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Entertaining and Epic Shostakovich New York
Isaac Stern Auditorium, Carnegie Hall
04/24/2025 -
Dmitri Shostakovich: Cello Concerto No. 1 in E‑flat Major, Opus 107 – Symphony No. 11 in G Minor, “The Year 1905”, Opus 103
Yo-Yo Ma (Cellist)
Boston Symphony Orchestra, Andris Nelsons (Conductor, Music Director)
A. Nelsons & BSO (© Marco Borggreve)
“You don’t have a peaceful revolution. You don’t have turn-the-other-cheek revolution. There is no such thing as a non‑violent revolution.”
Malcolm X
“Music is a means capable of expressing dark dramatism and pure rapture, suffering and ecstasy, fiery and cold fury, melancholy and wild merriment–and the subtlest nuances and interplay of these feelings which words are powerless to express and which are unattainable in painting and sculpture.”
Dmitri Shostakovich
A strange week in New York for radical politics. Tuesday night, John King’s arresting Free Palestine Quartets, played by the always radical FLUX Quartet. Last night, a symphony giving the most graphic vision of the Russian Revolution precursor, the riots of 1905.
Both were powerful, ideological (Shostakovich hated the Stalinist regime but never apologized for the 1918 revolution), and musical wonders. The Free Palestine Quartets were diverse, short, surprising. Shostakovich’s picture of the “first” Russian Revolution was another picture of horror–but even under the excellent conducting of Andris Nelsons and the fine playing of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO)–had its own problem, which we speak about later.
For there was little doubt that the full-house Carnegie Hall came foremost for Yo‑Yo Ma, and the other Shostakovich work, a Cello Concerto written the same period as the Symphony.
Y.‑Y. Ma (© Joi Ito)
It was written for Mstislav Rostropovich, of course, and both the first and third movements have the lightness of touch, the whistleable melodies, the joy and frolic of Rostropovich himself (when in his cups).
Yet the combination of Ma and Nelsons gave a different, darker side to the opening Allegretto. Rather than a lyrical start, the cellist’s sounds were almost hoarse, the mood was pushy, volatile. And of course that second oom‑pah melody, while initially fun, developed into a Pulcinellian grotesquerie.
The second movement and finale were far more “comfortable” if that be the word. Balance of BSO with cello could be difficult, but here it never faltered. And helped to the nth degree by Michael Winter’s gorgeous horn playing in the bookend movements.
The centerpiece was the long cadenza. And as in the First Violin Concerto, this was more than sheer virtuosity. Of course Mr. Ma played the left‑hand pizzicati with stinging perfection–but the composer added more. Especially a Bachian convergence of melodies from the first movement.
The soloist got a well-deserved standing ovation. (Had he played “Three Blind Mice”, he would had have the same reception.) But then he did the unthinkable. Yo‑Yo Ma sat down amongst the BSO cello section itself. The encore was an arrangement of a minor Shostakovich work with the section. And, always the gentleman, Mr. Ma gave credit to the wonderful cellos themselves.
The hour-long 11th Symphony is around 10 minutes shorter than the Seventh and Eighth. But those had separate movements. Last night’s 11th was an uninterrupted hour!!! And much as Mr. Nelson’s did an exciting job, much as the BSO strings left nothing to be desired in the In Memoriam section, as exciting as the percussion was, well this is still a work which has its ins and outs of interest.
The perfect “in” was that the composer told a real story. No codes, no Shostakovich anagrams. Rather, it was a graphic novel. We go from the gathering crowds in Moscow’s Palace Square, a massacre of the crowds (rifle shots a‑plenty), a section of mourning. And finally “The Alarm”, a call to action. Not (to the displeasure of the authorities) a rousing Socialist hymn. But the percussive banging, the tubular bells ringing, the BSO fiddling and blowing.
The problem is that the composer, instead of plunging ahead as in the Cello Concerto, kept backtracking. Like a film (and this could have been an Eisenstein epic), we went back and forth in time and mood. The equivalent of a film editor would have cut 25 percent out.
Andris Nelsons didn’t need any cuts. He made the opening flow, where even brass clarion calls made sense. He gave a shivery explosive second movement, and he let the BSO strings sing.
Yes, the finale sent forth alarms. But I felt a single sin of omission. In Budapest, I heard Ivan Fischer with +four church bells. That result was a finale resonance and excitement which precluded the structural blurs. Mr. Nelsons didn’t have the bells, but the excitement of the final 48 measures was infectious, moving and, in Shostakovich’s fine creation, deeply tragic.
Harry Rolnick
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