Yesterday evening, I went to Carnegie Hall to hear Simon Rattle conduct one of the world's greatest orchestras, the Berliner Philharmoniker, as they performed together a program of twentieth century works by Boulez and Mahler.
The evening began with Boulez's Éclat. The title is taken from the French verb éclater whose most literal translation is "to burst forth," but which also has a secondary meaning of "to sparkle" or "to glow." Both those meanings could equally well be applied to the work at hand as it explodes on opening with shimmering beauty and then quietly vanishes. Boulez, who was in his youth a student of Messiaen, was one of the last century's composers most given to experimentation. This piece, which is at once atonal and to an extent aleatoric, consists of a dialog between, on the one hand, the orchestra's strings, winds and brass and, on the other, the percussive instruments. There is no audible pattern to the music, just as in random conversation there is also no discernible pattern. As one source notes:
"The harmony is therefore never revealed directly, but results from complex interactions, by means of which it is revealed only subliminally."
In spite of this, the work is much more pleasing to hear than most atonal works. It is as if the composer has allowed the instruments to speak with their own voices without regard to traditional orchestration.
The second and final work on the program was Mahler's Symphony No. 7. There's a famous anecdote regarding the composition of this symphony. After having completed the three inner movements in the summer of 1904, Mahler found himself at a loss the following summer when he again set to work on the symphony. Unable to proceed with the outer movements, he traveled restlessly in search of inspiration but to no avail. When he returned from his journey, however, and was being rowed across the lake to his summer residence at Maiernigg, he suddenly had a moment of epiphany while listening to the sound of the boat's oars; he at once threw himself into composing the remainder of the work and completed it in an astonishingly short time. Even if the story is not completely factual - and it certainly seems to simple an explanation considering the complexity of the work - it does give some indication of Mahler's working methods.
In a letter to William Ritter, Mahler succinctly described the structure of the No. 7 as follows: "Three night pieces; the finale, bright day. As a foundation for the whole, the first movement." It's this journey from night to day that has caused the work to be given the nickname, never approved by Mahler himself, of "Song of the Night." But the music is atmospheric enough not to need any programmatic references. After a lengthy first movement, whose slow Langsam opening does indeed call to mind the sound of oars rowing through water, the symphony proceeds to the three inner movements - two marked Nachtmusik surrounding a Scherzo - before proceeding to a more upbeat Rondo finale. It's the Scherzo, marked Schattenhaft ("like a shadow") that really anchors the work and is the key to its character. There's something terribly bitter about it, reminding one of those unwanted recollections that come like specters to haunt one on sleepless nights.
The No. 7 has never been one of Mahler's popular symphonies. Perhaps that's because, in spite of the bright closing, the work is at its center so unremittingly dark and even, especially in the dissonant Scherzo, bizarre. The work was, however, at this performance given a brilliant performance that fully engaged the audience. I had heard Simon Rattle last month conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra in a performance of Mahler's No. 6 and enjoyed hearing so soon thereafter his interpretation of another of the late symphonies. If nothing else, it gave me a better idea of Mahler's progression as a composer and helped me better understand what he sought to accomplish in his series of symphonic works. Both conductor and orchestra were at their best throughout the performance.
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