BY A.J. GOLDMANN

Composers have been drawn to Shakespeare’s plays for centuries. Among the best-known examples of musical communion with the Bard are Rossini’s Otello, Verdi’s Falstaff, Macbeth and Otello, and the Midsummer Night’s Dreams of both Mendelssohn and Britten,
    But no one of Shakespeare’s plays has inspired so many adaptations as Romeo and Juliet. A list of composers who created music based on or inspired by that most romantic of plays includes Berlioz, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev and Charles Gounod. Gounod, a mid-19th century figure working in the tradition of French Grand Opéra, is responsible for one of the most faithful operatic adaptations of a Shakespeare play (the other strong contender is Verdi’s Otello). Interestingly enough, the five-act structure of Grand Opera is well suited to Shakespeare’s dramatic technique, in which a wealth of character development, plot and complexity is communicated in a relatively closed setting. Though Gounod’s librettists Jules Barbier and Michael Carré – the same team who so effectively adapted Faust for Gounod’s purposes - by necessity simplify, they manage to remain faithful to the original even as they condense. The most radical divergence comes in the final scene. Instead of Juliette awaking after Roméo has killed himself, they die simultaneously. How could Gounod deprive us of a final love duet?
    Guy Jootsen’s new production of Roméo et Juliette at the Metropolitan Opera is the first in over four decades. In Jootsen’s staging, which plays tonight and returns in February and March for five additional performances, the star-cross’d lovers are often presented against an circular projection of cosmic images. In the play, Romeo swears his love, by the moon. Sure enough, onstage we see a high definition projection of the moon during the wedding scene in act three. For the wedding night, which occupies the fourth act, Juliette’s bed appears suspended from the ceiling, while a starry night is projected onto the back panel. On Monday evening the effect, which was much ridiculed when the production premiered last week, and was cut from a performance last week, brought generous applause from the audience. Aside from the galactic conceit of the stage design, the sets of Johannes Leiacker and the costumes of Jorge Jara aim for authenticity. The ornate garb and the theatrical wooden panels that flank the stage both suggest Renaissance Italy. A massive disk stands in the center of the stage and rotates extensively during the opening ball scene. Hanging from the ceiling is a mobile of orbs and spheres, one of several DaVincian touches.
    The cast was headed by the sensational French soprano Natalie Dessay, whose petite frame seems impossible to house her explosive and silky voice. She proved equally engaged actress as a singer, and played her role with a girlish unrest and playfulness that brought to mind Karita Mattila’s Salome of two seasons’ ago. She twisted and wiggled around on stage during the first act, even clowning with Roméo during a mock-duel. When it came to singing, her creamy coloratura rang out with sweet richness. Her high notes soared in her exuberant moments. She was equally effective in her more anguished moments, including her “O happy dagger” monologue over the dying Romeo. The only weak spot in her performance was an excess of spunk and sass during her famous act one aria, “Je veux vivre,” to which she brought a pop-Diva sensibility.  
    As her Roméo, the Mexican-born tenor Ramôn Vargas contributed a heroic and ruddy sound. Last season, he brought his vocal talents to the titular role of Jacques Offenbach’s Les Contes d’Hoffmann. Vargas didn’t quite sound as comfortable with Gounod’s sumptuously expressive vocal writing as with Offenbach’s gimmer and less integrated music. That said, he performed admirably and was especially arduous in the famous arias “Ange adorable” and “Leve toi, soliel.” Despite apparent good chemistry with Ms. Dessay, a bit of misguided directing interfered with his overall performance. During the balcony scene, Vargas fidgeted with apparent impatience and excitement. During the first half, his performance suffered from the same giddiness as Dessay’s did and all his jumping and skipping around made for a foolish and confusing spectacle. 
    The rest of the cast was uniformly superb, with shout-outs going to Dimitri Pittas’ boorish and menacing Tybalt and Stéphane Degout’s gripping Mercutio. The thunderous bass Kristinn Sigmungsson made an arresting Friar Laurence and Frederick Burchinal was by turns comical and stern as Capulet. Gonoud provides Juliette an ample amount of beautiful music, which might explain why there are only two other female roles in the opera. The other female soloists were at the top of their game. In the brief but colorful role of Romeoi’s page, Stéphano, the mezzo Theodora Hanslowe was ribald and sunny. Jane Bunnell made an endearing impression as Juliette’s nurse, Gertrude. The chorus, utilized to great effect during the opening prologue and subsequent ball was well prepared and contained, despite some awkward blocking that made the enormous stage overcrowded.
    The performance was conducted by Betrand de Billy, who had the good sense to hold nothing back while performing the incredibly lush and romantic score. The orchestra was unusually loud while never overpowering the singers. Like the individual performances, the production design and direction, there was nothing subtle about the playing of the ornate and dreamy score. But then again, who ever thought that Grand Opéra was the place for subtlety?

The Philadelphia Orchestra

Carnegie Hall

November 15, 2005

The Philadelphia Orchestra has long been celebrated for its deliciously decorated sound and rich texture. Under the confidant baton of the current musical director Christophe Eschenbach, it is fast proving itself one of the most formidable American Mahler orchestras working today. On Tuesday evening, the orchestra made their first appearance at Carnegie Hall this season with a thunderous and riveting performance of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony.

Eschenbach queued the double basses for the first movement, keeping the tempo brisk yet steady. There was little of the unbridled ecstasy of Bernstein’s first recording, yet the music never felt, in any way, deficient. Every measure was precise and forceful, with cutting violins, steady basses and carefully regulated orchestral eruptions. The strong, full snare and bass drum never overwhelmed, and rendered even the faint pizzicato audible. In the movement’s more lyrical moments, including the so-called “Alma Theme,” Eschenbach slowed the tempo several notches, enhancing the heavy glissando. Several percussion sections were placed throughout the auditorium, creating a three-dimensional sound, which was especially noticeable with regard to the chimes and cowbells.
Given the fiery first movement, the more deliberate paced Scherzo came as something of a surprise. The movement sounded stately, almost regal, and Eschenbach highlighted the winds in an unexpectedly bright fashion. The winds had an elegiac shimmer in the Andante, which on the whole possessed a balletic sweep. The players seemed as moved as Eschenbach as he guided them through each heartbreaking measure, coaxing sorrow from the strings and comfort from the horns during their call and response.
The opening bars of the Finale were suitably understated, suggesting dislocation rather than horror and setting us up for the still more violent shocks the music had in store. The knockout of a movement was out-and-out dramatic and there was not a dull moment. Eschenbach varied his tempos greatly and gave the music plenty of space in which to develop. The orchestra engaged thoroughly with the music, which they brought to life boldly, expressively. They played forcefully, never straining: conjuring up the triumphant theme, only to suppress it mercilessly. Eschenbach shaped the tempestuous music and ensured its balance. Both hammer blows (delivered by a large wooden mallet) were dead on target and hit the ears with heart-stopping intensity. Towards the end, the first violin performed his solo in drawn out, vibrato-heavy phrases, confirming the complete annihilation of all hope.

    Several years ago, the “sound enhancement” technology installed by New York City Opera sparked much debate as to what extent opera can be amplified without sacrificing both artistry and quality. There are two sides to the quarrel, and each has its defenders and detractors. But no one, I presume, would dare go so far as to allow “canned opera.” That is, not unless you ask the Salzburg Marionette Theater.
    Last week, the 92-year-old puppet troupe presented six performances of four operatic productions in the Grace Rainey Roger’s Auditorium at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The chosen repertoire included A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Magic Flute and Hansel and Gretel. (The latter two were also offered in abridged “Family Performances). On Thursday
night, however, the company debuted with their production of Don Giovanni. While canned music decidedly dampens the force of the performance, it ensures at least that the audience is guaranteed a fantastic musical interpretation every time. The recording chosen for Thursday evening was a riveting 1960 recording of Erich Leinsdorf conducting the Vienna Philharmonic, with a jaw-dropping cast that includes Cesare Siepi, Birgit Nilsson and Leontyne Price.
    In lieu of subtitles, a marionette master-of-ceremonies popped out between acts as a hilariously stuffy narrator (a recording, not live) provided a summary of the main action. As soon as the curtain rose on Leporello, one got a sense of the dexterity and wry wit of the puppeteers. As controlled by Pierre Droin, Leporello hopped up and down anxiously as he groused about his life as a servant. The fatal duel between Don Giovanni and the Commendatore was especially impressive; I’m still not quite certain how the Don Giovanni marionette removed his sword from his sheath. Such touches abounded. Throughout the evening, the puppets performed tasks normally thought impossible for those made of wood, such as pouring wine, eating chicken and dancing. But it was in the small actions and details, walking across the stage, bowing deeply, that the skill of the puppeteers really shone through. They managed to imbue the marionettes with a sense of authenticity that was both fascinating and creepy in a Twilight Zone-like way. While all six principle puppeteers delivered convincing, impressive performances, Gretl Aicher, daughter of the troupe’s founder, Anton Aicher, was particularly naturalistic and at ease in maneuvering the title character.    
    Equally dazzling were the sumptuous sets by Günter Schneider-Siemssen, which would not look out of place at any of the world’s major opera houses. In particular, the climactic dinner scene, with a full-stage mirror creating an illusion of impossible depth and lending the undead Commendatore a specter-like haze, was both clever and elegant.
    The one impediment to enjoying the performance was the sheer length, which proved an ordeal to the predominantly elderly audience, many of whom left after intermission. Though slightly abridged, the opera still ran well over two-hours. Though by no means the fault of the puppet-masters, the relative small-scale of the marionette theater didn’t quite gel with the opera’s expansiveness.

Egon Schiele: The Ronald S. Lauder and Serge Sabarsky Collections

October 21, 2005 – February 20, 2006

Neue Galerie

The body of work that Egon Schiele (1890 – 1918), the expressionist painter and draftsman, produced in the decade before his untimely death established him as one of the most original and uncompromising artists of the early Twentieth Century. Even so, debates about his merit and legacy persist to this day. His work has been condemned as vulgar, narcissistic, and infantile. “Egon Schiele” on view at the Neue Galerie until February 20, is a comprehensive and absorbing look at one of the century’s most unique and instantly recognizable figures. Hopefully, the exhibit will help to silence the artist’s detractors.

Spanning the entire gallery, the exhibit is drawn from the private collections of the museum’s co-founders, Ronald S. Lauder and Serge Sabarsky. In an essay reprinted in the exhibition catalogue, Sabarsky recommends we respond “spontaneously and emotionally” to Schiele’s oeuvre. The exhibition remains faithful to that philosophy and presents Schiele’s work without much more in the way of analysis or commentary. One exception is a series of glass displays that documents and objects that belonged to Schiele. Of genuine interest, however, is the manifesto of the Neukunstgruppe (New Art Group), which Schiele helped found in 1909. In it, he writes of the plethora of ways in which modern art should break with the past. Ironically, however, though Schiele stood for a revolution in technique and style, he didn’t wage the same kind of warfare against the establishment as Picasso or Duchamp. In fact, his fidelity to conventional forms including landscape, portraiture and the nude, show his place in the tradition of representational Western art he is. Where we see his modern sentiment is in his choice of subject matter, which includes sexual deviation, physical grotesqueries and a remarkably physiological detail paid to unsettling scenes and subjects.

Schiele produced a number of landscapes, several of which hang in the first two rooms of the exhibition. A work that stands out is “River Landscape with Two Trees,” (1913) with its unusual perspective and almost total lack of depth. The flatness of the image makes it seem like the lower 2/3 of the painting depicts the underground roots of the trees, a suspicion that is refuted by the flowers that are sprouting along side them. The scene is represented in soft, pastel colors for the stream of water and more earthy greens and browns for the banks.

But while Schiele’s landscapes are fascinating, the portraits and nudes are what really seize out attention. One of the highlights is 1914’s “Man and Woman I (Lovers I),” which depicts a pre or post-coital scene filled. We see a patchwork of limbs and crumpled sheets. Jarring reds pop out in the outline of the female figure and are reinforced by the scarf whose fringes are visible in several corners of the painting. Schiele modeled for the painting with his lover, Wally, in front of his studio mirror. He depicts himself with a face like cracked porcelain, and the attention to musculature and bone structure is nothing if not grotesque.

A dimly lit room is turned over to Schiele’s early work, executed while Schiele was a student at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. These items vary in interest. Many show Schiele to be an excellent draftsman with a classical training, but few point the way to the style that he would eventually embrace. It is mostly left to the audience to conjecture how and why Schiele made such a radical stylistic break with the past.

The third floor is the real heart of the exhibit; it contains over 100 of Schiele’s drawings, watercolors and other graphic work, spread over three rooms. In 1910 Schiele began to concentrate more on line, color and negative space, which de began to employ in a unique way that would become his trademark. The majority of the drawings on display are self-portrait and drawings of women in a variety of sexually charged poses, in various stages of dishabille. A series of self-portraits from 1910 show a remarkable variety of style. Sometimes, Schiele depicts himself in agony; at other times, he seems smugly complacent, stern, consternated. But regardless of the degree of grotesquerie, these portraits always have a sinister orb.

And of course, there are the nudes, which are in large measure to blame for Schiele’s notoriety and fame. Many of them show a disturbing attitude towards women and female sexuality that might not be impervious to criticisms of misogyny. One notable exception is 1910’s “Standing Nude.” The rosy body arched in a confident and casually sexual pose, is that of the artist’s sister Gerti. Down to the fully defined nipples, it is dreamily vivacious and true to life, not nearly as grotesque or stylized as the other works on display. The “Seated Female Nude with Black Stockings” (1910) has pubic hair in an obscene cluster while her nipples and sexual parts are colored deep red. Some of the sketches from 1918 show a more fluid style with less attention to grotesque detail. Several of them, including “Reclining Nude” from 1918 are reminiscent of erotic drawings by Picasso and Klimt.

In the manifesto for the Neukunstgruppe Schiele writes,”[It] is always through a great experience in the existence of an artistic personality that a new epoch begins, which may last only briefly or longer, depending on the impression it leaves behind, which has more and more weight. And after the artist has shaped his experience completely and perfectly, then perhaps an exhibition is necessary.” More that 80 years after Schiele’s death, the Neue Galerie has done well to realize that necessity.

Rachael Portman’s immensely enjoyable but ultimately shallow opera of Antoine de Saint-Exupréy’s beloved “The Little Prince” was given its New York premiere by the New York City Opera on Saturday. It runs for four more performances at the New York State Theater through November 20. The child-heavy production, which features a boy soprano in the title role – is highly endearing and is admirable in its aim to introduce youngsters to opera; if only the score had more to offer than cinematic pleasantness and occasional shades of Broadway, Humperdinck and Glass. Ms. Portman is best known for her film scores to Emma (which won her an Oscar) Cider House Rules and Chocolat, and the same string-heavy melodies that inspire and move predominates in this 100-minute work.
The creative process of adapting The Little Prince was closely supervised by Saint-Exupréy’s estate, which demanded a certain amount of artistic control. Given this fact, it’s surprising that the finished product doesn’t better capture the spirit of the book. Part of the problem is the libretto by Nicholas Wright, which reduces the message of the book to moral dictums that are repeated over and over again by the children’s chorus, such as “Anything essential is invisible to the eye” and “Eyes are blind. Look only with your heart.” As directed by Francesca Zambello, the production often has a Disney-like shimmer which is enhanced by the sweepingly cinematic score and the extensive use of the children’s chorus, who at several points wave origami cranes in the air. The sets by the late Maria Bjørnson (of Phantom of the Opera fame) tend to work better than her costumes, which seem to have less to do with Saint-Exupréy than with Dr. Seuss.
The plot will be familiar to most. An unnamed pilot (the author’s alter-ego) is downed in the Sahara desert. While trying to fix his plane, he meets the Little Prince, who asks the pilot to draw him a sheep. Though aloof and forlorn, the prince befriends the pilot and tells of his tiny planet, a lonely star, and his love for the solitary rose on its surface. After recounting his yearlong travels through the desert, the Little Prince returns home in a chilling and ambiguous ending.
Inhabiting the fiery-haired prince was Graham Phillips, a boy soprano, making a stunning and poignant City debut. He sang sweetly, his voice tinged with an appropriate melancholy. Though he was amplified, this only posed problems in hearing the other singers in relation to him. Keith Phares, a lyrical baritone, was solidly operatic as the pilot, sounding full-bodied and heroic. The only other member of the cast to wear a mike was Stephanie Styles, as the Rose. Like Phillips, she has a background in musical theater, which she drew upon in her brief appearance. There were several cameos of note, including Josh Winograd as the King, Robert Mack as the Snake and Jennifer Tiller as the Fox. The children’s chorus was well coordinated and sang their tuneful ensemble pieces remarkably well. The performance was conducted by Gerald Steichen, who made sure the small 26-player orchestra never overpowered the unusually young cast.

Night after night in Broadway’s intimate and elegant Lyceum Theatre, some of the most beloved music of all time is being strangled, drowned and skinned alive. Souvenir a new play by Stephen Temperley which opened last Friday, is based the true story of Florence Foster Jenkins, a wealthy society woman whose notoriously bad singing actually led to a legendary sold-out Carnegie Hall concert in the 1940’s. Veteran of Broadway and opera Judy Kaye brings Jenkins to vivid, earsplitting life in a dazzling performance that arouses both laughter and compassion. Donald Corren is her strong-willed accompanist Cosme McMoon who narrates the story of their collaboration from a piano in a nightclub 20 years after Jenkin’s death. The simple and elegant production, which feature little more than a piano, an armchair and a table, is directed by Vivian Matalon.
Despite its one-joke premise, Souvenir succeeds as a penetrating exploration of self-delusion and an ode to failure. Although we laugh at Jenkins’ mangling of the classic repertoire, we also share her anxiety and fears; and though we may be laughing at rather that with her, we feed vicariously from the sympathy Cosme provides her.
Cosme guides us through Jenkins’ singing career, from their first interview to the notorious Carnegie Hall appearance. In both appearance and diction, Mr. Corren suggests Leonard Bernstein as if played by Steve Martin. His strapping figure and considerable musical talent – he plays both jazz and classical – compliment his wit and impeccable delivery.
We’re expecting it, but it still comes as a shock when Jenkins opens her mouth and lets out her agonizing, shrill and pitch-less falsetto. It’s as if Old MacDonald’s farm suddenly joined in full force in a demonic EIEIO. After giving Cosme an initial sample of her singing, Jenkins glows triumphantly and says that she has the “true coloratura.” All this is funnier in light of what a great singer the Tony award-winning actress is. (We get to hear her sing in her real voice once during the performance). Ms. Kaye cuts a glamorous figure as Jenkins, a woman who insists that the only music that matters is “the music that you hear in your head.” Elegant and outwardly graceful, she speaks with a sing-songy voice and is impervious to all criticism.
Jenkins dreams of singing the Queen of the Night aria from the Magic Flute. Cosme is understandable horrified by this prospect and tells us that The Queen of the Night was like going from having an “an eccentric lack of perspective” to “madness.” When Jenkins cut her album (which is still available on CD), Cosme fears that the revelation will be too much for her to bear. Instead, Jenkins is very taken with the record, save a measure where “something goes awry.” She blames the piano.
The entire second act leads up to the Carnegie Hall appearance, which is reproduced on stage complete with the absurd assortment costumes that was Jenkins’ wont, while canned applause and laughter eerily supplement the audience’s response.
Earlier on, Cosme muses about what possible talent Jenkins might have had. “Second-raters sound like everyone else. The real ones there’s no mistaking.” There’s certainly no mistaking Souvenir for anything less than top-notch.

Chicago Symphony Orchestra
Carnegie Hall - Nov. 7, 2005

      

At the end of this season, Daniel Barenboim will say goodbye to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, which he has led as musical director for the past 15 years. There have been reports of strain between the orchestra and Mr. Barenboim, who has declined an emeritus position with the orchestra and has no plans to come back as a guest conductor. But whatever difficulties may exist between maestro, administration and musicians, none of it seemed to interfere with the orchestra’s performing abilities on Saturday night when the Chicago Symphony Orchestra played the last of a series of three concerts at Carnegie Hall.

On the program were works by two titans of 20th century music, Schoenberg and Mahler, composers for whom the Germanophilic Barenboim has a great affinity. While Mahler’s Fifth Symphony was the obvious highlight of the program, the orchestra began the concert with a searing account of Schoenberg’s groundbreaking Variations for Orchestra.

Schoenberg is reputed to have once said that his music was hardly modern, just poorly played. The composer would have been pleased had he been in the audience Saturday evening. Under Maestro Barenboim’s baton, the Chicago players made the challenging piece– the first of the composer’s orchestral works to be written according to his recently devised twelve-tone system – sound surprisingly accessible. As the jaunty and undulating theme reappears in various guises, the musicians played holistically, producing a rich sound that captured the intricacies of the work. The nine variations range from playful to violent, and Barenboim brought out the harmonic and stylistic diversity of the piece, valuing precision as much as expressiveness.

Mahler’s Fifth is arguably the composer’s best known and most often played work. It was last heard at Carnegie Hall several weeks ago in a performance by the Stockholm Philharmonic. Under the baton on Alan Gilbert, they gave an energetic but ultimately unsatisfying account of the gargantuan piece. Barenboim and the CSO have recorded the piece together on a 1998 Teldec compact disc and their performance at Carnegie was one of the season’s most exceptional events thus far.

Barenboim let the trumpet begin of its own accord with a mysterious pronouncement of the opening theme (a reference to Beethoven). The orchestra flared up in demonic fashion and the cortege was taken at a remarkably slow tempo that allowed the listener to revel in the luxuriant music. Throughout, Barenboim let the music breathe and this prevented it from ever sounding muddled. Barenboim’s conducting is highly expressive, full of sweeping gestures that come close at times to parody. He often rotated to address individual sections of the orchestra, who respond to his commands with vigorous energy. But he always remained on top of the music, never lapsing into mushy sentimentality or showy but hollow pyrotechnics. He highlighted the timpani without letting it overwhelm and the tuba playing was shockingly strong, its striking flavor capable of fading out delicately like a firework. One or two crescendos were ill coordinated, but on the whole the first movement sounded dazzling.

In the stormy second movement, Barenboim led at a tempo measured enough catch all that was going. Soft cellos and winds lent a more subdued dimension to the big, gorgeous sound from the whole orchestra. The cellos, in their solo, played so slowly that the music seemed almost alien. The use of cymbals was blessedly restrained and the orchestral screams were well handled. The orchestra created a thick cloud of magisterial sound, and Barenboim let it envelope the audience in both the music’s loud and soft moments.

The brass that opened the Scherzo sounded deep and earthy, not conventionally pretty, but nonetheless effective. Barenboim went all out with the Adagietto, one of Mahler’s most sublime achievements (rivaled only by the third movements of the Fourth and Sixth Symphonies). The movement is written for string orchestra and harp. While all the other musicians sat silently by, the string sections carefully presented the heartbreakingly tremulous melodies, careful not to indulge too much vibrato. (Then again, some might have wished if Barenboim were a trifle more indulgent).

That movement fed directly into the fifth and final, where Barenboim again allowed the horns to lead of their own free will. The long, powerful movement began on the soft side and with the strings made the dramatically altered material from the Adagietto sound more recognizable. The winds were especially detailed in their technique, slow and steady. Barenboim paused several times for dramatic effect, insisted on a few rhythmic flourishes and gave the symphony a big glorious finish. The audience was generous in its applause, and Barenboim assumed the stage a half-dozen times. Despite the audience’s enthusiasm, he seemed reluctant to provide an encore and finally dragged the first violin off-stage with him. At this point the eager but tired audience gave up the fight and let the players go home.

Ensembles Dialogos and Sequentia
Metropolitan Museum of Art
November 8, 2005

Eleven years ago Chant, an album of Gregorian plainchant performed by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos took the world by storm and became the year’s most unexpected musical sensation. Something about the spiritual and minimal medieval plainchant struck a chord with late 20th-century listeners and the Chant skyrocketed to the top of classical and popular charts, spending 21 weeks on the Billboard Top 20. It also sold over 4 million copies worldwide, making it easily the most popular recording of early music ever released and spawned countless imitations, spin-offs parodies.        

Now, Gregorian chant is back with a vengeance, as evidenced by the new album Chant War, available on a Sony BMG and Deutsche Harmonia Mundi compact disc. That album was the subject of a concert this past Sunday evening in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Temple of Dendur.

Despite a title unfortunately reminiscent of Star Wars, the concert proved an informative and entertaining evening of skillful and deeply felt singing. Subtitled the Carolingian ‘globalization’ of medieval plainchant, the concert explored the various regional chant styles that flourished in the ninth century and the attempt by Charlemagne to impose the Roman style of plainchant throughout the empire. This was as much an aesthetic move as a political one, as Charlemagne sought to strengthen his reins legitimacy by adopting Roman practices.

The experience of hearing Christian liturgical music in an Egyptian temple was religiously confusing, but proved effective both atmospherically and acoustically. Two vocal ensembles of medieval music, Sequentia and Dialogos presented the Roman, Germanic and Frankish chants not so much in contest but in harmony. The leaders of both ensembles, Katarina Livjanic and Benjamin Bagby,  are scholars in addition to perfomers. The two of them devised the program in 2003, while enjoying research residencies at Harvard. The breadth of their knowledge and depth of their research shone both in the highly informative program notes, which included reflections from contemporary authors including John the Deacon and Nokter of St. Gall, and in the performance itself, which included several pieces that Livjanic and Bagby had reconstructed. One can, perhaps, view this scholarly approach to presenting plainchant as a corrective to the popularization and dumming down of Gregorian Chant in the wake of the Chant albums.

The well-attended performance included all the chants heard on the album plus several others, including an except from Otfrid von Weissenburg’s Evangelienbuch. It was given a theatrical and mellifluous account in Old German by Bagby, who reconstructed the piece from fragments. Another highlight was “A solis ortu usque ad occidua,” a lament on the death of Charlemagne, which featured Bagby playing a lyre. Livjanic raised her gentle and soothing voice only twice during the concert, once for a solo “Domine, exaudi orationem meam,” and again during the closing, “Chirstus antiphon,” a rousing acclimation for the emperor, sung by both ensembles. While she added an unexpectedly feminine dimension to the evening, I’m curious to know what motivated such an obviously anachronistic decision.

Unfortunately, the program notes didn’t provide detailed notes on the exceptionally talented singers, many of whom would not look out of place in the middle ages. Though the restrained and introverted style of medieval plainchant doesn’t particularly allow for individual skills to be highlighted, several singers from both ensembles couldn’t help but stand out. Olivier Germond’s high tenor was agile and ornamental. Wolodymyr Smishkewych, another tenor, was strappingly bold; and the youthful timbre of Michael Loughlin Smith’s youthful voice – heard most prominently during “Collegerunt pontifices,” the penultimate work on the program reminded us why this ancient music continues to be relevant.  

Thursday October 27, 2005 at 8 PM

    Donald Runnicles brought the estimable Orchestra of St. Luke’s to Carnegie Hall last week for a short but powerful concert of religious music. The main work on the program was Mozart’s Requiem, sung by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Chamber Chorus and a well-selected soloists. Two shorter pieces served as prelude to the nearly hour-long Requiem, which was performed in Robert Levin’s 1991 completion. Mr. Runnicles requested that the audience hold its applause until the conclusion of the Requiem, and the orchestra played all three pieces without interruption.
    The concert opened with Mozart’s “Ave Verum Corpus,” a well-known short work that bespeaks restraint and quiescence. Scored for strings, organ and choir, it has an airy, ephemeral feel. The strings worked wonders in terms of control and expressiveness, as did the Atlanta singers, delivering the simple and touching work - in whose melodies one hears echoes of the Requiem – without pomp or ceremony.
    “Ave Verum Corpus” was followed by Arvo Pärt’s purely instrumental “Fratres,” in an unusual arrangement for eight cellos.   The pendulous and chant-like work opens with an invocation in pizzicato and transitions to a ghost-like melody in a high register. By turns liturgical and mournful, it was given an effectively subdued performance. As a melody line struggles to be born, the work took on a dramatic quality until the very end brings out the dark, full colors of the cello. Following this, the finely calibrated performance faded out to airy thinness.
The audience held their applause and Runnicles led immediately into Mozart’s unfinished masterwork. He took the Introitus at a somewhat brisk pace. The musicians sounded clean and tidy and the chorus, sounding robust, struck a good balance with the orchestra. They sang carefully and one could hear the inner voices astonishingly well. Only the tenors sounded weak, a problem that persisted throughout the performance.
The Kyrie was likewise brisk: a potentially dangerous choice, but one that paid off since both chorus and orchestra was so responsive to Runnicles, who slowed the tempo beautifully for the coda. The performers tore into the Dies Irae, which was fiery and impassioned, even if overpowered at times by the trumpets and tympani. Midway through, Runnicles loosened the reins, giving us some room to breathe. He also isolated the strings in certain passages.  In the Confutatis, Runnicles elicited well worked-out proportions of brimstone and lyricism and the sopranos sounded exquisite. That said, they didn’t start out as softly as they might have for the Lacrimosa, where they strained to enunciate the Latin. On the whole, the section could’ve been taken a notch or two more slowly. For those familiar with the Requiem, the end of the Lacrimosa (the last movement written by Mozart himself) was a bit of a surprise. Robert Levin has composed a fugue on the final “Amen,” presumably according to evidence that Mozart intended each of the Requiem’s four sections to end with a fugue.

The soprano Celena Shafer was very effective with her pretty quiver, if perhaps a bit too bright. The baritone Nathan Berg cut a commanding figure and his forceful, powerful voice cut through the music like a blade. John Tessier was a perfect counterpoint with his sweet and heroic voice. Kristine Jepson, the mezzo, was also in top form, if a bit less dramatic than Ms. Shafer. But while the soloists were individually winning, they could have been a little more coordinated during their duets. Berg and Jepson together sounded quite lopsided, although both men sang beautifully together with Shafer. That said, it was a thoughtful and moving account of one of the greatest liturgical works and was greeted with generous applause from the well-packed house. 

Sunday Oct. 30 at 5pm

                          

    An evening concert of the Met Chamber Orchestra at Zankel Hall this Sunday proved a hard sell. Of the three works on the on the program, only the final one – Milhaud’s “le boeuf sur la troit” – was remotely familiar to concertgoers. The other two works were premieres by Elliot Carter and Frank Wuorinen. Both composers were in attendance to receive the applause of a small but enthusiastic crowd. 
    The poor attendance was somewhat surprising considering that the much-loved and ever-popular James Levine was at them helm. Though known as a champion of new music and an innovative programmer, Mr. Levine could have chosen a program that was less ambitious. Though he assuredly led members from the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra in a colorful and expressive performance, the challenging and lengthy program demanded much from the listener, both in terms of concentration and patience.
    The massive “Dante Trilogy,” a 70-minute ballet by Wuorinen, originally commissioned by the New York City Ballet in the early 90’s, dominated the program’s first half. The three-movement piece was presented in a chamber version prepared by the composer. Each movement corresponds to a book of Dante’s Divine Comedy. It is a puzzling, virtuosic but madding piece. Both the length and complexity of this astringent atonal work – especially with the ballet element absent – make for a music that is difficult to digest.
The first movement, titled “The Mission of Virgil” is a piano work for four hands. It was given a strident performance by Howard Watkins and Linda Hall, who worked well in tandem to explore Wourinen’s great dynamic and melodic ranges. Though initially exiting, the endless torrent of chromatic semitones became tiresome. Given the arrangement, it was near impossible to envision a dance choreographed to it.
In the subsequent two movements, “The Great Procession” and “The River of Light,” a chamber orchestra assumed the stage. This made for some logistical difficulties, and the Carnegie Hall staff spent an inordinate amount of time rearranging seats and instruments. Both movements saw an improvement on the initial one. Greater harmonic and instrumental diversity, replete with heavy tympani, made for more kinetic music that was cantankerous, shrill and often exhilarating. The violins provided some moments of solice and relief. Intentional or not, the chimes and percussion were frequently overpowering. Wuorinen likes to get instruments to play in unnatural registers. In the third and brightest movement, the violins, piccolo and flute were asked to play at an impossibly high pitch. As “The River of Light” neared its conclusion, the piece grew increasingly frenzied, then fizzled out to a ghostly sustain with chimes. 
Intermission was a much-need respite, followed by Elliott Carter’s Dialogues for Piano and Orchestra. The pianist Nicholas Hodges, for whom Carter wrote the 2003 work, was on hand to perform the New York premiere. The 15-minute work resembles a mini Piano concerto, full of beautiful, dark coloring. Carter’s music is thickly textured and luxuriant. Hodges played expressively and cleanly, remaining pensive and focused even during the piece’s more unhinged moments.
After suffering two premieres, the audience’s patience was rewarded with a lively, spirited performance of Darius Milhaud’s “Le Boeuf sur le toit,” Mihaud’s immediate influence was the Brazilian Carnival, but the piece sounds like a fusion between Latin and Klezmer music. It received an energetic yet seemingly effortless rendition from the performers, who got to strut their stuff in the scattered solos. Although the cutting percussion was a bit on the loud side, the ensemble sounded marvelous in their unity and Maestro Levine took time to revel in Milhaud’s lovely sonorities. While a pleasant finale to an overlong program, it was like consuming a light desert after an especially heavy dinner.