The Cleveland Orchestra came to Carnegie Hall for two concerts, one quite different from the other. The orchestra did not have its music director, Franz Welser-Möst, but a guest conductor long associated with it: Pierre Boulez. The French maestro and composer first led the Cleveland Orchestra in 1965. He is also an honorary trustee of Carnegie Hall, and, on the day of the first concert, he spoke during the hall’s annual press luncheon. That luncheon had the aspect of a memorial service, as Carnegie’s much admired executive and artistic director, Robert Harth, had just died.

At that first concert, Boulez conducted three French works plus The Miraculous Mandarin of Bartók. He opened with a piece by Marc-André Dalbavie, born in 1961. This was Concertate il suono, a work that experiments with “spatial relations.” Clusters of musicians are spread around the hall as the body of the orchestra sits onstage. The fabled acoustics of Carnegie Hall were particularly remarkable during this piece.

The concert continued with Messiaen’s Oiseaux exotiques, in which Boulez and the Clevelanders were joined by the evening’s guest soloist, the pianist Michiko Uchida. (Boulez, incidentally, studied under Messiaen, and has always happily championed him.) After intermission, Uchida returned to play Ravel’s G-major concerto, and she played it with surprising insensitivity: It was rushed, slurred, heavy, often pounded, out of balance. And that storied orchestra behind her was none too effective either. The orchestra righted itself in The Miraculous Mandarin, however, showing the full effect of its virtuosity.

The next night’s concert was a most unusual one: It began with the Adagio from Mahler’s Symphony No. 10 and continued with Act II of Wagner’s great, long, immortal opera Parsifal.

You have, surely, heard better accounts of that Mahler Adagio. The orchestra was sloppy, technically, which is not how the Cleveland Orchestra behaves. Entrances were clumsy, particularly in the brass. Horn playing was terribly pinched. This pinched quality, however, was in contrast with some beautifully warm strings. Boulez conducted this piece carefully, by which I mean no compliment: The notes were “placed,” and the Adagio did not develop naturally, inevitably. It neither gripped nor transported. That is not Mahler. And yet, Boulez is one of the most understanding and successful Mahler conductors in the world. He just nodded, slightly.

Boulez is also renowned as a Wagnerian. Now, it happens that the Philadelphia Orchestra (under Christoph Eschenbach) is scheduled to perform Act III from Parsifal at Carnegie Hall next season. A wag remarked, before the Boulez/Cleveland concert, “So you can wait here until January ’05 if you want to go right into Act III.” And who will provide Act I?

The three principal singers under Boulez were Michelle DeYoung, mezzo-soprano (Kundry), Thomas Moser, tenor (Parsifal), and Eike Wilm Schulte, baritone (Klingsor). In my experience, DeYoung has been a most uneven singer. I remember, for example, a recital in Weill Recital Hall: One wondered how she got such a big career. But I also remember a turn in the Mahler Third with the San Francisco Symphony and Michael Tilson Thomas. She handled that noble part superbly. Of course, singers are allowed to be inconsistent, more than violinists, pianists, oboists—such is the nature of the instrument.

Thomas Moser is a member of the Vienna State Opera, but he is also a presence in New York. For instance, he sang the Emperor in the Metropolitan Opera’s wonderful production of Strauss’s Frau ohne Schatten. (That production is by the late Herbert Wernicke.) Moser is a heldentenor, I suppose, but he is not a barker, as there is plenty of lyricism and beauty in that voice.

And about Eike Wilm Schulte, I offer a very clear and pleasing memory: He was Beckmesser in a Met Meistersinger (Wagner). The cast boasted many excellent and celebrated singers, including James Morris and René Pape, those low-voice stars. Schulte—relatively unknown—held his own, and better than that. So his Klingsor promised to be first-rate.

It was. Schulte sang with solid authority, comprehending the music before him, and the interesting role of Klingsor. He has a splendid instrument, and he is particularly apt at articulation: The dramatics of the text were a delight in his mouth.

Michelle DeYoung was in fine form, making rich and sometimes radiant sounds. The voice turned hard—very hard—up top (this music rises to B), but such notes may be judged beyond the call of the mezzo’s duty. Thomas Moser was in similarly fine form, showing off a rather baritonal tenor. Operagoers in New York have been used to hearing two people in the roles of Parsifal and Kundry: Plácido Domingo, the ageless Spaniard, and Violeta Urmana, the Lithuanian mezzo (or former mezzo, I should say, as she has apparently switched to soprano). Those two are hard to beat in those parts; and Moser and DeYoung did not beat them; but they acquitted themselves with distinction.

Pierre Boulez loves Wagner, and he treated this score lovingly. The flow and transport that were absent from the Mahler, in my view, were present here, in Parsifal. You could have objected that this was Classical Wagner, not Wagnerian enough—not expansive, dreamy, and wild enough. But a Wagner score contains enough of that all by itself. Boulez’s restraint, smoothness, and sense of proportion made for a service.

Six days after the Cleveland Orchestra left Carnegie, the Vienna Philharmonic arrived, for three concerts. It had on the podium Seiji Ozawa, late of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He led the BSO for twenty-nine years, and most people agreed that it was time to end the affair. Ozawa landed very well: He is music director of the Vienna State Opera, and frequently leads the Philharmonic in concert.

I think of a story that Bill Buckley likes to tell. Cardinal Segura, in Seville, was a severe type, who frowned on dancing and other forms of gaiety. After he died, a visitor asked a local, “How’s it going, now that the cardinal is gone?” Came the reply: “When Cardinal Segura left us, both he and we passed on to a better world.” Well, in my judgment, both Ozawa and the Boston Symphony have passed on to a better world.

Ozawa led programs that you might expect from a Viennese institution, namely Richard Strauss, Mahler, and Schoenberg (the first night); Schubert and Bruckner (the second night); and Webern, Stravinsky, and Beethoven (the third). (Granted, Stravinsky was a bit of a curveball.) That second concert consisted of a very well known symphony, and a very little known symphony by a famous and beloved symphonist.

The first work was Schubert’s No. 8, nicknamed, of course, the “Unfinished.” The Viennese, under Ozawa, did not exactly give a deathless performance of it. They botched the start, and all other entrances throughout the first movement were chancy. Ozawa’s gestures can be frustratingly imprecise. But he has his virtues, including a gift for texture. He textured this first movement interestingly: It had a delicacy, almost a chamber-music quality. As for the second (and last) movement, it had a proper folk feeling. Both conductor and orchestra were respectable. But this was far from an absorbing account. There was nothing special about it, and nothing wretched. It was sort of indifferent—not what Schubert deserves, perhaps especially from his hometown orchestra.

The Bruckner Second, fortunately, was another story. This is the Bruckner symphony heard least often, and many argue that it is the least of them, period. It is certainly not a symphony on which Bruckner would have wanted to stake his reputation; but it is a Bruckner symphony nonetheless, and bears the stamp of his genius.

Under Ozawa, it was beautifully and grippingly begun—and so it would continue. Whereas the Schubert had been sleepy, the Bruckner was alive. Extraordinarily alive. It provided a clue as to how Seiji won his fans in the first place. All the usual Bruckner elements were manifest, plus some elements that may be thought of as un-Brucknerian: humor, impishness, some ribaldry. In the main, Ozawa’s Second was robust and masculine, while always putting forward a beauty. The symphony can become episodic, but Ozawa did not let it. In the second movement (Andante), the playing was magnificently warm. In the third (Mäßig schnell), all involved breathed fire—a holy fire. And in the Finale, we heard Bruckner’s defiant, persevering spirit: and his questing hunger, and his submitting soul. The entire experience was thrilling.

A veteran in the music world, standing as she applauded, said, “I haven’t heard Seiji conduct like this since 1963.” That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but the lady had a point. So, does Boston want him back?

A third orchestra traveled to Carnegie Hall in this period: the Royal Concertgebouw, under Herbert Blomstedt, the American-Swedish conductor. Since 1998, he has been music director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra; he was guesting with the gang from Amsterdam. Though he has not had a superstar’s career, Blomstedt is a solid and capable conductor, prized by soloists as an especially skilled collaborator. As for the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, it is about to lose Riccardo Chailly, its music director for the past fifteen years. Arriving next fall is Mariss Jansons, who is leaving the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. I am certain of one thing: The Concertgebouw is gaining a better world.

In two concerts at Carnegie Hall, the orchestra played four very, very familiar symphonies: the Fourth of Beethoven and the Fourth of Tchaikovsky; and the No. 41 of Mozart (“Jupiter”) and the First of Brahms. If you are going to play music so familiar and canonical—especially in this hall—you had better have a reason. It had better be good.

The “Jupiter” Symphony was not. (I heard only the second concert.) It seemed that Blomstedt could not decide whether he wanted to give a “period”-style performance—an original-instruments-like performance—or a fully modern one. He had no podium and no baton. Much of the playing was tidy, graceful, and clear. But it was also bloodless and overly decorous. It had no vibrancy; indeed, it was outright dull. The orchestra’s sound, most of the time, was muted. I say, let Poland be Poland, let Reagan be Reagan—and let the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra be the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. If you have a big, glorious modern orchestra, use it! Leave the period stuff to the Concentus Musicus Wien or something. Besides which, this is a late, great Mozart symphony—the very last one. There is no need to step daintily around it.

The second and third movements were both pretty and polite—which are not flattering terms, in this case—and the final movement had almost none of its intensity and joy. What a waste.

The concert was redeemed by the second piece on the program, however: the Brahms First. Here Blomstedt earned his bread. He retained his “Jupiter” clarity, which was laudable: This symphony can be draped too heavily, can be larded up; Blomstedt kept it free. In the first movement, he was smart, incisive, and fairly Classical. This was as sharply etched a reading as you are ever likely to hear. And the second movement was a good example of how to play richly without creating mush. The third movement was for the most part relaxed—as it tends to be—but it also had a nice edge on occasion. The Finale was magisterial, with generous, glowing brass chorales, and an exciting lead-in to the closing C-major hymn, which itself was grand but not fulsome. This entire movement was tight and impassioned, an excellent combination for Brahms.

Again, if you are going to play a work like this—in Carnegie Hall—you had better play it surpassingly. In the Brahms, Blomstedt and the Royal Concertgebouw delivered. In the Mozart … why, you might have stayed home with your Bruno Walter recording.

A day after this concert, Ivan Moravec was scheduled to play a recital—in this same Carnegie Hall. He is the great Czech pianist, born in 1930. But he was ill and had to cancel. His replacement was one of the best pianists of the younger generation, the Frenchman Jean-Yves Thibaudet (born 1961). As I have insisted before, ours is not a golden age for pianists, but Moravec is one—a golden pianist—and Thibaudet is another. And so, as it happens, is the Russian Mikhail Pletnev, who played a recital of his own at Carnegie not long after Thibaudet’s.

The Frenchman selected a program that played to his many strengths: Chopin, Liszt, Satie, and Debussy. He began with two Nocturnes of Chopin, that in B-flat minor, Op. 9, No. 1, and that in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2. In the first, he was clear-toned and ruminative. The melody in the right hand was properly accompanied by the left—not every pianist manages this. And the entire piece was beautifully phrased and breathed. He is a terribly musical guy, Thibaudet (in whatever he is playing). He brought out Chopin’s modulations, but did not do so obtrusively—all was natural and lyrical.

It was rather daring of Thibaudet to play that Nocturne in E flat: This is one of the most hackneyed works in Chopin, and therefore one of the most hackneyed works in the piano literature. But he gave it great dignity, “singing” nicely, taking a sensible tempo, exhibiting no condescension whatsoever. The ending—limpid, quietly rocking—was a delight. This is really a good piece, ladies and gentlemen: which is how it became hackneyed.

Next came two of Chopin’s Etudes, that in A-flat major, Op. 25, No. 1, and that in F major, Op. 25, No. 3. Thibaudet has more than a little technique. The sheer relaxation of the arms is astounding, allowing for any number of possibilities. In the A-flat Etude, he made the piano sound like a harp. In the F-major Etude, he was a musical peasant, dancing and stomping and exulting.

Following the Etudes were two “Grand, Brilliant” Waltzes, in A minor (Op. 34, No. 2) and E-flat major (Op. 18). These pieces can be somewhat repetitious, but Thibaudet took care to supply some variation, which is what Chopin almost surely intended (and did himself, as a performer). Thibaudet gives off a feeling of improvisation, which makes him somewhat hard to record: He follows his mood—along with that of the composer—and he seldom plays a piece the same way twice.

To close the first half of this recital was a well-known work of Liszt: “Après une lecture du Dante: Fantasia quasi sonata,” from Années de pèlerinage, deuxième année: Italie, No. 7 (got all that?). In this music, Thibaudet continued to display his virtuosic technique, but that was beside the point: He made this piece as musical and coherent as possible. That which was demonic, was very demonic (this was Liszt, after all—and Dante!). That which was songful, was very songful. Thibaudet is a great—a historically great—colorist, but he owns a Lisztian technique. This is a one-two punch not often seen in a pianist, to put it mildly.

The second half was French, beginning with two pieces by Satie, the “Gnossienne” No. 7 and “The Dreamy Fish” (yes, you read that right). Thibaudet has recorded all of Satie, in a boxed set (for Decca). Satie has no better advocate. In the “Gnossienne,” Thibaudet revealed marvelous intricacies and dissonances. In “The Dreamy Fish”—well, he was true to the title, if you can imagine. While swimming around, he demonstrated a fabulous sense of play.

The Debussy section consisted of the Three Etudes, three Préludes (from Book I), and the phenomenal Isle joyeuse. In the first of the Etudes—“Pour les degrés chromatiques”—Thibaudet was nimble and impish, and to the (famous) second—“Pour les arpèges composés”—he lent a delicious jazz touch. (Thibaudet, like many French classical musicians, is a jazzman.) The third of the Etudes, “Pour les octaves,” is a big, involved affair, which Thibaudet dispatched with almost unseemly ease.

As for those Préludes, “Voiles” had its mystery, “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’Ouest” had its fury, and “La Cathédrale engloutie” had its eerie timelessness. L’Isle joyeuse? It was infused with the pianist’s intelligence, and it was also exceptionally clean. Thibaudet made sparing use of the pedal; hardly anything was blurred; yet everything was in-arguably Impressionistic. In my view, the ending was a bit muted, too creamy, when it should have had a brilliance, a gleam—even a suggestion of Scriabin. But this is a trifle. You are lucky to hear such a distinguished piano recital once in five years.

Thibaudet played two encores, the first of which was dedicated to the memory of Robert Harth: It was Liszt’s transcription of Wagner’s “Liebestod,” a transcription that some of us find insufferable, but that most people seem to adore. In any case, it was a lovely gesture, and the pianist did what he could with the thing. Then he closed with a little Duke Ellington, arranged by Dick Hyman. A man of parts, Jean-Yves Thibaudet, and a musical treasure of this age.


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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 8, on page 70
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