I would love to write a tale in the vein of the Antrobus stories, but I am, alas, no Lawrence Durrell. So I will resign myself to making just a modest attempt at describing this diplomatic excursion to Mecklemburg-Vorpommern, the fusion of the former duchy of Mecklemburg with Lower Pomerania, (not to be confused with Lower Slobbovia), the part of the region that remained in Germany after WW II. What came immediately to my mind was, natürlich, the Lulu, that fussy, noisy, ridiculous looking little dog which did indeed originate in Pomerania, as careful research confirmed. But this trip was not about dogs, but about horses, and especially the Mecklenburg, probably less famous than its smaller four-legged compatriot, but far nobler and more elegant. We were indeed going to visit its birthplace, the Landgestüt (or State Stud) Redefin, where we were not only invited to watch a horse-show but also to attend a concert of the Mecklemburg-Vorpommern Festspiele, given by none less than the London Symphony under the direction of shooting star Daniel Harding, with pianist Paul Lewis. There, now you know why I so eagerly accepted this invitation. In fact, the existence of such a prestigious festival in the extreme North-Eastern part of Germany was news to me. I will never cease to be amazed by the quantity and quality of the music festivals in Germany, in the most surprising regions, like this one and Schleswig-Holstein, for example. Yes, Onkel Heinz, you are absolutely right – one would need several lives and many summers to be able to attend them all.
So, along with the the usual suspects, I boarded a big, shiny,luxurious Mercedes-Benz bus for this joyous “partie de campagne”. The short trip from Berlin to Redefin was uneventful, and upon arrival at the beautiful estate which houses the Landgestüt, we were handed charming picnic baskets, containing rather stale rustic rolls and assorted plastic wrapped liver-pastes and cheeses, a bottle of prosecco and a very green apple. Nice and frugal, exactly what I need considering my never-ending concern with my weight, but I couldn’t help thinking how much more interesting the French version of such a basket would be – fresh baguette and pâté de campagne and Brie and Bordeaux, perhaps, and a little tarte aux pommes to boot. But then you wouldn’t have the fabulous music to look forward to, so it’s just a question of feeding the soul vs. the body. We were shown to nice tables thoughtfully reserved for us in the garden, as there was a considerable turnout for the joint event. After “lunch”, we sat on cardboard boxes to watch the horse-show, and the inevitable and predictable collapse of one or two of the make-shift seats drew the expected laughter. The show was in an outdoor ring, as the big indoor arena was already set for the concert. A big, dark, scowling cloud which hovered above luckily failed to fulfill its menace and actually helped by keeping us nicely cool. I won’t dwell on the horse-show, a rather amateurish affair, a hodge-podge of drawn carriage presentations, a tad of dressage, a sampling of the riding schools activities, with charming young girls trotting, cantering and not too successfully jumping rather low obstacles, an acrobatic rider standing on two horses at full gallop and a disgusting and completely dispensable demonstration of the hunting skills of a pack of beagles to which an actual, smelly carcass (whether of a fox I couldn’t tell and didn’t really care to find out) was thrown. The stench and the absolutely revolting sight of the dogs chewing away at the dead flesh sort of made you glad that the picnic had been so light.
The concert was scheduled for 6 PM, and after the horse-show, the crowd started trading the outdoor card boxes for the indoor folding chairs. The covered arena normally used for equestrian exercises was expertly converted into a concert hall. A real stage, orchestra seats and music stands and a Steinway grand were set on the well pounded earth of the ring. Part of the audience was accommodated on the already existing tier seats, and the rest on the rows and rows of folding chairs – somebody mentioned three thousand people, which seems like a slight exaggeration, but the place was definitely packed.
Looking up at the high, hangarlike ceiling, I was a bit apprehensive as to the acoustics and even more so as the angry clouds were still there and the doubtless thundering sound of rain on the metal roof would certainly not be a welcome accompaniment to Beethoven and Bruckner. Again we were miraculously spared.
The reputation of the London Symphony Orchestra is solidly established, of course, and that of Daniel Harding almost equally so. I had never heard the pianist. Paul Lewis, and wondered what he would do with such a staple as Beethoven’s second concerto. With a piece by Pierre Boulez, “Livre pour Cordes”, as an introduction, the Beethoven, and then Bruckner’s 4th symphony, there was certainly much to look forward to.
The place was so big that I heard applause indicating Daniel Harding’s entrance about thirty seconds before I saw him climb on the stage. He has the charming, mischievous, extremely likeable looks of a grown-up Dennis the Menace. But impish as his looks may be, he was to demonstrate that he is a magnificently disciplined conductor, totally in control of the orchestra which obviously enjoys playing under his expert direction. But we had to wait for him to deliver an excellent explanation of Boulez’s piece before we could actually see and hear him at work. It seems this business of explaining what one is about to interpret is becoming a fashion, and I’m not one to complain. It does make it easier to follow new and esoteric music, although I must make a horrible confession: however clear the explanation, it usually only turns the listening experience into a more rewarding intellectual exercise, but rarely, in my case at least, into a genuine pleasure. If the music is to be a complete joy for the mind and the senses, it has to speak for itself. I’m an unashamed conservative with great trouble in assimilating novelty, which only increases my delight when I am surprised by an Aulis Salinen or a Peteris Vasks, as I was in Kronberg. Schnittke and Gubaidulina have won me over quite some time ago, but just listening to their superb compositions was enough, nobody ever had to explain them to me. Of course, they have produced some of the greatest contemporary music for the cello, and that goes straight to my heart. We could go into an endless discussion about what music is and means and does to the human body and soul, but there are enough excellent books on the subject (Robert Jourdain and Anthony Storr come immediately to mind) and I would not presume to have anything worthwhile to add. To love or not to love, that is the basic question.
So I listened to the Boulez with interest, but no real excitement. And the piece is not even that difficult to approach, it has many ingenious “trouvailles”. I read in the programme notes that it was originally composed for string quartet in 1948/49, and inspired by Mallarmé’s poetry. Maybe I should listen again more carefully, but I don’t really feel like it.
Soon, Paul Lewis joined Daniel Harding and the LSO on stage. This is what I was really looking forward to. But I must say I was also smugly thinking that this strikingly good-looking young man – move over George Clooney and Brad Pitt – couldn’t possibly have anything to add to what Clara Haskil and Leon Fleisher have so masterfully elicited from all five Beethoven concertos.
The long introduction gives me ample time to admire the gorgeous, homogeneous sound of the LSO which rises to the high beams of the arena and floods the huge structure, assuaging all my fears regarding the acoustics. How close to Mozart this concerto still is! You almost expect the introduction to lead not to the entrance of the piano, but to a Leporello or Figaro aria. But the piano does come in, and under Paul Lewis’s fingers, it is absolutely spell-binding. How reassuring to be so forcefully reminded that beauty, delicacy and sensitivity have nothing to do with affectation. Here was a perfectly articulate, technically impeccable, unassumingly brilliant and elegant interpretation. Mr. Lewis’s dynamics are simply extraordinary, with subtle and lyric pianissimi and full-bodied fortes, and a fabulous range of nuances – what a relief from some of his colleagues who seem to think that piano-playing should qualify as a new olympic sport. Whereas you can definitely not accuse Paul Lewis of being anachronistic, in the sense that his is a resolutely 21st century approach to the instrument, he is definitely in a league with the pianists I mentioned before, and Schnabel, and Serkin, and Richter…and then again, the programme notes give me valuable information. Paul Lewis studied with Brendel. Aha! And he has recorded the complete Schubert sonatas and the complete Beethoven sonatas for Harmonia Mundi. Aha, aha! I can’t wait to load my Ipod with hours of blissful listening.
The end of the intermission was signalled in a very original way, with a wonderful touch of British tongue in cheek humor, by the principal trumpetist and the percussionist who came out to blast the audience back in. So, to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance, we all marched back to our seats.
The Bruckner could have been an anti-climax, had it not been for Daniel Harding’s magnificent reading and the LSO’s luscious sound. Would I not risk sounding painfully commonplace, I would say the strings are positively silky. An absolutely faultless intonation and the smoothest of sounds, ebbing and flowing under Harding’s discreetly effective baguette. Nevertheless, because it is far rarer, it is the near perfection of the woodwinds and, especially, the brasses that leave one absolutely in awe. And, considering the quasi Brahmsian use of the horn, this of course almost in itself guaranteed the magnificence of the performance. Also as in Brahms, the cello is a prominent voice, extremely well served by the competent and sensitive musicians. I was thinking Bruckner and Mahler are cousins, and both definitely children of Brahms. Strauss is a different matter, more of a maverick – as I was reminded the following day when I heard two of his most famous tone-poems, Don Juan and Zarathustra, but that will be the subject of another chronicle. So the Bruckner 4th unfolded majestically, its grandiose structure very well suited to the surroundings and rising well above anything I could have expected in these rustic circumstances. How gratifying it is to be thoroughly transported when you least expect it. My respects to Mecklemburg-Vorpommern, which I will never again identify with its ungracious little dog.
The return trip was marred only by the heavy downpour, which finally came, in a very timely fashion, as we were able to enjoy the day before the first drop. The consequently slow traffic probably bothered only the driver, as the rest of our Durrellian group slumbered blissfully, having had their fill of emotions, complete with déjeûner sur l’herbe, gentlemanly sports and splendid music.