This has been a good week for music in New York, as every week should be, frankly. On Monday night, the Metropolitan Opera presented Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde. The next night, the Philadelphia Orchestra played Mahler’s Symphony No. 2, the “Resurrection,” in Carnegie Hall. Those are two of the greatest works of music. Indeed, they are two of the greatest works of art.
It was a privilege to hear those works on consecutive nights. But you want to hear privilege? The same man conducted them, on those consecutive nights: Yannick Nézet-Séguin. He is the music director of both the Met and the Philadelphians.
Mahler 2 began with a clean attack. That’s always a good way to begin: it can set the tone of an evening. The Philadelphians were clean throughout the first movement. The music had an underlying tension, and often a coiled intensity. It also had another necessary ingredient: Mahlerian sweetness.
Frequently, I apply the phrase “tender loving care” to the conducting of Nézet-Séguin. I did so in my Tristan review yesterday. Is there such a thing as too much TLC? Well, Mahler demands TLC, throughout his œuvre. To withhold it would be wrong.
In my view, some of the tempos in this first movement were too slow, and some too fast. But they were all within bounds. There is room for choice in Mahler.
The second movement is marked “Andante moderato.” This is one of Mahler’s “Classical” movements, hearkening back to Mozart et al. Nézet-Séguin went in for little pauses and hesitations. These were not for me. I think the music should be stricter.
Worse, the orchestra’s playing was often out of coordination. Downright sloppy. The closing pizzicatos were a mess.
The second movement at large was not worthy of this great orchestra.
But the following movement was. It began with an excellent attack: Maestro Nézet-Séguin simply let the timpanist, Don S. Liuzzi, begin the movement on his own. No downbeat, no cue. The maestro’s arms were at his sides. This whole movement had a proper momentum, plus precision.
On hand to sing the next movement, the “Urlicht,” was Joyce DiDonato, the great American mezzo-soprano. (I do not use the word “great” reflexively or lightly.) When you’re a singer, you give what you have. The “Urlicht” has often been sung by a big, plush mezzo or contralto. That is not DiDonato. She is a slenderer mezzo. And she used her tools perfectly.
She never pushed, she never forced. She did not try to be someone or something else. Thank heaven.
DiDonato was pure, and I would also like to say “plain.” I use this word positively, not negatively. She simply sang, without making a show of anything. The “Urlicht” was somewhat inward, or prayerful.
Intonation was spot-on, and diction was lovely.
(Again, Nézet-Séguin went in for little hesitations. Again, these were not for me.)
The Finale is almost a work unto itself. It lasts about thirty-five minutes. The Finale includes storms, sunshine, and more. (A resurrection, no less!) Nézet-Séguin and the Philadelphians brought out all the essential qualities.
There are very good players in this orchestra, obviously. The principal clarinet, Ricardo Morales, is one of the best instrumentalists around. Mark Gigliotti is the co-principal bassoon.
I had a memory. The Philadelphia Orchestra often came to my hometown, Ann Arbor, Michigan. Anthony Gigliotti, Mark’s father, was the principal clarinet. After one concert, I was hanging outside the stage entrance. Not sure why. Maybe to glimpse Ormandy? (I met him once.)
A group of students were waiting—waiting for Gigliotti. They were clarinetists. And they greeted him like a rock star.
I often say, “Life is not a studio recording.” I say this when forgiving, or understanding, flubs. A live performance is seldom perfect; leave perfection, or “perfection,” to engineers who doctor recordings. But there were many flubs in the horns and trumpets of the Philadelphia Orchestra during the Finale last night. Too many for comfort.
Traveling with the orchestra from Philadelphia was the Philadelphia Symphonic Choir. They were first-rate, not least in their hushed singing.
Ying Fang, the Chinese star, was the soprano soloist. She was bell-like and apt, as usual. As Joyce DiDonato worked, I noticed something: she knows how much volume and warmth to release, and when. It’s like squeezing a paste out of a tube.
Or a painter knowing how much paint to apply, or a pitcher knowing how much speed to put on a pitch.
What is the greatest moment in music? There is none, of course, but it would be understandable to vote for the climactic cry of “Ja, aufersteh’n!” (“Yes, rise again!”) How was it last night? I thought the preceding pages were too slow. I thought the build-up was too long. But, again, there is room for choice.
When I was young, I had a Bruno Walter recording drilled into my head. I played that thing almost on a loop. But Walter is not the final word in Mahler, and neither is anyone else.
And Nézet-Séguin and his forces last night were duly grand and glorious.
You know who sang along with the chorus? The two vocal soloists: Ying Fang and DiDonato. I don’t think Mahler indicates this, but how could you not sing, when you’re onstage anyway?
As you have seen, I have my complaints and cavils about this performance. But I’m glad I heard it. And whenever and whatever Yannick Nézet-Séguin conducts, his love of music—his sheer love of music—comes through. This is not as common a trait as you might think.
And to conduct Tristan und Isolde and Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 on consecutive nights? Isn’t that the kind of thing a conductor might live for?
