For a composer esteemed nowadays for the inherent weight in his large-scale compositions, Brahms certainly endured much weight upon his spirit in order to create the first of these, the Piano Concerto # 1 in D Minor. There was Robert Schumann’s published praise of the as yet untested twenty year old’s creative worth which, in turn, set daunting standards for the young Brahms to achieve. There was Beethoven’s enormous shadow looming over any compositional aspiration in the nineteenth century since, after all, what does one do after Beethoven?
There was also the relationship with Robert and with Clara Schumann whom Brahms had met in 1853 via a letter of recommendation from violinist Joseph Joachim. Brahms penned his sketches of the D Minor’s intense opening movement not long after his friend and mentor Robert had jumped into the Rhine in 1854 in order to end his life. By the 1859 premiere of the concerto in Hanover, Schumann had died in 1856 and the Brahms-Clara relationship, whatever it had been, was now profound and platonic. The Concerto itself had progressed from an abortive attempt at a symphony, for which Brahms at the time was too inexperienced in orchestration, to a sonata for two pianos, to a massive concerto with all but the now reworked first movement scrapped.
How all this relevant background specifically informs the D Minor is difficult, of course, to gauge but the outcome is a work of unsettling power, heartbreaking poetry, and surprising joie de vivre. Any performance, however, requires a soloist, a conductor, and an orchestra in top notch ranks of technical and interpretative skill and, happily and memorably, such was the case recently with the National Arts Centre Orchestra with Pinchas Zukerman conducting and his pal from student days, Yefim Bronfman, as a consummate piano soloist.
Whatever one’s inevitable preconceptions of the work –and mine are no doubt coloured by Gilels with Jochum, plus other recordings by Curzon, Gould, Fleisher, and Grimaud- here was a performance of awakening newness and secure revelations about the work that held one breathless throughout. It was inherently potent but not showy, constantly evocative but not insistent, all with a prevailing mood that resolution was not so much inevitable as imminent. It was very much a performance of the present tense, one that had to discover and pursue its musical implications, one that was not so much metaphysical as on the verge of metaphysics and, certainly, human mystery.
Right from the outset of the Maestoso movement, Zuckerman favoured fluid richness over aggressive declaration and made his impact not so much with punctuating tutti as with unfolding tonal richness, with refined emotion that also suggested an underpinning of suspense about the almost unknown. The orchestra’s organically realized forward momentum revealed the music speaking enticingly inwardly. This was an integrated musical argument to be sure, one from which all Brahmsian devices seemed to emerge naturally to fulfill its aesthetic logic.
Thus, the piano’s octave progressions, its leaps and taxing tremolos and descending trills, its distinct but sympathetic presence with the orchestra, all showed Bronfman to be unobtrusively superb in creating a natural and beautifully phrased voice as he melded one’s thinking and feeling. Elsewhere, the flutes seemed like the music’s subconscious blended into the orchestra’s textures before they drifted off into air, while the timpani, whose potential Brahms was at this point exploring, took the route of suggestion over overt declaration of their presence. As a result, we had the composer’s classical architecture inside of which there beat a complex and inherently majestic human heart.
In the lyrical and hymn-like Adagio, Bronfman’s richly precise touch and liquid emotionality created an air of blossoming tenderness. One sensed vulnerability, yes, but also confession on the verge of self-discovery of a deeply felt personal truth. This was a soliloquy of the heart resolving its emotional needs and we sensed a pianistic voice revealing matters that should not be said but must be heard. In these moments of breathtaking intimacy, the orchestral restraint –or was it poise? – created a subtle tension and gave one enough to feel but not enough to comprehend. One therefore felt suspended in profound beauty.
In the Rondo the orchestra took up the piano’s rhythmic energy as if ignited by a subtle flame into dignified exuberance. The tutti seemed to expand and diminish like a pair of lungs breathing and, if the music was gypsy-inspired, Bronfman emerged as something of a “gitan” consumed by the music’s passion. Thus, as in the other two movements, we once again heard an emotional truth so genuine that it needed no confirmation beyond itself. It was, it did not cater, it unfolded as profundities often do into our hearts, for the evening and perhaps for a very long time. And to think this was only part of the program!
In an interview with Eric Friesen prior to the concert, Pinchas Zukerman stated that Brahms wrote “songful and soulful” music “from the soul of the human being.” Regarding the evening’s vocal performance, he added that “not many have the voice for this music” but that this evening’s soloist Michelle DeYoung did. In the two songs, “Gestillte Sehnsucht” and “Geistliches Wiegenlied,” as predicted, DeYoung instantly established her emotional authority with a tonally solid but inherently warm voice that produced an easily evolving lyricism. Both songs, new to me, were accompanied by Bronfman, with Zukerman’s viola echoing the mezzo’s elongated phrases or shaping lilting counter lines, more like a second voice than accompaniment and with its own caressing lyricism. One sensed an emotionally reverent poignancy here, a discreet intensity, an unforced delicacy, and in sum a no-holds barred assertion of the heart’s riches.
Friesen introduced the Alto Rhapsody with an anecdote about author William Styron who, depressed and very close to suicide, happened to hear the third part of this moving work. In Friesen’s words, “The music breaks through, he goes up to his wife and says ‘Take me to the hospital’……So music has tremendous power, music can save lives.” In turn, mezzo Michelle DeYoung, who stated that she finds the combination of soloist and male chorus “always so comforting”, brought a despair-cleansing assurance to Goethe’s text and Brahms’ music. It was a vocal performance of evolving ripeness and intensely-longing inner logic, both integrated with Zukerman’s acutely sensitive conducting. It is certainly difficult to articulate the effect of sensed vulnerability such as in this perfomance, but Brahmsian orchestral weight seemed also, paradoxically, to hover air-like like blessing and just out of reach, though still rooted in this performance. No more be said, this was beauty at its most affecting poignancy.
The concert opened with two early Brahms choruses, melodically inspiring and beguilingly sung by a mostly female high school chorus and accompanied by two French horns and a harp. It was an inspired decision to feature this talented group, who were slated only for pre-concert performance in the lobby, because, for one, we heard the special pleasure young people can feel in singing the classical repertoire. This brief and sincere performance confirmed the value of classical music as a means to give young lives an alternative voice and a musical world to discover. Earlier Friesen had asked Bronfman how he had changed over time regarding the D Minor Concerto and the pianist had responded, “My first time I thought it was an easy piece, but I was stupid. It’s always a work in progress.” The genuine commitment of these young singers suggested that they already had learned Bronfman’s vital lesson about music-making –and about living in this world.