In
all my years of being stirred by Berg’s Violin Concerto, I don’t recall any
artist ever attempting an encore following its serene, mysterious final
chords, but Christian Tetzlaff found one: a Bach Largo (from Solo Violin
Sonata No. 3 in C Major, BWV 1005), and I just could not believe how
naturally it seemed to flow from what had come before. It seemed a perfect
coda, delivered to a raptly quiet audience, following Tetzlaff’s equally rapt
performance of the Berg that seemed generous in spirit on an afternoon that
was perhaps over-generous with music in general.
What
a pity that Berg never lived to hear this masterpiece performed. Written in
response to the untimely death of the young Manon Gropius, it is without
doubt one of the 20th century’s great violin concerti. I’m familiar with two
recordings, by Itzhak Perlman and Anne-Sophie Mutter, and Tetzlaff offered
yet a different temperature, that perhaps emphasized its wintry aspects. The
piece opens with transparent, magical open fifths, which are picked up by the
orchestra and passed from section to section. Berg then grafts on a
twelve-tone row, and then finally uses a Bach chorale that melds amazingly
with everything that has come before it.
Initially
I was mildly dismayed at Tetzlaff’s wan, almost colorless opening tone, but
shortly I realized that this was part of his conception to invoke the dying
girl, and was absolutely under precise control. Other marketers of this piece
may go for broke in the “virtuoso” arena, but Tetzlaff’s studied anemia (at
least initially) then grew into a ravishing romantic streak, somehow
capturing a mood I have never heard in this piece. By not shying away from
the death-haunted iciness, Tetzlaff seemed completely inside the music,
gently bending his knees and leaning into phrases, as James Levine and the
magnificent Met Orchestra bobbed and swayed with him. Although Tetzlaff had
power to spare, somehow the overall impression was one of loneliness, of dark
spirituality, rather than barn-burning virtuosity. The ending, despite a
final chord that drowned out the ethereal feeling, seemed to spiral up to
some unknown place high in the sky. Rapturous, indeed. And then came that
unexpected Bach that seemed to tie everything together with exquisite
insight.
If
only such insights had flooded the remainder of this program as well. It is
difficult for me to write, as a longtime admirer of Levine, the Met
Orchestra, and the Mahler Ninth, that I really didn’t know what to make of
this outing. This must have been the slowest Ninth I have ever heard, and I’m
not happy to write that the excessively trudging tempi did not seem to pay
off in greater wisdom. It just seemed, well, slow.
With
the orchestra’s gleaming second violin section in its usual keen form, the
first movement opens with one of Mahler’s gentlest, simplest motifs – to my
ears a resigned sigh – from which grows a journey that swells with violence
but ultimately finds an almost supernatural peace and radiance. Most of his
symphonies begin with a huge charge of energy, but not this one, which begins
from almost nothing, flows into itself and then erupts briefly in the
tornado-like third movement, before ultimately subsiding again.
The
second movement, normally with a somewhat impish character, suffered the most
from the deliberate treatment. I hear this interlude as an almost
self-mocking diversion, as if the composer were trying a different approach
to stave off death, saying, “Let’s try a little dance,” but any potential
contrast seemed gone. And in the nightmarish third movement, seemingly the
composer’s last rallying cry, Levine’s pace drained out much of the vigor
there as well. Granted, the fugal elements were solidly in place, with the
expertly drawn contrapuntal lines easily audible. But the pace gave the music
a sort of bumptious, hayseed quality that seemed completely at odds with what
I interpret as an almost malevolent, “I am Mahler, hear me roar” quality.
Indeed, the final few bars were thrilling – how can they not be when
performed by such an ensemble? – but getting there was not the angry storm it
can be, seething with electricity.
And
then came the almost exasperatingly slow final movement. Yes, Mahler’s
instructions at the end are beyond Adagissimo, but somehow here the intensity
seemed to be leached out. As a general rule, I’m all in favor of allowing
Mahler’s scores to breathe, more than some conductors have in some eras, to
let the richness and detail come through more strongly and incisively. But in
this case, the long breaths came at the expense of the whole, and I felt that
the tension ultimately evaporated. Granted, this may have been Levine’s
conception.
The
orchestra, pressed to the extreme on this afternoon, did its utmost to keep
up with the maestro’s requests, and as usual, there were many phenomenally
played passages. From the harps’ first tiny murmurings, one can only marvel
at the terrific individual musicians that fill the ranks here. The gorgeous
horns were making easy work of their perilously exposed streams in the final
pages, and if nothing else, the floods of string sound in the closing bars
sounded as if heaven had opened up just overhead.
Although
part of Mahler’s genius is that his work can, and does, withstand many
interpretations, I couldn’t help but feel that this Ninth was just a bit
aimless, almost directionless, as if I were floating in a huge pool of
gorgeous sound. And of course, “directionless” is not what this piece is
about. Whether because of health issues, or some end-of-season fatigue, or
some other reason (I vote for fatigue, just based on a glance back at the
Met’s extraordinarily dense season), this was probably not a Ninth that would
make new admirers, either of the piece or of Levine’s artistry. The audience,
which to its immense credit could not have been more keenly attentive, stayed
focused throughout the afternoon, and miraculously quiet. Even after the
microscopically hushed final bars, the silence in Carnegie was breathtaking,
and only when Levine carefully, almost meditatively closed the back cover of
the score did the ovation begin. (And clearly many here were moved to the
point of ecstasy.) But I wonder if the loving applause was more for Levine’s
achievements – it has been an absolutely marvelous season after all – than
for what was laid out on this particular occasion. As I stood up I heard a
woman behind me sigh, “That was endless.” And that’s not to be confused with
“timeless.”
Bruce Hodges
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