The Tanglewood Music Center Orchestra, Monday July 8, 2024
Antonin Dvorak, Carnival Overture, Opus 92, conducted by Ross Jamie Collins
Samuel Coleridge-Tayler, Ballade in A minor, Opus 33, conducted by Na’zir McFadden
Shostakovich, Symphony no. 5 in D, Opus 47, conducted by Andris Nelsons
On Monday night, the Tanglewood Music Center (TMC) Orchestra relocated from its usual venue, Ozawa Hall, to the much larger Music Shed and had no difficulty in filling the space with powerful sound. Despite its year-to-year changing membership, this orchestra is reliably distinguished by energy, enthusiasm, and responsiveness, along with technical polish and precision. This was evident once more this year in their opening program. The first half introduced this summer’s two assistant conductors, Ross Jamie Collins and Na’zir McFadden, each performing a single-movement, late-Romantic work. The only work after the intermission, Symphony no. 5 by Shostakovich, was led by Andris Nelsons. While the conductors before intermission were good at asking the orchestra for more sound, Nelsons was often asking, dramatically, for less. The result was that the works on the first half (Dvorak, Coleridge-Taylor) sparkled with energy, color, and high drama, while the symphony delved into a wider and more profound spectrum of emotions, not only owing to the larger time frame afforded by grand symphonic form, but also to the vast dynamic range that Nelsons elicited, from the merest whisper to the mightiest roar.
Seven years ago, Dvorak’s “Carnival Overture” was performed at Tanglewood by the Boston Symphony led by Giancarlo Guerrero as part of a memorable program that included an exciting “Rite of Spring.” That Dvorak performance was almost as exciting owing to the evident joy the orchestra took in this uninhibited evocation of communal celebration, and especially to the brilliantly colorful playing of the individual soloists within the orchestra. Ross Jamie Collins’ performance with the TMC started at a high energy level and pretty much stayed there most of the time; the playing was brilliant, but the volume seldom dipped below “loud,” and phrases could have been shaped with greater nuance. This score is so colorful that it could be used as a young person’s guide to the orchestra; but owing to the limited dynamic range employed, some of these color contrasts were reduced. Nevertheless, the players responded with rhythmic precision and “bite” to the conductor’s tempi, and the performance was rousing on its own terms.
Coleridge-Taylor’s “Ballade” was a novelty which should be more familiar. It is a highly accomplished, large-scale work that juxtaposes a dramatic opening with a striking theme (the hero setting out on an epic adventure, perhaps) with a fully worked-out, expressive melody that falls somewhere between an aria from an operetta and a sweeping theme from musical theater (a grand declaration of love?). Coleridge-Taylor lays out his form in discrete blocks and symmetrical phrases that are connected by subtle motivic variations and a larger symmetrical form. This makes for a feeling of direct communication to the listener, aided by the knowing advocacy of conductor Na’zir. The writing for orchestra is confident and resourceful, the work of a 23-year-old on his way to composing his acclaimed choral masterpiece, “The Love Song of Hiawatha,” which would follow two years later. Coleridge-Taylor’s “Clarinet Quintet,” written when he was 19, was performed last summer at the Bard Vaughan Williams festival (see my review here), and it was clearly another important discovery. As the oeuvre of this composer unfolds, it is clear that we are in the presence of a major compositional voice of late English romanticism.
Commentary about Shostakovich seems to revolve anecdotally around meanings and politics, especially regarding the Fifth Symphony of 1937. Aside from those extra-musical associations, this is one of the greatest Soviet symphonies (though partisans of Prokofiev might disagree). On purely musical terms, it is a powerful work, holding a balance between a classical symphonic construction worthy of Beethoven and an unmistakable personal idiom, particularly regarding harmony and form. It is also among the few classics of the 20th century to enter popular consciousness, especially the final movement. But discussions of the symphony have been overwhelmed by juicy anecdotes that are red meat to critics and program note writers. Composed after the composer was denounced for modernist obscurity and bourgeois formalism by Stalin or his mouthpieces, this symphony was described, and quoted by the composer approvingly, as “a Soviet artist’s no-nonsense response to fair criticism;” Shostakovich was naturally interested in saving his own skin. While the piece seems to represent a step back from the almost surreal modernist phantasmagoria of the Fourth Symphony, it also represents a consolidation of his large forms and genuine sharpening of coherent communication; one could argue that the “fair criticism” had a beneficial effect after all.
But one anecdotal question has a direct bearing on performance, and Nelsons’ interpretation took an unambiguous position about it. This is the issue of the tempo of the end of the last movement, which can retrospectively impact one’s sense of the meaning of the whole work, including how the composer was responding to “just criticism.” The basic character of the final movement is set starting with its aggressive minor-key march theme rising (menacingly or with gritty determination) in the trombones and unleashing a maelstrom of orchestral activity, driving forward with obsessive rhythms of repeated notes. This aggressive drive is maintained unrelentingly for an impressive span, more than half the movement, but a contrasting lyrical interlude eventually intervenes, a hushed episode that recalls the tragic, vulnerable, and gorgeous slow movement (which has been described as the true heart of the work). Subsequently, there is a rebuilding of energy with the opening theme returning (menacingly!) at half speed and rising through a long juggernaut of a crescendo to a point where the strings arrive at a high piercing “a” in steadily pulsating, stabbing eighth-note octaves on violins and xylophone. This is where the controversy occurs: The composer provides a metronome mark (rather than a verbal indication such as “fast” or “slow”) at eighth-note equals 184 (beats per minute). These notes continue loudly and without variation for the next few minutes (!) as the piece arrives at its major-key apotheosis, one which can sound powerfully triumphant, but which, at this slow tempo, sounds heavy, forced, and exaggerated. Many conductors, most notoriously Leonard Bernstein, have assumed that there was a typographic error and that the composer meant quarter-note equals 184, which would double the speed (as you can hear on his 1959 recording). Until recently, conductors split the difference: Yevgeny Mravinsky, who led the premier, stuck to the printed mark in his recording; Marin Alsop commented that she likes to find a pace between the two extremes; even the composer’s son Maxim chooses a somewhat faster tempo in his recording. But in 1977, Solomon Volkov published a book of the composer’s recollections called “Testimony” (the authenticity of which has been widely debated), in which the composer supposedly explains that he intended the slow tempo to express “forced rejoicing” under the tyrant’s threat, a clear reference to Stalin. This seems to not only support the notation, but provide an interpretation at the same time. The choice of tempo here can work to cast a light back onto the entire symphony: to the tragedy of the slow movement, the heavy irony of the scherzo, and the epochal upheaval of the first movement. It can either point optimistically toward a glorious future or grimly underscore the tragic condition of the Soviet people.
It is possible that a conductor can decide on a tempo that follows the wishes of the composer on a purely musical basis without opting for any ideological position. Going into this performance, I was very curious to see what Andris Nelsons would do. He is, after all, one of the current Shostakovich conductors of choice, in the process of recording all 15 symphonies with the BSO and taking them on tour to Europe next year. I have found his recordings and performance of these works to represent some of his most convincing efforts, possessing thorough knowledge and strong convictions resulting in clear and vivid interpretations. So, which tempo did he opt for? Fast? Or slow? And the answer is … slow! Throughout the symphony, Nelsons displayed tight but flexible control over tempo, and the orchestra responded as one to his every variation. Owing to wide dynamic range and tempo flexibility, along with gorgeous playing by the solo instruments, the symphony unfolded in a powerfully expressive sequence of sections and movements. The finale was aggressive, just short of being purely menacing. It had moments of high drama and contemplative beauty, and in the end, Nelsons’ reading of the last section threaded the needle between triumphant arrival and “forced rejoicing.” Whatever extra-musical interpretation the listener might place on it, it remained wrenching and powerful, a musically satisfying and logical culmination of all that came before.
There will be another Tanglewood performance by a student orchestra of this same symphony next month (on August 8) when Gustavo Dudamel leads the Venezuela National Youth Orchestra. It will be fascinating to see how the two performances compare, and if you attend, pay attention to that final tempo: It may be a key to how the conductor views the whole work.
