Last night, the Ébène Quartet played a concert at the Salzburg Festival. The concert took place in the Grosser Saal of the Mozarteum. This is the handsomest hall I know. It is also the hottest, at least in the summer.
Many years ago, I nicknamed this hall the “Grosser Sauna.” We had a lovely cool evening, last night in Salzburg. But the Grosser Saal was locked up tight as a drum, with no air circulating.
Well, people seem to like it that way (the locals, I mean—and it’s their festival).
The Ébène Quartet is an ensemble from France, established in 1999. What does its name mean? Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I cannot locate this information. But I can tell you that the Ébèners played very, very well.
Their program consisted of Mozart, Janáček, and Brahms. It was out of chronological order, but wisely so: the Brahms—his String Quartet No. 3 in B flat, Op. 67—was the piece to end with.
The evening started with Mozart’s String Quartet No. 14 in G, K. 387. This is the first of the “Haydn Quartets,” and it’s sometimes called the “Spring.” (Do not confuse this quartet with Beethoven’s F-major violin-and-piano sonata, universally known as the “Spring.”)
As soon as the Ébène started to play, happiness and beauty spread through the hall. Mozart is happy in this music; he wants you to be happy, too. The players played with freedom, vibrato, and heart. Their playing was not Romantic, mind you. It was perfectly Mozartean. But it did not commit the error of austerity.
After a while, listening to the Ébène, you could take technical matters for granted. You did not have to worry about cohesion, intonation, etc. You could listen to the music, solely.
Mozart’s third movement, Andante cantabile, is a wonderful song. The Ébène players fussed over it just a little, I thought. But no real harm was done.
His last movement, Molto allegro, is a joy. He hints at a fugue. He modulates his hiney off. And no one can elevate a folk song like he can—turning a ditty into high art.
In due course, he gives you a false ending. Then he gives you the real one, sly. What an entertainer, this genius.
So good was the Ébène’s playing of K. 387, you could have ended the concert right there. The meal had been full. I was almost afraid to eat, to hear, more.
The Janáček was the String Quartet No. 1, known as the “Kreutzer Sonata.” This does not refer to the violin-and-piano sonata by Beethoven (speaking of those). It refers to the novella by Tolstoy, which, in turn, refers to the Beethoven. Janáček’s string quartet is a piece of “program music,” i.e., a piece meant to tell a story, or to depict something. This is relatively rare in the chamber repertoire.
If you did not know the nickname of Janáček’s string quartet; if you did not know the plot of the Tolstoy novella; would you know what the music was “about”? Certainly not. You would simply be listening to music, which would be “about” whatever you wanted it to be about, or about nothing at all.
I often quote Ned Rorem, the American composer (who is turning one hundred next year). In an interview twenty years ago, he said to me, “A piece without a text, without a vocal line, can’t mean detailed things like Tuesday, butter, or yellow, and it can’t even mean general things like death or love or the weather, although a timpani roll can sound like thunder, and certain conventions about love come out of Wagner.”
In any event, Janáček’s quartet is a strange, intense, spooky, ingenious work. And the Ébène players did justice by it.
After intermission, the Brahms. As I have quoted one interviewee, I will quote another. About ten years ago, Marilyn Horne told me that she was appreciating Brahms, more than ever. “He makes you feel good,” she said—a perfect statement. There is a warmth, a consolation, about Brahms. He is your friend.
That is certainly the case with the String Quartet No. 3 in B flat, Op. 67. The Ébène players conveyed pure geniality. No one was enjoying the music more than they. The third movement is like a little viola concerto. Man cannot live on the Walton alone. Marie Chilemme took excellent advantage of her opportunity. And the final movement was like a leisurely summer picnic.
I figured there would be an encore. The audience was clearly calling for one—calling the players back out again and again. They were still applauding when the house lights were turned on. But the Ébèners eschewed an encore. I thought that was smart and mature. They resisted the temptation. The evening had been plenty full. And they left the audience wanting more.