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Mahler, Symphony No. 9: New York Philharmonic, Lorin Maazel (Conductor), Avery Fisher Hall, New York, 7.6.2008 (BH)


"That performance gave me the vapors!" said my listening companion, slightly winded after hearing Mahler's epic Ninth Symphony for the very first time, thanks to Lorin Maazel and the New York Philharmonic.  And with a few reservations, I found myself as caught up as she was.

A final shudder, the Ninth seizes the present and spreads it out for a final review, by turns wistful and violent, before ultimately coming to terms with death and what lies beyond.  And although peacefulness prevails, manic, even phantasmagorical passages disrupt the softly sad ones.  In the Ninth, one can hear gentleness, heroics and the stirring of one's heart; one also hears screeching, moaning and hallucinations.  It is not a journey that proceeds in a straight line, but rather one in which the peace of death is not acquired without struggle.

The first movement showed the strings' expertise in a pure, unbroken line, with Maazel adopting slightly slow tempi helping create a sense of overwhelming spaciousness.

Delicacy changed to crushing weight in an instant, and eventually I felt like a climber desperately on a precipice, trying to maintain a foothold.  Here the music feels like it is constantly questioning itself: one moment ripping itself up, while the next pulling back in alarm at what it has just done.  The final bars, with concertmaster Glenn Dicterow in gentle rapport with the winds and horns, were capped by some magical harp punctuation.

The second movement was quite brisk, even folksy, the strings waltzing through the clouds while being assaulted by cannon shots, and Maazel seemed to be channeling Ravel's La Valse here and there.  By turns mellow, sinister and stinging, the Philharmonic's icy chill of flutes and cymbals was nicely balanced by some gravelly, rough low brass and double bass, all swirling around in crisp formations.  But the orchestra saved its most potent venom for the Rondo: Burleske, which if not quite as angry as what Rattle and Berlin hurled at us last fall, still made a powerful impact.  Page after page had fireworks and desperation, like attempts to keep a brave face while being pelted by a driving rain.

With some minor exceptions, the Philharmonic sounded in fantastic form, especially the strings, which pretty much outdid themselves the entire evening.  In the final movement I could feel a lump building in my throat, thanks to the orchestra's gentle yet piercing precision.  As a sad calm began to settle, Maazel quietly urged the ensemble to some of the its most lucid playing, as the texture began to grow ever more feeble, with the final bars ebbing away, like life itself being gently leached out.

Bruce Hodges

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