The Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra of Amsterdam came to Carnegie Hall under the aegis of 28-year old conductor Klaus Mäkelä. The Concertgebouw is one of two ensembles that will soon be under his charge: the other is the Chicago Symphony. That’s a great deal of responsibility for one so young, but if the program of Schoenberg and Mahler he presented on Saturday is any indication, the world is in for some quality music-making.
Dating from 1899, Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) was Schoenberg’s last, late-Romantic work; he soon adopted the 12-tone method of composition and embraced atonality. It is a beautiful, lush, piece, originally conceived for string sextet and reworked for full string orchestra. Heavily and obviously programmatic, the poem tells of a couple walking through dark forest; she tells him that she is carrying another man’s child. He ruminates on it quietly. By the end, he has not only come to terms with it, but accepted it with passion. The last lines of the poem read “See how brightly the universe gleams! There is a radiance on everything.” Near the end, the slippery tonality lands clearly on D major with the man’s enlightenment.
The version for sextet is lean and sharp-edged in tense moments; there is always the danger that six strings turning into sixty might prove sludge-like. Mäkelä and the Concertgebouw disproved this from the start. Very active on the podium, Mäkelä ‘s beat was nonetheless spotlessly clean; the strings and their flawless intonation produced a gorgeous sound, changing moods and underlining the Tristan-like chromaticism to great effect. The strings' smoothness turned properly disturbing in tremolos. There was a true arc towards the resolution, and when it came, it was like a ray of gentle light.
The eerie start to Mahler’s First Symphony, with its seven octave A sounded by the strings, sounds vaguely like science fiction, but is quickly brought to earth by a playful, bird-like motif from the woodwinds and sounds of nature. It was clear that Mäkelä was in absolute control and that the orchestra was in complete agreement. From the amazing pianissimi of the opening pages and of the start and finish of the third, through Mahler’s famous “false endings” to the most rambunctious violence of the finale, it was always clear where the music was going. Even the shaded strokes on the tam-tam in the third movement had their desired, creepy effect.
If the very opening seemed as if it might come to a halt, the lack of rubato made it clear that slow tempi were being used to contrast with the wildness that continually shows up. Memory permeates the entire symphony – an off-stage call to barracks comes as if in a dream and then leaves. The folksy Ländler is always a good interlude, but dusk and gloom were always close by in Mäkelä’s reading; the rusticity was not merry and at the end, when it was fiercely stated, it ended with a bang. The justly famous Frère Jacques movement – witty, disturbing and funereal – was played with inexorable tautness, encountering a klezmer-like ensemble to counter its rigid rhythm, another memory of Mahler’s younger days. With its whirling strings, aggressive brass and expressive winds, the peroration of the finale, recalling themes and rhythms from the other movements, was eruptive, saving the best for the last appearance of the dramatic, principal theme. Anxiety and gloom were lifted as the tonality fough its way through to a positive D major in a blaze of brass-led glory.
The sold-out house burst into wild applause at the end, and the young maestro was called out a half-dozen times, each time acknowledging a different section of the orchestra, which elicited an even more appreciative response.
