Vienna Philharmonic, Großes Festspielhaus (Salzburg)

Martinů, Bruckner

A late start tonight in Salzburg’s Great Festival Hall: 9 p.m. seems like an appropriate time to construct a church service in a concert hall, with Yannick Nézet-Séguin and the Vienna Philharmonic doing the construction.

The concert opened with Bohuslav Martinů’Frescos of Piero della Francesca, a work I did not previously know. Martinů got his inspiration on vacation in Arezzo, where he saw these paintings in a church. To be entirely honest, I could not quite connect Martinů’s modern music (the work had its premiere by the Philharmoniker in Salzburg at the 1956 Festival) with the 15th-century frescos. But as pure music, it worked, with that composer’s wonderful juxtapositions.

They then skipped the intermission completely and went directly to the second work on the program, which gave Martinů yet more juxtaposition. The Bavarian Radio Chorus joined a smaller orchestra for Bruckner’s Mass #3. Having put up the paintings in the church, I suppose they now had to fill the room with mass.

In 1867, Bruckner’s doctor told him to stay away from music – it was driving him insane. Thankfully, Bruckner listened to God instead of to his doctor. He wrote Mass #3 and then moved to Vienna full time to teach counterpoint at the conservatory.

This mass is a bridge work. The insane church organist subsequently wrote mostly orchestral music, constructing his cathedrals of sound. But this was a work he meant to have performed in a church (unlike Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, Wednesday night’s work, to which it was immediately compared in scale when it was first performed). The premiere indeed took place in Vienna’s Augustinerkirche (in the Hofburg) and remains frequently performed as a mass in Austrian churches and cathedrals (possibly more often than it appears in the world’s concert halls).

Unlike Harnoncourt’s muffled Missa Solemnis on Wednesday, Nézet-Séguin made use of his forces to fill the hall brightly. Although relatively-early Bruckner (in terms of major compositional output), the mass connected Bruckner’s church organist background with some of the larger structures he would create after moving to Vienna. The mass works both as church music and as a dramatic concert work. But the texts are clear, and the devout Bruckner clearly believed in them. This piece marked his transition from his time serving the Church to his new world serving Humanity.

Soloists Dorothea RöschmannKaren CargillChistian Elsner, and Franz-Josef Selig sang their lines clearly. But this is not a work highlighting the soloists. There is drama in the text, but it is in the service of the Lord.

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Czech Philharmonic, Musikverein (Vienna)

Martinů, Janáček

I checked in with the Czechs this morning at the Musikverein: the Czech Philharmonic under Jiří Bělohlávek performed works by Martinů and Janáček.

The Martinů pieces proved the most rewarding.  The concert opened with the somber Memorial for Lidice, a short work composed from exile in memory of a village by that name which was erased from the map and whose entire population was murdered by the Germans in 1942 as reprisal for the assassination by Czech patriots of Reinhard Heydrich, the German occupation government’s “Imperial Protector of Bohemia and Moravia.”  A fitting tribute.

Martinů’s Sixth Symphony followed, much more developed in the style of this composer.  His sophisticated, and extremely challenging, music rises from the chromatic chords and heads in all directions.  It could come across as rather disjointed if performed by lesser forces.  But Bělohlávek and the Czech Philharmonic understood the idiom, allowing the music to flow and soar, treating the ears to thrilling new methods of experiencing sound.  Martinů’s music is no secret to those who know, but the level of difficulty in making music out of modernity has perhaps limited his exposure.  Well-performed Martinů is always worth hearing.

After the intermission, the orchestra returned with the original manuscript version of Janáček’s Glagolitic Mass.  After the first performance, the composer had made changes, and it was the revised version that got published.  The revised version eliminated some of the overbearing percussion (which made the work less regligious in feel) and softened or tightened the orchestration elsewhere.  Now that I’ve heard the original manuscript version, I would tend to agree with the composer that the changes were necessary.  Though we had excellent performers this morning, the work did perhaps suffer from a lack of fluidity. The Vienna Singverein and four soloists (Hibla GerzmavaVeronika HajnováBrandon Jovanovich, and Jan Martiník) joined the orchestra enthusiastically.

Wiener Virtuosen, Musikverein Brahms Saal

Beethoven, Martinů, Wellesz, Elgar

I felt like I was not getting enough chamber music.  That’s an easy problem to resolve in Vienna.  The Wiener Virtuosen, a chamber ensemble made up of members of the Philharmonic, performed an unusual and fascinating concert in the Brahms Hall of the Musikverein this evening.

Most of the program jumped out of the 20th Century, but Eleven “Mödlinger Tänze” by Beethoven served as a warm-up.  Beethoven did not mean these to become part of his lasting repertory, having just thrown them together for some friends performing at a Fasching party in 1819.  He never published them and did not count them in his inventory.  But even a casual set of works by Beethoven makes an impression.  Nevertheless, works by Martinů and Wellesz were the real reasons to hear this concert.

Bohuslav Martinů’s Nonett, one of the last works he composed before he died in 1959 and premiered at the Salzburg Festival that year, employed complex harmonics and rhythms, with the instruments seemingly moving independently, but when assembled together this remained accessible music.  Chorales – large almost – tried to emerge from the evocative second movement, moving from instrument to instrument.  By the third movement, every time we thought we knew where the music was going, it detoured.  This was a walk in the woods, with no particular place to be, wandering wherever the route looked nicest.  Martinů proved that it is possible to marry such 20th-Century complexities and still make sonorous tones.

Clarinetist Ernst Ottensamer felt the need to introduce the Oktett op. 67 by Egon Wellesz: “don’t be afraid of Egon Wellesz,” he advised the audience before the ensemble started, “it may not be the most melodic work.”  Ottensamer was unfair.  Although composed ten years before the Martinů Nonett (with a premiere at the 1949 Salzburg Festival), this Wellesz piece in many ways developed Martinů one step further in the way it combined new harmonies and rhythms with real musicality.  It opened with a mysterious but forward-driving push, filling the room with a big sound: in part, the big sound came from the ensemble, but in part the music was also dramatic and full.  The second movement appeared to be picked up from Mahler’s Ninth Symphony in parts.  Melodies tried to spring out of the third movement, but only by the fourth movement did Wellesz develop a cantabile section, with gorgeous harmonies.  By the fifth movement, the piece became downright whimsical, a country dance chaperoned by seriousness.

The Wiener Virtuosen gave intelligent readings of these difficult but (when performed this way) approachable works.  To send everyone home with something more traditional, they gave us an arrangement of Edward Elgar‘s Nimrod from the Enigma Variations.  This seems to be the encore of choice these days – I think I’ve heard it performed four times in the last year – but Ottensamer introduced it as “the most beautiful melody in the symphonic repertory of the 20th Century.”  I don’t know about that, but certainly when performed by this group they make a case for it.

Tschaikowsky Symphony Orchestra, Tschaikowsky Concert Hall

Martinů, Dvořak

It may surprise people that the main reason I attended tonight’s concert of the Tschaikowsky Symphony Orchestra in the Tschaikowsky Hall came from a desire to hear some works by Bohuslav Martinů, since his music does not receive much play.

Until the fall of the Soviet Union, this orchestra was known as the Large Symphony Orchestra of the Soviet Radio.  On the podium tonight was Gintaras Rinkevičius, a Soviet-trained Lithuanian, whom my mother might describe as a “tall glass of water.”  In fact, he should not have conducted from a podium: in order to remain in the sight-lines of the orchestra, he had to hunch over rather severely; whenever he forgot to hunch, I think the orchestra members may have strained their necks looking up for his cues.  However, he had a clear technique and abundant energy.

The first half of the concert contained three works by Martinů composed in 1932-33, which made a clear progression.  The Serenade #2 for Strings opened the concert, and in it Martinů used an eighteenth-century classical style with just a hint of update.  The next work, the Serenade #3 for Oboe, Clarinet, and Strings was also remarkably classical in form (although in only two self-contained movements) but had sufficient dissonance to give it a mean edge and useful contrasts.  The third work in the progression, the Concerto for Trio and String Orchestra was clearly a child of the twentieth century, with the competing tonal but dissonant lines, often performed by the trio, leading naturally to soaring harmonic chorales in the orchestra.

After the intermission came the more-known Symphony #8 by Antonín Dvořák.  The orchestra sounded great, and Rinkevičius certainly drew out the energy of the piece, but in his efforts to keep it crisp he may have produced technique that came across as too abrupt, almost starting-and-stopping between each phrase.

The concert tonight was surprisingly crowded, although I think because they let all the little old ladies out of the nursing home.  They clapped between every movement (audiences in Moscow usually know better).  And they hacked out several lungs during the first half of the concert, so that I think many of them did not survive until the second half, when many seats were suddenly vacant and the coughing stopped.  Either that or the sick old ladies were all Martinů fans who hate Dvořák.