Needing Less Speech, And More From the Music
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On Wednesday night, the New York Philharmonic let its hair down a little, under the baton of Bramwell Tovey, a British conductor. I think of him as “your genial host” — because he leads the Philharmonic’s “Summertime Classics” concerts, after the regular season ends. He does so very smoothly, with amusing comments between pieces. But he’s more than a British charmer: He is a worthy musician.
Although he didn’t have his best outing on Wednesday night. The program began with “El Salón México,” Aaron Copland’s souvenir from south of the border. Our Brooklynite composed it in the mid-1930s. It may not rival the B-minor Mass in greatness, but it’s a clever piece, and certainly not boring.
Or so you would have thought. From Mr. Tovey and the Philharmonic, “El Salón” was borderline boring. Mainly, it needed more — more of what? More slyness, more subtlety, more flavor. More insinuation, more allure, more swing. More, more. I guess I sound like Oliver Twist (only less meek).
What followed was the Symphony No. 2 by Christopher Rouse, which premiered in 1995. Mr. Rouse, a native Baltimorean, is a teacher at Juilliard. And because this is a contemporary piece, the conductor had to say a few words. That’s the rule, you know: No contemporary piece may be played without a speech first. We may soon reach the point where no piece of any kind may be played without a speech.
Music used to be higher than speech. Now it seems that musicians aspire to be lecturers.
As I’ve said many times, Mr. Tovey is a marvelous talker, maybe the best in the business. But practically nothing he said on Wednesday night could not be gleaned from the program notes — or, really, from the symphony itself.
This work is virtually a showpiece for orchestra; it requires much virtuosic playing. The opening movement is busy, driving, relentless — essentially chipper, but with an ominous undertone. Then the middle movement is woozy, disorienting, full of lamentation. Also somewhat lugubrious. In the last movement, the music is again busy, driving, and relentless — but not chipper at all. Instead it is bristling and menacing.
The symphony ends with deafening cacophony, which the composer probably means to be disturbing. A listener may decide that it is simply loud (or exciting).
The New York Philharmonic appeared to be well prepared for this work, and the woodwind solos were particularly good. Mr. Tovey conducted with intelligence and skill.
As I walked up the aisle for intermission, I noticed a beautiful little girl in a purple velvet dress. She wasn’t there for the Rouse symphony, was she? No: She was there for “The Nutcracker,” which took up the second half of the program.
Only this wasn’t Tchaikovsky, or only Tchaikovsky. The New York Philharmonic played selections from the ballet, and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra played the arrangements by Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn, composed in 1960. The jazz orchestra was plunk in the middle of the symphonic one.
And here’s how the performance worked: The Philharmonic played one selection — say, the Dance of the Reed Flutes — and the jazzmen played its corresponding arrangement (“Toot Toot Tootie Toot”). After the first pairing, I realized that this would be a long, long experiment. Indeed, the two Arabian pieces would last about an hour and a half (or so it would seem). My preference is to have either a “Nutcracker” Suite or the Jazz “Nutcracker” — one or the other. But the side-by-side comparison was not without interest.
Unfortunately, the orchestra was dreadful — I’m talking about the Philharmonic now. Boy, did they stink up the place. They were sluggish, uncoordinated, uncrisp — undancing. When they were not poor, they were pedestrian. It was sort of astonishing to hear.
The jazz orchestra played rings around them. If this was a battle of the bands, there was no question who was the winner. At times, the jazz arrangements seemed to be almost mocking the Tchaikovsky. After one especially hot selection, Mr. Tovey, reassuming the podium, shook his head and laughed, as if to say, “How can we follow that?”
Outstanding among the jazzmen — no roster was printed — was the clarinetist, who can really make his instrument talk.
And I might say something about Wynton Marsalis, leader of the jazz band — about his modesty. He sat in the back of the band; I didn’t even see him, until the end of the performance. While several of his bandmates stood up for solos, Mr. Marsalis — their star — did not. That made an impression, at least on me.
These concerts run through tomorrow night, and I bet that Mr. Tovey and the Philharmonic get significantly better, in the Copland and the Tchaikovsky. They should.