At a concert in 1905, a new work by Schoenberg caused such a riot that the composer later recalled: “One of the critics suggested that I be put into an asylum, with music paper kept out of my reach.” How many times, both before and since, have similar comments been made about new music? The companion piece to Pelleas und Melisande at that premiere was another novelty, written by Schoenberg’s teacher and brother-in-law Zemlinsky. Though the reception to this was much warmer, the composer soon withdrew his symphonic fantasy Die Seejungfrau (The Mermaid). Bits that were subsequently lost were not finally reunited until 2013 when Antony Beaumont published a new critical edition.
What both works have thematically in common is the fin-de-siècle preoccupation with death. What unites them musically is the lushness of a large orchestra and the palpable influence of Wagner and Richard Strauss. And then there’s the heartbreak of unfulfilled love. Bringing both these pieces together again in one concert was Ryan Bancroft with the BBC National Orchestra of Wales. He has a particular gift for allowing big expansive scores to unfold majestically, combining a broad dramatic sweep with passages of lyrical intensity. Throughout the evening his arms were constantly in motion, caressing, guiding, shaping and urging his players on.
At the 1905 premiere both composers chose to forego any programme notes, presenting their works as “pure” music. That is, I think, one reason why their reception has been patchy. Pelleas und Melisande is in one continuous movement with eleven interrelated sections, denoted by tempo markings. There are instrumental motifs linked to the three protagonists, the nearest the work comes to being an opera without voices, but the density of the writing, the passages of heaving chromaticism, the sledgehammer dissonances and an abiding sense that the music is teetering on the brink, that all order is about to collapse, makes it tricky to conduct and tricky to listen to. Bancroft always maintained a clear course, but even he couldn’t prevent his slightly underpowered strings from being swamped by the brutal brass (nine horns, four trumpets, five trombones and tuba). At the end, fresh air beckoned enticingly away from the heady hothouse atmosphere.
Zemlinsky’s piece benefits from three discrete movements, though only the first has a recognisable link to Hans Christian Andersen’s original fairy-tale. Bancroft made much of the allusions to Wagner’s Das Rheingold, with his growling brass and lower strings conjuring up an exploration of the sea-bed, and flickering woodwind motifs signalling the appearance of life. The storm element when the Prince’s ship is wrecked was delivered with explosive force. An indication of the lighter touch that informs this work came in the many moments of radiance, including ravishing solos for violin and cello.
Bancroft was especially impressive in conveying the festive character of the middle movement, seizing on all the balletic qualities of a scène au bal and tantalising the ear with textures that shimmered and swirled. There was one cello episode which seemed to hark back to the third movement of Mahler’s Third Symphony, sunny music at its best, carefree and untroubled. Zemlinsky’s compositional skill (he tutored Korngold) was apparent in the very ethereal violin solo, expressively played by Lesley Hatfield, supported by bass clarinet and bassoon, and the moments of raptness at the close with a solo horn above glistening strings, woodwind darting in gentle curlicues.
What Schoenberg and Zemlinsky both demonstrated in these orchestral pieces was something more than the opulence associated with Strauss. This music disturbs and unsettles, it eats into you in an alarming way. Ravel’s La Valse was already on the horizon.
