Salzburg was the scene of a lovely festival in the middle of April. But Salzburg is a summer festival, you say—held in August. Yes, that is the Salzburg festival, probably the most honored summer festival in the world. But they also host an Easter Festival, over about two weeks. There are four main events: two orchestral concerts, a choral concert, and an opera. This series is repeated—once—allowing for a most satisfying stretch of music-making a few months before the heat of August.
The Easter Festival has been held since 1967, whereas the summer festival has been going since 1920. As in August, the April festival is a same-time-next-year thing, for many. On the first night, I met a couple from Frankfurt who had been coming to the Easter Festival for thirty straight years, and sitting in the same seats (no less). The resident orchestra of the Easter Festival is the Berlin Philharmonic, whereas the dominant orchestra in the summer is the Vienna Philharmonic.
Before I left for Salzburg, I mentioned to someone that I was attending this Easter music festival. He said—quite logically—“Oh, are they doing Parsifal?” I said, “No—they’re not doing Easter music, really. Nor are they doing religious music, more generally. It’s just a festival held at the time of Easter.” On reflection, though, I realized this was a stupid answer, because here were the major works for 2003: the Symphony No. 8 of Bruckner; The Seasons; Fidelio; and the Symphony No. 5 of Mahler. Each of these masterpieces has more than its share of spirituality. You could even go so far as to say that much of this music is religious. The Bruckner Eighth alone, for example, is worth maybe twenty ordinary masses.
Since last fall, Sir Simon Rattle has been music director of the Berlin Philharmonic, and he was duly on hand. (It was Rattle, recall, who built the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra into a world-renowned power.) On the first night, however, he ceded the baton to Bernard Haitink, the redoubtable Dutchman. In my experience, Haitink has been an uneven conductor—an inconsistent one. I have heard performances (a Brahms Second, for instance) that have made me say, “How, exactly, did he acquire this large reputation?” And I have heard other performances that have made me reply, “Ah: I see.”
His traversal of the Bruckner Eighth —magisterial, unforgettable—certainly belonged to the latter category. Haitink let this symphony unfold to reveal its many glories. Technically, musically, and spiritually, it was well-nigh faultless. This faultlessness began with the very opening, which is easy to botch: but the Berliners would have none of it. This perfect entrance set the standard for the ensuing ninety minutes. Furthermore, nothing prepares the listener—at least the listener unable to hear the Berlin Philharmonic regularly—for that sound. It is a sound so warm, it’s almost shocking. Even when the music was at its loudest, there was no diminution in aural beauty. Sound is not everything, as I always say, but it is not nothing.
Of course, many of the individual players in this orchestra stood out. I must cite Stefan Dohr, one of the principal hornists. I have carried on about him before: He is the hornist of the Ensemble Wien-Berlin, which played in Alice Tully Hall not long ago. (The Ensemble Wien-Berlin is a wind group made up of first deskmen from both the Berlin Philharmonic and the Vienna Philharmonic.) His technical ability is astonishing, and the colors he can produce on his instrument no less so. Even in the Bruckner Eighth, where every participant is needed and an army must win the fight, Stefan Dohr can’t go unnoticed.
Haitink showed the ability to maintain musical tension amid all the beauty that was surrounding him. He rose to each climax—in the first movement and beyond—while retaining the unity of the work overall. It must be said, however, that the Berliners give you the impression that they could conduct themselves. There is great confidence in their playing: no fear, no hesitancy. This makes an enormous difference in a performance. The ending of the first movement—which is subtle—was remarkable for its precision and knowingness.
The second movement—the Scherzo—began with another perfect entrance, courtesy of the hornist Dohr. And the strings demonstrated a particular grace. There was no ponderousness to be found anywhere in the orchestra. Haitink achieved excellent balances, and he took full advantage of Bruckner’s pauses. Once more, we had that extraordinary sound: It has been likened to a Rolls Royce, to a cathedral organ—but it has to be heard. And yet, in this Scherzo, I thought that there was almost too much beauty. In wilder sections, I might have asked for something grainier, coarser, grittier. Listening to this orchestra as Bruckner buffets you was like being assailed by gobs of velvet.
The third movement—Adagio—is one of the signal glories of Bruckner, and of all of symphonic music. It partakes of the character of a hymn, and Haitink and the Berliners brought this out unmistakably. The musicians played so beautifully, Haitink could not repress a smile (and the Dutch maestro is not known for an excess of smiles). As he let the Adagio go on its way, I could see that Haitink was a nice combination of formality and naturalness. He is a disciplinarian who breathes. There is hardly anything more desirable in a conductor.
The Finale, which is marked “nicht schnell,” was, nevertheless, rather fast: but compellingly so. Haitink gave it a Brucknerian pulse, and its drive was relentless, inexorable. And yet, this movement—like the performance as a whole—was not iron-fisted. It was sure to have beauty and breath. What’s more, this was the kind of performance that renews one’s appreciation for the work itself. When Haitink was through, it was clear that he knew that he and the orchestra had done something special. Walking off the stage, he pumped his arms, like a boxer or some other triumphant athlete. This was not a typically Haitinkian moment, but it was well earned.
Rarely does one have so powerful and gratifying an experience in a concert hall. There is an essay to be written—I’m sure several have—on the importance of ambience in a musical performance. On the importance of externalities: the setting (in this case, Salzburg, in that storied hall, at Easter); the audience (rapt, expectant, appreciative); one’s own frame of mind (or is that an “internality”?). But a good performance of the Bruckner Eighth should take hold anywhere, under any circumstances: even in a vacant lot in Watts.
The music director, Sir Simon Rattle, took over for The Seasons, one of Haydn’s great oratorios. Rattle remains a boyish, exuberant conductor, though his vast halo of curly hair has turned white. He is a conductor whom most find interesting to watch, for he is always in motion, and those motions can be exaggerated. Rattle is full of energy—wired—rather like Lorin Maazel, New York’s own Energizer bunny, although the two men’s gestures are quite different. In almost everything he does, Rattle is dramatic, physically. Even when he asks soloists and orchestra members to rise, he does so with theatrical flair.
His Haydn was far from dainty or polite Haydn: It was big and robust. This performance was even Romantic in its emotions, although it did not seem wrong. Rattle’s dynamics were rather daring, in their extremes. The Seasons—like the four seasons themselves, I suppose—was marked by huge swings. The conductor endued the piece with blood and guts, and he had manifest fun while doing so. It was written on his face, and in his motions.
The orchestra’s playing was both clean and lush, which is a neat trick. And the singing of the Arnold Schoenberg Choir was superb. It was warm and inviting; and then it was lusty, gay, terrifying, and everything else Haydn demands. The chorus, as it stood, was not bunched up, but spaced out in two very long lines, which perhaps contributed to attractive balances.
The oratorio used three soloists, of whom two are world-famous: the tenor Ian Bostridge and the bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff. The third singer is less well known, but she was outstanding, the revelation of the night, from my point of view. She was Christiane Oelze, a soprano born in Cologne. Her singing was pure, calm, and unaffected. She evinced an excellent sense of line. She has a small, lively voice, yet she can create an impression of bigness. I can’t think of a voice quite like it, for comparative purposes. The voice, pretty as it is, has some bite, along with some power. And Oelze displayed exemplary technique—I hold in my head several specific examples. So too, she portrayed her character (Hanne, the farmer’s daughter) with winsome insight.
Ian Bostridge showed off his smooth, fetching tenor. And am I the last one to notice, or has he recently developed a robust lower register? As usual, he sang expressively, lending the words maximum meaning. He communicates intimately with an audience, and at times painfully.
Thomas Quasthoff started a little rough, but he soon settled down to give one of his typical performances: wise, virile, beautiful, burnished. At a late point in the oratorio, he put on simply a clinic of technique, executing difficult intervals with ease. And one couldn’t help noticing that he enjoyed “conducting” the oratorio with his head and face, all through. A brainy, learned, and exacting musician, he would have made a fine conductor.
There was a tremendous amount of musicality on that stage, with that conductor, those orchestral musicians, that chorus, and those three soloists. The solo voices were especially pleasing together, matching well. And anyone inclined to doubt the profound greatness of Haydn should listen to The Seasons—and thereafter, The Creation!
An extremely curious thing occurred during this performance. In the first half, there were a few scattered coughs—minor stuff. And Ian Bostridge and Thomas Quasthoff would openly glare in the direction of the coughs. Before the second half began, a festival official appeared to ask the audience to keep its coughing down. He did so in a gentle, humorous way. But in the second half, the coughing—of which all were now inescapably aware—seemed to increase, although it was still quite minor. These musicians should come to New York! Our halls frequently sound like tuberculosis wards. Festival Hall in Salzburg was a tomb by comparison.
And when Bostridge was displeased with certain sounds from the orchestra—the horns, in particular—he made a bad face, giving the soprano a look and shaking his head. He should not suppose that such actions are invisible. It was—as Bostridge’s fellow Englishmen might say—bad form.
Beginning the next evening’s concert was a Beethoven piano concerto, that in C major. At the keyboard was one of Sir Simon’s favorite pianists: young Lars Vogt. New Yorkers had had an opportunity to hear him a few weeks prior, in duo recital with Sarah Chang, the (also young) violinist. Chang was excellent; Vogt was less so.
The orchestra played the opening of the concerto with rare delicacy—but, unfortunately, that opening was also botched, the orchestra being out of sync. When the pianist came in, he missed his opening, too (as some of the notes failed to sound). He may well have been nervous. His playing thereafter was extremely tight, much of it clumsy, clunky, and awkward. Notes were wrongly accented, and many were (wrongly) clipped. There is nothing wrong with aggressive Beethoven, done with a certain authority, but a proper sense of line was missing. I had the impression that this young man had listened to a lot of Alfred Brendel recordings (which most people would regard as a very good thing). It should be noted, however, that Vogt played his cadenza with imagination and esprit.
He also gave a beautiful statement of the theme of the Largo. But then he spoils his playing with these sudden, brusque, out-of-place accents. It’s like a pool of water interrupted by unwanted waves—or like a person talking in an even voice and then shouting out certain words, for no purpose. Also, Rattle made this movement excessively free, causing it to drift uncertainly.
The closing rondo was spirited, but it was also rather mechanical and jabbed at. It ought to have lightness, humor, impishness: These were not in great evidence. Vogt often played with a mailed fist, allowing for little grace or lilt. Furthermore, many of the notes that Beethoven intends for you to savor, were not. But the musical powers-that-be are very high on this young man, and so was the Salzburg audience, which whooped and stomped its feet.
The balance of the concert was given over to the Fifth Symphony of Mahler. This is a symphony that Rattle and the Berliners recorded right away, shortly after the new conductor took up his post. The Fifth is obviously a work close to Rattle’s heart, and he conducts it as though he will never have another chance (which is not a bad way to work). He pours everything he has into the conducting of a piece like this. In his physical involvement, he is almost simian. I come from a more economical school of conducting, but I am also on record—many times—as saying that a conductor should do what he must to get the results he desires.
In the first movement of the Mahler, Rattle led his forces with keen awareness. I, for one, heard things in the score that had escaped my notice. Rattle was making more than a great, jumbled Mahlerian noise. All night long, he was completely engaged, and the players seemed locked in on him. But shouldn’t this be normal, unremarkable? It should be normal—but it is not unremarkable, sadly, as any regular concertgoer knows. The second movement, like the first, was conducted at full throttle, all passion, with no let-up. Rattle was intent on wringing every drop out of this music. He was almost mannered in his musical exaggerations, but not quite.
For the third movement—the Scherzo—Rattle did something out of the ordinary. He had Stefan Dohr come to the front of the stage, in front of the orchestra, to stand and play as though in a concerto. The principal horn part is even more prominent in this movement than elsewhere in the symphony. Dohr proved—redundantly—that he is about the best in his field. Nevertheless, I question the decision to place him out front. It was something of a gimmick. There is a lot more than a solo horn going on in that movement, and there is much for that horn to do in other movements.
The ensuing Adagietto was ethereal, to be sure. (How can it not be?) But it was also overripe, swoony. Rattle milked the piece—and it, of all pieces, does not have to be milked. Mahler wrote the “milking” in; all a conductor has to do is let it unfold, and get out of its way. Rattle was gobbing paint on a lily.
The Finale began with—yawn—another perfect Dohr entrance. But as the movement proceeded, we seemed to be going—for the first time—phrase by phrase, losing sight of the work as a whole. Rattle’s inexhaustibility became exhausting. His sudden pullings back of sound grew a bit wearisome. And when everything is a climax, there is no climax, when the actual climax comes. We are spent; we have nothing left to give. This is a problem with a full-throttle, fifth-gear, almost emotionally desperate performance.
And yet, there had been much, much good in Sir Simon’s account. I can think of many worse ways to spend the night of Easter—even if the Mahler symphony chosen was the Fifth, and not the Second, known to us as “the Resurrection.”
The grand finale of this festival was the opera: Fidelio. This is Beethoven’s hymn of freedom and light—or one of them, rather—and, incidentally, the greatest paean to marital love in art. Salzburg had a new production by Nikolaus Lehnhoff: It was modernistic, mainly silver in color, and effective. There were some ridiculous and semi-ridiculous things, of course—as is de rigueur in opera houses today—and the sets creaked, causing giggles. But there was a lot to admire about the production, which was unconventional without being absurd.
There was a lot to admire about the performance, too—but not the overture. Under Rattle’s baton, it was flabby, undisciplined (and not very Germanic at all, no matter that the orchestra in the pit was the Berlin Philharmonic). The Act I quartet, however, was warm and heavenly, as we have a right to expect. Rattle’s affection for Fidelio was unmistakable. I would not have had him rush through Beethoven’s final, exultant chorus; I would have had him glory in it, thoroughly. But this is a conductor whose enthusiasm is hard to gainsay.
In the title role was Angela Denoke, who has a big, gorgeous instrument. Unfortunately, it was not well deployed on this occasion, as she was repeatedly flat on almost anything above mid-range. Some notes, she barely attempted at all, only hinting at them. But she was game, and one rooted for her. Her tenor was not Ben Heppner—who has been the Florestan of choice on the world’s stages for the past many years, it seems—but Jon Villars, a fresh voice. That voice is heroic, too, recalling another Jon, Vickers. His heroic voice gave out alarmingly at the end of his big aria, but he came back admirably.
The other roles were well filled. Juliane Banse was utterly sincere as Marzelline, and Rainer Trost, singing Jaquino, proved a sparkplug of a tenor. He is a young man, and it will be good to hear him in other, bigger parts. Lászlo Polgár was a solid and sympathetic Rocco. His portrayal was memorable, as he cowered, for example, before the evil Don Pizarro. That was Alan Held, excellent as usual, all jackboots and animal hate. And Thomas Quasthoff stood tall as Don Fernando, administering justice in the end.
If I may append a somewhat unusual note. About a week before I saw this performance, I received a letter from a reader who had been following the news out of Iraq. He had noted the discovery of an underground prison, whose inmates were freed by Allied forces. They had not seen the light in a long time. They shielded their eyes as they stumbled out, in their rags. Their families were gathered to identify and embrace them, with great relief and tears. The letter-writer was reminded, of course, of Fidelio, with its prisoners emerging into the light. “O welche Lust,” he quoted. “O welche Lust! In freier Luft …” Yes, what joy to breathe free air.
Anywhere, always.