pianist, but occasionally served as one.
People had been nice to him—but their compliments usually
had the air of, “Better not give up your day job.” Sir Simon
proved true to his word: He is no pianist. But he was game,
and it was kind of fun to see him play. His musical
intelligence was noticeable. And was he any worse than one
of his predecessors in Berlin, Wilhelm Furtwängler (who can
be heard, on disc, in a recital with Elisabeth Schwarzkopf)?
Maybe not.
The professional singer, Mr. Quasthoff, was not in good
voice, not in good form—was simply off. He can sing those
two songs from the Rückert Lieder—“Liebst du um
Schönheit” and the sublime, transcendent “Ich bin der Welt
abhanden gekommen”—infinitely better. The audience was
appreciative nonetheless (and why not?).
After this marquee duo, members of
the Berlin Philharmonic
played Schubert’s String Quartet in A minor, known as the
“Rosamunde.” These were the players that form the
Philharmonia Quartet, and it was interesting to hear them
play in this salon. You had a sense of what it must have
been like when the “Rosamunde” was first performed. When was
the last time you heard a string quartet played in a
room—in private quarters—rather than in a concert hall?
The Philharmonia handled Schubert’s work satisfactorily.
They played with a certain purity, not of sound or
technique, but of thought. In the second movement, Andante,
we get that piping little song, and the group duly piped.
But they also reflected subtlety and depth. Where the final
movement is concerned, I would have liked
a little more mirth, and I believe Schubert would have, too:
The music was unnecessarily and overly earnest. But it did
not slip over into the grim.
The Philharmonia Quartet played an encore, and a surprising
one: the Twelve Microludes for String Quartet of György
Kurtág, the Romanian-born Hungarian-Jewish composer born in
1926. These “microludes” are not exactly a crowd-pleaser.
Like so much else of Kurtág, and of modern music, they are
bleak, disquieting. They come to us, these brief little
things, like phantoms, and I thought of a title from
Prokofiev: “Fugitive Visions.” The Philharmonia played
Kurtág’s music with considerable sensitivity and skill. And
then the crowd went to dinner—somewhat pleased, actually.
Two weeks later, a larger event—a fuller concert—was
staged by the Salzburg Festival, which is to say, the summer
festival. This was at the Morgan Library, and the program
was as follows: reception, announcement, concert.
Announcement of what? Of the festival’s 2008 program, which
has a theme (natch—music administrators can’t live without
themes, even if audiences, and music, can). That theme is
“Love is strong as death,” drawn from the Song of Solomon.
And the concert presented five singers
associated with
Salzburg, accompanied by the pianist Bradley Moore.
First to sing was Michael Schade, the German-Canadian tenor,
a “Wunderlich for our time,” I’ve called him (repeatedly).
He sang a Schumann set, four songs. And before he began, he
spoke to the audience, giving his credo: “Prima la parola,
dopo la musica,” or, “First the word”—words—“then the
music.” He may believe this, and proclaim this, but,
fortunately, he doesn’t really sing like it. Schade is not
text-bound, or overly text-conscious, as some singers are.
He does not overintellectualize; he isn’t reciting poetry.
He’s singing songs, and very, very musically. In my
estimation, the music comes first: as a general proposition,
and for Schade in particular. But this extraordinarily
gifted man, of course, is entitled to say and think whatever
he likes.
In the Morgan Library’s fetching new auditorium, Schade was
in his best form: The voice was so beautiful, it was almost
shocking, unreal; the technique was locked-in secure; and
the musical expression was inarguable. He brought out one of
Schumann’s special characteristics: beautiful nobility. And
this lyric tenor can spring power on you whenever he feels
like it (particularly in a smallish hall). Later in the
concert, he sang Tamino’s aria from Mozart’s Magic Flute,
“Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön.” He sculpted it
perfectly—dangerous word to use, but apt—providing a
model of Mozart singing. What more can one say?
Following Schade onstage was Barbara Bonney, the soprano
from New Jersey and Maine, who now lives in Salzburg. She
sang two songs of Grieg—and was a long way from her best.
But she later appeared for the Vilja Lied from Lehár’s
Merry Widow, and sang that nicely. She even floated a
nifty B at the end—Bonneyesque. And, to close the program,
she did a duet with Schade, by Oscar Straus, another
operetta composer. In this, she was delicious.
Simon Keenlyside is a British baritone, sure to be Sir Simon
in the future. One biographical fact that I like about him
is that he studied zoology at Cambridge. In New York, he
sang four songs of Schubert, displaying his beautiful,
resonant instrument. Yet that instrument tended to fray when
he sang either high or soft. You could not fault him for the
artistry with which he sang his Schubert. But you might
fault him for this: He talked before each song, explaining
to the audience what they were going to hear. This allowed
no musical spell to take hold. He talks well, yes. But
couldn’t he save it for a classroom, or an interview?
Genia Kühmeier is a hometown girl: not from New York, but
from Salzburg. (In this, she is like Angelika Kirchschlager,
the superb mezzo-soprano.) She has had success in a Magic
Flute role, Pamina. And in this concert she sang two
soaring, rhapsodic songs of Strauss: “Heimliche
Aufforderung” and “Cäcilie.” She sang them correctly and
cleanly. Yet these songs needed far more rhapsody, more
rapture, and more release—vocal release. Think of Price or
Fleming, really spinning it. And “Cäcilie” needs far more
lushness of voice than Kühmeier could provide. After her
Strauss, she sang the “Song to the Moon” from ~DVORAK’s
Rusalka—same story, essentially. The aria was almost
Mozartean, and there were things to admire about it. But it
was not quite the “Song to the Moon.”
Out stepped a Russian—a new Russian—the young
mezzo-soprano Ekaterina Gubanova. She sang a song by Borodin
and two by Rachmaninoff. And when she opened her mouth, your
own mouth fell open, and your hair stood on end. This is a
big, big, ultra-Russian, glorious voice, with some serious
smoke in it—Slavic smoke. And her singing, quality of
voice aside, was utterly arresting. She seemed to wake up,
not only the hall, but the entire city. After the Russian
music, she went to an Italian aria, “O mio Fernando” from
Donizetti’s Favorita, demonstrating some versatility. Her
singing of this music was idiomatic, and she showed both
strength—huge strength—and refinement. This is a lucky
combination. And we obviously have a new Verdi mezzo. I must
say, this relative unknown sent shivers up and down my
spine.
Out of Russia, the singers—musicians in general, but
especially singers—keep pouring. One after another they
come, making Western audiences sit up. I thought of an
ad against illegal immigration, aired in California some
fifteen years ago: “They keep coming, and coming …” So
it is with Russian singers.
I have not said anything about the accompanist, but
he—whoever he is—is used to being last, if he is mentioned
at all. (Gerald Moore liked to say that his mother was the
only person who read reviews from the bottom up.) Bradley
Moore is not only an accompanist: He is a pianist, and an
excellent one. Throughout the concert, he played with a sure
technique, keen understanding, and collaborative sympathy.
And though he was sympathetic, he was no patsy. Indeed,
sometimes he was a leader, musically. His playing of the
opening of “Heimliche Aufforderung”—no piece of cake—was
like glass. The repeated notes in the “Song to the Moon”
were skillful. And in the Vilja Lied, he was neither silly
nor sentimental—which is difficult to manage. Moore is a
young man, an assistant conductor at the Met. It will be
interesting to see where his career goes.
Russian opera has a friend in Valery Gergiev, one of the
best friends it has ever had. The conductor from the
Caucasus champions it all over the world, and he has
introduced it to people who might not otherwise have heard
it (beyond Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin, Mussorgsky’s
Boris Godunov, and maybe one or two others). For three
days, Gergiev brought Russian opera to Carnegie Hall—this
was opera-in-concert. He also brought some ballet. His
forces were those he has long led in St. Petersburg, namely
the Kirov Orchestra and Chorus, along with a slew of vocal
soloists. Gergiev conducted Glinka, Stravinsky, Borodin, and
Rimsky-Korsakov. Some of these performances were merely
so-so, and at least one was downright thrilling—I might as
well tell you about that.
On a Sunday afternoon, Gergiev presided over The Snow
Maiden, the opera Rimsky-Korsakov wrote in 1881. The
conductor was firing on all cylinders, totally engaged, and
his forces responded heartily. The orchestra was soulful,
pure, gritty, shimmering, majestic, ravishing—accurate.
And the chorus was no worse. This is an opera of fantasy,
and the Kirov gave us that kind of performance. The Snow
Maiden may not qualify as a masterpiece, no matter how good
it is. But the thing is, Gergiev conducted it as though it
were. At the Metropolitan Opera two seasons ago, I heard him
do this with Mazeppa, the Tchaikovsky opera. It is an
invaluable conductorial, and musical, trait: to advocate
something to the nth degree.
I have said that they keep coming and coming: and on
Carnegie Hall’s stage for The Snow Maiden were twelve
Russian sing-
ers, six on either side of the podium.
Virtually
all of them were interesting and individual, and virtually
all of them had striking instruments. There was plenty of
Slavic throbbing on that stage. Indeed, so good was this
cast that when one of them was ordinary—as one was—he
stood out. Among the best singers were the soprano Anastasia
Kalagina; the mezzos Tatiana Pavlovskaya, Olga Savova, and
Ekaterina Semenchuk; and the bass Alexei Tanovitski. Some of
the twelve singers are stars back home, though unknown in
the West. And so deep was the cast that even the Second
Herald was great.
You might never have known that one of your most memorable
nights at the opera would be an afternoon concert at
Carnegie Hall.
Finally, a word about the name of these guys: “Kirov.” This
is a subject of some controversy. And in a public interview
last summer (Salzburg), I asked Gergiev about it. When the
Bolsheviks took over, they renamed the Mariinsky Theater the
State Academic Theater. Later, when Sergei Kirov was
assassinated—in murky circumstances—they renamed it for
him. When the USSR dissolved, the theater reassumed the
original name: Mariinsky. But when they travel in the West,
they still go by Kirov, reasoning that we all grew
accustomed to this name, during those long Soviet decades.
They don’t want anyone to say, “What’s a Mariinsky?” (and,
by the way, I have a friend—a former ballerina—who
insists on, not only the old name, but the old
transliteration, too: Maryinsky).
Gergiev said that the theater will drop the name “Kirov” in
due course, and be the Mariinsky everywhere, even in Topeka.
But when will that be? No one can say. The Soviet Union
ended in 1991. It has already been sixteen years, and,
personally, I don’t see a reason to wait much longer.
The
theater isn’t waiting until Russia re-
communizes, is it?