Bach: The Cello Suites

I know of no music that is more musically and spiritually rewarding than the cello suites of J. S. Bach. Ever since the Vancouver Recital Society announced a performance of all six suites by the young cellist Jean-Guihen Queyras, this had been the concert I had most anticipated all year long. I certainly did not come away disappointed.

Queyras announced at the beginning of the concert that, contrary to what was said on the programme, he was going to play the suites sequentially, so that we could hear the progression, or evolution, of Bach’s compositional thoughts. Other than the Préludes to each suite (which has no repeats), Queyras played the repeat of the A sections of each of the dances, presumably to balance the length of the (usually) longer B sections.

In the Prélude of the Suite No. 1 in G major, BWV 1007, Queyras established a, for lack of a better word, natural tempo that allows for the ebb and flow of the music. The bass notes that begin many of the phrases serve as sort of an anchor for that particular phrase.

For the Prélude to the Suite No. 2 in D minor, BWV 1008, the artist created a sense of the space, or spaciousness, of the music. His performance of the energetic Courante was exhilarating. In the Sarabande, he conveyed the sense of emptiness, of bleakness, so inherent in the music.

Queyras conjured up a veritable storm in the series of broken chords beginning at m. 40 of the Prélude of the Suite No. 3 in C major, BWV 1009. I also appreciated his light-footed playing of the Bourrée I.

The violinist Nathan Milstein was once asked to name the most modern composer he had ever played, and he responded, “Bach.” Indeed in the Prélude to the Suite No. 4 in E-flat major, BWV 1010, the composer, with the help of the artist, led us into some very strange territories harmonically. Queyras successfully highlighted the “weirdness” of this incredible music. As in the Suite No. 3, the cellist played the Bourrée I of this suite with a beguiling lightness, especially in the many 16^th-note runs throughout the music.

With the last two suites, the music becomes distinctly denser, and I really sense that Bach was painted on a much larger canvas. The young artist conveyed the gravity and somber mood of the Suite No. 5 in C minor, BWV 1011, with the first notes of the Prélude. This was especially apparent in the many dotted note figures in the opening section. I thought his transition from 4/4 to 3/8 time was very logically and naturally done. Queyras conveyed the massiveness of this Prélude, probably the longest piece in the set of six.

For me, Queyras’ performance of this fifth suite was the emotional high point of the entire performance, which is saying a great deal. His performance of the Sarabande was truly stunning, and time stood still in that duration. The opening falling figures were so beautifully played that the audience, I sense, scarcely breathed.

I really appreciated the energy Queyras conveyed with the first repeated D’s of the Prélude to the Suite No. 6 in D major, BWV 1012, an energy that he sustained throughout the entire suite. The Courante was played with a breathtaking lightness. Glenn Gould was once asked what it was that attracted him to the music of Bach, and he answered with one word, “Compassion.” Hearing his performance of the cello suites, we certainly sense this quality in Bach’s music that Gould alluded to.

Before the afternoon, I had been a little concerned about the acoustics of the Orpheum Annex but, as it turned out, the intimate space suited the sound of a single cello just perfectly. It was neither too resonant, nor too dry, and allowed the intimate sounds of Bach to drift through the space.

The foregoing were just some thoughts that came to me during the concert. It takes courage for any artist to play all six of cello suites in a single afternoon, and Queyras’ performance yesterday afternoon was an astonishing display of musicianship. Let’s hope that the VRS would have him back in the nearest possible future.

I am grateful to the VRS for giving us this incredible musical experience; grateful to Queyras for his astounding performance, and grateful most of all for the creative genius of Johann Sebastian Bach.

Patrick May

January 22, 2017

Macbeth from Congo

The late great Austrian conductor Herbert von Karajan once said that even in a small theatre with a small orchestra, Verdi’s music “works”, which presumably means that the power of the music comes across.

I attended last night’s Vancouver Opera presentation of Macbeth with a great deal of trepidation, mainly because I had read that the score had been “reworked” for a mere 12 musicians by Fabrizio Cassol. I came away from the performance convinced that this production of Macbeth absolutely “works” as a theatre piece, if not exactly as “grand” opera.

I was thankful that the performance was held at the acoustically acceptable Vancouver Playhouse, and not in that travesty of a hall called the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. All of the voices were clearly heard, and the power of the music came through much more effectively in the smaller venue.

The set was incredibly simple. The chorus was seated (mostly) on stage left, and acts as a sort of Greek chorus commenting on the unfolding drama. The instrumentalists and the conductor were seated on stage right, and not in an orchestra pit, which also contributed to the immediacy of the sound. All of the action took place in an elevated area center stage, the size of a boxing ring, with black and white painted squares on the floor like a chessboard. Changing scenery was very effectively and evocatively achieved by back projections.

Rather than Scotland, the opera had been relocated to the Great Lakes region of Central Africa, with Macbeth being an ambitious Congolese warlord. Against this backdrop the director was able to address the many atrocities committed today on the African continent, exploitation of the land as well as the people, intimidation and raping of women, ethnic conflicts, and child soldiers. The performance, which lasted only one hour and forty minutes, necessitated streamlining of the story, which made the dramatic impact of the story much more powerful.

None of these things would matter if the music making were not up to standards, which it was. This reworking of Verdi’s score did not destroy the music, and the singing of the chorus as well as all the principals were Italianate, strong and beautiful. Nobulumko Mngxekeza, as Lady Macbeth, possesses a voice that soars over the most dramatic musical outbursts. And Owen Metsileng strikes a perfect balance between Macbeth's cowardice and ambition. Performing this work with such minimal forces did not diminish the power of the music or the message of the drama.

At a time when so many iconoclasts seek to, in their works, insert their dose of political correctness or political agenda, it is refreshing to see a production such as this, which gives us a new and different glimpse of this all too familiar tale, and yet retaining all the essence of Verdi’s masterpiece. In the end, it is not about whether the opera is set in Scotland or Africa, but how the artists were able to use this timeless tale to highlight Shakespeare’s insight into the human heart.

Patrick May

January 20, 2017

Conversations with Seiji Ozawa

Conductor Seiji Ozawa is far too modest a man to write an autobiography, or to have one written about him. During the early 2010’s, when Ozawa was recuperating from esophageal cancer and its many complications, the conductor sat down on many occasions with novelist Haruki Murakami to discuss his musical life, his views on music and on certain composers, as well as teaching. The result is this delightful and marvelous book of musical talk: Absolutely on Music – Conversations with Seiji Ozawa (Bond Street Books, 2016), a sort of Tuesdays with Morrie on music. This is probably as close as we will ever get to having a glimpse into the life of the great conductor.

The book is divided into six conversations/chapters, with shorter “interludes” in between. Ozawa and Murakami began their conversations with a discussion on Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3, which Ozawa was, at the time, preparing to conduct. As a tangent, Ozawa shared his experience of being in the audience when Glenn Gould and Leonard Bernstein gave that infamous performance of Brahms’ Piano Concerto No. 1 in D minor. Ozawa felt that Bernstein’s disclaimer before the performance was inappropriate. He and Murakami then discussed and compared Gould’s performance of Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto with Herbert von Karajan (a live recording) as well as Leonard Bernstein (a studio recording), thereby highlighting the difference between the two master conductors, both of whom were mentors to Ozawa. They also compared recordings of pianist Rudolf Serkin’s two recordings of the same concerto, one with Bernstein, and the other one with Ozawa himself and the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

I find it interesting to contrast Murakami’s questions/comments about certain musical subjects, in the language of a knowledgeable music lover, and Ozawa’s answers/comments in much more the language of a musician. In Murakami’s own words, “(T)here is a fundamental difference that separates the way we understand music...it’s hardly for me to point out how very high the wall is that separates the pro from the amateur, the music maker and the listener.” That said, Ozawa never condescends, never gives pat answers, when answering Murakami’s questions, and his responses are always respectful to the writer as well as thoughtful.

In a subsequent chapter, Ozawa shared his memories of his experiences as assistant conductor to Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, some of his early recordings and performances, and his appointment as music director of the Chicago Symphony’s Ravinia Festival, as well as his time as music director of the Toronto Symphony.

Fascinating also is an entire chapter on Ozawa’s views on the music of Gustav Mahler, whose nine symphonies Ozawa performed and recorded extensively. Again, Ozawa related his experiences with Bernstein when he was in the process of performing and recording the Mahler symphonies.

Ozawa also shared with Murakami his experiences as an opera conductor. Although he did not grow up, like many of the older conductors, in the tradition of an opera house, he certainly grew into opera with a steep learning curve, so much so that he was appointed music director of the Vienna State Opera. It is therefore not surprising that one chapter is devoted to Ozawa’s activities as in opera.

In spite of the fact that Ozawa is one of the most famous names in the music world, this very private man has never revealed very much about his life or about his past musical experiences. These different chapters give us a tiny glimpse into the great conductor’s musical life, his many accomplishments, and his thoughts on various aspects of music.

It is fascinating to read Ozawa’s recollections of the many great musicians whose path he crossed. He was forever lamenting - and I’m sure he meant it - about all the missed opportunities he might have had in learning from and talking to older musicians – Glenn Gould and Bruno Walter were the two figures he specifically named - because of his poor English. Unlike many musical memoirs, this book does not degenerate into becoming a series of self-aggrandizing anecdotes. The self-effacing Ozawa seemed to always divert the conversation towards other musicians, or about the composer and the works he conducted.

A friend who read this book in the original Japanese told me that it is impossible to capture the tone and the flavour of the conversation with any translation. Even so, Ozawa is one of my musical heroes, and reading this book has been the highlight of the Christmas season.

Since falling ill in 2009, Seiji Ozawa’s convalescence has been a long and difficult process. Even today, the conductor only makes two or three appearances a year, and often share a concert with another conductor because of his limited strength. Which is all the more reason we should be thankful for this inspiring book. Music lovers, students of music, as well as musicians would all enjoy and learn from the many reflections and insights by this master musician, and one of the 20^th century’s great conductors, now in the twilight of his life.

Patrick May

Christmas Eve, 2016

Nordic Soundscapes

I had been so looking forward to last weekend’s Vancouver Symphony Concert, since it featured two of my favourite orchestral works: Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3, Op. 30 and Sibelius’ Symphony No. 5 in E-flat major, Op. 82.

Yet I came away after the concert strangely disappointed.

The concert opened with Mexican-Canadian composer Alfredo Santa Ana’s Ocaso, a Spanish word for “dusk”. The work is well written and orchestrated, with a quietly energetic opening and closing, and a more lyrical middle section.  Yet, conductor Anu Tali failed to bring out fully the orchestral colours inherent in the score. This was to be a major complaint for the music making for the entire evening.

An interesting sight in music schools is piano student walking around with the score of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3, and its title prominently displayed. But even with today’s high standards of piano playing, there are still relatively few pianists who can truly bring off all the elements of this rich and dense score. For me, the orchestral writing for this concerto is no less amazing than its very demanding piano part.

Let me first say that pianist Alexey Yemtsov gave a note perfect and technically impregnable performance last Saturday evening. However, it was a performance that was devoid of tonal beauty, grandeur and poetry. We recently witnessed the Vancouver recital debut of Charles Richard Hamelin. Mr. Yemtsov’s approach to music making seemed to be the antithesis to that of Hamelin. Things were not helped by probably the dullest piano I had heard for a long time. While the haunting melody in the opening bars should be played simply, there was no shaping of the melodic lines under Yemtsov’s hands, and the result sounded angular. Even the buildup (piu vivo) to the incredible climax at 7 measures after rehearsal number 14 failed to elicit any real excitement. Conductor Tali conducted the score competently, and maintained a good sense of ensemble throughout the performance, but she was merely “accompanying” the concerto, and the orchestra definitely played a secondary role last Saturday. She completely failed to bring out the lushness and richness of the orchestral writing. Emotionally, the two artists may as well have been playing different pieces.

Close to the end of the third movement, at rehearsal number 74 (Vivacissimo), Tali did something quite inexplicable to my ears. At the third of the orchestral fanfares echoing the piano chords, she slowed down the tempo slightly, thereby slackening the tension in the music, and she did the same thing when the fanfares return at 13 measures after 74. Throughout the performance, there was a lot of banging on the keyboard, emphasizing the vertical rather than the horizontal elements of the music. There was no sense of phrasing in the many beautiful melodies throughout the work. This was the kind of “efficient” music making that seems to be so prevalent with today’s young pianists. It was digitally precise, but where was the music?

Ever since Glenn Gould used Sibelius’ Symphony No. 5 in E-flat major as the soundtrack for his radio documentary The Idea of North, I have, every time I hear this music, conjured in my mind this imaginary Nordic but so very Canadian landscape. Tali’s reading of this score was musical, but she failed to bring out the epic quality that is (to me) inherent in the music. The wind players of the Vancouver Symphony played the opening of the first movement beautifully, as they always do. But the music does not build, and there was a serious lack of tension in the music making. The second movement was charming and beautiful, but it was again more of the image created by an ordinary photographer, rather than an Ansel Adams.

In the third movement, the rapid string figurations in the opening measures do not lead up to that incredible and inevitable arrival of the big theme by the French horns at letter D. Overall, the young conductor’s reading of the score missed the epic grandeur, the “bigness” (not loudness) of the music. Which was really unfortunate. Towards the end of the movement, when the same melody by the horns is played, the “answers” by the violins and violas (6 before letter P) should, I think, have a weightier, more substantial sound.

So, last Saturday’s performance was an evening of “might have been”. The performances were technically more than adequate, but somehow the artists missed the emotional impact these great works could have elicited.