Fairly lights and lanterns like icicles lent the approaches to the Royal Festival Hall a seasonal and un-Wagnerian etherealism.
When I bought my ticket a few weeks ago, I was very excited about the prospect of Wagner highlights. When Thursday came I was demotivated, the double-effects of gastrinal and gynaecological stomach cramps made me dread the Northern Line full of inevitable post-office-party hedonism, the wait in the cold at Clapham Common or the bus that suddenly decides to terminate one stop short of home, and leave me with a tedious uphill walk in the dark and cold.
I was tempted to skive off, but I had also been tempted to miss Messiah, which had provided temporary relief from the tedium of dull aches, so I mounted my winged horse masquerading as a sadly no-longer bendy 507, and found myself transported to Valhalla-on-Thames.
The hall was far from full; I had no one next to me, in front of me or behind me, which suited me fine but was disappointing. Bleeding chunks of Wagner do not satisfy many ardent Wagnerians, and do not appeal to the Classic For Morons brigade put off by Wagner's lack of chill-out relaxing classics as aural wallpaper.
Charles Mackerras, my second octagenarian conductor in a week*, walked onto the platform, looking frail. I noticed that he had a chair on the dais, and reflected that Colin Davis had shown no signs of needing one last week (and appeared to be some twenty years younger than his official age!). But just because Charles had a chair doesn't mean he used it much. Don't be fooled by appearances!
We opened with a concert version of Tannhauser prelude. I have a CD of Tannhauser highlights which I adore. I also have a performance sitting unwatched on the Sky box. I have never heard it in its entirety.
Once again employing my word of the week, this was pleasant, but after a while it dragged, seeming not to be going anywhere. I resigned myself to another pleasant evening - mustn't grumble!
A short first half was made up with Isolde's Liebestod, Christine Brewer doing the honours. I have mixed feelings about Christine; she was sensation both as Fidelio/Leonora and Gotterdammerung's Brunnhilde, but unsatisfying in Beethoven 9 and Britten War Requiem. I don't care for her stage demeanour, so row KK of the Rear Stalls was good. Having heard Nina Stemme perform this at the end of a gruelling staged T&I not so long ago, the bar was set high.
I don't think Christine Brewer matched Nina Stemme's brilliance, even if the comparison is unfair. As someone remarked afterwards, she was coming into it cold. Singing above an orchestra on the platform is more of a challenge than projecting over the pit. My niggle was a sense of squawling at the top, not pronounced or pervasive, but the fact I noticed it emphasises that the performance failed to overwhelm me and draw me in.
If this reads as 'damning with faint praise' it should be regarded as a case of praising with faint criticism. My expectations have been greatly raised by three superb performances this autumn - Don Carlo, Tristan und Isolde and Otello.
I was not greatly looking forward to Götterdämmerung, goings-on of the Norns that stretch the Prelude into eternity, or the tedium of shenanigans at Gibichung Hall.
I forgot something - the music!
Launching into Siegfried's Rheinfahrt, music that made me stretch my spine like a cat just after cream; into Siegfried's Death, with its otherworldliness, and into Siegfried's Funeral March, surely one of the greatest passages of music ever written.
Leitmotifs are being flung relentlessly at me, each one conjuring up recollections of the story unfolding for fifteen previous hours. A lump rises in my throat; I hope it isn't an imminent coughing fit. The timpani (two timpanists with five drums) beat out the poignancy. I know it's doom, doom we're all doomed but silly internet slang does not fit the solemnity of misery.The triangle, the most amazing of instruments, rang out in glory.
I luxuriated in the wealth of sound even from a diminished orchestra (a quick count estimated about 60 players), I planned my blogpost full of mentions of multi-textured orchestration, and always those leitmotifs.
Then something amazing happened. The concert would finish with singing - Brunnhilde's Immolation - and I feared it would break the magical spell cast by the orchestra. I even thought - well, the advantage Wagner has over Handel is the absence of Da Capo and ornamentation of that which has already been sung.
My eyes moistened, I studied the text, I marvelled in the eulogy to Siegfried, I listened to the glorious sounds being made, I sat back in my seat. I wallowed, loving the misery growing inside me.
Auch deine Raben hör' ich rauschen;
mit bang ersehnter Botschaft
send' ich die beiden nun heim.
Ruhe, ruhe, du Gott!
Your ravens too I can hear flapping their wings.
With news feared and desired
I'll send them both home now.
Rest, rest, you god.
The tears slipped down my cheeks, and I was transported out of myself. I have no memory of experiencing the music. I could not tell you how it went, were the instruments all together, were there flubs, how did Christine Brewer perform?
All such questions are irrelevant and unanswerable. The tears flowed freely, I was on the bank of the Rhine, there were flames, I recalled all that had gone before, and, then, the final redemption by love.
The last chord died away and a stunned silence filled the auditorium, not even interrupted by the arrogant self-serving bravo (sic) which had brought Isolde's Liebestod to a premature end. My guts were wrenched, Going through the emotional wrangle left me trembling; nothing good was ever going to happen again.
At last, the silence ended and the applause was enthusiastic and sustained, with some hearty cheering.
Writing about music is impossible and ultimately futile; describing emotions that can only be experienced, translating the visceral to mere black dots on the screen, rendering the sublime into prose. Walking to the station still in shock, unable to focus on thoughts, getting home on auto-pilot. For once, internet slang is apt: Awesome!
On the way to the station I overheard a miserable woman demand complainingly of her friend - "Can you hum any of those tunes, I certainly can't, waste of time?" I was not even tempted to turn round and order her back to the safety of Classic FM; instead I wept in pity that she was unable to join me on the journey to another world.
The other opinions:
Edward Seckerson, wordsmith of the month, writes:
lest it be suggested that at 84-years of age Mackerras no longer has the wherewithal to whip up a mean orgy I am here to tell you that it was instructional to see the great man rise from his sitting position and unleash a trumpet-topped whirlwind of sexual naughtiness with tambourines and castanets adding so quirkily to the headiness of it all.
Simon in What'sonstage (already previously linked): Creation to Twilight
blazing intensity
Brewer, Mackerras and the Philharmonia serve up some tasty Wagner chunks
Whilst the closing moments of the vocal section did not overwhelm me the way Brewer and Mackerras had done in the first half, there is no doubt that this was one of the most finely sung accounts of the Immolation scene that I had heard. And the closing moments as the Rhine overflows its banks and floods the Gibichung Hall were magical.
So, that Wagner–quite nice and even a bit frisky in places, but nothing to get worked-up about…
* I can't think of any other profession where so many go onto such an old age; I have read that it is the rare combination of intellectual challenge and physical exertion that contributes to longevity
