The Marquess of Queensbury
reputedly told Oscar Wilde (on the subject
of his homosexuality), "I do not say
that you are; I say that you look it".
On the evidence of this second Philadelphia
Orchestra concert, the Philadelphians might
not be a second rate orchestra, but they sound
like one.
Problems
– surprising ones, and significant ones –
arose too often in their performance of the
symphony which completed their London tour;
insecurities in both technique and intonation
were ample, and were only partially exonerated
by that fabled string sound, inappropriate
as it was for a performance of Shostakovich’s
Tenth Symphony. And it was this work which
caused such difficulty for both conductor
and orchestra.
Quite
what Eschenbach was trying to do with his
performance of this symphony is an almost
unanswerable question. At times it hang fire;
at others it had an inescapable propulsion
that was exhilarating. Often these extremes
were apparent within single movements. Timings
can sometimes be deceptive but in Eschenbach’s
case they were everything: a first movement
that lasted for almost 35 minutes (some 10
minutes slower than the norm) simply felt
interminable. Where it might, in fact, have
sounded inexorable it simply floundered with
Shostakovich’s symphonic line taken to breaking
point. This impacted on the playing – the
piccolo, for example, had enormous difficulty
negotiating Eschenbach’s broadness of tempi
at the first movement’s close; in the Allegretto
the horn calls were unfocussed and incorrectly
pitched.
The
whole performance was one of contradictions,
some of which seemed intent on rescuing it
from oblivion others of which simply sunk
it further into an abyss of distortion. The
central climax of the Allegretto had great
rhythmic drive until Eschenbach concluded
it with an unwritten ritardando (and
most destructive of all a crescendo that is
simply not in the score). The second section
of the fourth movement (marked Allegro – and
largely taken as such) had a rampant intensity
– almost a burning fire – to the playing as
Eschenbach pressed forward in stingendo,
yet, again, the conductor sunk the tension
by inserting page after page of in ritenuto
markings.
There
were compensations (although by no means enough
to rescue the performance from outright failure):
the second movement Allegro (even if it was
more ‘Uncle Joe’ than despotic dictator) had
diabolical weight and there was some simply
fabulous pizzicato playing in the third movement
which was almost tenebrous in the sound it
generated. Eschenbach continually got expressive
playing from the orchestra’s ‘cellos, and
indeed that hallowed string sound was something
to be in awe of. Yet, as so often with Shostakovich
performances today, the sound was just too
streamlined for it to be convincing and with
such deliberately extended tempi even more
so.
The
question the performance raises in my mind
is when does a virtuoso orchestra (and the
Philadelphia Orchestra is clearly that) stop
being convinced by its conductor’s vision?
The lack of elasticity to the performance
– and its constant loss of tension - seemed
more to do with the orchestra’s unwillingness
to follow Eschenbach’s baton, rather than
any inability to simply play the music. Yet,
this is an orchestra which only this year
performed its first Lyric Symphony
by Zemlinsky; modernism is hardly in its blood.
The Shostakovich had neither a sense of discovery,
nor a sense of honesty.
Brahms’
Violin Concerto, which opened the programme,
was in a different league. Gil Shaham, sonorous
of tone, gave an electrifying performance
which balanced the work’s lyricism and masculinity
in equal measure. A poetic second movement
– with a dark-hued oboe solo – had heartfelt
serenity – a sweeping contrast to the fiery
third movement which Shaham played with characteristic
panache.
Marc Bridle
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