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None of That Jazz Philadelphia
Academy of Music
04/15/2000 -
Charles Ives: Second Orchestral Set
Maurice Ravel: Piano Concerto
Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps
Helene Grimaud (piano)
Philadelphia Orchestra
Ingo Metzmacher (conductor) Camille Saint-Saens walked out of the premiere of The Rite of Spring after the first minute,
asking in his stentorian voice "what instrument is that?", referring to the abnormally high
opening bassoon solo, and setting the mood for the disaster which followed. I contemplated
borrowing this device to release me from last night's unforgivably tedious concert by the
normally exciting Philadelphians who are, as regular readers of these pages know, my choice as
the best orchestra in the Western Hemisphere. Expectations are always high when I journey to
my sister city and I tend to hold this venerable group to a higher standard than a visiting
orchestra from the provinces. However, the finished product last evening was subpar even for a
lesser ensemble and the consistent flaccidity can only be the responsibility of the guest
conductor, a hot property according to my critical brethren (including those at
LeConcertographe), but whose first foray into my purview left a singularly insipid impression.
Perhaps not Herr Metzmacher's forte, he nonetheless opened this concert of very excitingly
rhythmical music with a deadly lecture on the subtleties of the Ives piece, a convoluted and
rambling speech straight out of the Alzheimer period of Ronald Reagan. His explanation of
syncopation was particularly Byzantine as he was not able to summon up the word "downbeat",
relying instead on his native German, and any sense of the breezy bounce of the Ivesian ragtime
was swallowed up in the soporific confusion of the loquacious introduction. The performance of
these normally fascinating three pieces (they are the companions to the better known Three
Places in New England) was really dull, a phenomenon I would have thought virtually
impossible, and ultimately niggardly as when "...the voice of the people again arose" there was
no chorus only the strains (taken in both of its meanings) of a lone cornet. The orchestra was at
home and the fine Mendelssohn Club singers I'm sure were available and yet we were cheated
out of this integral part of the musical tapestry. Would it not have made more sense to program a
different work rather than to present a choral work sans voices?
Okay, but there could be no way wherein the fabulously jazzy Ravel could be anything but
delightful. Here we have rhythm at its most insouciant, a delicious combination of classical
models and down and dirty nightclub music of the '20's. It took some doing, but Maestro and his
pallid soloist were able to drain all of the life out of one of my own personal favorite pieces of
last century's repertoire. Ms. Grimaud, complete with personal photographer, appeared in highly
dressy Philadelphia in white slacks and a blouse more suited to a rehearsal than an actual
Saturday night performance, and proceeded to crush beneath the weight of her pedestrian style
every rhythmical riff in Ravel's bag of syncopated tricks. Her playing reminded me of
Metzmacher's inability to explain this bluesy style and ultimately only taught us the lesson that
jazz is not something to be attempted by people too stiff to "get it". Actually very few
conductors ever attempt to recreate the original style of Ravel himself, who saw to it that these
pieces were performed more like Django Rinehart than Mozart, but at the very least one expects
some spirit and swing. What Ms. Grimaud projected was a total sense of the uncomfortable and
it communicated itself brilliantly onto the disappointed audience. I was particularly
underwhelmed by her lack of lyricism in the solo which opens the Adagio, leaving the
woodwinds with no choice but to follow her limp example when they finally emerged from the
silence which is this normally magical passage's natural background.
After intermission we were regaled with a decent, but not arresting, reading of the Stravinsky.
Most of the notes were there (this is actually quite an accomplishment for Le Sacre) and almost
all were in the right place (yet another major feat for this most difficult score) but I never felt the
sense of what Leonard Bernstein used to call "the poetry of the earth" about this performance.
One typical Philadelphia problem was that because of the bizarre acoustics of the Academy and
the stubborn policy there of never using risers to elevate the musicians in the back of the strings,
the brass section felt the need to overblow in order to be heard properly and the resulting
intonational sloppiness was most unpleasant. Still, had this been a second level orchestra, I
would probably have written a better notice, but I have come to expect transcendent
performances from this great orchestra and this was far from their finest hour. Everyone has an
off night, it's just a shame that three such vital works should have suffered such a limp fate. All
of the rhythmic force was ground down, chewed up and spit back out and ultimately it was like
listening to the collected works of John Coltrane presented by Lawrence Welk.
Frederick L. Kirshnit
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