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St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra
Yuri Temirkanov, Artistic Director and Principal Conductor
At Carnegie Hall
www.CarnegieHall.org
Frank Daykin
October 1, 2005
Yuri Temirkanov is recognized on every continent as one of the most talented conductors of his generation. He was named artistic director and principal conductor of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra in April 1988, succeeding the legendary Evgeny Mravinsky. He is also the current music director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, principal guest conductor of the Danish National Radio Symphony Orchestra, and conductor laureate of London’s Royal Philharmonic. A regular guest conductor of the major orchestras of Europe and Aais, Mr. Temirkanov enjoys an equally acclaimed reputation among the leading orchestras of the United States. (Program Notes).
Program:
Giya Kancheli (b. 1935): . . . al Niente, (2000) NY Premiere
Johannes Brahms (1833-1897): Symphony No. 2 in D Major, Op. 73 (1877) I. Allegro non troppo, II. Adagio non troppo, III. Allegretto grazioso (quasi andantino), IV. Allegro con spirito.
The St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra gave an intriguing program for its third and final New York concert this fall—just two works for large orchestra. First, the New York premiere of a five-year old piece dedicated to the conductor Yuri Temirkanov; and the second, a beloved classic.
The premiere was Giya Kancheli’s “ . . . al Niente” (“ . . . to Nothing”). This isn’t an evocation à la “Seinfeld” that the piece is about nothing. Traditionally, in music’s expressive indications, the two words are preceded by something like “diminuendo al niente,” that is, get softer and softer until there is no more sound. The preceding is an apt description for Kancheli’s compositional aesthetic. His music emerges from deep silence, sighs wistfully, often using only the most basic chord progressions and melodic fragments, then almost immediately retreats back into the same devouring silence. When the music achieves a mezzo-forte, that moderate volume level takes on a shattering quality, given the composer’s painfully restrained dynamic palette.
“ . . . al Niente” has more loud climaxes than is customary in much of Kancheli’s music, but it is the extreme quiet that is most compelling. In a way, it is ironic to see the massed forces of 100+ orchestra musicians all playing ppppp. The intensity of containment becomes almost unbearable. Kancheli is fortunate to have in Temirkanov such a committed interpreter as a friend and advocate. I have often felt that Kancheli could use an editor, but at the same time, if any note or phrase was missing from this 30-minute sound picture, the impact would not be the same.
It is dangerous to ascribe definite meanings to music, yet that doesn’t mean that music has none. Composers and interpreters start out with their expressive intentions, after which the music is given away during performance, subject to many associations drawn by the listeners. Multivalence might be the best way to characterize music’s enduring mystery. I found engaging in a bit of anachronistic multivalence myself—at one of the louder passages, the brass and snare drums played what could only be described as a “stride” figure reminiscent of New Orleans jazz. My thoughts wandered to those persons displaced by Hurricane Katrina. Of course, “ . . . al Niente” was composed five years ago, with no such foreknowledge.
The composer says: “I simply write quiet, slow music and am terrified that the audience will fall asleep.” Nevertheless, the music definitely seems to be “about” loss, destruction, nostalgia, and containment, perhaps of an entire society, as was commonplace in Stalin’s Soviet Union. As one disgruntled lady seated to my left asserted loudly to anyone who would listen (before the performance): “With all the beautiful music in the world, why do they have to go and program that?!” Though I lacked the moral strength to address her directly at the time, I shall try here. When “all the beautiful music in the world” has been forcibly removed, along with relatives, lovers, and colleagues, that is how such music comes to be written.
The final descent into inaudibility was performed gorgeously by the enormous orchestra. Temirkanov’s bent posture seemed to telegraph emotional exhaustion—he vanished, as much as any conductor on a podium can. Perhaps Kancheli’s vocabulary is so disconcerting because he forces us to acknowledge something that we would rather not: In the end, silence will win.
After intermission, the next-door lady was amply comforted by the ministrations of Brahms’ Second Symphony. It is hard to imagine a more contrasting expression of symphonic goals. Since its premiere it has been hailed as a pastoral, generally sunny, lyrical symphony. Interestingly, Brahms himself apologized about its “sad, minorish” quality. In Brahms’ landscape, the shadows briefly darken the meadow, as opposed to Kancheli’s perpetual darkness.
The strings and woodwinds of the orchestra played with a dark sound that seemed to emanate from a place deep beneath the stage. At times, the brass were given their full due, resulting in uncharacteristic stridency. This was a Brahms performance that flowed to a greater extent than a more stolid German group and conductor might have chosen. After the blazing fanfare conclusion, the audience leaped to its feet in gratitude for the performance.
As an encore, Temirkanov led the strings in a transcription of the third of Schubert’s Moments musicaux, originally for piano solo. As if to underscore the internal connections of the program, conductor and orchestra let the end of the piece disappear in a very Kanchelian way. In the 19th century, the piece was titled “Air russe” (not by Schubert), and it provided a delicate, poignant farewell from this virtuosic Russian orchestra.
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