Joseph Joachim, who influenced the two Brahms compositions currently being performed by the
Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra this week (from Wikipedia)
What is Johannes Brahms doing in the repertoire of the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra? Brahms may have been an enthusiastic subscriber to the successive volumes of the first concerted effort to publish the complete works of Bach by the Leipzig Bach-Gesellschaft; but that was primarily because, like his mentor Robert Schumann, he knew how much could be gained from the study of Bach's music. On the other hand the "modern orchestra as we know it" only began to establish itself in the twentieth century; so, as had been the case with their performance of Ludwig van Beethoven at the beginning of the season, Philharmonia Baroque could offer us orchestral resources that would have been more familiar to Brahms than those of the San Francisco Symphony. How advantageous this is depends very much on one's point of view.
Today's orchestra is very much a product of innovative technological research and development. From an engineering point of view, it has been directed toward two major goals: reliability and uniformity. Just about every instrument in the modern orchestra emerged from relatively crude origins. It began as a device intended for little more than satisfying its maker; and, when two of those makers got together, they quickly discovered that their respective creations did not "play well with others." Furthermore, most of them were pretty rambunctious beasts. Getting them to play at all could take a lot of patient coaxing, what one might expect of a farmer trying to get his mule to pull a heavy load. The idea that one could exercise better control over musical instruments was a product of the same Enlightenment thinking that aspired to give Man control over Nature (including that reluctant mule).
With greater control at hand, one could then address that plays-well-with-others question. As the technology matured, one could give more thought to controlling the sounds of not only an individual instrument but also an ensemble. Thus, by the middle of the twentieth century we had come to expect that a symphony orchestra had "matured" to achieving a smooth and uniform sound entirely under the control of an all-powerful conductor, such as Herbert von Karajan or George Szell. If the Philharmonia Baroque was originally constituted to remind us that the music experience was not so neatly packaged in Bach's day, then it would be fair to say that conditions had advanced only moderately by the middle of the nineteenth-century.
That middle of the nineteenth-century is where their current offering, An Elegant Romance, which received its first performance last night at Herbst Theatre, begins. Brahms' first of two serenades in D major, Opus 11, was originally conceived in 1857 for flute, two clarinets, bassoon, horn, and string quartet. His preceding opus number compositions consisted of songs, solo piano music, and his first piano trio. On the advice of Joseph Joachim, Brahms expanded the instrumentation of the serenade to a full orchestra, which received its first performance (conducted by Joachim) in 1859. Both the original instrumentation and the "serenade" classification recall Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's use of that genre for "occasional" music that drew upon resources that happened to be at hand. By the time Brahms' effort converged on a final version (which was in 1860), that Mozartian spirit had pretty much evaporated; but it is clear that, for him, this was more a collection of pieces for orchestra than a symphony (particularly in light of Schumann's quest for a more integrated approach to symphonic form).
The result is thus rather like a workbook of a composer just beginning to feel his oats in managing orchestral resources. There are any number of moments in which the orchestra dazzles like a bright sun; and, if things get a bit bogged down in the one Adagio non troppo movement (which usually clocks in as the longest movement in the collection), all is forgiven in the shimmering orchestration of the following Menuetto pair. The effect is somewhat of a meeting of a nineteenth-century mind with the spirit of Mozart, particularly in light of the way in which every Philharmonia Baroque instrument (even in the string sections) can speak with a distinctive voice. If those adjectives of dazzle and shimmer reflect excessive enthusiasm in the writer, that enthusiasm may be attributed to how they were realized by Nicholas McGegan conducting his resources. When he presented one of the most familiar Beethoven symphonies in September, I wrote that he kept us all "on the edge of our respective seats wondering what will happen next," in spite of the familiarity of the music. In this case Brahms' music was probably less familiar to just about everyone in the audience; but the suspense was still there as McGegan gradually revealed the many ways in which Brahms was discovering how to "play" (with multiple connotations) with an orchestra.
For the second half of his program, McGegan turned to the D major Opus 77 violin concerto with soloist Viktoria Mullova. This is a far more mature work but one in which Joachim was again involved, this time as the soloist at the first performance (conducted by Brahms) in 1879. Presumably, the orchestra had the same qualities of variegated sonorities that had emerged when Joachim conducted Brahms' serenade. However, while there are many striking choices of instrumentation (such as in the chorale that introduces the Adagio movement), there is also a strong sense that the orchestra is serving more as background to violinist Joachim's foreground. In the current setting Mullova brought her own spirit of command over the foreground to her performance, but she did not always seem comfortable with the background. She clearly has considerable experience in working with other "period" ensembles; but the problem may still have been one due to a lack of anticipated uniformity. One may travel the world going from orchestra to orchestra expecting that every modern orchestra will have relatively the same sonorities and intonation; but the beauty of these "period" groups is that each one has its own characteristic voice (or voices). Thus the particular individuality of the Philharmonia Baroque performers may have "demagnetized" the compass upon which Mullova would usually rely in the process of listening to those accompanying her. If this was, indeed, an "orientation" problem, then it is one that may resolve itself over the course of the remaining three performances of this program in Palo Alto and Berkeley.
However, I feel it necessary to conclude with an observation about last night's venue. My predecessor, Scott Foglesong would occasionally write about the dry quality of Herbst acoustics. That dryness may have impeded the generally lush sound qualities that we (perhaps including Mullova) tend to expect in Brahms' violin concerto. On the other hand they could not have been more appropriate for the performance of the serenade that began the evening. If in the past I have joked about some of Brahms' chamber music sounding like a concerto for piano and very small orchestra, one can turn the joke around by regarding the serenade as chamber music for a very large number of instruments. To the extent that the serenade ultimately thrives on an "inner spirit of chamber music," Herbst was particularly effective in nurturing that spirit. One could not have had this particular listening experience in a better setting.
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