Too Much Porridge

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The New York Sun

The current subscription series of the New York Philharmonic has as its guests two of the critical establishment’s favorites: David Robertson, conductor, and Emanuel Ax, pianist. The program in which they are participating consists of standard works, plus Gyorgy Ligeti’s “Romanian Concerto,” composed in 1951 and revised in 1996.


The first order of business is the Symphony No. 1 of Prokofiev. (This is the symphony known as the “Classical.”) Saturday night’s performance was not one to be proud of. The first movement had little crispness or flair. Dynamics were stagnant, and attacks were sloppy. The music should be sly, slinky, winking – it was none of that. And the orchestra did not end together.


In a show of consistency, however, they did not begin the second movement together. And this movement (Larghetto) was strangely soupy and unchipper. Ritards were exaggerated or out of place, and harmful. There was insufficient “etto” in this Larghetto. It was not a disgrace, but there was no spark, nothing to savor. One might have been listening to a competent college orchestra. And each of the beats at the end of the movement? Not together.


The ensuing Gavotte was inoffensive, but undistinguished. As for the closing Molto vivace, it had some life and zip, but not that current that runs through the better performances. This “Classical” Symphony was missing its thrill. The Philharmonic continued with its imprecision, and the conductor presided over odd fluctuations of tempo.


Mr. Ax appeared for Chopin’s F-minor piano concerto – but the orchestral part should not be scanted. Chopin may have been consumed by the piano, but his orchestral writing here – perhaps especially in the first movement – is full of charm and grace. Mr. Robertson, to his credit, was committed to it, did not yawn his way through. But some of the mediocrity that marked the Prokofiev numbed the Chopin.


When Mr. Ax began to play, he covered the notes with pedal, but he shaped subsequent phrases well – with proper lyricism. He used too much license at an early stage, however. It is better to establish melodies, rhythms, and so on before indulging. Mr. Ax showed ample technique, and much of what he did was limpid. But he persisted in a surfeit of pedal, and he allowed tempos to sag. A monotony developed. The performance descended into so much Chopin porridge.


And, predictably, when Mr. Ax returned to themes and rhythms at the end of the first movement, he was doubly indulgent, not to the benefit of the music.


The middle movement – another Larghetto! – was songful and nice, even if Mr. Ax was a little shy. He might have sung out more. He could have applied more discipline, too, and injected a bit more blood. Mr. Robertson and the orchestra were unhelpfully slow and careful – plodding. More porridge. This, unfortunately, was Chopin to confirm the prejudices of those who scorn Chopin as effete.


To the final movement, Mr. Ax lent some character – some peasant character – but the overall impression was one of blandness. The strings bungled their pizzicato. But we heard some fine, whooping horn playing.


Mr. Ligeti’s “Romanian Concerto” is not the Ligeti you know, just as, say, Schonberg’s “Transfigured Night” is not the Schonberg you know. The concerto (for orchestra) gives us a folk minded and tonal Ligeti, not the dauntingly modernist intellectual. In the tradition of Hungarian com posers, Mr. Ligeti searched out folk tunes and transported them into the classical realm. But he was no straight transcriber. Of his concerto, the composer has said, “Not everything in it is genuinely Romanian, as I also invented elements in the spirit of the village bands.”


(This quotation comes from James M. Keller’s typically superb program notes for the Philharmonic.)


Mr. Ligeti’s four-movement work is winning on its every page. It is surprising and familiar at the same time, somehow. Concertmistress Sheryl Staples contributed some strong gypsy fiddling, and this seemed to inspire some style in others. Mr. Robertson had a firm grasp on the score, making the case for wider dissemination.


Then the evening ended with a beloved symphony of Mendelssohn, No. 4 in A major, called the “Italian.” This work is not unlike the Prokofiev First, in that it is fundamentally hap py and exquisitely balanced. Both works call for precision and deftness, as well.


It was a relief that – certainly in the first movement – the Mendelssohn had more elan, and more cohesiveness. Even so, the dynamic range was very narrow, and accents lacked punch, or bounce. The second movement had the right sense of balance, but the music could have used more variation, more imagination – more musicality (in a word).The third movement passed by unobjectionably, and the fourth – the fast and merrily furious Saltarello – was decent. It should have had more animation, but it was far from embarrassing.


I note that, in the second movement of this symphony, a man near me was openly composing messages on his Blackberry. In the Prokofiev, I could have understood – but there was no cause to resort to such an activity in the Mendelssohn.


The New York Sun

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