According to the old joke, Bruckner wrote the same symphony nine times over. That is a jibe which could never be applied to Mahler. Each of his nine symphonies has a character all its own. After writing the spooky Seventh, who could have predicted the shape and content of the Eighth? What is it in any case, apart from being the largest assembly of orchestral musicians, singers and choral forces ever? A real symphony or a dramatic cantata? Part-oratorio, part-mass, part-opera?
It is unquestionably daring to stage this “Symphony of a Thousand” in a hall built for some 2000 patrons. Could the enormous sound be comfortably contained within the acoustic singularities of the Elbphilharmonie? Having heard a dozen or so performances of Mahler 8 during my lifetime, I have to say that anything remotely approaching perfection is close to a miracle.
In charge of the augmented NDR Elbphilharmonie Orchester, choristers from Prague and Berlin, and a boys’ choir from Hannover, Semyon Bychkov found one solution to the vast numbers involved: he simply scaled things back. Mahler had 858 singers at the premiere in September 1910; Bychkov managed with a little over 200. His other managerial decision was to prioritise transparency over everything else. Coming in at just under an hour and a half, he plotted a steady, unhurried path through both parts of the work, allowing many orchestral details to make their mark through a judicious reduction in dynamic levels. In Part 2, the repeated gentle cymbal slides, delicacies of the glockenspiel and celestial evocations via harp, flute and celesta underlined the magic of Mahler’s instrumentation.
The orchestral forces had all been well prepared, with admirably secure brass and a cool precision to all the woodwind entries. Second violins projected a coruscating tremolo early on in Part 2 as the party of penitents made its way through the desolate landscape, followed by deep and earthy sounds from the lower strings. As this mighty work drew to a close, the organ thundered, underpinning the gleaming brass, both on-stage and aloft.
If you balance everything as carefully as possible and allow no emotional surges to cloud the pristine skies, the counterpoint writing of Part 1 will neatly anchor all the complex textures. What you then lose, however, is any sense of exultation and ecstasy. The very opening of the work is marked Allegro impetuoso; in Bychkov’s hands this was definitely moderato. He shaped the final Chorus Mysticus as a cumulative arc, building all the elements patiently in a steady crescendo. Yet his body language sent out a different message to what is implied in the music: careful, precise and undemonstrative gets you through all the potential pitfalls, but nothing hits you in the solar plexus, leaves you gasping for breath in sheer amazement.
This is a work in which singers matter. They are present from the early stages right up to the glowing and resounding end. Bychkov had his seven vocal soloists placed either side of the podium. Jennifer Johnston found rich layers of colouring for her Maria Aegyptiaca, but I liked Stefanie Irányi* as the Samaritan woman even more, creamy, confident and powerful. When those two mezzos and the Magna Peccatrix of Carolyn Sampson had their moment of sackcloth and ashes on the path to redemption, the balance in their three voices was well-nigh ideal. Sadly, the men were outclassed. I found the Pater profundus of Nathan Berg* too grainy of voice with insufficient nobility, and Andreas Schager as Doctor Marianus had a bad night. His uneven Heldentenor was stretched uncomfortably. Only Adam Plachetka as Pater ecstaticus provided appropriate warmth.
* This review was updated to correct the names of two soloists who were late replacements for the singers listed in the Elbphilharmonie's programme book.
