SEEN AND HEARD INTERNATIONAL

Webern, Mozart, Berg, R. Strauss: Alfred Brendel (piano), Deborah Voigt (soprano), The MET Orchestra, James Levine (conductor). Carnegie Hall, New York 17.2.2008 (BH)

Webern: Six Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 6 (1913)
Mozart: Piano Concerto No. 24 in C Minor, K. 491 (1786)
Berg: Three Orchestra Pieces, Op. 6 (1923; rev. 1930)
R. Strauss: Final Scene from Salome (1905)


James Levine has recorded Webern's Six Pieces for Orchestra at least twice, once with the Berlin Philharmonic and then with the MET Orchestra—both superb, both demonstrating love and mastery—and on this occasion he and the ensemble gave it passion more akin to Beethoven's Ninth.  Using the original 1913 version (Webern revised the score in 1929), every moment seemed concentrated, distilled drop by drop, with Levine sweeping through like a manufacturing plant inspector.  And he was much more animated than usual.  Although he still sits in a chair these days, I haven't seen as much torso-and-arm-swaying from him in quite awhile.  Many moments linger: the second movement's shrieking hyenas, a violinist's quiet four-note solo in the third movement.  In the funeral march, I marveled at the MET's gongs, entering with the stealth of burglars trying desperately not to make a sound, and steeled myself for the section's final cry of pain with its snare drum torrents.  And the orchestration can still surprise: what composer at that time could have dreamed up the ending of the fifth, with high strings and tuba?

Pianist Alfred Brendel is nearing retirement, and this appearance was one of his final ones at Carnegie, along with a solo recital the following week, circumstances that lent even greater poignancy to Mozart's C Minor Piano Concerto.  Brendel's tone was pointed yet never harsh: he could always be heard, even when Levine and the orchestra were at full tilt, and the pianist and conductor could often be seen trading appreciative smiles.  The graceful second movement again showed Brendel's delicacy, a quality that would return in the final allegretto with its charming wind interlude echoed by the piano.  At the triumphant conclusion, the noisy audience would not be denied an encore, but rather than hammering out something at top speed or volume, scientist Brendel sat down at the keyboard as if returning to an experiment in progress, and pulled out Beethoven's Bagatelle in A Major, Op. 33, No. 4, a gentle, songful end to an extraordinary career.

I confess to being among those leading the applause, calling for James Levine to return for a third curtain call following his detailed, explosive reading of Berg's Three Pieces for Orchestra.  The MET's percussion section again was left with some of the afternoon's biggest moments.  The opening tam-tam resembles the march in the Webern earlier, and as the orchestra gradually coalesces, one might think, "It's a march—no, wait, it's a love song," and both might be right.  What follows is a phantasmagorical waltz, a bizarre sibling of La Valse with even more whirring and mutterings thanks to the sputtering MET trumpets, with some gorgeously shrill piccolo at the end.  In he final "Marsch" the orchestra careens from one moment to the next, like mountain climbers abseiling off a peak, then deciding to go back up, but only after an avalanche has begun.

Ever the showman, Levine saved some drama for the very end: Deborah Voigt in the final scene from Richard Strauss's Salome, a twenty-minute vocal obstacle course for which only the bravest need apply.  Appropriately dressed in red, Voigt sailed through the taxing part, and in Carnegie Hall's mellow acoustic, the orchestra sounded huge—so huge, in fact, that even Voigt's formidable outpouring was sometimes engulfed, but I doubt anyone genuinely thought about demanding a refund.  In fairness to Strauss's mesmerizing aural circus, the vocal line isn't the only thing happening, and some of the vivid instrumental effects—the stark double bass stabs as Jochanaan's head is being severed, the galactic grinding chord that immediately follows Salome's last note—were sensationally gauged and delivered.

Bruce Hodges


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