For Music Director David Robertson, it’s his rubber-man upper torso and windmill arm gestures. For violin soloist Gil Shaham, it’s a puckish crouch that enables instant flitting between positions within an inch of the conductor, the first-chair violinist, or the front edge of the stage. Whichever parts of the anatomy they favored, upper or lower, both artists in doing so fired up St. Louis Symphony players and a San Francisco audience Saturday at Davies Symphony Hall to a fever pitch of performance and appreciation.
A program of strong and appealing compositions, all written within the last 85 years, played no small part in their success, despite its downward emotional curve. It began with one of the more grandiose and upbeat pieces written in the last quarter century, Christopher Rouse’s Rapture. It then moved on to the jaunty, lyrical Violin Concerto No. 2 of Sergei Prokofiev, written during probably the happiest part of the composer’s lifetime. But after intermission, the troubled and moody Seventh Symphony of Jean Sibelius was followed by the scary, end-of-the-world elements in John Adams’ Dr. Atomic symphony, which he reworked from his opera about the development and detonation of the first atomic bomb. Rather than depress listeners, however, the minimalistic rhythms and extended trumpet solo of the final work on the program, not to mention Adams’ presence onstage afterward, brought forth hearty and extended accolades from the local composer’s fans.
Contagious Rapture
Premiered by the Pittsburgh Symphony almost a decade ago, Rapture is one of those rare success stories for a contemporary composition, having been performed by virtually every major U.S. orchestra. Some have even given repeat performances in later seasons. Its gradual acceleration of tempo and jubilation, major tonality, and brilliant percussion writing are irresistible to an audience. The instant whoops let out at the conclusion of the 13-minute work indicated that the San Francisco audience was no exception.
I wonder if Rouse’s piece also had an effect backstage, for Shaham’s expressions during the subsequent concerto seemed particularly rapturous, while still deeply focused in the here and now, whether he flawlessly was tossing off complicated motoric passages, or soaring along with Prokofiev’s inspired melodies. No doubt he was having a great time in his playpen, which had extra room since the first-chair violin was placed farther from the conductor than usual. His aforementioned flitting, while eccentric compared to movements of other virtuosos, never distracted from the music, and usually seemed prompted by structural cues in the score. His technique and intonation were exemplary, and the audience reaction was thunderous.
I’d wager that with the Rouse and Prokofiev combination — a one-two punch of piece-positiveness in the first half — diseases could be cured. But then came the second half: the brooding Seventh, nicely shaped by Robertson (with fine brass and string sections, to boot); and the Dr. Atomic. Anxiety brought the clouds back.
Opera versus Symphony
Again, I’ll report that Adams’ music was extremely well received, deservedly so considering the excellence of performance and a beautiful trumpet solo by principal Susan Slaughter. People like it, as I witnessed at the Cabrillo Festival in 2008. Yet despite the atoms, this is not my favorite Adams. Its operatic derivation makes me crave the original voices. Many of the orchestral passages are fine, though not the climax of the piece. The music there is taken from the masterstroke aria that closes Act 1 of the opera, where Robert Oppenheimer, director of the Trinity project to build the atomic weapon, sings his disquiet to the words of John Donne’s sonnet “Batter My Heart, Three Person’d God.”
The words in the opera are surrounded by extremely nervous minimalist gestures that are almost defibrillatory in effect, but essentially static. Not going anywhere leaves an expectation for a following act in an opera, though it does not conclude a symphony. In addition to my conviction that the words are too powerful to be left out — that their omission waters down the significance of the original operatic art — I am dismayed by the timbre of the trumpet compared to that of Oppenheimer’s voice. The trumpet would be fine for an Archangel, but Oppenheimer is a very flawed human being. A saxophone might be better, but the original baritone voice would be best.
If anyone has doubts as to the undesirability of instrumental substitution, I would direct them to Paul Hindemith’s Mathis der Maler. He made the opera into an extremely successful symphony, though if you have the rare opportunity to hear the original vocals, you might agree that they would have made the symphony even greater had they been included, especially in the first movement. (The third movement would require a chorus and perhaps be too expensive; one reason for turning operas into symphonies is to increase probability of performance.)
Luckily, one composer was not afraid to omit the voice. The San Francisco Symphony will perform Alexander Zemlinsky’s Lyric Symphony at the end of this month.