Germany Beethoven and Brahms: Martha Argerich (piano), Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra / Daniel Barenboim (conductor). Philharmonie, Berlin, 20.12.2023. (MB)
Beethoven – Piano Concerto No.2 in B-flat main, Op.19
Brahms – Symphony No.3 in F main, Op.90
Seventy-four years in the past they met in Buenos Aires. They proceed to play collectively, right here in Beethoven’s Second Piano Concerto, and proceed to please audiences. For my remaining live performance of the 12 months, it was a deal with to listen to Martha Argerich and Daniel Barenboim, this time – and, I imagine for the second time ever – with the Berlin Philharmonic. The heat of applause initially, not to mention the shut, provided testomony to a particular night.
Though I’ve heard Barenboim many occasions in Beethoven, as pianist, as conductor, and as each, I don’t assume I had heard him conduct the BPO in Beethoven. Even with him, it gives a special sound from the Staatskapelle Berlin, however for sure, there was completely no rebarbative faddishness to it, whether or not in tonal high quality or tempo. As an alternative, the opening tutti spoke in a heart-rending great thing about tone in direct line from Mozart and owing as a lot in its elementary harmonic rhythm to Klemperer as to Furtwängler (as has usually been the case in Barenboim’s Beethoven of the final decade or so). Each notice mattered — and meant; as noble because the Fifth Symphony or Fidelio, although with requisite lightness of contact. Argerich responded in type, although not with out (fairly rightly, as soloist) a sure wresting of initiative that but all the time furthered collegial, chamber-music give-and-take. The piano half sang and scintillated, Barenboim and Argerich each bringing explicit, complementary items to the efficiency. How a pivot chord from the piano informed; how an orchestral sequence constructed harmonically; and the way left-hand bass rumbling led us towards the tonic for the second of return. The music continued to ‘develop’, not solely to develop, all through the recapitulation, Berlin strings really digging in, getting ready the best way for Beethoven’s personal cadenza, a missive from the Beethovenian future, mendacity gloriously past the language of the concerto ‘itself’.
The opening tutti of the Adagio, in distinction, complement, and improvement, was consoling in addition to dramatic, a brand new body for a brand new but associated portray. Argerich’s solo grew from inside, its moral subjectivity each singular and in accord with that of Barenboim’s clever narration. Collectively, their voice, Beethoven’s voice, had one imagine – and so one ought to – that it was the voice of reality, its hushed tones and awe prefiguring the ‘late’ voice of the Ninth Symphony and even the Missa solemnis, piano elaboration nonetheless reminding us of the totally different nature of this music. Spun from most interesting Egyptian cotton, it was a sensuous delight in addition to a musical necessity. This was the very mannequin of a Beethoven gradual motion. The finale was forthright as ever, from all involved. After Elysian reverie, enjoyable and goodness have been available again on earth — and the way. Like sparks of the divine, they have been current within the element in addition to the broader contours, in articulation and acciaccaturas as within the tonal plan, in orchestral syncopation and in Haydnesque dialog. Civilisation issues, maybe particularly in our horrible historic second, and the marvel of modulation is a part of it, as triumphantly displayed right here.
A shock encore got here in Schubert’s A serious Rondo for piano 4 fingers, D 951, Barenboim taking his seat subsequent to Argerich, their page-turner none apart from concertmaster Daishin Kashimoto. Right here, in confidences whispered extra softly than ever earlier than, was a really totally different subjectivity, its fragility no much less touching, an act of remembrance nonetheless within the right here and now reasonably than an act that was ‘about’ remembrance. Episodes unfolded in their very own time, and in accordance with their very own necessity. Certainly, time nearly stood nonetheless, however not fairly.
A bigger orchestra assembled after the interval for Brahms’s Third Symphony, twelve first violins now fourteen, 4 double basses now seven, and so forth. Anybody anticipating one thing sedate would have been instantly put to rights, the opening of the primary motion not solely febrile however indignant, albeit fairly with out the trivial hysteria some, although by no means Barenboim, appear to assume constitutes musical emotion and ‘pleasure’. The second group retreated to the world of Schubert’s Rondo; right here was music we over-heard, in a dialectical conception of the motion taking us between private and non-private. All of the whereas, life was to be discovered within the internal components, reasonably as if in a string quartet — or in Wagner. Sinews, honed once more on Klemperer and Furtwängler, unleashed nonetheless better anger within the improvement. This, for me not less than, was music for and of Palestine, a musical land of magnificence nearly ‘occupied’, a coronary heart of darkness terrifying in its reality. The grim dedication of the recapitulation, and never solely that, wouldn’t have been misplaced within the composer’s Fourth Symphony. It was not with out comfort, although want for that comfort had been immeasurably heightened.
Heard in a veiled dignity that enhanced riches each textual and textural, the Andante possessed an impressive intimacy suggestive one way or the other each of an expanded string quartet and, at occasions, of an imaginary ballet, Tchaikovsky nearer than one would possibly assume. As soon as once more, a lot grew, motivically but in addition harmonically, from these glowing internal components. Unusual dissonances registered a ache each internal and inward. The third motion proved a tragic serenade, whose eternally remodeling music bore post-Beethovenian witness to the everlasting – and eternally troubled – spirit of humanity. Did it meander? Maybe a little bit, however not if that be taken to imply lack of readability as to vacation spot; reasonably, this was a musical stream, with twists and turns, but plain, directed movement. The subdued opening of the finale solely heightened the influence of subsequent bursting of the banks. Once more, the Fourth was foreshadowed in darkness, even in tragedy, although that remained just one aspect of the coin. There was hard-won Beethovenian pleasure too, if briefly. Cussed in addition to swish, this was a studying of thoroughgoing integrity, whether or not in these echt-Brahmsian half-lights, in ghostly reminiscences, or beneath a winter solar that simply sometimes advised spring would possibly come. Above all, it was a wrestle, a essential one at that.
Mark Berry