Two Fridays ago, on November 25, the New York Philharmonic played a concert of pure pleasure, and pure excellence. It was a French concert, conducted by a Frenchman: Stéphane Denève, who is the music director of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra.
The concert began with a new work, or new enough: Céléphaïs, from Les Cités de Lovecraft, composed in 2017. Composed by whom? Guillaume Connesson, born in Boulougne-Billancourt in 1970. Maestro Denève has recorded Les Cités de Lovecraft with the Brussels Philharmonic.
Céléphaïs begins with a snap, or crack, same as Ravel’s G-major piano concerto. The work is peppy, incisive, playful, “urban.” Cinematic. It is free-sounding yet structured, if I may. Eventually, Céléphaïs takes a breather, exchanging peppiness for a wooziness, that classic French haze. The piece is shot through with colors. Connesson seems a man who loves the orchestra and its possibilities. Who loves music, too.
Isn’t that normal, and unremarkable, for a composer? You would think . . .
Let me say, too, that Céléphaïs is likely to hold the interest of the listener all through its nine minutes. Isn’t that faint praise? Not at all. From where I sit, holding the interest of the listener is a major achievement.
As the audience was applauding, Maestro Denève showed the score, patting it, as if to say, “Let’s acknowledge the composer, too.”
The concert continued with the aforementioned Ravel concerto, which begins with that snap, or crack of the whip. The piano soloist was Víkingur Ólafsson, from Iceland. Allow me to begin with the physical, possibly the trivial . . .
From my seat, Ólafsson seemed to be a tall, thin chap, with big hands—reminding me of two late Americans: Earl Wild and Van Cliburn. Pianists come in all shapes and sizes. But tall, thin, and big-handed is not a bad way to go, at the keyboard.
Furthermore, Ólafsson wore a sharp blue suit, a nice break from the traditional black. And with that sartorial note, on to the music.
Víkingur Ólafsson has command of his thinking and command of his hands. (Sometimes they go together, sometimes they don’t.) He has command of his feet, too.
In the first movement of the Ravel, Ólafsson pedaled relatively lightly. This gave the music a crunchier, or drier, feeling than it often has. Crunchy and dry is part of the Ravel style. Ólafsson was not always perfect in his articulation. He was at times a bit tight. But, overall, he played a beautiful, and interesting, and smart, first movement.
When it was over, the audience applauded, as audiences are wont to do. The soloist did not ignore the audience, or glare at them. An old-school gentleman, he bowed, though not leaving his seat. (Speaking of Wild: I once saw him get up and bow when the audience applauded between movements. Pianists used to do this. Today, Yefim Bronfman is a throwback, sometimes doing it too.)
The second movement of the Ravel G-major concerto—Adagio assai—is one of the glories of the piano-concerto literature. Beautifully balanced, and sublime. Ólafsson played it with admirable straightforwardness, not gilding the lily. This lily needs to be utterly natural. Ólafsson sang with purity, a purity enhanced, I would say, by the new acoustics of David Geffen Hall. I am wont to complain that pianists trill too fast at the end of this movement. Ólafsson did not, although I could stand that long, magical trill even slower.
In the final movement—Presto, toccata-like—Ólafsson romped skillfully and stylishly, along with the orchestra.
On the second half of the program, Maestro Denève conducted two ballet suites: from Roussel’s Bacchus et Ariane and Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé. In the 1950s, the Detroit Symphony Orchestra was called a “French orchestra,” because it was led by Paul Paray, who conducted the orchestra in many French works, Frenchly. In that same decade, the Boston Symphony Orchestra was also called a “French orchestra,” for it was led by Charles Munch. On this particular night, the New York Philharmonic was most definitely a French orchestra.
Under Denève’s baton, the Philharmonic played the ballet suites with savoir-faire, panache, nuance . . . all of those qualités françaises, et musicales. The orchestra seemed to love playing for Stéphane Denève, and he seemed to be enjoying the experience, too. The hall was full of good feelings, as well as good music, and music-making.
They are lucky in St. Louis, having this fellow night after night.
I will give you a footnote: At the beginning of Daphnis, if I remember correctly, Denève was giving the downbeat. He was about halfway through the downbeat, let’s say. Then someone in the audience coughed—and the conductor called off the downbeat. He was able to stop himself, as Tiger Woods sometimes did in the middle of his backswing, when someone coughed or otherwise made noise.
In many years of concertgoing, I had never seen that . . .