Critic’s Notebook: Martynas Levickis and the Accordion Take Center Stage at the Schubert-Saal

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Akkordeon zu Mittag: Kleiner Seelenjubel für zwischendurch

Martynas Levickis Autograph Bach, Glass, Angelis, Levickis (Accentus, 2023) US | UK | DE

Astor Piazzolla Aconcagua, Las Cuatro Estaciones Porteñas Martynas Levickis (Accentus, 2021) US | UK | DE

Squeeze It, Baby!

Accordion lunchtime concert in the Schubert Hall – a small dose of sunshine to go

In the classical world, the accordion suffers from a certain lack of pull. Poeple do not, as a rule, flood concert halls to hear the accordion. Outside those hallowed halls, the instrument first patented (if not quite invented) in Vienna is actually reasonably popular – from olde-times sailor captains wheezing away on piers of Europe to Weird Al, Oktoberfest oompah bands, the proud culture of the Styrian harmonica etc... I mean, it's the official instrument of San Francisco, for Pete's sake! It’s a pity, then, that the accordion leads such a shadow existence in classical venues, for concerts featuring one (or, better yet, two) accordions tend to be reliably, even disproportionately, satisfying. Wednesday lunchtime at the Konzerthaus was no exception. And if one must lead a shadow existence, there are worse places to do so than the Schubert Hall, sunlit and bright even in January.

There, Lithuanian accordionist Martynas Levickis – something of a superstar in the compact world of accordionists – offered a lunchtime recital that guided listeners through some 500 years of music. That only two of the works on the programme were originally written for the instrument did nothing to diminish the experience, though it may help explain the accordion’s perennial struggle for classical credibility. After all, who really knows the concertos written for it by Louise Reisner (solo), Niels Viggo Bentzon, Sofia Gubaidulina, or Erkki-Sven Tüür? Accordingly, Renaissance music arrived instead in the form of a melancholy Greensleeves. A chorale-like somber-sounding Scarlatti followed, then a Bach that was all quicksilver brightness. Mozart’s Andante for mechanical organ – a piece containing far more than mere robotic doodling – was brought vividly to life by Levickis. Remarkable, what can be achieved with dynamics alone: from mouse-like tiptoeing to puff-cheeked thunder. One hardly missed the lack of registers that, say, an organ can deploy.

A Chopin waltz introduced a hint of nostalgia, redolent of old films, courtesy of the lavishly expansive rubato. Mahler’s Adagietto chimed neatly with the Visconti focus currently at the Vienna Film Museum (Death in Venice runs once more on February 22nd), sounding atmospheric without tipping into sentimentality. And with Philip Glass’s Mad Rush, a Piazzolla encore (“he didn’t like the accordion, but then, he’s not here today”), plus two of his own works, the concert ended on a couple of genuine crowd-pleasers.

As after every accordion concert, the inescapable thought lingered: one really ought to listen to far more accordion concerts whenever the opportunity arises.

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Critic’s Notebook: Klaus Mäkelä, Lisa Batiashvili, and the Oslo Philharmonic in Vienna

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Denkwürdiger Brutalismus im Konzerthaus

P. Tchaikovsky + Sibelius Violin Concerto(s) Lisa Batiashvili D.Barenboim, StaKap Berlin (DG, 2016) US | UK | DE

D. Shostakovich Symphony No.8 M.Jansons, Pittsburg SO (EMI/Warner, 2001) US | UK | DE

Memorable Brutalism at the Konzerthaus

Klaus Mäkelä and the Oslo Philharmonic thrill with Shostakovich and Batiashvili

You can tell already when you enter the foyer of the Konzerthaus that something special is afoot. The atmosphere is different, busier of course – and scents of different, rarer women’s perfumes are in the air. This was noticeable, again, on Thursday evening. The mere presence of the Oslo Philharmonic would not, in itself, have caused this. Star violinist Lisa Batiashvili playing the Tchaikovsky concerto might not have either; Vienna, after all, is spoiled as far as that sort of thing is concerned. And that Shostakovich’s – admittedly imposing – Eighth Symphony should generate such anticipatory excitement may, for as much as I love the composer, also be doubted. No: the magic ingredient in this musical potion was Klaus Mäkelä, whose much-praised skills Viennese audiences are fortunate enough to inspect – and, where appropriate, enjoy – with gratifying regularity. (Again in March at the Konzerthaus, with the Orchestre de Paris.)

It was Batiashvili’s artistry, however, that first took centre stage. She played Tchaikovsky’s evergreen concerto with rock-solid assurance, without contrived wildness or treacle. And yet nothing sounds generic in her hands: the concerto doesn’t simper; it is – as a former Presse critic once famously observed – being tugged, tussled, bruised. Batiashvili brings bite to the music – and a throaty tone that recalls, if you remember, Gianna Nannini. And still, for all her volcanic playing, it is beauty of sound that prevails. Some in the audiences [cough-cough] may have wondered whether, instead of Tchaikovsky, some other concerto might not once in a while be an option – Martinů’s Second, or Othmar Schoeck’s, for instance – but judging by the rapturous applause... not many. The encore (with orchestra), “Et Sæterbesøg” (“A Visit to the Mountain Pasture”) – by the “Norwegian Paganini” Ole Bull – at least pointed in that direction.

Not every classical music lover will be immediately enamoured of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony. Written in 1943, it is a bloody dark work, even by DSCH’s standards. It lacks the earworms of the Fifth and Seventh, and the long first (of five) movement can, admittedly, get a bit long in the tooth. Even Prokofiev complained that he had to struggle to stay awake. All the more impressive, then, was the way the Oslo musicians under Mäkelä built – and sustained! – tension. The vehement, gripping opening with its sonorous low strings, above all, did not suffer from false restraint. Yes, it is wise to leave oneself room for the many climaxes. But what good is that if half the audience falls asleep in the meantime? The Konzerthaus' Great Hall, meanwhile, proved ideal for this music. It seemed to positively relish in the hellishly magnificent apocalypse of the third movement, beneath those massive tuttis. That, combined with superbly sounding strings (the violas – deliciously hollow and pallid in the third movement – primi inter pares), made for a truly memorable evening.

(This was the first of two concerts, with the second one (January 23rd)) combining Sibelius' Lemminkäinen Suite with DSCH-6.)

Photo by John-Halvdan Olsen-Halvorsen, courtesy Konzerthaus.

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The Last Missing Piece of the Kna’ Grail: Knappertsbusch’s 1955 Parsifal from Bayreuth

Richard Wagner Parsifal, Hans Knappertsbusch Bayreuth Festival, 1955 (Profil Hänssler, 2023) US | UK | DE

Dip Your Ears: No. 284 (Knappertsbusch’s 1955 Bayreuth Parsifal)

Kna’s long-lost Parsifal, the last one to await full issue, is now available. Was it worth the wait?

Parsifal-Aficionados had to wait a long, long time for this: The recording of the 1955 Bayreuth performance under Hans Knappertsbusch. An interpretation of primordial power, forward momentum, dynamism. A recording of vocal superlatives from the 30-year-old Fischer Dieskau as Amfortas; with Ramon Vinay and Martha Mödl at peak voltage. In short: One of Bayreuth’s finest hours. At least such were the rumors.

To make it even more tantalizing: For years, this Parsifal could only be experienced partially and unofficially. Namely only by way off an aircheck of a BBC broadcast of the second act. Adding further to the intrigue: The complete tapes were known to exist in the archives of Bavarian Radio; my colleague Klaus Kalchschmid had seen and heard them.

When said colleague Klaus and I visited the Wagner-discography expert Frank Schöneborn in Aachen, the latter – before putting on this aircheck as the very last snippet of Parsifal to listen to – pronounced: “Kna was at the absolute height of his powers here! And these singers… fantastic. It absolutely blows you away!” And this opinion was based on that old, wildly imperfect recording in, frankly, execrable sound. The musical instruments were hardly recognizable as such. The sound came and went. Everyone and everything howled; it was like listening to an old C-90 cassette that had been left in the glove compartment on a hot summer’s day.

Myth v. Reality

It’s a truism of record collecting, as any ionarts-reader will be aware, that the best recordings are always those that are the most difficult to source. Alas, the grail is ever only the grail in searching, rarely in finding. Now Profil/Hänssler has issued the tapes from the BR archives, at long last, closing the last remaining gap in the Parsifal/Bayreuth discography of Hans Knappertsbusch. Naturally you’ll wonder: Does the reputation survive the availability? Well, this much up front: The modest mono-sound of this release feels like high fidelity, compared to the BBC bits. The voices come out nicely, indeed. As far as the two dimensional orchestra goes, however, these tapes don’t begin to approach the vivid stereo image of the 1962 Philips recording. (But then, neither do any of the other Kna/Parsifal recordings, where every orchestra group – strings, brass, woodwinds – sounds the same.)

The tempos are, by Kna’s standards, on the taut side and similar to ’62; only in 1960 was he a shade less slow. In this, the recording is a nice and welcome contrast to the other (somewhat dreary) Knappertsbuschian Parsifals of the 50s. Amid the so-so-OK sound, you can also hear that, vocally, nothing went particularly wrong. Ludwig Weber’s Gurnemanz sounds a little taxed. Martha Mödl truly is at the height of her goosebumps-inducing powers as Kundry. Neidlinger’s attractively-evil Klingsor almost makes you want to switch sides, and Fischer-Dieskau’s Amfortas is decidedly not mannered, but fresh and surprisingly (given the character’s disposition, not the singer’s age) healthy. Ramón Vinay’s Parsifal, however, barks and lumbers, which is surprising, even if it actually suits the crude Parsifal of Act I rather well. Subsequently, Vinay proves, in lyrically convincing ways, that this was, indeed, a choice on his part. The chorus is more coordinated than in 1951, which, admittedly, is saying little. That ensemble would go on to improve, year over year. The Eduard Steingraeber Parsifal-piano, specifically made for the bells in Parsifal, sounds – how to put this… awful. Brash and not particularly bell-like, either.

This issue is a collector’s dream-come-true – and no self-respecting Parsifal-obsessed Wagnerian will forgo the experience of having and having heard this recording. For everyone else, it’s a case of “be careful what you dream about” – if you are among those, you can stick with your favorite recording of Parsifal, be it with or without Kna’, and know that you are not missing out on anything. (Jed Distler, over on ClassicsToday, likes it a bit better than I do, btw.)

The 1962 Parsifal Redeemed

As far as Kna’ and his Parsifals in general are concerned, that two-day listening session (and subsequent listening) have established quite definiteively to these ears (but also to Schöneborn, that the 1962 Philips recording is the best of all his Bayreuth Parsifals, and by a very wide margin. Not only is the sound in a completely different league from every other recording (which means that you can actually hear the instruments in the orchestra, as opposed to a vague, two-dimensional Wagner-like orchestral mixture), the orchestra and chorus are caught in much better shape than anywhere else, too. Also the interpretation is probably the most statisfying of Knappertsbusch’s, in doing well what he did well and avoiding some of the pitfulls that, on record at least, didn't translate quite so well... The singers are very good to good-enough: Only Irene Dalis will never be to everyone's taste; if one could airlift the 1953 Martha Mödl (Kna') or the 1970 Gwyneth Jones (Boulez) or the young 1985 Waltraud Meier (Levine) into this recording, one might. But Dalis is certainly not ruinous to the efforts and neither is George London, whose magnificent Amfortas adorns seven of Kna’s Parsifals (51 to 53, 57, 61 to 63) might arguably be 'least magnificient' specifically in this outing.

The second-most famous 1951 version, meanwhile, probably suffers probably most from direct comparison (entries are off, imprecise strings), but some of that has to do with the expectations it comes with. The same, ultimately, goes for the 1955, which is not, however, as bad as it might have reasonably feared to be, sound-wise. Something for the Parsifal-curious then – but if you are, you already knew that!

Knappertsbusch varies his tempi quite a bit. Turns out that his quickest, from 1962, is also his best, offering compassion rather than pathos. The ’51 recording sounds awfully grave and a bit uniform, with little energy. Knappertsbusch seems to start and re-start the orchestra over and over. At the dramatic peak, London is left to his own devices and when London passes his duties to Windgassen, the interpretation feels a lot slower than Levine’s, despite lasting just as long. The latter really brings out the augustness of this moment, perfectly timing orchestra and singers. A pity you don’t trust Peter Hofmann that he is quite cut out for the duties ahead. (Frank Schöneborn)

As a bonus: Below will follow a Knappertsbusch-Bayreuth-Parsifal Survey:

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Critic’s Notebook: Early Music Days Resonanzen Open with Jordi Savall and Les Musiciennes du Concert des Nations

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Jordi Savall im Konzerthaus: Zeitreise in die Ära des Langeweile-Vivaldis

A. Vivaldi Le quattro stagioni R.Alessandrini, concerto italiano (naïve, 2002/2006) US | UK | DE

A. Vivaldi Le quattro stagioni Alfia Bakieva J.Savall, Les Musiciennes... (Alia Vox, 2024) US | UK | DE

A. Vivaldi + Bach L'estro armonico + Transcriptions R.Alessandrini, concerto italiano (naïve, 2022) US | UK | DE

A. Vivaldi La Viola Da Gamba in Concerto (incl. RV 544) J.Savall, Le Concert des Nations (Alia Vox, 2006) US | UK | DE

The Resonanzen Opening Goes Awry

Jordi Savall and his ensemble of musicians make boredom in Vivaldi respectable again

Last season, Jordi Savall and his wonderful band, the Concert des Nations, presented the first (albeit none-too-successful) Beethoven symphony cycle on period instruments in the history of the Konzerthaus. Now they opened this year's early music festival "Resonanzen" — themed "Les femmes" — with a pure Vivaldi program culminating in the Four Seasons.

The orchestra and conductor have earned considerable trust with decades of impressive quality - and they desere our benefit of the doubt. Accordingly, one might say of the first half — with two concertos from the L'estro armonico collection (both later arranged by Bach) and the Double Concerto for Violin (Alfia Bakieva) and Cello (Bianca Riesner) RV 544 — that everything sounded very elegant, delicate, and chamber-music-like. Consistently witty in the cello. Rounder, calmer than the typically explosive, punchy interpretations of their Italian colleague-ensembles. Very refined and relaxed, both on the part of the orchestra with it's familiar warm sound and on the part of the solo violinist. All that, one might say.

On the other hand, one might also point out that the troupe also sounded somewhat lost in the Great Hall; that the sound was muffled, that Bakieva wouldn't or couldn't project, that she displayed a certain flexibility of intonation, and remained (not uncharming, admittedly) a murmuring part of the ensemble rather than pushing to the foreground. The Concerto for Four Violins (but without Bakieva), RV 580, went a bit better — but was still more blancmange than spiced-up gingerbread.

At intermission, there was still hope, even expectation, that Bakieva would take off her hotel mute (at least that's how it had sounded thus far) for the Four Seasons, at least. And that she would show why Savall is so enthusiastic about her ("the only violinist who has ever convinced him in this piece"). No, this enthusiasm remained difficult to fathom, in this concert. (Maybe it is different on disc; see reordings on the left). Arguably, the enthusiasm might stem from the intended, bold pianissimos and gutsy, forcedly quiet passages that Currentzis's former concertmaster undulged in. But, alas, these were unintentionally ungainly, imprecise, hesitant, very unsteady.

For all the prancing physical engagement and the forced smile, it was too often off-key and crooked and scratchy — and, at least on this Saturday evening, not really competent. The standards in this work are simply higher. The orchestra trickled along, without biting (intended) dissonances or the characterful playing that can and must bring this so often — almost too often — heard work to life. It was like a time-travel to the era of boring Vivaldi; as if — just one example — Rinaldo Alessandrini and Concerto Italiano's Seasons had never existed. The (certainly subsidy- and marketing-friendly) all-female version of the orchestra didn't help either.

Photo by Carlos Suarez, courtesy Konzerthaus

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Critic’s Notebook: From the Canyons to the Stars... Messiaen, Metzmacher & Klangforum at the Konzerthaus

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Klangforum im Konzerthaus: Ornithologisches und Astrologisches Staunen und Schwärmen

O. Messiaen Des canyons aux étoiles T.Fischer, Hardink, Utah Symphony (hyperion, 2023) US | UK | DE

O. Messiaen Des canyons aux étoiles M.W.Chung, Muraro, ORTF (DG, 2002) US | UK | DE

O. Messiaen Des canyons aux étoiles Eschenbach, Barto, LPO (LPO, 2015) US | UK | DE

Ornithological and Astrological Wonders and Raptures

The Klangforum under Ingo Metzmacher brought the iridescent sonic universe of the American West to the Konzerthaus

There are works where really only ought to do one thing: close your eyes, put down your pen, the notebook away – and, ears first, jump into and fully lose yourself in the music. Olivier Messiaen’s Des canyons aux étoiles... (From the Canyons to the Stars...) is such a piece. One can safely let interpretation be interpretation and simply wallow in the sounds – comparisons to other performances are out of the question anyway; so rarely is this piece on the concert schedule; that one would be lucky to hear it once, or even twice more, in your lifetime. One has no choice but gratitude. And gratitude was called for Friday evening at the Konzerthaus, where the Klangforum under Ingo Metzmacher presented this evening-length masterwork by Messiaen.

All this gushing shouldn’t obscure the fact that Messiaen in general, or Des canyons in particular, is not necessarily easy fare. But anyone who engages with the musical language of this ornithological composer, anyone who gives Messiaen the benefit of the doubt that the composer was only ever aiming for beauty, will find much for themselves in this symphonic poem about the Colorado Plateau, its landscapes, its birds, and the starry firmament above – in the composition’s silences and pauses, its outbursts and busyness.

Mind you, even the term "symphonic" requires qualification: Des canyons is more a concerto for piano, horn (both with demanding solo passages), xylorimba, glockenspiel, and wind choir – with the friendly support from a moderately sized string section as well as wind- and sand machines. On the surface, the music may at times sound "modern." At its heart, God's creation is celebrated in the most romantic way – and the Klangforum did just that, with primal force and with extraordinary tenderness.

P.S. Charles reviews a gorgeous film about Messiaen, with long excerpts from Des canyons and wonderful underlying pictures, here: DVD: Olivier Messiaen, Not for the Birds

P.P.S. Above/on the left are three highly recommendable recordings of Des canyons aux étoiles... - but there are more to choose from:

Reinbert de Leeuw, Marja Bon Asko Ensemble et al. (Montaigne)
Esa-Pekka Salonen, Paul Crossley, London Sinfonietta (CBS/Sony)
J.F. Heisser, J.F. Neuburger, O.d.Chambre Nouvelle-Aquitaine (Mirare)
Alan Gilbert, Inon Barnatan, New York Philharmonic (Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival)
Ludovic Morlot, Steven Osborne, Seattle Symphony (SSO Media)
Marius Constant, Yvonne Loriod, ORTF (Erato/Warner/Apex)

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Critic’s Notebook: Eötvös meets Krasznahorkai — Valuska at the Budapest Opera

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Oper „Valuska“ in Budapest: Lautmalerei der leisen Töne

P. Eötvös Three Sisters Nagano, O.d.Lyon (DG, 1999) US | UK | DE

P. Eötvös Love and Other Demons V.Jurowski, LPO (Glyndeborne, 2013) US | UK | DE

P. Eötvös Atlantis Eötvös, WDRSO (BMC, 2018) US | UK | DE

A Nobel Effort from Budapest

The revival of the Eötvös-Krasznahorkai opera Valuska got a deserving boost.

When the Hungarian State Opera decided to revive Peter Eötvös's final opera, Valuska, this season, following its December 2023 premiere, no one could have known that László Krasznahorkai, on whose novel Melancholy of Resistance the libretto is based, would win the Nobel Prize. Ticket sales for the small alternative venue — the Eiffel Art Studios — moved sluggishly at first. But what a difference a Nobel Prize makes! After the Swedish Academy's announcement earlier this month, all three performances sold out in no time.

It was worth attending, too — provided you can accommodate yourself with Eötvös's brand of music theater. He's written 14 operas in total, which makes him arguably Hungary's foremost opera composer (although I reckon most listeners would trade it just for Bartók's Bluebeard in a heartbeat); and ever since his fourth, Tri sestri, he is one of the most frequently performed opera composers of the last few decades. One thing his works have going for them, although they're never easy listening, is that they're usually compelling drama.

Valuska, named after the novel's (anti-)hero, is his first setting of a Hungarian text (precisely to avoid comparison with Bartók). And what an instinct Eötvös showed in choosing it. Not that Krasznahorkai's novel is an obvious choice to adapt for the stage: without paragraph — let alone chapter — breaks, Krasznahorkai unfolds his story slowly, relentlessly, with immense, whimsical detail, yet remains compelling to the willing reader, manages even to be humorous at times, in the portrayal of his all-too-human protagonists. Only gradually does one realise what is happening in the anonymous little town the book's characters inhabit: the slow undermining of society by the twin forces of anarchy and oppression.

But the selection of text by Kinga Keszthelyi and Mari Mezei (Eötvös's wife), the choices made by Bence Varga's direction, Botond Devich's creative set, Kató Huszár's bold costumes, and Sándor Baumgartner's dramatic lighting, together with Eötvös's atmospheric score, combine to create a theatrical experience that does not reproduce the novel but conveys its sense of pity, melancholy, desolation, and quiet dread. One senses a (presumably unintentional) spiritual kinship with John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces.

To call it a "theatrical" rather than an "operatic" experience is to make a point, because Eötvös's music — for all its proven quality over the years — is not so much the reason why anyone would enjoy the work. Rather, it is a layer of supporting sound, suggesting moods, or making scenes aurally explicit. Valuska thus becomes "music theatre" in the most literal sense, with the emphasis on theatre. No one will be humming arias on their way home from the out-of-the-way multi-purpose theatre — a converted railway depot that doubles as the opera's costume- and prop-depot, and rehearsal facility.

But everyone will have understood the hissing, puffing, and pounding, the chattering and rattling of the train in the first of the twelve tableaux. Likewise, the refuge that Bach's music represents — played by the reclusive Professor (András Hábetler, a retired music-school director in the novel) on the record player for himself and his friend Valuska (Zsolt Haja), who is the innocently-naïve village-idiot with strong overtones of the "holy fool" archetype. Similarly literal is the chirping of the "Prince," who is – unseen, unfathomable, never directly heard – a constant, menacing presence in the travelling circus. Eötvös pulls all manner of onomatopoeia like stops on an organ: The squeaking toilet door in the train is vocalized by the ensemble. If that was one of Eötvös' ways of giving a nod to the humor in the original, it's darn effective.

With few but telling means, the production sketches the drab, disorderly world of a neglected provincial town on the small black stage. The whale — "the largest stuffed of its kind", the circuses' great draw, and catalyst of the action — is only seen after the mob has struck. Mayor Tünde (sung, aptly enough, by Tünde Szabóki) provides a garish pink splash of color amid the greyness. With her little dog-in-handbag (the costume department combined the two hilariously) she is clip-clopping toward totalitarianism. Since the music is not very conventional, conventional means to judge the singers hardly apply; only Haja's Valuska gets aria-like, dissonant-sweet moments in which he sounds bright and lovely — a plausible holy fool, indeed. The rest act, often delightfully quirky, supporting the drama with their vocal resources and acting as effectively as the small but alert State Opera Orchestra under Kálmán Szennai's direction.

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