Attempting Magic
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Earlier this week, the Berlin Philharmonic came to Carnegie Hall, for a festival called “Berlin in Lights.” The orchestra, under its music director, Sir Simon Rattle, will play three concerts, the last of which is tomorrow night. These concerts follow a pattern: a contemporary piece on the first half, a big Mahler work on the second. (Are there Mahler works other than big ones? Sure, but not many.)
Sir Simon has been music director in Berlin since 2002, and his tenure has not been to everyone’s liking. Of course, no tenure can be to everyone’s liking — although if they complained about Mengelberg in Amsterdam, or Szell in Cleveland, they were eccentric indeed.
Tuesday night’s concert began with “Seht die Sonne” — “See the Sun” — by Magnus Lindberg, a Finnish composer born in 1958. The violinist Lisa Batiashvili recently recorded his violin concerto, written for her. It is an interesting and skillful work. And so is this piece for orchestra.
What is the piece, exactly? A tone poem, a fantasy — an orchestral exercise? Whatever it is, it lasts about a halfhour, and is written in a rhapsodic style. The music seems to be telling a story, or at least making a point; what the point is, we can’t be sure. Furthermore, the music seems to comport with its title: “See the Sun.” But isn’t that always the case, when a composer tells you, or suggests to you, what a piece is “about,” with words?
In Mr. Lindberg’s score are great crashes, and soft moments, too — beguiling ones, almost Oriental. Toward the end, the piece becomes something of a cello concerto, as the principal goes to town. (And the Berlin Philharmonic’s was superb.) I wonder whether the piece is more than an extended series of interesting musical gestures — gestures that add up to not much at all. In any case, it is worth hearing, and absorbing, for yourself. And it has behind it some spiritual thrust.
I myself was reminded of “Sun-Treader” by Carl Ruggles — an essay for orchestra written in 1931. But, again, am I merely the prisoner of titles?
Maestro Rattle conducted “See the Sun” with what seemed understanding and good sense. And the orchestra played outstandingly. One can make too much of sound — from an orchestra, an instrumentalist, or a singer — but one can also make too little of it. The Berlin sound is so beautiful — glowing, lush, filling — it’s almost decadent, especially within the walls of Carnegie Hall. And the orchestra’s execution is as impressive as its sound.
We do not rank orchestras as we do tennis players. Besides, the conductor standing in front of an orchestra — any orchestra — is so important as to be decisive. But suffice it to say that there is not a better orchestra in the world presently than the Berlin Philharmonic; and it has few equals.
The Mahler work on Tuesday night was the Ninth Symphony, his last — his ultimate statement — although people have tried to will a Tenth. Mahler died before completing No. 10, although he left a draft. And one of the movements is substantially finished. Various people have fashioned “performing versions” of the whole thing, and, in fact, Sir Simon and the Berliners will play one of these — by Deryk Cooke — tomorrow night.
In the Symphony No. 9, Sir Simon showed great emotional involvement, which is good: because the symphony is an emotionally involving work. Over the years, I have complained about Sir Simon that he can be too relaxed, too sunny, too casual. Often a degree of struggle or suffering — even of depth — is missing in a work that should have it. But such was not the case on Tuesday night. Mahler’s Ninth came through with all its power.
Every part in the orchestra was clear, not lost in some general Mahlerian noise. The performance at times had the character of chamber music. Solo playing was first-rate, and the collective playing was no worse. When the orchestra played softly, you were on the edge of your seat. Or, put another way: The music was sometimes on tiptoe.
As a rule, Sir Simon’s tempos were unhurried, and yet they were undragging, too. So natural were the tempos, you did not have to think about them, really. The conductor refrained from anything bizarre. The second movement had its folk flavor, but not an excess of it. The third movement — Rondo-Burleske — was duly raucous and sassy; but elegantly so. And if there is a smoother principal trumpet than the Berliners’, I have not noticed him.
I have said that the Mahler Ninth came through with all its power. But this is perhaps not true, or less true, of the final movement. It was beautifully, beautifully sculpted. But also a touch superficial — without the profundity that should, or might, devastate you.
And something very curious happened between the first and second movements. Sir Simon decided to give a little speech, a lecture. He said that he and the orchestra were trying to “create magic,” and they needed the audience’s help in the creation of this magic: The audience had to remain silent. Sir Simon held up his hankie and said that we should use them — to smother our coughs, I suppose.
This was highly perplexing. I had thought that the audience was particularly quiet during the first movement — even rapt. It was a wonderful experience. And it was Sir Simon himself, with his speech, who broke the “magic.” The speech made everyone conscious of noises — when a door closed, before Sir Simon began the second movement, people laughed. And if the conductor had noticed audience noises in the first movement, was he as involved with the music as I believed?
Frankly, Sir Simon’s speech came off as a little graceless and arrogant — and unnecessary. He might want to think this through, before doing it again. His words — however smoothly delivered, and they were — sort of soured the whole experience.
At the end of the symphony, as the final note trailed away, and we all should have been lost in Mahler’s world, sirens wailed outside Carnegie Hall. This was almost comical. Later, a friend of mine made a brilliant observation: If Sir Simon had not taken the time to lecture the audience, we would not have had to endure the sirens at the end.