A Berlioz Requiem, a pianist and a soprano
The stage of Carnegie Hall—which we are asked to call the Ronald O. Perelman Stage—was about as full as it could be. There was a healthy orchestra, with gleaming timpani on either side. Behind the orchestra, there was a massive chorus. What were they all gathered for, Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand? Close: the Berlioz Requiem.
This work was written in the 1830s and still seems from outer space. Composers try to be novel today, but they are positively mundane compared with Berlioz. The Requiem is wild and woolly, sometimes sounding like a religious Benvenuto Cellini (one of Berlioz’s operas, a highly colorful affair).
Our conductor was Robert Spano, the Midwest native who spent many years here in New York: He was music director of the Brooklyn Philharmonic. Since 2001, he has been music director of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. In Carnegie Hall, he was leading the Orchestra of St. Luke’s. And what about that chorus? It was a combination of choruses, billed as the Carnegie Hall Festival Anniversary Chorus. The hall was completing its 20th annual choral workshop.
A view of the brass in the mezzanine at Carnegie Hall for the Berlioz Requiem. Photo by Chris Lee
Spano used big, broad gestures, so that all could see. He had players, not just on the stage, but up in the box seats. This resulted in a “surround-sound” effect. Spano proved a good manager of the Requiem. This may seem like faint praise, but it’s quite strong praise: The Requiem demands good management. Also, Spano conducted with common sense. Again, the praise here may seem faint, but no: You don’t need to add anything to the Requiem. It comes with all the bells and whistles. You don’t need to gild the lily. It is gilded already. Spano’s common sense was just what the doctor, and the composer, ordered.
One of the best moments of this performance was the fugue that Berlioz includes in the Sanctus. It flowed naturally, inevitably, as though following some divine order. The tenor soloist in the Sanctus was Thomas Cooley. He was way up in the hall, on a high, high tier, which I thought was just slightly gimmicky. A voice from on high and all that. But it was also a nice idea. Cooley had a very tough assignment: Everyone waits for this solo moment. And the singer is very exposed. Cooley seemed nervous, and his pitch was uncertain. But he owns a beautiful instrument, and sang touchingly.
The orchestra was serviceable, and the chorus impressive: alert, disciplined and enthusiastic. When the Requiem was over, the audience exploded in applause, and it was sustained applause. I suspect that many relatives of chorus members were in that audience. Still: It had been a gratifying performance.
What’s true about a lot of Berlioz is true about the Requiem: If you give in to it—its unorthodoxy, its individuality, its Romantic logic—you are pleased, possibly enthralled. If you do not give in, you say of the work, “What’s the big deal?” A perplexing and fascinating genius, Berlioz.
Beethoven in the Morning
Jonathan Biss is a youngish American pianist—30—enjoying a major career. He is the son of Miriam Fried, the violinist. In January, he played a recital in Carnegie Hall. Three weeks later, he appeared with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Andris Nelsons, the excellent Latvian who is music director in Birmingham, England. They did their program three times, and I caught it on a Friday morning. What a civilized time for a concert, 11 o’clock in the morning.
Biss played a Beethoven concerto, the one in C minor, Op. 37. In the first movement, he made some bony and clattering sounds, as he often does. Also, he rushed his passagework, as any fifth-grader will do. That passagework tended to be muddy, too. And yet he is a pianist with formidable gifts.
He played some relaxed and wonderful arpeggios and trills. He is a smart pedaler (as not even some of the top pianists are). He made some big, beautiful, rounded sounds with his left hand. His cadenza had just the right dosage of bravura. And his musical commitment is not to be gainsaid: It is obvious, whether we like what the pianist is doing or not.
Beethoven’s middle movement sounded like a Chopin nocturne in E major. It was slow, dreamy and expansive—a bit too Chopinesque for my taste, but defensible and beautiful. In the Rondo, Biss was jauntily correct, although some of his figures were flippant. He did some more rushing, and some more muddying, although not as much as in the first movement. Some notes were clipped, some accents were jarring. And I found the concluding C-major section a puzzle: super-fast and mousy—without the solidity or substance that I believe the music calls for.
By the way, Biss is a head-shaker—one of those pianists who shake the head. There are head-nodders too. (Evgeny Kissin is probably the most prominent of them.) Usually the head-shakers and head-nodders are no good. But there are exceptions, clearly.
I would also like to mention audience members who pick the quietest parts of a piece to unwrap their candies and lozenges. Their timing is uncanny; the noise is deafening. If they must unwrap their sucky things during the music, can’t they wait for fortissimos—or at least mezzo-fortes?
A Royal Ocean Liner of a Voice
There is a young soprano whom a lot of people are excited about. What people? People in the music business, and in particular the voice business. She is Lori Guilbeau, a Louisiana girl fresh out of the Manhattan School of Music. She made an impression on the city in late 2009, when she starred in her school’s production of Pénélope, an opera by Fauré. And earlier this month, she sang a recital in the Advent Lutheran Church, on the Upper West Side. This event was part of the Carnegie Hall Neighborhood Concert Series—and it was free of charge. Guilbeau is one of those young singers whom Marilyn Horne, the legendary mezzo, has watched over.
She has a great big voice, Guilbeau does, and a lush, creamy, beautiful one. “Stimme City,” someone said. (“Stimme” means “voice” in German.) I have heard her voice compared to the young Deborah Voigt’s; someone else mentioned Eileen Farrell. The world is awash in small lyric voices. It’s a pleasure to sink our teeth, or ears, into a big one.
Guilbeau sang a nicely mixed program, including a set of Joseph Marx, whom Leontyne Price introduced so many of us to. The young soprano had problems, of course. (Who doesn’t?) In Beethoven’s “Ah! perfido,” she flatted repeatedly. To her credit, she flatted in the same place. And there was some interpretive monotony: Songs sounded too much the same.
But so what? Lori Guilbeau is a winning and rare singer, a talent to hail. And one of the best things about the afternoon was that Horne was there, looking vital. She made some remarks to the audience. Her speaking voice sounded so good, I felt she could have sung.
