Philharmonic to the MAX

Thursday’s New York Philharmonic concert (2/23/24), led by Eun Sun Kim with orchestra in top form, opened with a bold rendition of Finlandia. The brass were just spicy enough—on edge without dipping into rawness—setting a strong tone for the first tableaux. Prayer-like chorales were haloed with gold later in the piece; a rousing ending clarifies the work’s place in the canon.

Emanuel Ax’s playing in The MAX Concerto was strong and agile—he’s able to draw a firm body from the piano without a jarring attack. Hillborg demands a variety of styles from the soloist in his second piano concerto—from cascading arpeggios in the opening to an extremely tight, robotic style—and Ax delivers. In one particularly effective section, the harp doubled piano on almost every note, blending exquisitely into a plucky bronze mega-instrument; it took several bars for me to realize it was more than just the soloist.

Hillborg is a master of orchestration and uses modern techniques as a color rather than using for their own sake. For example, one effective recurring idea was a big chord from which a string glissando melted into clustery quarter tones while the rest of the orchestra maintained the “true” pitch. The strings executed such passages with the milky warmth of a French hot chocolate. Overblown woodwind multiphonics added texture to otherwise conventional-sounding chords, sparking subtle dissonance rather than drawing attention to the unconventional sounds. Though the work’s climax was too short, quickly retreating into the quieter, spare music that makes up most of the piece, Hillborg’s colorful sound worlds create a rich amuse bouche of a concerto—intriguing and fun, whetting the curious palate for more.

Rachmaninoff’s Third Symphony opens with a haunting sound from clarinets, horn and an ethereally high cello (the latter two muted). It’s hard to pull this off with such great distance between players, but in a way the slight intonation issues added to its ghostly quality. 

Kim’s overwrought rubato sometimes made it difficult to place the beat, and certainly posed a challenge for bouncy triplet figures that accompany lush, romantic melodies. But this is a small critique given the silver screen sound she drew from the orchestra. I was pleased by how the strings fervently attacked the driving triplet figures, never settling too far back in the seat of tempo.

The triangle, as it tends to be in this hall, was much too hot in the first movement. I maintain the instrument should be seen and felt rather than heard. A kind, percussion-loving usher mentioned that he could always hear the triangle despite minor tinnitus. Unfortunately bright, metallic sounds rebound straight from the stage’s back wall and require more poise and control than they tend to receive in performance. Given my faith in the musicality of orchestra’s players and conductors, the hall’s acousticians should find a remedy for this painful sore. 

About two-thirds of the way through the symphony’s final movement, where Rachmaninoff’s obsession with the Dies Irae comes to a head and another conductor may have forced the orchestra to a sinister crawl in order to highlight the chant, Kim chose to plow ahead, connecting its style to the country dance’s folks punch immediately following. I enjoyed this interpretation for its continuity, whereas a dramatic emphasis on the chant might disrupt the movement’s flow. A short percussion feature, beginning with martial drum rolls and growing to short licks traded off between celeste, xylophone, and upper winds, left a huge smile on my face.

Kim’s conducting included unique and effective gestures that I’m not sure I’ve seen on the orchestral stage. At times, she cued with an abruptly closed hand, bringing thumb to other four fingers in a paradoxical yet universal “shut up” gesture. (I recall many a girl in high school who would use this motion when they believed an argument should end). Though unconventional—an open palm saying “go ahead,” or pointed “your turn” finger might be more common—it matched the music’s dancing style. In addition to crouching for subito pianissimos or swaying hips for a dance-like flow, she also tracked her left hand from side to side, palm flat at first then pointing a finger, wrist leading the way as if the hand was moving through sticky molasses. I associate this gesture with playing through a phrase, particularly for wind players in a concert band setting, but of course it works for orchestral winds all the same.

This program which feels standard (opener, concerto, symphony; a new piece paired with two repertory staples) may also reveal a stronger political message. Jean Sibelius composed Finlandia to accompany at a time of budding Finnish nationalism, in particular contrast to Tsarist Russia’s regional expansion and hegemony. The work itself was meant to accompany several tableaux of Finnish historical moments, and the embedded hymn is thought of by many as the unofficial national anthem of Finland.

Recently, Rachmaninoff’s legacy has created tension between the United States and Russia, who has already created problems in world relationships with its invasion of Ukraine. In an unsurprisingly common retrofitting of history, Russia has accused America—the composer’s adopted home after fleeing the Russian Revolution—of subverting Rachmaninoff’s Russian legacy. The program note’s editorial regarding disputes between Rachmaninoff estate and Russia’s desire to repatriate the composer’s Swiss villa, in addition to the historical context of Finlandia, provide a thoughtful prod to our understanding of nationalism, legacy, and music’s interpretative role.

At this performance, Philharmonic strings demonstrated an fresh vivacity and presence, especially in the first and third movements’ fiery bowings. Solo outings from two new members of the wind section, Julian Gonzalez on bassoon and Barrett Ham on bass clarinet, delighted. Rachmaninov loves to tease a brief exposed bass clarinet, casting a deep violet hue that I wish Ham exploited even further (though he will certainly have such an opportunity in the future). These developments and an overall settling into the hall’s acoustics—metallic percussion aside!—leave much to look forward to in the upcoming Dudamel season.

Lacking Principals

Mirga Gražinytė-Tyla, as guest conductor with the New York Philharmonic, is strong and vibrant. She uses her entire body to give physical and emotional cues, sometimes swaying or stamping a foot. Her left hand, not always beating time in a mirror of the right, might evaporate a chord with a gentle curl of her fingers. Gražinytė-Tyla adjusts dynamic like a fader on a mixing console, or makes a forward palm “stop” to quiet a section. 

That particular gesture was given at least twice to the Philarmonic’s basses, who provided a resonant and enthusiastic bottom layer to Raminta Šerkšnytė’s De profundis for string orchestra. Šerkšnytė and Gražinytė-Tyla both hail from Lithuania, and are a credit to the country’s presence on the international stage. I know Gražinytė-Tyla from her Weinberg cycle with the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, which I pray she continues in her new role as principal guest conductor (formerly music director).

I believe the “new” David Geffen Hall—now in it’s second season—is much more responsive to the string sound overall, especially bass; the section might have indeed deserved Gražinytė-Tyla’s warning gesture. But I’m starting to believe I haven’t heard a true pianissimo from the Philharmonic in some time: one issue with “perfect,” responsive acoustics is that you can truly hear everything. Personally, I find the utmost joy in discovering musical moments that seem to emanate from the ether, so quiet that I initially thought no one was playing at all.

The program note for De profundis does a disservice to Šerkšnytė in calling her piece a student work. It may be accurate, but such a comment primes the listener with suspicion and clouds judgement. How easy it is to discount a composer’s effort with the descriptors “early” or “juvenilia!” The work takes the audience on a journey through repeated iterations of a minor third interval, over and over again. In various iterations of its rondo-like form, we hear a perpetual motion idea with notes quickly played off the string, and more lush intermediary sections like a romantic melody or underdeveloped quasi-waltz.

De profundis may suffer from cliche or hyper focus. At one point, the cloudy minor third becomes a sunny major third, but mostly the minor third idea is repeated at the expense of any others. However, it received a warm reception in the hall (the composer received a second, localized ovation as she returned to her seat) and leads me to seek out more of Šerkšnytė’s music.

Daniil Trifonov’s performance of the Schumann concerto left me questioning the Steinway’s ubiquity as piano of choice. Not due to his interpretation, which was clean and wiry. He may be prone to strong attack, but there’s a fervor in leaning on the front of the notes. Rather, the Steinway’s bass is simply overpowering when an extreme contrast of high and low pitch are played at the same time. This could lead to on over attack on pungent upper notes in order to keep the sound balanced. Sometimes, the right hand’s somersaults were wasted as they simply couldn’t be heard.

Beside Trifonov, the Philharmonic’s woodwinds stood out. I continue to appreciate their tutti ensemble sound in most works, and generally solos. Conspicuously absent for the Schumann were principals Judith LeClair (who ironically takes center stage on October’s program cover), Anthony McGill, and Ryan Roberts (both of whom have prominent solos in the Sibelius that ended the program). The concerto’s frequent clarinet solos sounded wan and transparent, lacking McGill’s rich, full tone.

Sibelius’s Lemminkäinen Suite is less known to me than any of his symphonies, so I was excited to hear it live for what was largely the first time. Gražinytė-Tyla programmed three of the suite’s four movements, each of which represent ancient stories about the titular Finnish folk hero.

“The Swan of Tuonela,” likely the most recognizable, played second in this ordering, had the most impact by far. It’s basically a slow movement for English horn and orchestra, with Ryan Roberts’s exquisite playing front and center. He has a special knack for seamlessly blending his entrances with the orchestra, then growing from nothing with a rich vibrato to distinguish tone.

This was especially effective when his music followed that of solo cello (Patrick Jee, taking the place of absent principal Carter Brey) or viola (yet another missing principal—I’m regrettably unfamiliar with the player in Cynthia Phelps’s stead).  The three instruments have a reputation for throaty, human-like tones, here fully on display. I loved watching the communication of Roberts’s musicality as he made eye contact with Gražinytė-Tyla and rocked his body to show gentle, pulsing beats. Something you’d miss on a mere recording, to be sure.

Some parts of the outer sections—“Lemminkäinen and the Maidens,” Lemminkäinen’s Return—were sloppy, but overall held impact. One aspect a bit too impactful to the point of overwhelm was percussion. Daniel Drucker is a player I admire for pristine elegance, especially in the Philharmonic’s Sound ON! series, but on numerous occasions I felt his playing in the Sibelius to lack grace. The bass drum rolls were tubby and distracting; I can’t imagine that is the sound Gražinytė-Tyla desired. An obtrusive tambourine in the final movement also struck my ear.

Recalling an ear-shattering Pines of Rome last season, I wonder if percussion placed so near the back of the stage (as is required for works with large orchestra) rebounds harshly, jumping directly to the back of the hall. During pieces of smaller forces, I haven’t noticed an issue. Seating may also be to blame—my feedback regarding the bass sound is likely impacted by my place in front of the section. Regardless, I’m happy to be reminded of performance as a human, communicative act, a the and the power of a group behind a singular, musical goal.

The Met's Dead Man Walking

The first thing scene we see in Dead Man Walking is a rape and murder. Through video projected on an IMAX-worthy scrim, it is direct and visceral. The act itself is obviously disdainful, predatory, senseless. This gross randomness, in towering proportion, defiles the stage. Countless other operas plunder rape and murder for plot, but it’s rare to see the acts so realistically without the “rationalization” of war, revenge, or honor. It feels pointedly sacrilegious, and when this sets the tone, anything could happen next. But of that “anything”—who would possibly expect to hear hymn-singing children? The juxtaposition is chilling and dramatic.

Joyce DiDonato continues to prove that she is one of the most powerful operatic performers today, holding us captive through her vocal prowess and true characterization. As Sister Helen Prejean, she can command the stage whether it is empty or full. An unaccompanied solo rendition of “He Will Gather Us Around”—a tune original to composer Jake Heggie, but so convincing I thought it to be historical—left me breathless. She retains exquisite control whether surrounded by children (Young People’s Chorus of New York City, rehearsed to perfection), full of motherly joy, or playing the nuance of terrified staunchness, surrounded by death-row inmates.

There were a few times where I questioned the veracity of her top notes (the role may sit higher in her range than others), but DiDonato’s ability to pull pitch from nothing, hold it in place longer than you think possible, and swell into a gentle vibrato is unmatched. Her characterization was pleasant and winning; however, I would prefer she lean more into the feisty, firebrand nature of Sister Prejean; it is mentioned explicitly in the libretto and should be clear.

Ryan McKinny as Joseph de Rocher—built physique, fake tattoos, clap push-ups onstage (perhaps a first for the Met?) pulls off menacing inmate, but I’m not sure if his performance ever brought my sympathy. Usually that would be fine—some characters are meant to be static, stock, and evil, but sympathy is the crux of the work. As the opera plays out, for whom do we feel sorry, guilt, or anger changes often. De Rocher’s family is losing a son, but he has ripped two children from their own families. He clearly suffers from the trauma of his act. What is the validity of his final confession? Dramatically, why is it so important to admit his guilt, and does that change whether or not the audience feels sorry for him?

Ivo van Hove, as usual, keeps the stage quite bare. Vehicles or furniture are represented by skinny-legged benches. A similarly thin conference table. More befitting a press conference, becomes a courtroom. He features a combination of video throughout the performance, both pre-recorded and live, projected onto the set’s walls and on a gray box stage center that hovers ominously in the air. 

Camera operators in black circle the stage, often to provide a closer glance of emoting faces. The characters in the pre-recorded film (blessedly blurry) were clearly not the same set of actors. This is less distracting than pictures of signs that appear from nowhere in the frame—so cartoonish that one might expect the furry arm of Wile E. Coyote to be holding them up. They are mentioned in the libretto and should appear whooshing by the roadside; here the sings are obligatory but artless.

The biggest set piece, literally and figuratively, is de Rocher’s execution. As the machinery of death rolls on stage and de Rocher is strapped down, we’re forced to watch the entire tableaux simultaneously in two ways, both from afar and witnessing the grim action up close via live feed. The gray block above stage evidently hides a camera that forces us to watch de Rocher’s face after he is secured supine to the table. The reveal is effective yet understand..

You can feel the Met audience’s collective shudder with the needle’s insertion—a clever bit of stagecraft that truly looked to involve an actual needle. But when the pump is released and a green liquid flows down the IV, it clearly stops before entering de Rocher’s arm (the camera operator’s tasteful pan should hav started sooner). At the dramatic peak, we’re left to watch McKinny’s face contort one the overhead video, but the rest of the stage is inert and anticlimactic.

Denouement is difficult—it’s hard to come down from what we’ve dreaded is coming all around. The audience knows he never stood a chance. (The results of de Rocher’s pardon appeal, which could have been a larger plot point, were quickly dismissed with a throwaway line at the beginning of the execution scene.) De Rocher’s death is the required catharsis, but it doesn’t feel good. Sister Helen hopes, sincerely if morosely, that the couples received the ending they required. One pair—the most vocal in their disdain for de Rocher—is divorcing. What difference does his death make? It can’t bring their daughter back.

De Rocher’s final absolution is trivial and undramatic compared to his death. As someone without a religious practice, I found Sister Helen’s insistence on confession a plot device that centers herself, since there’s no evidence in the libretto of de Rocher’s own faith. He doesn’t care whether he’s forgiven or not for most of the opera, then inexplicably caves. Sister Helen’s own crisis of faith is more solidly centered, and there’s little summation of this plot beyond the confession she finally provokes.

Personally, I came to the piece believing the death penalty is abhorrent; should a reckoning of personal belief be intended, I am not the audience. If the opera is made to sway towards a society without capital punishment—a milestone on the way to full abolition of the carceral state—sharing mores stories of its collateral victims while honoring those the state murders may be more successful.

Chicago at Carnegie

Philip Glass’s music comes in two flavors. One is the active dancing of The Light or his interludes from the CIVIL warS, which reward engagement of the mind and body. You want to tap a toe and wiggle a leg as you track bits of snappy trumpet or a flash of tambourine. It’s repetitive but exciting music made for dance, singing, and celebration.

Then there’s the Glass of The Triumph of the Octagon (recently performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at Carnegie Hall, led by Ricardo Muti), which requires sitting back and settling down. It’s the kind of music where thinking too hard will hamper your experience—it’s meant to wash over like a wave and subsume.

Octagon is a quasi-arch form, with sections in a six-beat pulse beginning bookending sections of five and four. Arpeggiations are constant, as Glass is prone to do. The work opens with clear and short woodwind solos—first flute, then bassoon—with a percussion- and brass-less orchestra.

Tempo seemed to be an issue, but it’s hard to tell whether Muti (for whom the piece was composed) or something else—the players, the hall—is to blame.  Many times, it felt as if he was trying to energize Chicago’s strings from a languorous haze; yet other times, the string arpeggios pushed forward while Muti held back, creating rhythmic misalignment.

The end result for me was a relatively uninspired torpor. It’s unclear exactly what the music has to do with its namesake, a 13th century castle, but the uneven performance did not pique my interest. A faster overall tempo or more varied orchestration might make for a better concert opener, but I have no desire to hear the music again.

Our orchestra was in happier form after the addition of bassoons, horns, trumpets, and timpani, plus a slight reduction in the string ensemble, for Mendelssohn’s Symphony No. 4 (“Italian”). The opening is delightfully springy, accompanied by staccato woodwind chords, which Chicago blended seamlessly with sustained energy and vigor.

During the second movement, Muti favored a string-forward sound, using woodwinds only to highlight string lines. I would prefer featuring those woodwind additions to contrast the sound, rather than blending them into the background.

In the third movement’s martial B section, I was particularly impressed with the bassoon, who mimicked the role and timbre of third and fourth horns. This idea happens three different times and, after the second, I’m convinced they congratulated each other with smiles and the discreet thigh pats. (Well-deserved, I might add). Being able to witness these human moments mid-performance, remind us why music is meant to be experienced not just streamed. The genuine intimacy of live performance can’t be replicated. The third movement has a kind of trick ending that left a smile on my face. Muti’s abrupt resumption of music in the final key is clever to audiences like myself who can pick out the Mozartian “ending” rhythms without the gift of perfect pitch to know we’re still in the wrong key.

Once the third movement actually ends, the vigorous attaca beginning of the final movement was quite surprising. I was impressed by the string ensemble’s clean and generous sound despite the music’s rapidity. Articulated woodwind melodies nod to the clipped chords from the symphony’s first movement, bringing us full circle motivically. Though woodwind contingent didn’t always feel aligned with string entrances, solo lines were tight and impressive.

Muti’s ability to end pieces succinctly is admirable. He shows and cuts off the final chords shockingly quickly, as if to say, “It’s over. We’re done.” There’s no showy romanticism, the point is not belabored. Perhaps this is purely characteristic of both the Mendelssohn and Strauss pieces on display, but I’d like to hear his Mahler as a point of comparison.

A quick ending was appropriate for Strauss’s Aus Italian which, despite interesting ideas throughout, overstayed its welcome. It was composed after his first two symphonies—a title he never used again—but before the first official tone poem (Don Juan) or any of his operas. With its programmatic music and content, it’s interesting as an artifact of transition to Strauss’s most well-known works.

“In the Country” is pastoral, full of wide, open spaces, perfect for letting the Chicago Symphony’s [in]famous brass section let loose. Muti gave extra time for cadences to bloom over Carnegie’s gilded arches before allowing the music to resume. As a section, the brass is loud and intimidating—almost to the point of tinnitus. Some control may be warranted, but there is a beauty in the raw power of their sound. However, there is also beauty in agreeable intonation, unfortunately missing from some unisons. I feel they play better as a harmonized section, like in the final movement’s final moments where for a moment I stopped breathing as to not disturb the final notes. A woman behind me audibly gasped in delight.

The second movement, “Amid the Ruins of Rome,” was well-played, but nothing other than an unbalanced piccolo player sticks in my memory. I tensed up throughout the entire piece whenever I saw the player with instrument at their lips, anticipating a sharp, unwelcome sound. Strauss gets plenty of mileage out of the jaunty opening figure—perhaps it’s Nero dancing on the wreckage.

As with the pushy brass, perhaps a less-than-familiar hall is to blame. The music for “On the Shores of Sorrento” seems to end four or five times before it actually does, littered throughout with obvious birdsong ideas. It careens too long: Strauss clearly didn’t want to leave the beach, but I was sonsick. “Neapolitan Folk Life,” the final movement, features a tune tossed here and there across the orchestra. Any listener can find joy in tracking the well-known “Funiculì, Funiculà” as it’s tossed from section to section. The tune—not a folksong as Strauss believed—was also familiar to its original composer, Luigi Danza, who sued and won.

Bell’s The Elements and Jaap’s Lame Duck

It’s a suite, not a concerto!

So the program note for The Elements, a new commission by Joshua Bell for violin and orchestra, clarifies. Bell’s idea was a “themed piece with movements that could each stand on their own, a la Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons or Holst’s The Planets.” An interesting idea, but fraught without the right context. Vivaldi wrote sonnets to provide context for his seasons, providing hints such as “birds with happy songs” (Spring’s opening Allegro) or “horns, guns, and dogs” (Autumn’s final movement). For The Planets, Holst gave us not only the name, but the title or role of their deity in Mars’s “God of War” or Saturn’s “Bringer of Old Age.”

These concepts are somewhat vague without being oblique. Vivaldi could suggest real bird song or ask players to mimic a rough growl on low strings without being too obvious in mimicry. Years later, Messaien would transcribe bird sounds as precisely as possible and insert them into his music. Vaguer still, yet capable of recognition, Holst’s “Mars” is aggressive, while “Mercury” is quicksilver fast.

However, choices must be made that an audience could relate to more or less than Holst’s perception Though love can be interpreted many ways, and I don’t think Holst seeks to represent elements of love as much as the idea of it, his music for Venus feels like a warm hug. An audience member suffering from a recent breakup may not interpret Venus, on that evening, as sweet of a mistress. Jupiter could be vengeful and philandering, as the myths often portray but instead Holst’s music is full of joyous, bouncy tunes.

All to say, it’s pretty easy in the case of Seasons or Planets, with the help of choice descriptions, to understand what is implied. When we get to something as subjective as the Elements (Earth, Water, Fire, Air, and Space—rather than the classical ether), the ideas are harder to generalize, and the composer’s role as aural painter becomes exceedingly difficult. Does one choose to emphasize the destructive aspect of fire, or the heat we use to cook food and warm shelter? How exactly does space feel—few people have the privilege of knowing literally—and is it a vast emptiness or closer to the atmosphere, full of humanity’s satellite trash?

If I had to put money on which composer would be the most successful in their elemental depiction, Edgar Meyer would be the last on my list. A composer more familiar to me through non-orchestral idioms, he nonetheless provided detailed imagery—both written and musical—that gave the clearest picture of his take on Water. He describes a South American waterfall, a single particle of water “hurled in seconds down into the swirling silt and slide at the bottom.” 

Overall it sounded much like a generic James Newton Howard film score (The Village, perhaps, featuring Hilary Hahn’s falling scales), but with obvious form and pleasing to the ear. His cascades for solo the solo violin certainly evoked of a speedy plunge, but the sludgy waterbed—rapid low strings competing with dissonant brass—were unsuccessfully orchestrated.

An orchestra with a greater complement of strings (there were only five basses, to give an idea) might have clarified the muddle. It’s interesting that both Jake Heggie (Fire) and Jennifer Higdon (Air) attempted similar textures, which in my mind violate Orchestration 101 as in most cases the strings just can’t compete.

I adored a trio-feeling moment where Heggie let the bassoon, accompanied by pizzicato strings, play the main tune before passing it along to the violin soloist but, to continue the reference to film scores and from the lips of a friend, it mostly recalled Danny Elfman in the short, buzzy exclamations of brass and winds. (Albeit—my take—more elegant, and all the better without treble chorus.) His accompanying text mentioned consumption, fascination, destruction, metaphysics, and spirituality—a bit much altogether to essay in his six minutes of music.

Jessie Montgomery’s Space left me feeling unmoored. Despite the chromatic mediant chords that could have been take from a Star Wars score, I wasn’t sure what she was trying to say about space. Her text mentions the sheer difficulty in scope of her task (agreed), but ends with a is impossible to engage with multiple hearings or score study and, like Heggie, seems like much to do in just too little time.

Musically, the most successful and striking movements of the piece were from Kevin Puts (Earth, plus its reprise) and Jennifer Higdon (Air), though not necessarily because of what their texts say the set out to do. (Again, matching music to text, Meyer wins outright.) Puts’s bright, gossamer orchestration often feels like it’s taking off, though a four note ground bass-like figure in the harp, beginning the first movement and returning altered in the final, serves as an anchored mile marker. I certainly heard the violin taking off into the atmosphere (“high energy and swirling notes”), then soaring through moments of “breathing and quiet reflection” like a bird gliding through thermal currents. Occasionally, the brass hummed chorale-like ideas—a classic Higdonian touch—which I imagined as mountain peaks.

Joshua Bell’s performance was strong and characteristic. His tone is limpid silver through the entire range, and he chose to use less vibrato than you might hear him use in Romantic fare. Bell makes tricky passages full of double stops sound simple, but will sometimes miss the mark of intonation. Thankfully, this comes off as a rush of passion and not poor preparation.

Yet, it’s not a concerto. It may seem trivial to fuss over this, but there’s something to the assignation—or refutation—of traditional categories. What does the choice imply? There’s a precedent for multi-composer concerto, Jan Vogler’s Three Continents commission, featuring Nico Muhly, Sven Helbig and Zhou Long.

Curious to me, but small potatoes in the long run. Five new works by contemporary composers, across different publishers, working styles, and schedules, is no small feat. The logistics of future performances (securing rights, allowing the composers to give input on rehearsal) will be hard still, but I hope the work receives many more performances and future listeners may hear something more cohesive or descriptive than I.

It’s difficult to write about the performance of Copland’s Third Symphony because, quite simply, I did not enjoy it. After hearing Gustavo Dudamel’s interpretation with the Los Angeles Philharmonic last season, I was left with a hollow ache to rush ahead into his tenure, rather than living through Jaap van Zweden’s lame duck season.

Jaap don’t dance, and Copland’s Third requires it. There’s an idea in music, perhaps mostly dance or popular-oriented fare, of the “big beat,” which receives the emphasis, and smaller beats that move around it. Essential to the second and third movements are a feeling of flow, of push and pull. It isn’t quite Romantic rubato, but a more modern groove, where hitting the big beat and letting the smaller beats move is essential to pulling of the sound. Copland himself may question the terminology, but I think his interest in the popular idioms—especially jazz and dance— support the concept. Van Zweden’s conducting is just too fussy, too prim and proper. His hips don’t move, his shoulders look hunched, and his left hand is often just mirroring the right. As a player, I’d want more; and with his early exit secured and successor in line, it might feel nice for Jaap to loosen up.

Nabucco, or Why I Love the Met Opera Chorus

As an instrumentalist who only dips amateurish toes into the ocean of vocal music, it’s difficult but necessary to admit something more direct, and visceral about about the human instrument. The very character of singing, rooted in the belly, traveling through the and pouring fourth in a uniquely individual timbre, is pure individualized expression, unmediated and unmitigated by technology or tools. Multiply that ten or hundredfold, with voices trained to pierce a hall and still be heard over dozens of instrumentalist while blending together in one mass of sound, and it’s easy to see why a chorus might make or break an operatic performance.

Last season, the Met Opera Chorus delivered this moment of awe during Peter Grimes as they sang the character’s name over and over again. From Row E, I could see the whites of their eyes—their emotive power sent a tingle down my spine. It wasn’t just the performers’ vicious glares that become palpable shiver, but the vulnerable, unencumbered remembrance of how only music can make us feel. As someone privileged to attend a variety of concerts from peak performers and ensembles, it’s easy to forget the original spark that first drew and still holds me captive to the form. It may not happen every time, but when that joy comes, it is pure and unpretentious in its beauty.

The fire started to burn early this season, again at the Met, in the form of “Va, Pensiero” from Nabucco. I’m the first to admit a choice that feels cliched, but there must be a reason it was sung in celebration during Risorgimento Italy and remains one of the most popular operatic choirs of the repertoire. I personally sang it—not well—in University Choir, a one-semester requirement for all music majors.

But musical control and excellence, rather than politics or nostalgia, was the emotional root of my reaction. The Met Opera Chorus hardly moved, each member positioned on one of many decaying sandstone ledges, ascending upward. They never pushed to a full fortissimo (Verdi’s direction is “Cantabile, tutti sotte voce”), instead singing with a conviction that makes brash loudness or strain unnecessary, even counterproductive.

For an audience all too willing to clap when singing ends though the orchestra still plays, an astonished quiet fell before the eruption of applause. We wanted more—quite literally, as one gentlemen yelled, “Play it again, play it again.” Never in my life have I seen an audience react so strongly mid-performance. But an encore we did not receive: Daniele Callegari conducted on, while Zaccaria’s entrance kept the drama moving. 

Though I don’t see many repeat performances in a season—so much to see, and only seven days in a week—Nabucco tempts me. Of course, it wasn’t just “Va, Pensiero.” I’m a sucker for real fire and the set pieces (by Jon Napier) took full advantage of the Met’s enormous stage, and I’m a sucker for any production with real fire (though surely it’s safe, it feels like daredevil flair). Maria Barakavo’s final aria as Fenena was exquisite, and Liudmyla Monastyrska’s Abigaille warmed up to one of the flashiest diva performances—a delicious delight, if strained in nuance—that I’ve seen on the Met stage.

But another part of me holds back; what if I’m simply chasing a high, one that I seek every performance but came so unexpectedly? Should I don my cap, after such a successful start, and ride this delight off in the sunset of the season? And if the chorus is just as thrilling the next time, but the audience less enthusiastic, would I feel it the same way? And if that Sunday matinee just had the right special recipe for wonder, and backstage even the poised professionals who work this magic every day looked around, saying, “Yeah, that one was pretty good, huh?” over chuckles and grins.

As characters, they sing together as people seeking for strength, survival, and homeland—a place to live safely as themselves. But as individuals and artists, upon whom we demand one performance after another to draw from their own wells for the mere possibility or gifting us a moment depth or feeling, I pray it’s not the same.

Spaces and Places

Introducing from the podium, Jonathon Heyward described the theme Mostly Mozart Festival’s fourth series program as “Spaces and Places.” Jessie Montgomery’s musical depiction of New York City’s Lower East Side in “Records from a Vanishing City” (unfortunately mistitled in Lincoln Center’s promotional material and the New York Times review) aptly connected. Over thirteen-minutes, the tone poem drew from the city’s nervous verve, superstar jazz history, and traditional folk tunes that Montgomery experienced as a child and, years later, in the form of an inherited record collection.

Records begins with a short statement, rhythmically simple but harmonically complex, so full of added fourths, seconds, and ninths to be harmonically ambiguous but end in the territory of F minor. Violins and woodwinds sneak in over the top, adding a jittery texture of rising fourths and falling scales that doesn’t quite affirm the harmony, instead adding to the discord. It’s a flurried, presaging color—hinting perhaps at the goings on of early morning: the last rounds of trash collection, rise of early commuters, maybe even the pitter patter of rats and stray cats before the neighborhood’s “everydayness [of] block parties, festivals, and shindigs” begins.

You can imagine the solo instrument pronouncements as local denizens, each going about regular business in their own way, before the string and timpani grooves kick in to announce festivities. I especially enjoyed the solos over synth-like textures of tricky-licked bassoon, Gershwinian clarinet flourishes, and a Miles Davis homage from cup-muted trumpet.

More interpretation was required from Barber’s Violin Concerto, expertly performed by Simone Lamsma but conspicuously vacant of direct relation “Spaces and Places” theme. We know more about it’s timeline (begun in Switzerland, interrupted by World War II) and the disdain of its original intended performer (uncharacteristic for the instrument or form) than any extramusical connotations. No matter, because the first bars offer a sweeping aural landscape before introducing a springing “Scottish Snap” rhythm with its jig implications. Lamsma’s playing swung back and forth between cinematic song and detached, dancing style.

While soloist was impressive in the second movement, one might say Lamsma was outshined by the opening oboe solo. It’s one of those tunes that every oboist dreams of playing, and Ryan Roberts’s superb musicality brought a strength of emotion without melodrama. Despite technical brilliance, especially in the daunting tour-de-force of the third movement (the violinist plays four minutes worth of extremely demanding music, pausing only two short orchestral breaks) the most impressive thing about Lamsma’s performance was that she could always be heard. At times I wanted the horns and bassoons to come in hotter on climaxes, or have a little more bounce to dashing upper woodwind lines, but conductor and orchestrate maintained appropriate reserve to maintain the soloists primacy.

That reserve funneled through intermission, where Heyward delivered a cohesive if dull version of Schumann’s Third Symphony (“Rhenish”). Throughout, I wanted more, more, more! “Take a risk, Jonathon!” is my humble urge (surely unsolicited). I admit to finding most orchestral Schumann a bit dull—perhaps my musical proclivities bias the interpretation—but rarely did the orchestra reach a true piano or forte. On the softer side, the problem could be Schumann’s orchestration, with a tendency to double things. And for the loud, I believe other moments beside the finale could worth a big, unison fortissimo.

Before raising his baton Heyward, explained the music was landscape, river, love, cathedral, and joy. Most impressive was the fourth movement, representing Düsseldorf’s proud cathedral, in a stately procession that could almost be (throw in more harmony for added crunch) straight out of Lohengrin. I can understand these ideas from Schumann music’s, but they didn’t always meet their truest form. The fifth movement’s joy was never unreservedly exuberant, and to my ears the third movement was more of a trot. We can’t expect a Mahler Five Adagietto from Schumann—nor would such an interpretation be appropriate. One could Schumann’s marking “nicht schnell” [not fast] makes the mistake of defining something by what it is not, rather than what it is, except he also defines the eighth note at 116 beats per minute. I dare to suggest the composer is not always right.

A non-comprehensive survey of recordings shows most renditions of the third movement lasting around five and a half minutes. Paul Paray, with Detroit, shaves of the half and, for the gooiest of all, check out Celibidache and the Munich Philharmonic, oozing in at nearly seven and a half (!!!) minutes. Michael Tilson-Thomas, leading the San Francisco Symphony, takes rubato here and there, allowing the movement breathe at cadences, and, despite a saccharine ending, his take is aspirational.

Of course Heyward was secure and firm, with a clear idea of the Schumann start to finish. The orchestration was prepared, just with a vision too narrow for my taste. There’s something special about the connection between conductor and orchestra that develops over time. Louis Langrée’s twenty-one year tenure has certainly honed the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra’s instincts, molding to his tendencies, building confidence and trust in each other. But this year is Langrée’s last, and the orchestra becomes Heyward’s to shape next summer. They will surely grow, learning to take risks together; hopefully Hayward loosens the reins for more give-and-take. I look forward to their blossoming partnership.

Overture, Concerto, Symphony

A pattern emerges in the programming for this year’s Mostly Mozart Festival—and, though the orchestra is said to be renewed under a different title next summer, the final of a decades-long summer celebration. Contemporary compositions provide the amuse-bouche to a concerto, which then ends with a large symphonic statement of the Teutonic variety: the tried and true overture/concerto/symphony, a programming staple in orchestral houses if there ever was one.

Of course there are variations: the first pair of concerts opened with a quite long, hazy, and formless venture by Amir ElSaffar, blending Iraqi folk music, jazz, and Western classical traditions, before moving on to Mozart’s hour-long Mass in C minor. The third ended with a surprising though welcomed iteration of Hailstork’s first symphony. (I am not including ‘Tribute to Korea,’ performed only once and marketed with curious distinction to rest of the festival, though it certainly followed the prescription while squeezing in one more contemporary work before Beethoven’s Seventh.)

Allow me a quick digression to ask—why do so few contemporary composers not write symphonies? (Other than the obvious answer—few orchestras commission or, if so, perform them in repertory.) Though sometimes a bone is tossed in the form of a concerto—which makes the Hailstork performance so winning; I am sad to have missed it—the “first bill” slot for these contemporary works encourages compositions of a similar mold, thus influencing the compositional scope of the Sarah Gibsonses, Jessie Montgomeries, or Valerie Colemans of the world in order to make their music more marketable. In an environment that prioritizes larger symphonic statements of the dead, why waste time composing what will never programmed? See Doug Shadle’s 2018 twitter thread or recent podcast interview for a more thorough explanation around bias in music, particularly towards women and non-white composers.

The fourth series of the concerts, Gemma New leading our festive music-makers, opened with Sarah Gibson’s warp & weft. Inspired by the idea of a weaving loom, where strong, vertical harmonies describe the warp and melodic variations imply the horizontal weft, (the tool’s x- and y-axes, respectively) the piece was exquisitely orchestrated and thoughtfully designed. 

Gibson’s scalar piano ostinato, strings dampened with blue tac to create a punchy, mechanical sound—provided a unique opening texture and held my curiosity for some time as it accompanied the explorations of vertical and horizontal music. (Gibson is one half of Los Angele’s HOCKET duo, whose interest in non-traditional sounds connects overlaps with the extended and unusual techniques this piece requires, including vocalizations, scratch tone strings, and unpitched brass sounds.) Though the slower B section seemed to drag on for a bit, I was impressed by Gibson’s color palette, including paired cello/bass clarinet lines and Ryan Roberts’s extended oboe solo over a bed of sliding string glissandi.

While a firm performance overall, some moments seemed unsure and unbalanced; there’s a tendency with contemporary music, especially the very rhythmic variety, to overplay when the notes become difficult. I was always told as a student musician that “playing out” would make my tone sound more confident, regardless of my preparation. True virtuosity is found in playing complicated music quietly. Being loud doesn’t make one more correct—only noisier.

Gibson’s work heavily features quintuplets (a series of five notes) over beats of three or four, which are tricky to synchronize across unison sections in an orchestral tradition where repertoire rarely contains numbers indivisible by 2 or 3. The presumably short rehearsal time given to festival’s pacing—two unique programs per week!—surely didn’t help. Some sounds, like ripping paper, didn’t reverberate through the hall and instead were discovered only upon score study. Gibson’s warp & weft is a piece I’d like to revisit, perhaps with more attention paid to its nuances and orchestral colors.

Stewart Goodyear interpreted the evenings concerto, Mendelssohn’s Second in D minor, with a firm hand, reminding me as Gibson did that the piano is technically a percussion instrument. Every stroke of the key began with a clear, hard edge—useful in the first and third movements but perhaps too much for the second. With smaller forces like the MMFO strings and an open piano lid, there is little danger of not being heard—perhaps his tone is better suited to larger accompanying forces. I wonder, for contrast, how Goodyear plays Debussy—crystalline, or slightly smudgy, with pedal to eliminate the distance between notes.

Regardless, this performance was bright and fast. As his fingers traversed octaves up and down the keyboard, Goodyear’s astounding technique was clear, but I missed the small moments that make the spontaneity of live performance matter—subtleties of interpretation, or the Socratic drama between orchestra, conductor, and soloist. There were some halfhearted attempts at rubato, landing neither ahead nor behind the fence of tempo to make a clear impression one way or another.

Wait! A moment of bliss: in the transitory bar before the first cadenza, Mendelssohn scores a pair of trumpets at the octave. Weaker interpreatations might have the upper octave blaring forth—it is, after all, a sort of heraldic introduction—but in this execution the higher note played a supporting role to the lower, reinforcing the harmonic series and playing off an effective decrescendo to the piano’s entrance. New attempted the work without pause, but was stymied at the audience’s insistence after the first movement. Not a dig: Goodyear’s ecstatic flourishes made me want to clap, too.

As an encore, Goodyear brought out a self-composed work, which he assured via introduction we would love even more than Mendelssohn. “Panorama” is Goodyear’s version of annual steel band competitions in Trinidad, where band leaders are charged with writing the best arrangement of the year’s top five Calypso tunes. Though interesting in concept, and virtuosically fiery, its repetitive nature did not hold my interest.

Imagine an amalgamation of Strauss’s five best Viennese Waltzes, or the top Billboard hits of 2022: within such a narrow range, music of any genre lacks contrast as everything begins to sound the same. Calypso interpreted through the lens of Chopin—a composer that mined his own cultural history through the traditional Polonaise—would have been more engaging. It was nice, however, to learn something about Trinidadian music culture, which may have precisely been Goodyear’s point.

The concert ended with Mozart’s Symphony No. 38, accompanied by the light at least four phone screens. Clapping between movements is one thing, and I’m happy to dispense with the elitist persistence that it is to be avoided, (if the conductor’s arms are down, and the the tune wills you to smack your hands, then be excited! You can even move around in your seat or—quietly—tap your toe!) but is the concert hall defenseless against against the handy distraction we are all obligated to carry in purse or pocket?

I must apologize the woman in row ahead of mine, who was required to angle each mid-performance selfie to avoid my looming the background while her companion searched for internships, brightness all the way up! But lo, a gallant knight appears. I commend to a point the good-natured overeagerness of my section’s usher, who called out via lapel radio, not exactly sotte voce and no action by his fellow staff, one patron recording the performance from the orchestra. The performance is not defenseless after all, though I feel for the performers who surely could see the patron swiping away in the second row. If the following description feels light, you must forgive my divided attention.

So back to the music, where New delivered a finely structured but ordinary performance. With such familiar music, the conductor’s job is to bring out something new and personal without hammering the mold into a different shape. A near impossible and thankless task to be sure, especially with late-period Mozart. The music is limned with such direct lines and forward momentum that bely the space or humor of his early music. If New wanted to take a dramatic pause, or a few seconds of rubato, the music provides little space for it. This is Mozart with something to say, a chip on his shoulder, though unaware he had but five years left to speak.

She did make one choice, however—taking the third and final movement at blistering speed. Just when I thought I had heard little from the flutes (double reed and string textures taking prominence in the second movement, though in some recordings the flute dominates even there), principal Jasmine Choi gave the rapid descending syncopations a delicious, throaty husk. Why the rush? No explanation required (insert joke about a dinner reservation or flight to catch here). The merry conclusion gleefully kickstarted my jaunt home, and its memory will put a kick in my step when I return on Saturday for conductor Jonathan Hayward and contemporary opener, followed by a concerto and, after that, a symphony.

Canadian Valentines

As an early valentine to the denizens of New York City, or perhaps a thank you for shooting down their UFOs, Canada delivered a beautiful performance by the Toronto Symphony Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. The first piece, Samy Moussa’s Symphony No. 2, certainly felt otherworldly in its musical connection to Wagner and cinematic fantasy. I eagerly sought recordings and scores to Moussa’s works, which are weighted in harmonic history and strongly orchestrated, but sometimes at the expense of engaging melodic material. 

Symphony No. 2  relies on  sequences of suspensions, resolved only to be left hanging by a change in the underlying harmony, to build tension over time, à la the previously-mentioned Wagner or contemporary Thomas Adès. It might be the sophisticated city cousin to his first foray in the genre, Concordia. The second is less earnest, eschewing sudden changes in mood or orchestration, but with longer dramatic builds and a sparkling panache to smooth things over. Sexier, too, in shape (Symphony No. 1 is lopsided: the third movement lasts about as long as the first two) and more cohesive sound—essential in a work place through with almost no silence.

In his notes for the piece, Moussa writes about trying to create a new brass sound, replacing the trumpets with flugelhorns and adding a euphonium to the mix. These instruments, along with the horns and tuba, have a conical bore; trombones (banished from the stage) and trumpets have a cylindrical bore. The instrument shape determines which overtones are emphasized, where cylindrical is often described as focused and direct compared to the warmer, silvery sound of conical bores. And the end result? Definitely mellow, but hard to attribute solely to the unusual instrumental lineup (more on this to come). Regardless, I was transfixed by Moussa’s swirling woodwinds, glimmers of pitched percussion, and Zimmer-like horn/string pads. Hopefully there are more many symphonies to come.

María Dueñas gave a fiery rendition of Lalo’s Symphony espangole for Violin and Orchestra after the symphony. With a sharp, incisive articulation and rich throaty tone on the violin’s low strings, it’s clear to see why the violinist is making solo rounds (this was her second Carnegie performance this season, last time with the Los Angeles Philharmonic in the fall). But through the piece’s five movements, I struggled to hear a level of musical thought beyond the notes. This is not an original take, I must add.

Most of the fiendish violin writing was played at a loud dynamic, like a late night MTA conductor barreling past the local stops between 59th and 125th. Only in the third movement’s Intermezzo, over a tango rhythm in the bass, did Dueñas play a true piano, quickly returning to her adamantly heavy style after just a few bars. Though she played well technically, the solo playing was devoid of emotional resonance or large dynamic contrast: if everything is heavy and dramatic, nothing is. The Toronto players shone in the colorful tutti openings of movements three through five, always scaling back to the role of accompanists as needed.

Dueñas made her professional soloist debut with the San Francisco symphony at 16—the same age as the oldest half of Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers. She still can’t have a post-concert drink in the States, but age didn’t stop Romeo from imbibing his own fateful cocktail, as depicted in the penultimate movement of Prokofiev’s Suite from Romeo and Juliet (compiled by Toronto’s music director and conductor Gustavo Gimeno). This piece is alternately dark and playful, with quick adjustments to tone and a propensity, much like Moussa’s symphony, for the lower ranges of instruments.

Each section had a moment to shine, but the orchestra never reached a level of sentimentality I would expect from depictions of the balcony scene, our lovers’ final parting, or the death of Juliet—holding back instead with a cool detachment. This was especially evident in the strings, who favored a chilly laid-back tone, and thought I heard mutes much more often than they were actually used. It would be silly to assume the polite national stereotype or colder climes of Canadian tundra influence an orchestra’s performance style, eh?

Maybe the audience fervor spilled over, or perhaps the orchestra felt relaxed enough to finally loosen up, but after several rounds of applause Carnegie received stunning encores. I delighted in Shostakovich’s Lyrical Waltz from Ballet Suite No. 2, dripping in dainty Soviet sarcasm and providing companionship to Prokofiev’s dance forms. Toronto played to the evening’s home crowd and romantic theme with an arrangement of “Somewhere” from West Side Story. Neil Deland’s soaring horn opened the piece, and I relished violist Michael Casimir’s sensual solo in the second verse. In the piece’s final phrases, my seat mate wiped a single, streaming tear from her cheek.

kinēma: Esa-Pekka Salonen & Anthony McGill at NYPhil

Esa-Pekka Salonen returned to lead the New York Philharmonic with a program inspired by the conductor’s experiences during Covid-19 lockdowns. The concert began with a Matryoshka-like transcription of a transcription in “Four Original Versions of Ritirata nocturne di Madrid by L[uigi] Boccherini, Superimposed and Transcribed for Orchestra.” Yes, that’s the actual title as listed in the Philharmonic’s program.

Boccherini composed the original as part of a string quintet, depicting the nocturnal sounds of Madrid (church bells, folks partying too hard, a marching band announcing the city’s curfew in counterintuitive fashion). It became so popular that he rearranged it several times over; Berio later combined several of these into one large orchestra piece. It’s safe to claim both versions as transcriptions because Boccherini writes “everything here that does not comply with the rules of composition should be pardoned for its attempt at an accurate representation of reality,” although Berio doesn’t state include that in his title (probably for the best). The performance was engaging, creating imagery brash and delicate, and featured two snare dreams on either side of the stage, trading rolls and passage to distinctive effect.

The origin of Salonen’s kinēma, for clarinet solo and string orchestra, is a little less complicated. After writing last week about the precarious task of conductors speaking from the stage, I was happy to hear Salonen explain the work’s beginning: much of the musical material came from the cutting room floor after composing the score to a particularly salacious movie. Due to the silence and relative seclusion of the Finnish Gulf where stayed for large periods, the composer-conductor become attuned to a different level of volume and pitch, specifically soft sounds and the low end of the pitch spectrum. The clarinet, known for its ability to start notes from near silence in its lower range, is the perfect instrument to highlight these musical ideas. 

Anthony McGill’s direct style and exquisite dynamic range was a treat—the Philharmonic is wise to feature this star principal player (he played not one but three clarinets in Anthony Davis’s You Have the Right to Remain Silent last season at Alice Tully Hall) as much as possible. His tone was hollow and dreamy in Dawn, the piece’s first movement, described by Salonen as a “musical harmonic cloud” with the “same information but infinite variations.” Medieval composer Perotin’s polyphony was the third movement’s purported inspiration. I couldn’t hear any musical reference to the titular musician in Perotin Dreams, but enjoyed the plucky dance rhythms reminiscent of Stravinsky’s Petrushka, with much due to McGill’s playful and quirky performance. After the fourth movement’s Elegy, the clarinet took a break while the strings played variations of the Dawn material, jumping back in to scream in upper range through the piece’s final moments.

Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony is standard concert for the Philharmonic audience, but Salonen provided unique perspective to the piece, declaring that an orchestral performance was likely the loudest noise an audience could perceive in the early 1800s—seemingly true, a spectacle gradually magnified throughout the years until the prevalence of machinery and electronics replaced the symphony as Decibel Royalty.

With double winds, no low brass, and minimal percussion, the piece wasn’t even the loudest music on this program—nonetheless, it confidently owns the subtitle (bestowed by Wagner) “apotheosis of dance.” Salonen delivered large cues with a full turn to the applicable section, usually first violins, forsaking the rest of the orchestra and sometimes even dropping both hands. His baton is a fluid lever, the wrist a fulcrum tilting the baton’s plane for mood and emphasis. An entrance on beat one might be summoned by a high arc on with the right hand, baton straight up in the air, like a flourish before the bow that invites Frau Baroness or Margravine to waltz.

Each thematic repetition of the second movement gained weight and volume in a stately build, but tempo changes between themes were over-exaggerated and ill-fitting to movement three’s overall flow. Salonen barely paused before the finale, racing the orchestra to a bubbling, bravado finish. 

Orchestral Theater

As a conductor, before a concert performance—to speak or not to speak? One assumes the celebrity shadow of Bernstein’s lectures and Young People’s Concerts hang over anyone that attempts any version of this act. Pre-performance lectures of course exist, though often from a specialist or programmer and rarely the conductor director themself; sometimes at a premium price or for exclusive attendees.

A conductor inclined to speak must also ask when: at the beginning, as an introduction; before a specific piece; at opening and post-intermission? Do they cover as much as possible in one go, or mention a little bit before each and every work?

Such caution is warranted, as little can be said of average concert fare that the music cannot say itself (or written in a thorough program note, should an audience member care to read it). Scant introduction is required for warhorses like a Beethoven symphony or Dvorak’s Slavonic Dances. It could be worth rehashing the steamy Schumann-Brahms-Schumann triangle before one of Johannes’s dances or symphonies, if only for the jest or titillation of rousing a sleepy crowd. Contemporary music is one category that receives the most discussion: often these works are fresh, just a few years old or written for the very occasion, unfamiliar to ears and unavailable to explore before the show.

Herbert Blomstedt, a shocking 95, was unabashed to share his insight of Lidholm’s Poesis at the New York Philharmonic’s recent subscription series and, in this case, it served the piece well. Poesis is not a new work—composed in 1963, revised in 2011 with expanded piano cadenza, and with at least one recording available to stream, it was certainly available to peruse—but likely a first to most of the New York audience.

There are “no melodies, no harmonies, no repetitions,” Blomstedt warned, stating that it was almost something more to be watched than listened to. While this description hedged the orchestra’s [very fine] musical efforts, it also opened up an avenue of understanding. “Music can be many things,” and that afternoon its as theater.

Basic rhythms or pitches become ideas tossed around from single players to another, or expanded to sections. Quick string runs grouped in tight pitch intervals, which sounded difficult yet standard for violins, became both virtuosic and visually exciting when played on marimba. While the conductor is frequently the most visually active and emotive of everyone on stage, Blomstedt rarely beat time, relying instead on suggestive cues and glances.

Another example of visual virtuosity was given by Eric Huebner on piano. No stranger to contemporary techniques, and a familiar face to attendees of the Philharmonic’s Sound ON program [we eagerly hear that it’s returning next season!], Huebner coaxed an astonishing array of sounds from the piano, placed center and in front of the conductor, by scratching, scraping, plucking, and beating (with a soft, bright red mallet) the exposed strings.

Blomstedt explained that Poesis’s commissioning orchestra, the [now-Royal] Stockholm Philharmonic, had a bassist that hated contemporary music. Lidholm, perhaps in an effort to maintain good graces, included a double bass feature, which was splendidly performed by principal Tim Cobb. The instrument’s normal vibrato is gradually exaggerated, then enlarged to a glissando that encompasses more and more and of the string in a strong up-and-down motion. Concert As—the orchestra’s tuning pitch—were tossed from one section to another until the final swell left a dramatic ring precisely where the first half began.

Calling any of the work’s ideas euphonious might stretch common definition, but the cacophony was composed with clear intention, and the performance firmly organized Blomstedt’s baton.

After intermission, the theatrics became both more physical and abstract. Berlioz’s lengthy program for Symphonie Fantastique, which we will not summarize, roughly depicts an artist’s passion, chase, and disillusionment with a woman. Many have suggested a direct correlation to Berlioz’s infatuation—nearing obsession—with Irish actress Harriet Smithson, whom he witnessed perform Ophelia in Hamlet prior to composing this piece.

The piece’s offstage components require a bit of choreographing—principal oboist Liang Wang carefully navigated Ryan Roberts’s legs, stand, and musicality as he walked across stage to a side door to deliver a haunting melody turned double reed duet. Two timpanists are required, and at one point two additional players join to dance around each other in a percussive climax. More percussionists left to strike offstage bells and chimes.

Overall, the program was unique and the performance was strong. One might question Blomstedt’s pacing of the Berlioz, but simply watching the master nonagenarian’s work was a joy in itself (it may not be surprising that such a veteran never once touched the pocket-sized Symphonie score). In the second half, I climbed up to experience the sights and sound from a First Tier side box for the first time; but the improved sightline came the occasional yet direct blare of trombone to the ears. Is it more important for an orchestra to be seen or heard? Our Philharmonic certainly did both.

Death & Dreams: Two Days at Lincoln Center

Death and Dreams: Saint Omer and Dialogues des Carmélites

Saint Omer is a quiet, steady film. The camera is almost as still as our central character, Laurence, standing in the dock of a French courtroom on trial for infanticide. The audience plays silent witness to these scenes, watching jury selection, days of questioning, and final arguments. As the room subtly darkens and brightens with passing clouds, we begin to piece together the opposing sides of Laurence’s brutal history.

The story of another French-Senegalese woman dances around the edges of director Alice Diop’s film. Rama, a professor and novelist, has traveled to witness the trial. Like Laurence, she feels disconnected from her family. Perhaps Rama has the life that Laurence’s mother expected from her daughter: educated, speaking perfect French, with a good job and family, established in society—the immigrant parent’s dream. But Laurence can’t stand the expectations of her parents and quickly moves in with an older man because she can’t afford an apartment and he’ll pay for her education.

Because the man has his own family—he even asks her to cook for his daughter’s wedding but doesn’t allow them to meet—she doesn’t feel prioritized. Perhaps it’s understandable that he doesn’t want to be involved, and she doesn’t call him as labor begins and eventually gives birth to Lili at home. But we also learn she doesn’t register Lili, bought few infant supplies, and doesn’t take to the baby to doctor when a case of chicken pox erupts: death would totally obscure a life that, to almost everyone else, never existed.

Laurence fully admits to murdering her daughter. The film opens with Laurence walking on the beach, the moon shining a jack-o-lantern glow, soon revealed as the crime scene where she left her daughter, Lili, to the waves. Should Laurence be held at fault when her entire life in France has been “cursed,” or is this all a product of chance and bad luck? Though the curse is suggested to be genuine malevolence, perhaps a hex from sinister aunties, the implication of Western racism is clear.

Less tidy, and what gives the film meaning beyond Laurence’s ripped-from-the-headlines tale, is Rama’s presence. She claims the case as material for a retelling of Medea, but the parallels to her own life are terrifyingly close for comfort. With her mixed-raced relationships, difficult family relations, and immigrant history, the distance between Rama’s success and Laurence’s tragedy is a path with few diversions. Society gives both women an extraordinary burden to bear—living is its own victory.

Despite her best efforts to find a life worth living, Blanche de la Force does not survive Francis Poulenc’s Dialogues des Carmélites. Generously described as a nervous wreck, she jumps at shadows and lives in a constant state of worry; infantilization by her brother and father, Marquis and Chevalier, do not help. After a frightening encounter with a peasant mob in Revolutionary France, she longs to join the Carmelites for the solitude of prayer—the only option she has to avoid life’s terrors.

Death clouds Blanche’s past and present: her biological mother passed mere hours after she was born, and her Mother Superior assumes a painful deathbed shortly after admitting Blanche to the Order, privately prophesying the abbey’s destruction. If these shadows were not enough, her fellow novice, Constance, shares a vision that they will die together, on the same day.

Blanche balks at Constance’s idea that Mother Superior’s difficult death may ease the demise of another; the concept of death itself continues to hang and terrify. As the sisters debate the present danger amongst themselves, contemplating their own martyrdom, Blanche—despite her vocal preference for life—assents to what is basically suicide pact.

In the French Revolution’s fervor, perception is guilt and condemnation swift. By mere association with the state’s papal enemy, and without any recognition of their lives past or potential value, the Carmelites are sentenced to death. Blanche escapes imprisonment by running home to her aristocratic estate, only to find that it, too, was ransacked and seized. Unable to bear a life on the run, and struggling with a guilty conscience, Blanche willingly joins her sisters at the guillotine.

These stories struck a thematic chord. Beyond the obvious—France, courts, dreams, death—both depict a forced and helpless struggle against society. Though of a different class, and diminishing the impact of historical and contemporary race relations, both Laurence and Blanche de la Force are imperiled simply by the fact of their gender.

As 18th-century women, the Carmelite sisters have little agency to live how they please. Pledging oneself to God was one path—and certainly the most righteous—to avoid the subsumption of marriage. Blanche’s nervousness practically forces her down the path of devotion: she is clearly too ill to make an attractive marriage prospect, as would be expected from her class, but this presumably comes only at the price of her privileged dowry. Her relationship with aristocracy (by birth) and the Carmelites (by choice) is enough for the mob’s rushed judgement.

A thin invisible line separates Rama and Laurence, despite the similarity of their background and situation. By parsing through the details of Laurence’s experience, struggle by struggle, Saint Omer asks us directly, in the form of a final speech delivered by Laurence’s attorney, to consider the wider circumstance that led to her action. The dearth of opportunity for a jobless immigrant is compounded by pregnancy into sheer and total dependency. Mental illness, meager finances, strained relationships, unwanted pregnancy, living black in France—any combination of these factors create a scenario in which daily life is untenable or even impossible, much less raising a child. Both Blanche and Laurence use the means at their disposal to make life bearable. Neither are solely responsible for their fates; they act just to survive, until they cannot.

Vienna with a Twist

The Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus’s recent Carnegie Hall program, with Music Director Franz Welser-Möst, sought to bridge the music making of two Viennas. One of Schubert, represented by the late Classical/proto-Romantic “Unfinished” Symphony No. 8 and Mass No. 6, and of the 20th-century Second Viennese School’s Alban Berg, with three movements of his quartet Lyric Suite arranged for orchestral strings. But with a twist! Instead of playing straight through the pieces, a movement of Schubert’s double-hander was placed between each movement of the Berg.

To be clear, Welser-Möst’s daring approach is appreciated. I want orchestral music directors to shake things up and reach beyond the overture-concerto-symphony program that has haunted audiences since, well, at least my entire life of concert going. A wind band conductor mentor builds his concerts after the bridal custom “something old, something new, something borrowed [arranged], something blue [jazz]” and, though a bit to prescriptive, it works. Unfortunately Welser-Möst’s palindromic order for the first half does not fit in the ear; issues of performance after intermission belied a profound experience.

One problem with the ordering of movements and selection as whole: there’s only one finale. Squished between the Berg arrangements, which all end quietly, The brassy, minor close of the Unfinished’s first movement juts out between the Berg and, though the second movement is less dramatic, it’s devotion tonality gives a finality that Berg, who famously eschewed such emphasis of key, cannot. There were certainly moments of awe and tranquility—Cleveland’s strings tore through difficult passages and sections of reduced forces (all principals minus bass in a quartet, for example, or only first desks, for example) blended in a beautiful whisper. However, a quiet seven-pitch chord doesn’t provide a confident or powerful send-off.

Compound this with the issue of orchestration: a string section nailing tricky passagework or playing the most gorgeous melody at their highest intensity will never match the visceral impact of Schubert’s fuller orchestra in the Unfinished. There’s palpable loss each time we move back to the Berg after hearing Schubert’s larger forces.

Why make this choice at all? “When you play them back-to-back,” Welser-Möst claims, “you can hear that they’re related.” I am not convinced. If the intent is to deliver a musical history of Vienna, throwing in a composer like Brahms to bridge Schubert with Berg is a stronger historical progression. But for the program as rehearsed, performing Berg’s three movements first, then closing with the “finished half-symphony” (aptly phrase coined by Brian Newbould) is the sounder choice.

An adjusted program order would also provide a visual impact on the evening, gradually growing the ensemble from from strings to full orchestra, then adding choir on the program’s backend. Without knowing the Cleveland Chorus’s usual makeup, I was immediately struck by the unbalanced tableaux of high voices outnumbering low roughly 2:1, which feels generally ill-advised and contrary to most professional chorus performances I’ve seen.

This notion proved true in performance, as the choral sound was strong but lacked foundation—the basses might as well have been home in Ohio for all that could be heard in the balcony. Each of the five soloists sang well but soprano Joélle Harvey was the musical standout, twice making the remarkable choice to back off a rising phrase in the Agnus Dei; an interpretation that at first seems counterintuitive but masterfully kept her higher notes from popping out of the texture.

That is not to say Schubert’s Mass was totally underserved. Cleveland’s trombone sections, by combination of technique and playing into stands, never covered the chorus or their orchestral brethren (a feat rarely matched by our hometown band); especially noticeable as they played under a high, pliant bassoon during the Benedictus. The choral balance improved when augmented by celli and basses, giving body to the chorus’s inaudible low voices, and I especially enjoyed the strings crisp arpeggios during the Gloria.

More distracting choral missteps (“gratias” pronounced like “gracias”; “peccata” sounding more like a chicken dish than spiritual transgression; a three bar crescendo which did not build but instead forced a shocking sforzando on the ears) prevented a holistically satisfying performance. The score of Schubert’s Mass ends with a soft prayer, impressively solemn when played as written, but a meager mezzoforte sent everyone home.

Rouvali, Radulović, Rite

The New York Philharmonic performed the following program on January 14th, 2023.

While I admit to struggling with some of Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s earlier work, I was amazed by Catamorphosis, commissioned for New York Philharmonic’s Project 19. At turns complex then airy, fully orchestrated then atmospheric, it never stays in one mood for too long and beautifully performed. Though a listener without program notes may not directly hear the connections to ideas of climate change and environmental resiliency, the tension between motives (glissing up and down a third, springy violin arpeggios) and polarity of orchestration become their own themes. The entire performance was crisp and audible, down to the slightest percussive rustle.

Nemanja Radulović made a meal out of Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto No. 2, leaning into the jocular quirks of Prokofiev’s language, such as the stilted 5/4 waltz-like theme that begins the piece before diving into more conventional Romantic sounds. Radulović was unafraid to explore the grittier timbres of his instrument and ended the movement in a striking tableaux; crouched and staring at conductor Santtu-Matias Rouvali, who intently returned his gaze. 

The violinist soared over second movement’s repetitive accompaniment, gleefully emphasizing moments where the music-box harmony or rhythm starts to break down towards grotesquerie. Cello, clarinet, flute, and horn blended beautifully to create a synth-like melodic patch near the movement’s end; I’m left wondering if something besides sheer force was responsible for the strength of Radulović’s pizzicato as he took up the plucky accompaniment.

To describe the final movement is insufficient, but it is impossible to read into our soloist’s character. After breaking a string and running to take the Principal Second Violin’s instrument, he didn’t return to playing with turning to nod and mouth a quick “thank you.” If devouring the Prokofiev wasn’t enough, Radulović returned with a playful dessert of an encore: Paganini’s Caprice No. 24, in an arrangement full of physical humor running through the gamut of string performance technique.

If Prokofiev and Thorvaldsdottir were so filling, what room is left for Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps? (Ok, I hear you—no more food metaphors.) It’s a powerhouse, a showstopper (fittingly), pressing, luscious, and forceful. With the cupping of Rouvali’s open palm, Judith LeClair launched into the precarious bassoon solo. Further solos—particularly Ryan Roberts on English horn—and section playing prove the Philharmonic’s woodwinds have few peers.

But in the piece’s loudest sections, the brass simply blew everything away. Of course their effort adds body to the sound, it’s heartbreaking to watch fifty-odd players sawing away without hearing the labor’s fruits. Rouvali’s vision of The Rite, was tight and connected; every idea inevitably flowed into the next. Pulling away from the raw brutality some conductors favor, he lent instead a glossy sheen often reserved for French repertoire like Ravel or Debussy.

After two back-to-back programs with the orchestra, trends in Rouvali’s conducting technique emerge. The left hand often favors a flat palm, fingers extended, or curls around an imaginary violin neck rocking with sympathetic vibrato. His shoulders raise precariously for music of high-impact volume. He cues entrances with a curiously pistol-like shape. His cutoffs—a quick circle with that flattened palm, or an open-fingered gesture emanating from the ictus—are just showy enough. I continue to enjoy his succinct styling from behind and encourage another extended visit with glee.

Fedora: Not Quite a Hat Trick

It’s the small details that shine—and sometimes confound—in David McVicar’s latest production for the Metropolitan Opera. My Saturday matinee performance delivered the sumptuous luxury that I’ve come to expect from McVicar’s scenery and direction (his third new production over the last two seasons), with a few forgivable missteps.

The work begins with a mysterious attack and its subsequent murder investigation. But delay your imaginings of a Law and Order procedural: this is 1880s St. Petersburg! Portraits watch over the entry way and a well-placed light reveals the betrothed and dying Count Vladimiro Andrejevich’s chambers behind a scrim. Musically and dramatically, the first act is weak. Most of the blame goes to the sheer amount of exposition the story requires rather than conductor Marco Armiliato or the Met Orchestra’s dutiful performance.

Our dearly departed has been traveling by sleigh, and Carillo is summoned for a statement; the sleigh driver enters stage right, his furs dusted with snow. (He is played by Jeongcheol Cha, whose aria—introduced by a sly, reedy bassoon—was Act I’s musical highlight.) A lesser production might have forgotten that precipitate detail as characters come in from the storm; a greater one might have required characters to leave from the same door on stage right, instead of a new, heretofore and dramatically unused door on stage left. This reviewer couldn’t help but grin, however, as the newfound exit allowed a gust of snowfall into the salon’s interior.

Things get messy in Act II. We finally meet our leading tenor, Piotr Beczała as Count Loris Ipanoff, the breathing assassin of our Count deceased. In a coup-de-theatre, several arias are accompanied onstage by the cousin and musical heir of Liszt (Bryan Wagorn in top form as both pianist and actor). Meanwhile we’ve crossed borders into France and, though nothing feels distinctly French, rich gold leaf abounds, we see a round couch for mid-party tête-à-tête, and there are enough globed [gas] lamps to explode your midcentury modern bubble. Some design choices just keep coming back.

Because his portrait wasn’t removed during the scene change, the Count continues to monitor the proceedings from beyond. Act II also contains an orchestral interlude in which Vlad and Fedora share a tender trans-dimensional kiss. Instead of exiting as the dreamlike interlude ends, our Count (still dead!) remains onstage, increasingly distressed, as Fedora captures Ipanoff’s admission of guilt, ready with officers to arrest him. Though the dream dance was lovely, Vladimir’s stage business is distracting, nor does it prevent Fedora from forgiving Loris and aiding his safe passage away from the would-be captors.

We now cross over the Swiss border for Act III, Fedora and Loris enjoy a brilliantly lit Alpine summit view without the risk of extradition. Our intrepid travelers are surrounded by the trappings of class and leisure: crisp white clothes, a parasol, two bicycles, and….a pitchfork? Presumably this helps place our scene—in case a yodeling accordion boy onstage and Mahlerian horn calls from the pit weren’t enough. There’s no way that our Lovers want Vlad’s ghost hanging around, yet he appears again in both portrait mode and geistlich form! Such is the trouble with metaphor realized.

Though his first notes in Act II were a bit clenched, and her high-tessitura vibrato wobbled throughout the performance, both Beczała and Yoncheva were at their best in the opera’s final scene. Fast forwarding through the plot, our couple agrees they both were wrong to some degree, but not before—spoiler alert!—our heroine begins to fade away from self-administered poison. The mountain face’s brilliant lighting gradually dims as her body sinks. The brass delivers a mighty, quick coda. We yell brava.

Of Motors and Men

Why is it so difficult to find new operatic work that feels relevant to our culture and age? If you look toward Prototype Festival, Beth Morrison Production and HERE’s annual showcase of fresh opera for ten years past (Our Pandemic Year excepted), the genre’s future can be found. On a recent evening at the Abrons Arts Center, Emma O’Halloran’s operatic double-bill “TRADE/MARY MOTORHEAD” presented three characters (a woman with an anger problem, two men with a masculinity problem) who struggle to find agency and identity in a modernizing Ireland.

Abrons Arts Center was the perfect size for the performance—a bigger hall would have undersold and a larger proscenium would swamp the Jim Findlay’s tight, efficient scenic design. O’Halloran’s score (a strong showing by Elaine Kelly and Novus NY, who expertly balanced by Alex Dowling’s sound design) had little strength on its own, tending to provide accompaniment rather than emphasis or subtext.

In Mary Motorhead, the evening’s opening piece, a bare stage allows Christopher Kuhl’s lighting direction to delineate mood and physical space for roughly forty minutes. Naomi Louisa O’Connell held court as the sole and titular character, displaying a powerhouse voice and a knack for pacing. Just when I thought her volume peaked in a moment fury, she surprised a few scenes later by ratcheting up—yet never forcing—her round, controlled tone.

Though the entirety of the drama takes place in Mary’s prison cell, color and patterns lead us to various locations in her mind (a dance floor, a standing bar) as she explains the “secret history” of her imprisonment; we don’t know why she’s in the clink and she wants to write her own narrative. Circles of light enclosed O’Connell’s face, tightening into ovals then disappearing and returning like a visual theme. Flashing strobes of red and white underline Mary’s rage and despair. While plates of crisp, blue-white mimic Mary’s prison cell closing in—a neat trick of lighting, if textually obvious—O’Connell drew out a shockingly long controlled diminuendo, leaving the hall in a hushed, contemplative silence.

Two men, Older (Marc Kudisch) and Younger (Kyle Bielfield), battle repressive society in TRADE, the evening’s second work. They search for meaning in each other while mulling over their previous sexual encounter, and—with the help of a few pints—eventually open up to share their innermost fears and longings. Bielfield’s acting was no match for Kudisch’s Tony-winning presence. In a moment of tension, Older looms over Younger like Lydia Tar to Petra’s playground nemesis; it is impossible to believe that Bielfield’s jerky movements—giving pouty, awkward teenager rather than menacing chav—cause his counterpart any alarm.

TRADE has the seeds of a larger, evening-length work but felt underdeveloped as presented. It’s hard to pass too much judgement on the libretto without knowing what is lost or gained from the original text by Mark O’Halloran (the composer’s Uncle), but certainly exploring the wider story would move some elements—Older’s impulse to clean teeth when discussing “dirty” queer affairs or the transactional, semi-public sex that becomes Younger’s gay origin story—beyond cliche towards a specific, realized portrayal of two broken men jealously guarding their toxic masculinity. Gregory Spears and Greg Pierce’s Fellow Travelers provides a successful example that successfully tells the story of a gay relationship while including the family, coworkers, and friends on its fringes. Is it coincidental or historical that both works share a “we’re gay, but not that kind of gay” line and secret (often motel-based) rendezvous?

Perhaps the men’s secret can only be shared within the confines of their cheap hotel, aided by cheaper beer; but what if we met the daughters they treasured, the mothers who can’t be put up with, or the wife who can’t be kept, we would understand why Older and Younger desperately cling to the heterosexual norms that grate against their strongest desires. Maybe then the final tableaux, a cool embrace as the music fades, would feel earned, but this ending doesn’t quite ring true. Older, fully clothed, has already paid for the night, and Younger is nearly nude.

A Fresh Philharmonic Sound

After much ado about the New York Philharmonic’s recently-renovated home at David Geffen Hall’s Wu Tsai Theater, the January 6th matinee—led by Santtu-Matias Rouvali and featuring Yuja Wang on piano—shows an orchestra settling into its new sound. The most recent series was the first after a very quick holiday break and proved a showcase for the orchestra’s horns. With two vacancies and a rotating list of Guest Principals on each subscription concert, the section’s recent anemia was cured by the leadership of Catherine Turner (currently serving as Principal Horn with the Orchestre symphonique de Montréal).

The program began with Rossini’s Overture to Semiramide. Energetic yet insubstantial, it felt a bit like grabbing the zuppa toscana instead of chicken & gnocchi during a Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks feast at the Times Square Olive Garden. Despite delicate moments for woodwinds and lots of action for the strings, little but the gorgeous horn section playing stuck out. Until the end, that is, when the final percussion strike deafeningly covered the orchestra’s already-loud fortissimo chord.

It’s not first complaint of an overeager percussion section in the new hall. The finale of Resphigi’s Pines of Rome (on the Phil’s first subscription series) also rang inappropriately high on the decibel scale, albeit accompanied in that performance by a brass section clearly used to overblowing in the room’s previous acoustics and not yet comfortable with their new digs.

However, that performance did not deliver the acute tinnitus developed at the end of the Rossini overture. I suspect an overzealous crash cymbal is at fault and wondered in the moment whether protective sound barriers should enclose the stage’s upper platform (would the horns or bassoons care to comment?). Thankfully the percussion section blended much better in the following piece (no crash cymbal, but two suspended!), so we may reserve final judgement.

Magnus Lindberg’s Piano Concerto No. 3 showed off Wang’s renowned fiery dynamism and was overall characterized by harmonies which desire resolution in the “traditional” manner but foiled time and again through one sequence of material similar in shape yet harmonically distant. This clouds the perceived tonal center while slyly dialing up the tension; even so, it is still the most accessible of Lindberg’s three strikes at the genre to this listener’s ears. 

Though James M. Keller’s program notes name-drop Ravel, Stravinsky, and Rachmaninoff as reference points for the work, the most impressive moments are more to the French iconoclast Claude Debussy. Recalling La Mer in both orchestration and rhythm, the horn section intoned gloriously over shimmering strings towards the end of the first movement. A little further on, Yuja Wang brought melancholic grace reminiscent of Debussy’s preludes to an extended cadential coda: nine of Wang’s fingers danced a spidery crawl across the keyboard while the tenth reached out to stroke a resounding bass tone. There was a beautiful moment during the second movement where Wang handed off an ascending line to tubist Alan Baer—a difficult task to perform at delicate pianissimo as Baer did in his instrument’s upper range.

Quite brief compared to its predecessors, the third movement had material of little discernible interest and left a lopsided feeling. It’s possible that the length or content of movements one and two had simply taxed my brain to its limit. But while the tempo was indeed faster, an audience is trained to expect the most interesting and virtuosic material in the last section (akin to the “finale problem” in Classical and Romantic symphonies, where the fourth must be better than the first, even after one or two more movements of supposedly “lighter” fare); in this, our composer-audience contract was left unfulfilled.

While I couldn’t pick out any repeated melodies or themes on first listen, the opening and final movements give the soloist a four-chord motif that bookend the solo material: a musical equivalent of an introduction and conclusion paragraph in expository writing. 

After intermission, conductor and baton were on display and a delight to witness. Rouvali’s take Beethoven’s Second Symphony was a highly articulated string section and emphasis on the piece’s unexpected exclamations. While this sometimes came at the expense of inner voices, it holds the modern audience’s attention in a way that more traditional interpretations do not. Beethoven’s audience may have been surprised by a few harmonies or orchestrations, but ears need something more.

The transition from the opening slow introduction—a traditional bellwether for conductors—was precise and forceful. The orchestra quickly locked in to Rouvali’s strident new tempo; despite waiting for this moment intently, it somehow felt both inevitable and surprising. Perhaps the most reliable of the Philharmonic’s sections of late, principal woodwinds delivered several beautiful moments that left a smile on my face (a special shoutout to the bassoon and oboe quartet in movement three is deserved). Deep, sonorous basses led the string section sound with a strength previously evaded.

Whether Rouvali’s insistence, a glimpse of inspiration, or something else is responsible for this performance’s luster is hard to say; in reality, it’s likely a combination of several factors. But my previous experience with his conducting—the same tried-and-true program of overture, [brand new] concerto, symphony (Finnish compatriot Sibelius’s First, in that instance)—left an impression like this series but few in-between have. Luckily my seat for Rouvali’s series with the New York Philharmonic next week is already secure.

Santtu-Matias Rouvali conducts the next New York Philharmonic subscription series, featuring Stravinky’s Rite of Spring, Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto No. 2 (with Nemanja Radulović), and the US Premiere of Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s Catamorphosis. More information and tickets here.