United Kingdom Mahler: Philharmonia Orchestra / Jakub Hrůša (conductor). Royal Pageant Corridor, London, 13.11.2025. (MB)
Mahler – Symphony No.7
A bit of mild aid right here for Jakub Hrůša, in between Covent Backyard performances of The Makropulos Case. That Mahler and Janáček ought to sound very completely different will hardly shock, although the space between Kalischt and Hukvaldy will not be essentially so nice, even in compositional phrases. There has lengthy been one thing – have been some issues, for allow us to not essentialise – particular in regards to the ears many Czech musicians convey to Mahler; one has solely to consider Rafael Kubelík, not to mention the Czech Philharmonic. Hrůša’s approach with Mahler is completely different, certainly completely different from any I can recall listening to, but filled with curiosity and created with a collaborative willpower that is aware of not solely what it desires however get it.
The Philharmonia should additionally, in fact, be credited with that accomplishment. Most profitable readings of the Seventh Symphony, not less than in my expertise, are inclined to relaxation on bringing coherence to what, rightly or wrongly, many discover a tendency that pulls in the wrong way. Extremely contrasting examples could be Daniel Barenboim’s shocking – and surprisingly profitable – therapy of the work in darkish, post-Brahms style and Pierre Boulez’s extra openly modernist, but no much less steely command of line, timbre on equal phrases with rhythm and concord. A studying that was merely incoherent could be little greater than that. One which revelled in somewhat than tried to unravel its enigmas, maybe with multiple may anticipate of Boulez’s musical hindsight, but imbued with different kinds of its personal, was what we heard right here: crazier than Barenboim, arguably extra so than Boulez too, and extra theological to my thoughts’s ear than, say, the fairly completely different house-of-horrors readings of Leonard Bernstein.
The opening of the primary motion already signalled one thing intriguingly completely different. Gradual in tempo but febrile, it drew one in, brass vibrato considerably Slavic, and extra typically darkish in orchestral tone (undoubtedly extra Barenboim than Boulez — or Bernstein, for that matter). Right here, it appeared was an prolonged fin-de-siècle orchestra experiencing twentieth-century hallucinations that, over the course of the symphony as an entire, would more and more wrest management from a fast-vanishing previous.
Primary tempo firmly established, deviation, be it early flexibility or later abrupt change, registered in relation to that; a lot the identical may very well be mentioned for the entire symphony. The efficiency’s spirit compelled too: marionettes from the sooner ‘Rückert’ symphonies danced, but abstracted, even automated, harbingers of a future that may not be desired, however couldn’t be averted. The ‘world’ of a Mahler symphony – consider his celebrated alternate with Sibelius – has many mansions, historic, geographical, and in any other case. Unusually outstanding at occasions, to my ears anyway, had been premonitions not of the over-invoked Shostakovich, however of his extra attention-grabbing compatriot, Prokofiev, mendacity in a future someplace between The Fiery Angel and Cinderella. Wind tattoos functioned likewise, scary if something nonetheless better unease. In additional ‘conventional’ vein, vistas I’d foolishly have imagined may not astonish me nonetheless did, the aural lens stretched a bit or greater than a bit at occasions, testing but by no means abandoning total coherence, whether or not in rapt, near-suspended animation on the shut of the event or one thing extra livid in a recapitulation of depth and breadth.
The primary Nachtmusik’s opening horn calls have been delivered extra flawlessly, however so what? The sense was there. (I point out this solely as a result of Beckmessers might in any other case assume I didn’t discover.) Extra to the purpose, they initiated a sardonic, Nietzschean serenade on the cusp of the nihilist and the diabolical, subjectively ambiguous and the extra highly effective for it. Lyrical cellos prompt a world all of the extra alienated consequently. Cowbells on and off the stage sounded a desiccated reminiscence of their presence within the Sixth Symphony. Dances had been swung, but with data of what was to come back: a Weill future already, disturbingly current. The Second Symphony’s devoted had been despatched to purgatory, or worse. Aufersteh’n? For those who say so, however not solely Klopstock was useless. The Scherzo appeared firmly rooted in that different place. It snarled in defiantly post-Nietzsche style, even because it (aptly) danced. Zarathustra’s realm, hell, purgatory, or some other place? Why select? Besides it did, the Satan’s lair more and more obvious: no monolith, however all of the extra horrifying for its variegation. Maybe – shudder – this hell was our earth. There was to be heard a distinctly Schoenbergian rage, disciplined by remnants of Prokofiev’s motor-rhythms, notably when one peered between the cracks.
More bizarre bedfellows had been encountered within the second Nachtmusik, Adagietto strings taking a stroll on the wild aspect, joined by guitar, mandolin, and the remainder, to go the Eighth Symphony, even Pierrot, to the unmistakeable world of Schoenberg’s Serenade and modern Webern. An orchestra (largely, or so it sounded) of soloists tended to parody, in a world that had nothing left to parody, that sturdy preliminary grounding of the symphony’s opening as essential as ever. Music appeared to pose a theological conundrum Mahler’s St Anthony might need blanched at: one for the fish, maybe.
And so, to the Rondo Finale, to ask additional unanswered, unanswerable questions. It blared and blazed, sang and danced, tracing a path between outdated and new that reworked earlier than our ears. It was not the final phrase, nor did it attempt to be; certainly, its modernity lay in its provisionality, exhausted and exhausting, but exhilarating in a restored radicalism whose nods to Mozart and Wagner did something however make clear. It ate itself because it laughed (or mocked). Nietzsche or nihilist? Once more, why select? Angels on acid or devils on ambrosia? Maybe they had been as an alternative on horseback. The Wunderhorn St Martha might not be the prepare dinner in spite of everything.
Mark Berry
