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November 26, 2011
When, in late 1907, Theobald Pollak gave his friend Gustav Mahler a copy of the recently-published Die chinesische Flöte (The Chinese Flute), with the suggestion that perhaps some of the poems could be set to music, he can hardly have imagined the supreme masterpiece which his gift would inspire.
From a modern-day perspective Hans Bethge's tome is a strange creation, consisting, as it does, of paraphrases of translations, by three other writers, one in English, one in French, one in German, of Chinese poems from the classical age (which culminated in the eighth century). But a fascination with things Oriental was in vogue in early 20th century Europe - other musical examples include Puccini's Madama Butterfly and Busoni's Turandot.
This collection struck a profound resonance in Mahler after the dreadful events which had afflicted him in earlier in the year: the death of his beloved daughter Maria ("Putzi") and his doctor's announcement that the heart lesion discovered in January was more serious than he had previously thought.
For a man who had rejoiced in walking miles in the open air while composing, whose religious beliefs had always been essentially pantheistic, to be told that he needed to husband his strength and to curtail his more strenuous outdoor activities, was a severe blow; yet in the poems of Die chinesische Flöte, with their lyrical outlook on life, death and nature, Mahler found the inspiration and strength to create what is, for many, his greatest single work.
Originally he had planned a song cycle to be called Die Jadeflöte (The Jade flute), which then became Das Lied vom Jammer der Erde (The Song of the Earth's Sorrow), before finally arriving at the simpler title and the six-movement hour-long work we know today.
Is it really a symphony, which Mahler refused to number because of his superstition about The Ninth? It is certainly symphonic, but it is also clearly a thing apart from Mahler's numbered symphonies, more closely related to the song cycle Kindertotenlieder, as Donald Mitchell has established in his masterly analysis of the work, Decoding Das Lied, which occupies almost 350 of the 600-odd pages of his Songs and Symphonies of Life and Death (itself merely volume three of Mitchell's monumental study of Mahler's music).
The only evidence we have for the avoidance is from Alma Mahler, who is known to be highly unreliable, and Arnold Schoenberg, possibly the most superstitious composer who ever lived, moreover as Bruno Walter once wrote: "in that clear and powerful mind, I have never detected any trace of superstition. Nor could there have been anything of the sort here."
Ultimately, it matters not one whit what one calls Das Lied; it is, quite simply, one of the greatest works of the 20th century.
The main event in Saturday's concert was what was almost certainly the first Victoria performance of the full version of Das Lied (as opposed to the versions with piano or chamber orchestra accompaniment), a performance which, at times, scaled the heights.
I believe this was the first time Tania Miller has conducted the work and, while there are certainly details with which I would (and, indeed, shall) quibble, it has to be said that she coped mostly very well with the demands of this monumental score. A greater consistency of tempos within movements, though, would have made the music cohere a little more and reduced the tendency towards the episodic - when Mahler writes "Tempo I" you ignore him at your peril.
And surely, the raucous central section of Von der Schönheit was taken too fast? What is more, here Miller failed to rein in the orchestra, which threatened - albeit for the only time in the whole performance - to overwhelm Susan Platts's singing.
The greatly-expanded Victoria Symphony played superbly; the orchestration is such that practically every member of the wind and brass (and percussion) sections has their moment in the sun and not one failed to rise to the challenge.
There are very few, if any, tenors who specialise in singing Mahler - which is hardly surprising as, besides three songs in Das Lied, the only music he ever wrote for the voice is in the Eighth Symphony.
Moreover, any tenor without the requisite helden voice will be swamped by the orchestra in the opening song, Das Trinklied vom Jammer der Erde (The Drinking Song of the Earth's Sorrow), almost the only time when Mahler unleashes the full orchestra. (This is no miscalculation on Mahler's part, by the way; after ten years at the helm of the Vienna Opera, Mahler, probably the greatest opera conductor in history, knew precisely what he was doing when writing for voice and orchestra.)
Richard Margison is a true heldentenor and it was a treat to witness his ringing tones cutting through the complex textures of the opening poem.
There was, I thought, a certain tentativeness on all sides in the opening bars of the work - the horns could have been a little more assertive, for example - but suddenly, at one of the most remarkable passages of the entire work, when the poet describes the figure of an ape howling in a moonlit graveyard and the music, as Michael Kennedy has observed, takes us temporarily into the realm of Pierrot Lunaire, something happened, the performance gelled and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Margison was most effective, too, in his other two songs, but I could never quite rid myself of the suspicion that he would have been happier singing Verdi.
Since the first time I heard Susan Platts sing Mahler, and on every subsequent occasion, I have wanted, nay yearned, to hear her singing Das Lied.
It is rare enough that the reality of a long-anticipated event meets one's expectations, but Platts's singing on Saturday exceeded mine (already high) by a considerable margin; from the moment she started to sing I was spellbound.
Clearly the music means a great deal to Platts, as it has to many of the great mezzos of the last century, this was evident from the way she caressed every phrase, her magnificent voice completely at the service of the music, running the gamut of emotion from the "expressionless and despairing" to the "radiantly ecstatic" (Michael Kennedy again), to the final acceptance of the transitory nature of human life.
The closing movement, Der Abschied (The Farewell), comprises almost half the work and consists of settings of two poems (complete with alterations and interpolations by Mahler himself) separated by Mahler's last and greatest funeral march.
In this movement, as the mezzo weaves delicate arabesques of longing and regret, the music constantly reinvents itself in a series of ever-changing instrumental combinations and Mahler comes to terms with his own mortality.
There are few moments in music like the final coda of Das Lied, as the mezzo sings Mahler's own words: "The dear earth everywhere / Blossoms in spring and grows green again! / Everywhere and eternally the distance shines bright blue / Eternally...eternally". The last word ("ewig" in German) is sung seven times as the music fades almost into imperceptibility; Platts was quite wonderful here.
Der Abschied is, in my opinion, the greatest music ever written for the mezzo voice and this was a performance fully worthy of it.
In sum: a most uplifting experience.
The evening opened with an aperitif in the form of Mozart's Symphony No.29, in a beautifully-played performance.
Perhaps a little too beautifully, in fact. While no adherent of the notion that playing Mozart on modern instruments should be considered a capital offence, I can still agree that if you play his music too smoothly, ironing out the more extreme changes of dynamics in the process, the result is what the marketing people would probably dub Mozart-lite: it sounds much like the real thing, but offers little nourishment.
It did indeed sound lovely, but more like a serenade than arguably the first of Mozart's great symphonies.
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