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University Centre Auditorium
October 27, 2017
Apart from two early works — the cantata Das klagende Lied and the Symphony No.1 — Gustav Mahler did not make a habit of extensively revising his music.
Which means that one rarely attends a performance of anything by Mahler only to find oneself wondering which version is being used (this is, of course, in sharp contradistinction to the symphonies of Anton Bruckner).
And yet, on Friday night, the "version question" raised its head immediately the orchestra began to take the stage again after the interval, in preparation for a performance of what many consider Mahler's masterpiece, Das Lied von der Erde.
In the first part of the concert the stage was early filled with an almost-Mahler-sized orchestra, yet upon their return, the violins were reduced from twenty to nine, violas from seven to three, the cellos likewise. One of the four horns had similarly gone missing and — oh, the humanity! — there was a piano lurking at the side of the stage.
It was therefore clear that we were not about to hear exactly what Mahler had written, but neither were we to hear the Schoenberg-Riehn chamber arrangement, which is scored for just fourteen players.
What was on offer, then, was neither fish nor fowl; neither, happily, was it foul.
Ajtony Csaba directed what was on the whole a very fine performance, albeit one that was, at least for me, seriously, and ultimately fatally, undermined by the oddness of the arrangement.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding occasional balance problems (apart from that missing horn, the Csaba (?) version still had the full complement of Mahler's brass), Benjamin Butterfield was outstanding in the opening Das Trinklied vom Jammer der Erde (Drinking Song of Earth's Sorrow), particularly his emphatic and bitter rendition of the recurring refrain "Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod" (Dark is life, as is death). (It was surely, at least in part, this which caused Bruno Walter to ask whether audiences would not "go home and shoot themselves" after hearing the work.)
Butterfield also sounded appropriately youthful in "Von der Jugend" and exuberantly tipsy in "Der Trunkene im Frühling" (The drunkard in springtime).
But, of course, the major emotional weight of the piece falls upon the contralto, particularly in the final song — and has any finer music for the lower female voice ever been written? I venture to suggest not. Noa Frenkel, aside from a rather quick vibrato to her upper range which was not, I confess, altogether to my taste (I admit, though, that this is a very personal thing), was truly excellent.
In her hands Der Einsame im Herbst (The solitary one in autumn) was loneliness made flesh; Von der Schönheit (On beauty) was indeed lovely. And the depth of emotion she conveyed in Der Abschied was outstanding, typified by the huge upswelling of the passionate "O Schönheit!" and the seven fading repetitions of "Ewig" ("forever") which bring this truly remarkable work to a close.
As I observed earlier, Csaba directed the work well, with sensibly-chosen tempos and a firm hand on the architecture of the lengthy final movement. His orchestra also played extremely well: the horns at the opening of the work were very fine, woodwinds were delightfully colourful if not always, as at the opening of the second movement, quite soft enough. The brass came into their own in the great funeral march at the centre of Der Abschied and rose to the occasion.
My problems, as is by now probably obvious, were with the arrangement itself; a body of just seventeen strings really is not enough and this became abundantly clear at several points, most notably at the words "Der liebe Erde" (the dear earth), again in Der Abschied, where a larger section could have given the string writing the sweep it so clearly needs.
There was also the curious incident of the mandolin in the finale: visible, but not audible; and the piano, both visible and, unfortunately, audible. This is no reflection on the playing, merely a reflection of the fact that Mahler is one of the least pianistic composers in musical history. In fact, aside from the piano versions of his song-cycles, his only significant use of the instrument is in the Eighth Symphony, where it is employed to add colour.
Here, as with the Schoenberg-Riehn chamber version, the piano seemed to be present to cover for any missing instruments, notwithstanding differences in timbre. It was, I think, a serious misjudgment by Schoenberg and there was even less excuse for its inclusion here.
Quite what Maureen Forrester would have made of this, I have no idea. For my own part I found that virtually every time the music began to cast its spell over me, something in the orchestra (and, alas, all too frequently it was the piano) would shower me with cold water and break the spell.
Which was a great pity, as for much of its duration, this performance reminded me all over again just what an extraordinary piece of music Das Lied von der Erde truly is.
The evening opened with the third performance (the first was the previous night, the second — thanks to Toronto's being three time zones ahead of us — just hours previously) of Howard Shore's L'Aube, a five-movement song-cycle for mezzo and orchestra.
Not having seen The Lord of the Rings (I'll stick with the books, thank you very much), I was unfamiliar with Shore's music, which seemed attractive and well-constructed, if not especially memorable.
The first and last movements were introduced by the wistful sound of the oboe (the first-class Anna Betuzzi) and the orchestral sound, throughout, was commendably full and, at times, almost sumptuous. I was also quite taken with the pizzicato raindrop effect in the second song and the Copland-esque modal string writing in the third.
Even if I had known nothing of the composer, I still think I would have found his orchestration a bit too "Hollywood" for my liking, particularly his overuse of the celesta, which seemed to infect every song with a sort of John-Williams-Harry-Potter atmosphere. (The contrast with the brilliantly sparing use of the instrument at the close of the Mahler was, I think, particularly pointed.)
And, while I do, in principal, very much approve the idea of having the texts displayed on a screen behind the stage, it can sometimes have an unintended effect: in the fourth song, Les Animaux, for example, the two stanzas which began "Dear Beaver" and "Cherished Turtle" found me (successfully I hope) having to suppress laughter.
Frenkel sang the with music with feeling and commitment, but I cannot say I shall seek the work out again.
The first half of the programme ended with Wagner's overture to his third opera, Rienzi.
Written between 1837 and 1840, while Wagner was still in his twenties, the music contains little of the mature composer; indeed, the conductor Hans von Bülow once joked that "Rienzi is Meyerbeer's best opera".
The overture's opening trumpet call was excellently played by Tark Kim and the orchestra was in fine form throughout, with a nicely-blended sound in the slow introduction and a good crescendo to the "big" tune.
But, to my ears, there is too much Rossini and other early 19th century opera composers here, even a hint of (Gilbert and) Sullivan, especially in the rather blowsy percussion — triangle, snare drum, bass drum and cymbals — of the triumphal march. I could not suppress the irreverent thought that, if Wagner had continued to composer schlock like this, the Third Reich might never have happened. You could well invade Poland to the accompaniment of The Ride of the Valkyries, but to Rienzi?
An interesting, if sometimes frustrating evening.
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