The Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO) performed a program of Jean Sibelius, Sergei Rachmaninoff, and Charles Ives this past week, for which I was fortunate enough to get a College Card ticket in the last row of the primary orchestra section, stage right (left side of stage from audience). I hadn’t heard any of the pieces and was particularly interested in the Rachmaninoff Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Opus 43. Stephen Hough, the pianist, was brilliant, as he effortlessly navigated the keys on fast, whirling passages. With the piano, oriented naturally with the lid opened toward the audience, means that Hough is sitting slightly stage right, and those of us on that side had a perfect view of his handiwork throughout the piece. His left hand would unobtrusively cross the right as it struck notes in complex rhythms, and he looked totally at ease, truly making this difficult performance look like a warmup exercise. His movements seemed completely pragmatic; he’d move quickly when the tempo and rhythm demanded it, with no extraneous motion. It was the first time I had heard that piece, but its homage to Paganini was well translated to the virtuosic demands of the piano, and Hough executed it amazingly.
The program started with Sibelius’ “Night Ride and Sunrise,” Tone Poem, Op. 55. It was a string of shorter pieces, nine literal tone poems in total. While it did not completely offend my ears (see Ives, below), it was quite uneventful and for me, unmoving. Sibelius must have had a rather large body of work, which I’m basing simply on the observation that KUHF in Houston seems to play a disproportionately large amount of Sibelius. I haven’t yet found a piece by him I would like to know better, but I will continue to look. I can successfully cross these Tone Poems off of the list.
I also did not prefer some of the styles of Alan Gilbert, the guest conductor on both of these performances. His cues seemed to be difficult to discern for an audience, for whom they were certainly not intended, but it was not always immediately obvious what of his cues were helping various sections of the orchestra navigate through the music. I even found his starts ambiguous, though the fact that it didn’t manifest itself in orchestral mistakes alludes to my misreading rather than a blatant miscommunication between conductor and orchestra. In any case, I found myself missing James Levine this evening and can’t help but wonder if he could have squeezed the Sibelius of just a bit more emotion to give it some life.
And so the Ives. Recall my position, left-center of the auditorium, with a fine view of all things on the right, including the balconies that wrap around to the front of the hall. This proved to be beneficial for more than the perfect view of Hough’s adroitness, and that was certainly its primary benefit for me. However, my seat also provided the perfect view of one of the strangest things I’ve yet seen in a concert, of any kind, ever. At the intermission, which directly preceded the Ives’ Symphony No. 4, a small string quartet began to form at the tip of the first balcony, stage left. A couple of harps were also unveiled. A large scaffolding on stage, which I had assumed to fold out for the chorus, remained standing, while a ghost-white lady who seemed to fix her gaze most constantly upon the audience stood at the front of the stage with a peculiar instrument that I hadn’t been able until now to positively identify (more on that later). Tucked into the corner far off stage right was a small celesta. During the intermission, I circled around the hall to see if perhaps other small ensembles were being formed, perhaps all over the hall. What a sight that might be, and what new life it could give recorded music in surround sound.
Finally the orchestra began to take their seats, and I cannot even recall if Tamara Smirnova reclaimed her seat as concertmaster, since I was too focused on (a) the very disturbed lady on stage who seemed to go unbothered and yet somehow completely out of place and (b) the gentleman standing among the first violins, directed at the ensemble on the first balcony. He was one of a possible three total conductors being employed for this piece! In total amusement I watched this odd performance unfold. I learned that the lone man in the scaffolding was apparently playing a bell like instrument, whose spires were actually individual tones that would resonate upon contact from a mallet. The chorus, who were in actually seated stage left, rose twice by my count for rather short performances. The violin quartet in the first balcony eeked out slow, eerie sounds that reminded me of my first year of practicing on the E string. It was, truly, bizarre.
And what of the blink-less, ghost like lady? It was difficult to make out what the hell she was doing on stage, as she stared off blankly and conjured up spirits by waving her hands in a semi-controlled fashion in the air; it did not appear that she was even touching the contraption that lay before her. It appears that her instrument in question, whose sound I could not quite discern amid the Chaos Called Symphony No. 4, was a theremin or “ether-organ.” The effect of the woman was Brightman-like in its peculiarity and certainly had me running for the nearest exit upon completion of the performance. By the time I had snuck out, however, I heard the loudest “Bravo” ever exalted within the hallowed room of Symphony Hall, and I couldn’t help but scratch my head and wonder how I had missed connecting with pretty much the entire performance of that piece.
In any case, my impression of Ives is now a colored one, in which the crayons stray from the prescribed lines of the form. Days later and I’m still thinking about it, however, so I suppose something can be said about that. I’ll give him another chance, at some point, but for now I feel I should rest and take some time off. Ives reminds me so much of the modern visual arts, which in many forms I have difficulty connecting to. The timeless, so-called classical art is in a sense very easy to connect to, though often as difficult to interpret or understand meaningfully. With a lot of more modern art (such as Carlson/Strom Video Performances … anyone?), I just don’t get it. I’m not that bothered by it.
Overall, in some ways, Ives was certainly a good experience, and I might like to listen again to the Rachmaninoff, but Sibelius was not offending at best, and overall it was a less than stellar program for me at BSO.
