It was only last December that I wrote about Pinchas Zukerman, recounting a concert in which he played and conducted the Staatskapelle Berlin, of Staatsoper and Barenboim fame.
Well, as the French say, les jours se suivent et ne se ressemblent pas – there is nothing like a day after another, or like a concert after another.
This time, the setting was also the Philharmonie, but the smaller hall, the Kammermusiksaal – which is not even that intimate, and although it does have the same excellent acoustics as the bigger hall, has the unpleasant feature of half the seats being behind the stage, circus style. The problem is that, although that really doesn’t matter in a symphonic concert, where it is even nice to be “conducted” through the performance, or even a piano concerto, where the soloist is sideways anyway, it really subtracts from your enjoyment when all you see is the violinist’s, or cellist’s, or flutist’s, or singer’s, or whoever is charming the audience facing them’s, backside. You might as well stay home and listen to a recording. And I will even add, for the benefit of those who are, I can tell, snickering at my lack of sophistication, that yes, music is to be heard and not necessarily seen, but even the sound is impaired as the instruments or voices project towards the front. There is something to be said for good old classical theatres, operas and concert halls, where the seats all face the stage.
This is only a passing comment, as I was superbly seated at this recital, and so could anticipate a perfect view of Maestros Zukerman and Neikrug, his faithful accompanist (of 30 years, they say).
When the stage door opened, there was a gasp from the audience and an ever so slight hesitation before the usual welcoming applause, hands stopping in midair for a split-second. One could argue endlessly about the concert scene dress-code. Are tails and white tie passé? Do you think a coat and tie are enough? What about turtle-necks? Or fancy (kitsch would be a more appropriate, albeit catty, description) fashion statements like Mischa Maisky’s? Sure, there is a certain margin of freedom, within reasonable limits. But what the audience saw walking in that evening were two house-painters or stage hands, the one with the violin in a blue shirt worn loose over rumpled pants, and the one who sat at the piano in checkered shirt and jeans. But they did bear an uncanny resemblance to Pinchas Zukerman and Marc Neikrug. And then, maestro Zukerman apologized, their suitcases had not managed to catch the connection with them. That of course meant they had arrived that very same day, talk about having a tight schedule. I suppose that’s how it is these days, but that certainly does not contribute to the quality of a performance, and I do think musicians should be a little wiser and try to space their engagements just a little more.
Now it is going to sound as if I was unsettled and biased by this odd beginning, and I won’t deny it. I was irritated to have paid for a perfectly good seat at the Philharmonie, and to feel slightly short-changed. Again, will superior voices say, who cares what the musicians are wearing and at what time their flight got in, as long as they are there, with their instruments and talent intact? But are they? If I (and I suspect a good part of the audience as well) was annoyed, can you imagine playing a concert in your smelly travel clothes, after having had to stand in line to complain about your missing luggage? Those of us who have gone through that experience know that it is one of the most aggravating situations you can find yourself in – knowing that you are going to have to sleep in your underwear, and wear the same less than fresh clothes the following day, and rush to the hotel’s convenience store for toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant (I strongly suggest not to forgo that last item, considering your clothes are bound to be stinky already and why make it even worse? On second thoughts, try to get some cologne as well).
So I am convinced that the recital did suffer from all the above mentioned circumstances. The first piece was Mozart’s B major violin sonata, K.454. The transparency of Mozart left our musicians not only in their travel clothes, but almost naked. So they played with an uneasiness and weight that did not match the celestial music. There is no arguing that they are both superb musicians. I just read a NY Times review of a NY Philharmonic concert in which Zukerman played the Elgar. The critic said: “Mr. Zukerman continues to be a phenomenally gifted string player, a musician who can play anything, anywhere, at any time and at the drop of a hat. Someone less talented, and hence less fearless, may achieve deeper, more consistent states of concentration out of sheer necessity. Mr. Zukerman’s Elgar drifted in and out of focus — at moments brilliant and quite beautiful, at others rough, almost casual.” So there you have it. Out of focus, syrupy at times, heavy-handed, and also as casual as their attire (oh, yes, I’m unforgiving!), but with all the talent and superb craftsmanship in the background, which makes it all the more aggravating.
After the bows, Pinchas Zukerman returned with his viola for what was to be the highlight of the evening, Shostakovitch’s viola sonata. The viola sounded far mellower than the violin, more centered, and the warm-up on the Mozart served Shostakovitch well. I had never heard this beautiful piece, but I’m biased where Shostakovitch is concerned, he is such an extraordinary composer, capable of the darkest and the brightest, the most poignant ant the most humorous, the most arcane and the most familiar – as the third movement of this sonata, with quotations from Beethoven, Tchaikowsky and Rachmaninov well demonstrates.
The second part of the recital began with Takemitsu. I had sort of hoped the bags would have arrived during the intermission so that I could concentrate more on the music and forget about the accoutrement, but no such luck. Well, Takemitsu came and went, and I was not really interested. I was waiting for Franck, that monument of the violin repertoire and of French 19th century music, at once medidative, passionate, lyrical, and brilliant, which sounds as beautiful on the cello as it does on its original instrument. But here again, Zukerman let us down. He played mechanically and carelessly to the point of being often out of tune, and Neikrug didn’t seem very interested either. I suppose they were already thinking about their next stop, and hoping that there bags would come at last. I didn’t ask where they were going next, but I do hope that the following audience got a better deal than we did. And that we have better luck next time.