Confession: What happens when you sit in the "wrong" place
The day after Janos Gereben attended the San Francisco Symphony ("Gilbert
at 37 ..."), I sat in the Side Terrace of Davies Symphony Hall to hear
the final performance of the program. Where I sat, behind the basses,
conductor Gilbert blocked my view of pianist Gutierrez, but the orchestra
spread out below my feet offered a splendid prospect.
The consequence of this perspective was that orchestration seemed to
emerge as the be-all and end-all of my musical experience that night.
The pedestrian orchestration (to put it mildly) of Chopin's first piano
concerto became a painful trial, especially since I couldn't see Gutierrez
or hear him well. The novel orchestration of Anders Hillborg's new
composition, on the other hand, electrified me as I could see into its
innards almost as well as if I had a score.
The result of all this was a wildly slanted review, focused solely on
Chopin and Hillborg. I gave little credit to Gutierrez and Gilbert and
didn't even mention that Scriabin (no slouch as an orchestrator) concluded
the program ("Poem of Ecstasy").
I attach the review as an object lesson in how dangerous modern music
can be if experience too intimately. Please stay safely in the 3-B
temples, or at least away from the stage where you belong, or this might
happen to you!
I was so astounded by a concerto for orchestra by Anders
Hillborg that I am ready to do violence to its predecessor
on the San Francisco Symphony program.
The only less-than-perfect thing about Hillborg's work is its
title, "Exquisite Corpse." It is descriptive of the work, but
it really applies to all of Hillborg's recent work, not just
the piece so named. The term originated as an effect from a
parlor game marketed as "Mad Libs" in this country where
random words are juxtaposed into a narrative. "Exquisite
"and "corpse" were two such in a French version in the 1920s;
these became bywords for the surrealist movement.
Juxtaposition is the name of Hillborg's game, but there is
nothing mad or random about it. By some miracle, he has
managed to make a series of drastically contrasting sections
fit together like stones in Machu Picchu, the whole a monument
of sound structural principle. Part of this genius must come
from his mastery of electronic music, where transitions are
crucial and can make or break a piece. And what orchestration!
Hillborg has evidently benefited from the Spectral Music
movement in Europe, which entails analysis of instrumental
sounds by frequency and deliberately highlighting selected
component frequencies to create new sounds.
A flute drone begins the journey. Better than a THX
demonstration, washes of sounds migrate through the orchestra,
at one point punctuated by high string slashes reminiscent
of Bernard Hermann's music for "Psycho," but in even more
striking combination. At the climax, the huge percussion
section takes up an inexorable thumping revealing Hillborg's
rock-influenced past. The tension dissipates as the work
concludes with an organ-like, massed- stringed benediction.
Sustained bravos greeted the composer and conductor Alan
Gilbert over multiple curtain calls.
And how was I left by the experience? Less with joy at the
achievement by Hillborg, but more with anger at the thought
of the forty-minute agony that I had to endure to get to it.
Namely, the preceding work on the program, Chopin's E-minor
piano concerto. Its pianism, revolutionary for its time and
ably presented by Horacio Gutierrez, now seemed to have as
much import as an Andrew-Jackson-for-President poster. Its
length and melodies, heavenly as fans Schubert's Great C Major
have insisted, seemed as quaint as the fake leftover spider
webs on last night's Halloween homes. Worst of all, the
faulty orchestration, best defended as a ruse to make the
soloist shine, came off as a pathetic make-work exercise for
non-entities. One lame bassoon solo is all Chopin offers
besides some main-theme tuttis, the rest a few pizzicatos and
quiet sawings.
No, now thoroughly indoctrinated by Hillborg's music of the
future, bursting from my cocoon of complacency (like the
shockingly huge B-major chord in the middle of Hillborg's
clarinet concerto--a mandatory purchase!), I urge all composers
out there willing to call themselves au currant to set upon
with all zeal the exquisite corpse of Chopin's concerto. It
is out of copyright, nothing to fear. Cut its forty minutes
down to 18. Give it an orchestra with something to say to
the pianist besides "Yes, Mommy." LikeHillborg has done in
his works with references to Sibelius, Puccini and Stravinsky,
highlight Chopin's subsequent influence by throwing in some
Postmodernist Rachmaninoff, Scriabin and Saint-Saens quotes.
Give us a work worthy of the interest of the next generation,
which is in danger of forsaking classical music altogether.
Give us the Chopiniana Concerto a la Breve! After all, Smetana
could eschew surplusage with his brilliant Bartered Bride
Overture, also on the program. Not a wasted note!
Cut, cut, cut! Pullout Chopin's heart, stick it into a new
body, and awe little girls and the world. And recognize
Hillborg as a master for our age.
Jeff Dunn
[log in to unmask]
Alameda, CA
|