Once in a blue moon, there’s a long, long line outside Carnegie Hall, and the concert starts very late. Patrons are having to pass through airport-like security (though less tight). What’s going on? Why, the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra is in town, of course. Special threats require special measures. Before he began the latest benefit concert, Zubin Mehta said, “I’m sorry we’re starting so late, but the reasons are self- explanatory.”
They are, indeed. Mehta is conductor for life of the IPO. I’m not trying to be funny or anything; that is his actual title: “music director for life.” The relationship between Mehta and the IPO is a longstanding and touching one. When I was young, I assumed that Mehta was Israeli—at least Jewish—because of the closeness of this relationship. I have since discovered that others have thought the same. (Mehta is a Bombay-born Parsi.) He is celebrating his seventieth birthday this year, and so is the IPO. They were both born in 1936.
The Israel Philharmonic Orchestra was originally, of course, the Palestine Symphony, founded by Bronislaw Huberman—the Polish violinist—and given a big boost by Toscanini. They may not be a top-tier orchestra, but they’re a very good one. (Come to think of it, why shouldn’t they be a top-tier orchestra?) A note in Carnegie Hall’s program said the orchestra has been a “true emissary of harmony and peace.” I don’t know whether that’s true—whether the existence of the IPO softens feelings about the country from which it comes—but it’s a nice thought.
The benefit concert had a soloist, and a starry one: Lang Lang, the young Chinese pianistic phenom. He led off the concert. But not really: First, there were, as always, the national anthems: the U.S. national anthem and the Israeli. Mehta conducted “The Star-Spangled Banner” briskly, and with incredible vigor. It was stirring to hear. And talk about stirring: The Israeli anthem, “Hatikvah,” always is, in that mournful and yet somehow hopeful D minor. (“Hatikvah” means “The Hope.”)
And talking of D minor: Lang Lang’s concerto was the Rachmaninoff Third, and when he settled down to play it, we heard something strange: The orchestra, instead of beginning the concerto, began “Happy Birthday,” seemingly to Mehta’s surprise. Lang Lang joined in, adding a glissando to the end of the song—very Lang Lang-esque.
That may have been the most acceptable thing he did all night long. His unison playing at the beginning of the concerto featured bad accents and unwise rubato. Then, when he left that opening, he changed tempos, rushing, rushing. Mehta had no choice but to follow, though that proved pretty much impossible: Lang Lang was so erratic, so unmusical, so irresponsible, there was nothing the conductor could do. This was a race between the soloist and the orchestra—and Rachmaninoff lost.
Neither was Lang Lang some technical paragon: He mushed up his passagework, he clipped notes, he missed notes. He produced almost no beauty of sound. And his interpretive flights! They were positively screwball. The cadenza was warped beyond recognition, as Lang Lang stomped a foot on the floor, gyrated, and committed other vulgar acts. Liberace would have blushed.
You may well ask this: If this performance was a mess, was there at least something exciting about it, something elemental? Horowitz, even when you were appalled at what he was doing, could wow you, impress you, despite yourself. I’m afraid that was not the case here. Well, all right, was this at least an interesting failure? Interesting failures are … interesting. I think in particular of an Otello conducted by Valery Gergiev at the Metropolitan Opera a few seasons back. That was a disaster, but, boy, I’m glad I went: The old wizard, Gergiev, was interesting.
But Lang Lang gave you nothing. His playing was inexcusable, barely comprehensible. This wasn’t some kid, a little immature, perhaps, but reveling in his talent and technique, having a ball. This was simply terrible playing. I left after the first movement, not needing to see what Lang Lang would do to Rachmaninoff in the second two movements.
After intermission, Mehta and the IPO performed two hits—Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks and La Valse—and I suspect they were fine. And I will say one last word about Lang Lang: I have heard him play well before (for example in Haydn and Mozart, if you can believe it). And I look forward to hearing him play well again.
Like everyone else, a conductor sometimes gets out of the wrong side of the bed, and I’m fairly sure this was the case on this particular morning. I’m talking about a New York Philharmonic Friday-at-11-a.m. concert. And the conductor was the orchestra’s music director, Lorin Maazel. He began with one of Brahms’s best loved and most enduring pieces, the Variations on a Theme by Haydn. These variations are full of charm, pleasures, ingenuity. But from this baton, they were a dud: indifferent, blunt, dutiful. To add insult to injury, the orchestra was sloppy, as they read through the piece. Maazel was clearly out of sorts—gruff and grudging. That was mysterious, from this most musical fellow.
Particularly considering what had happened on the previous Saturday night. On that occasion, Maazel conducted a program of the last three Mozart symphonies: No. 39 in E flat, No. 40 in G minor, and No. 41 in C, “the Jupiter.” I will report that I wasn’t looking forward to attending this concert, part of the Mozart-at-250 blowout. But these performances were superb: Maazel and the Philharmonic were absolutely alive, and not only could I take those three masterpieces, I could have taken ten more Mozart symphonies, on into the night.
All conductors, like all people, are human beings—but Lorin Maazel seems more human than most. Part of the excitement of going to one of his concerts is that you never know quite what you’re going to get.
Following the Brahms, Maazel presided over some more variations, these the Variations for Orchestra by Elliott Carter, written in the mid-1950s, and revised in the early 1990s. The New York Philharmonic is highlighting Carter this year, as all presenting organizations seem to do. I believe there was a night in 2002—November, maybe—when there was no Carter played in New York. But an abundance of Ligeti made up for it.
I should not be so snippy, however, for this set of variations is one of Carter’s best works, undeniably a formidable example of craft. The variations are complicated yet comprehensible. And from Maazel, they were correct and clear, with all layers apparent (and there are many layers). The orchestra traversed the piece virtuosically.
And from there the concert moved to the Bruch Violin Concerto. Max Bruch wrote three violin concertos—plus the Scottish Fantasy (for violin and orchestra)—but we all know what we mean when we say “the Bruch Violin Concerto”: No. 1 in G minor, the only piece of Bruch’s really to remain in the public consciousness.
It is a good piece, too—an excellent piece—although it has its enemies: sneerers who criticize it as sentimental, blowsy, and schlocky. Well, it is if you play it that way—and, very sadly, the Philharmonic’s soloist, Gil Shaham, played it that way. I was particularly annoyed, because I felt Shaham let the side down: the side of those who admire and defend the Bruch Violin Concerto. His playing gave fodder to those who disparage it.
Shaham is a very fine violinist, and he can’t help doing some things well. In the Bruch, he produced his rich, beautiful tone. But his intonation was poor, and he was as soupy as I’ve ever heard him (which is saying something). In the past, I have referred to him as “the Portamento Kid,” or “the Slide King”—and he earned those designations, on this morning. The tempo of the first movement was much too slow, and Shaham robbed Bruch’s music of any shape. The middle movement was scarcely better. Why Lorin Maazel cooperated in all this, I don’t know. (He was awake by this point, incidentally.)
As I said, Shaham is a fine violinist—and a fine musician—but one does tire, just a bit, of his act: his dance moves onstage; his smiling beatifically at the conductor during tuttis; the over-relaxedness.
But back to the Bruch concerto: The Finale came as a relief, because at last we had some definition—some muscle, a pulse, some non-soup! And I’ll tell you something funny: There’s one place in the last movement where you can schmaltz it up, just a little. In fact, it’s desirable. If we had a score, I could point at it for you. Anyway, Shaham didn’t do it—he passed up the chance, which was half vexing and half hilarious.
Good as the Carter had been, I thought Maazel owed us something, to take away from this concert. And he supplied it with the final work on the program, Kodály’s Galánta Dances. These marvelous pieces were flavorful and right—thank heaven.
An appearance by Ewa Podleś is always an event, and so it was in Avery Fisher Hall, one Sunday afternoon. (Avery Fisher is mainly the home of the New York Philharmonic—but they have to take some time off.) The great Podleś appeared with the Moscow Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Constantine Orbelian. A little unclear on who this great one is? She’s the number-one contralto in the world, but that’s not saying enough: There are too few of those. Podleś a Pole in her mid-fifties—is one of the outstanding singers of our time.
Countless words have been written about her voice, and her technique, and the magnetism she exudes. The voice is otherworldly, to reach for one of the worst clichés. It does, in fact, seem something beyond human: deep, colossal, enveloping. I said “deep,” and it’s true she can sing as low as a Russian bass. (I’m exaggerating a little.) But she can also sing as high as a French soubrette. And the voice has any number of colors in it. Technically, she can negotiate anything, including the hardest Rossini fare. This is a big voice that moves. And, as Marilyn Horne proved, nothing is more thrilling.
When she walked onstage at Avery Fisher, the crowd went wild, knowing she would sing well. She stood—she carried herself—as though she knew she would sing well, too. And, of course, she did. She first performed Rossini’s Joan of Arc Cantata, a tour de force, an exacting test of a singer’s ability. Horne used to sing the blazes out of it; Podleś was blazing as well, and full of musical authority. The voice seemed a little huskier—fuzzier—than in the past. And, as a fellow critic of mine pointed out, she had some trouble with the middle of her voice. The bottom and the top were basically no problem; but in the middle, she sounded somewhat worn, as happens to singers.
Later in the concert, she sang a work that she always, always sings—indeed, you might think she can’t leave home without it. That’s Mussorgsky’s Songs and Dances of Death, and Podleś no question sings them consummately. There are three great—consummate—singers of the Songs and Dances in the world today: the mezzo-soprano Olga Borodina; the baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky; and Podleś. Each sings the cycle a lot—and each never fails in it. I’m a bit tired of their use of it, but most people aren’t like critics, in the concert hall night after night.
Obviously, given the kind of concert this was, we heard Shostakovich’s orchestral arrangement of the Songs and Dances. In my view, the cycle loses something in this version, great as Shostakovich is: You sacrifice some of the intimacy and spareness you have, when the voice is alone with the piano. In the orchestral arrangement, the work seems a little too big, too theatrical, too operatic. But, of course, Podleś gave it to us with spooky power. As she sang the final song, “The Field Marshal,” I thought—not for the first time—“If ever there was a field marshal among singers, it’s Podleś The woman can be wildly imperious.
Her public—quite rightly—went mad, and she favored them with two encores. The first was one of the most sublime low-voice pieces in the Russian repertoire: the “Field of the Dead” from Prokofiev’s Alexander Nevsky. And the second was something you hear less often: Voina’s aria from Tchaikovsky’s Moscow Cantata. Despite some blemishes, she sang each transportingly. When Ewa Podleś leaves the scene, something truly unusual will vanish.
Coming to Carnegie Hall for a three-concert stand was the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. The VPO, as you know, has no permanent conductor, or chief conductor; instead it has a string of guests—and one of the most frequent of those guests has been Riccardo Muti. Signor Muti led them a lot in Salzburg last summer, and he led them again in that town on January 27 of this year. What was the significance of that date? Why, that was W. A. Mozart’s 250th.
The major work on the VPO’s first program at Carnegie was Schubert’s “Great” C-major Symphony. This “Great” wasn’t so great, or even good. It wasn’t bad, mind you—but it didn’t pack anything like the power this music can contain, and does contain. When the work is performed well, it is like a freight train, runaway, inexorable, overwhelming. Under Muti, it was a study in okayness.
And would you believe that the Strauss waltz they played as an encore was also a study in okayness? The Strauss in question was Josef, one of the brothers, and the waltz was Sphärenklänge. I hesitate to report that the VPO’s playing was merely mediocre: These people are supposed to own Strauss waltzes, no matter who the Strauss is (even Richard, no relation to the waltz-mad family). But the orchestra was short on charm, grace, loveliness.
The second concert in Carnegie Hall began with a work that Muti likes to conduct: the Overture to Rosamunde (Schubert again). Conductors have favorite pieces, and their favoritism seems to become more pronounced as they get older. Kurt Masur simply can’t stop conducting Mahler’s First or Dvořák’s Eighth. (He conducts them very well.) He has scheduled them again for two weeks from when I write, in New York.
Muti’s Rosamunde Overture on this occasion was decent, only decent. The VPO should have articulated much more crisply in fast portions. And then it was time for Mozart, his Sinfonia concertante in E flat, which calls for a solo violin and a solo viola. These were drawn from the orchestra itself: They were Rainer Honeck (violin) and Tobias Lea (viola). The two did some admirable playing, as did the orchestra. They’re not altogether slouches. But they often came off as slouches: sloppy, clumsy, not together. The third movement—that piece of perfection—was a particular disappointment. Technically, musically, and spiritually, Mozart was barely there.
And I thought, as I sat there in my seat, This is the Vienna Philharmonic in Carnegie Hall?
After intermission, more Schubert—the Symphony No. 4 in C minor, nicknamed “the Tragic.” We infrequently hear this symphony—or any of the early Schubert symphonies—and this was a nice opportunity. Besides which, the VPO likes to think of itself as an owner (the owner?) of Schubert, as of the Strausses. I’ll run it down quickly for you: The first movement was sleepy and limp. This was Muti at his most pedestrian, depressing. But the second movement—Andante—was sweet, beautiful, and dear. Here was some genuine Schubertian feeling. The minuet that follows the Andante was adequate, and the finale actually delivered some energy, real brio.
Concluding the printed program was Richard Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration, but I left while the getting was good. I was loath to see Maestro Muti transform this awesome poem into something poor.
Absolutely triumphant in the Metropolitan Opera House was Valery Gergiev, conducting Tchaikovsky’s Mazeppa. Never before had the Met staged this work (written in 1883, the year of the company’s birth). When it comes to Tchaikovsky operas, we normally see Eugene Onegin and Pique Dame, and nothing else. It was good to have horizons broadened. Mazeppa is based on a narrative poem by Pushkin, Poltava, and it concerns a seventeenth-century Ukrainian separatist, Ivan Stepanovich Mazeppa. He runs off with Maria, the young daughter of his friend Kochubey, and a horrific tragedy ensues.
Early on in this chronicle, I mentioned Gergiev and his fascinating disaster of an Otello. His Mazeppa was fascinating, but not disastrous: Through its entire three hours, it was involving, astute, often gripping. Gergiev infused even relatively banal passages with meaning and care. And he paced the work superbly; for me, it flew by. The Metropolitan Opera Orchestra never sounded more Russian, and it has rarely sounded better.
Like Lorin Maazel, Gergiev is up and down, hit or miss. A performance of the complete Nutcracker, with his Kirov Orchestra, was maybe the worst professional performance I have ever heard in music. (Lang Lang’s up there.) But, oh, the hits! You may remember a Met Salome, reported on in these pages. And now we have this Mazeppa.
The cast was pretty much all Russian, led by the veteran baritone Nikolai Putilin in the title role. He was the Iago in that infamous Otello. As Mazeppa, he was rough, vocally, but never less than convincing. He has an array of stage wiles, and he called on them. The same point can be made about Paata Burchuladze, the famed Georgian bass who portrayed Kochubey. The authority with which he sang and acted was unquestionable. It was a joy—if you can use that word, in talking of an opera so black—to witness these two lions of the Russian stage in action.
The soprano in the role of Maria was Olga Guryakova, who was perfect. (Dumb word to use in criticism, but there you have it.) She sings with an easy and lyric power, and generally broke hearts. Her lullaby at the end—Maria is in a demented state, cradling a dying old friend, Andrei—was barely tolerable, so touching was it. And I might add that Guryakova is a considerable beauty: She is the entire package, this lady.
A fourth important part is that of Lyubov, Kochubey’s wife, Maria’s mother. It was taken by Larissa Diadkova, the stupendous Russian mezzo. She is one of our most valuable Verdians, and she was all you could have wanted in this Tchaikovsky opera. As she sang her scalding or wailing lines, I thought of her Azucena (Il Trovatore). Andrei was Oleg Balashov, a tenor who sang ardently.
The production—courtesy of Yuri Alexandrov—did not prove to everyone’s taste. But it suited mine. It is big, even gigantic, full of pageantry and Major Statements. But it matched the opera, in my opinion, and abetted it. I won’t soon forget the sight of Kochubey’s lopped-off head rolling down to Maria, who runs around with it crazed. I sort of wish I could.