Late last week, I went to Chicago, for a talk with Riccardo Muti. A podcast and a piece will appear in due course. Muti has been the music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra since 2010. He is leaving that position at the end of this season—but will continue to conduct the orchestra from time to time, as in the opening week of Carnegie Hall next season.
Last week, he conducted a program that I heard twice: on Thursday night and Friday afternoon. I will not write a proper review (of either concert). Criticism should not be mixed with feature writing, or podcasting, don’t you agree? But perhaps I can offer something more like a report.
The program opened with Mozart: his Divertimento in F major, K. 138. The composer was sixteen when he wrote it, hence well on his way. He had written Mitridate, remember, at fourteen. The divertimento, overall, is dear, affectionate, ingenious. The second movement is filled with interesting modulations. It sighs, aches, yearns. It is ineffably beautiful.
Muti conducted the Mozart with natural, fluid motions—not doing too much and not doing too little. At the end, when he wanted to put some strength in the music, he executed a shoulder move—a move with both shoulders.
Do shoulders equal strength? They do in some conductors, yes.
Listening to the Mozart, I thought of something that a conductor told me several years ago. It went something like this: “Anyone can conduct complicated modern pieces. All you have to do is count, basically. It’s very hard to conduct Mozart. Counting is no problem. But it’s up to you to bring the notes to life off the page. Some can do it, some cannot.”
In Chicago, the Mozart divertimento was followed by a piece by William Kraft—who is not to be confused with Robert Craft, though both were associated with Los Angeles and Stravinsky.
William Kraft (1923–2022) was at the L.A. Philharmonic for thirty years—from 1955 to 1985. He was a percussionist, an assistant conductor, and a composer-in-residence. In 1984, he wrote his Timpani Concerto No. 1. (Yes, there is a second one.)
Muti and the CSO were featuring their principal timpanist, David Herbert.
I thought of a man I knew in my hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan: the wonderful Charles Owen. He had been the principal percussionist of the Philadelphia Orchestra, under Ormandy. The Philadelphia used to issue recordings called “First Chair.” These recordings raised money for the musicians’ pension fund.
Charlie Owen recorded Paul Creston’s Concertino for Marimba. (Does anyone play it today? It deserves a hearing.)
In the Kraft concerto, Herbert was the soloist. But he was not positioned at the front of the orchestra; he was positioned at the back—the back center. He was interesting to watch, as timpanists are. For example, they bend low, low, and tune.
A soloist begins this concerto with his hands—his hands alone, sans mallets. Then he uses a variety of mallets. David Herbert was very skillful.
As a good percussionist-composer, Kraft involves the percussion section at large, extensively. He also involves the brass section, for barbaric yawping. The Chicago Symphony has a famous brass section.
Two years ago, I reviewed a livestreamed concert of the CSO. The concert included some Gabrieli. This part of the concert, I wrote,
was introduced by Charles Vernon, a veteran bass trombonist. He began his orchestra career exactly fifty years ago. His speech still reflects his native North Carolina. “This is the Chicago Symphony brass section,” he said, “and we have a tradition to uphold, and Gabrieli is the perfect music for you to hear and for us to play.”
Another veteran member of the brass section is Gene Pokorny, on tuba. His bio includes this charming line: “When Gene Pokorny isn’t counting rests in the back row of Orchestra Hall, he can be found teaching at music festivals and performing solo recitals worldwide.”
Once the Kraft concerto was over, CSO players applauded heartily for their colleague, David Herbert. On Thursday night, Pokorny applauded with his hands over his head.
Maestro Muti is often amusing onstage. On that same night, before he and the soloist left the stage, he exchanged his baton for Herbert’s mallets.
The second half of the program was all-Respighi. First came the Ancient Airs and Dances, Suite No. 1. Then came the Pines of Rome. It begins with a splash of color—a splash of technicolor, you could say. The CSO was colorful indeed.
In the course of this tone poem, many principals shine. Stephen Williamson, the clarinet, played splendidly—with long breaths, beautiful tone, and musical understanding. I might mention something physical.
He tended to play with his shoulders bent forward. A man once told me that he had seen Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau sing an entire recital with his shoulders bent forward. I also think of golf instructors, who tell their pupils how to address the ball. “Think of a shortstop, in a ready position. Think of a basketball player, guarding his man. Think of a tennis player, ready to return a serve.”
Do these things relate to woodwind playing? I have no idea, but they occur to me.
The great payoff of the Pines of Rome is the fourth section, “The Pines of the Appian Way.” Muti built this naturally, or allowed it to build naturally. He seemed to be doing very little (but only seemed). His gestures were relatively slight. The climax was magnificent. Thrilling. On Thursday night, after Muti ended the piece, a man behind me cried, “Wo-ho-ho!” (Not to be confused with Brünnhilde.)
Both on Thursday night and Friday afternoon, the audience poured forth an ovation. Muti had the various principals stand. Everyone and his brother. On Friday afternoon, however, he had apparently forgotten the English horn—because, at the very end, when all were standing, Muti went into the orchestra to speak to this player, smilingly and apologetically.
I wished for an encore. But there are so few now, except when an orchestra is visiting some city. (Lorin Maazel, when he was at the New York Philharmonic, sometimes had the orchestra play an encore right at home.) Soloists perform encores at the drop of a hat—often when you would rather they didn’t. Should orchestras be more encore-minded? I vote yes.
For one thing, there are so many short pieces—wonderful short pieces—that never get played.