Haydn, Bartók and Mahler all lived within that extraordinary superstate of modern times, the multi-ethnic, multi-lingual and multi-cultural Austro-Hungarian Empire. It is therefore not so surprising that they all tapped into common roots. They also shared something else of significance: an awareness of music as theatrical potential. Bringing those elements to life in a very satisfying programme was a scion of that great imperial construct, Ádám Fischer, here in charge of the Hamburg State Philharmonic.
He had as his soloist, both for Haydn’s dramatic cantata Scena di Berenice and in Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, the lustrously voiced Russian soprano Julia Lezhneva, placed on a separate podium behind the orchestra on the conductor’s right so that she towered Junoesque over the players. She possesses a big gleaming soprano which extends magnificently into the mezzo range, allied to a remarkable range of dramatic colour, with blood-curdling cries of desperation and the softest of whispers of torment. She relished the contrasts between the recitative and aria-like sections, riding the coloratura with ease, as Berenice reflects on her troubled state of mind, calling to the gods to free her from the pain of her earthly existence. In his accompaniment Fischer revealed the depth of his operatic experience, sending tremors of intensity into the string lines and coaxing mournful qualities from his oboes. One feature of this concert, conducted entirely from memory, was the attention he paid to the precision and power of all pizzicatos.
Lezhneva scaled back her impressive operatic credentials for the final movement of the Mahler, displaying a creamy top yet retaining the childlike innocence which the composer requires. Once again, the richness of her chest tones gave the voice amplitude and solidity. Only her less-than-idiomatic German represented a minor flaw in delivery. Fischer was with Lezhneva all the way, mouthing the words in her direction.
Fischer’s reading of the score in the other three movements placed considerable emphasis on its chamber-like qualities, helped by a reduction in string size. All the instrumental detail registered without being spotlit, from the tam-tam in the second movement to the angelic harp at the close of the slow movement. Most of the colour and energy came from the very forward woodwind section, with clarinets often delightfully pungent. In what is essentially the Scherzo, Daniel Cho’s scordatura violin solo was full-throated and forthright, a heroic protagonist rather than an insinuating charmer.
The first movement set the tone for much of what followed. The opening was brisk and bracing, jaunty and quite jolly, the childhood world much in evidence through a lightness of touch and infectious dance-like rhythms. What I missed, however, was Mahler’s darker side. These were exclusively the sunlit uplands, untroubled by any hint of irony and sarcasm. At times too I wanted to feel the underlying heartache from the strings.
As originally sketched, Mahler gave his slow movement the title “Die Welt ohne Schwere” (The world without gravity), and here Fischer created a wonderfully airborne quality like the soft fluttering of wings, with the gentlest of nudges to his individual string sections.
Do all Hungarians have Bartók in their blood? Fischer certainly does, and he conducted The Miraculous Mandarin Suite, a succès de scandale as great as Stravinsky’s Le Sacre, with all the passionate intensity of a man half his age. The performance shimmered and glittered, the colours exploding as if from a kaleidoscope. These contrasts contributed to a strong theatrical narrative: dark and ominous violas, squeals of delight from clarinets, erotic whirls from flutes, sleazy-sounding trombones, seduction turning into savagery, the brass sharp and snappy. Just right.
