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There
is a famous story of the one time Sergei Rachmaninov and Igor Stravinsky
had dinner together. Both men lived in Beverly Hills, California,
not far from one another, but disliked each other immensely. The
atmosphere that night remained charged until Stravinsky commented
about Rachmaninov's Prelude in C sharp minor, on which its composer
received no royalties despite its immense popularity.
Rachmaninov
countered by mentioning the three early ballets Stravinsky had written
for the Ballets Russe - The Firebird, Pétrouchka and
Le Sacre du Printemps - for which Stravinsky had received
no residual monies. That finally broke the ice, with the two composers
gleefully comparing how much they would have made had their respective
works fallen under international copyright laws.
Copyright,
and the possibility of finally earning some residual income from
those three very popular scores, was a strong motivation for Stravinsky
to revise these works in the 1940s. He also wanted to make them
more accessible to smaller orchestral forces, add genuine second
thoughts, and correct what he considered errors of youth and inexperience.
 Stravinsky
had particularly wanted to revise Pétrouchka for some
time, and did so extensively. He not only reduced the orchestra
but also changed meters, slowed tempi, simplified rhythms, changed
harmonic passages into contrapuntal ones and expanded the piano
part. In short, he made Pétrouchka a much leaner and
meaner composition, more in keeping with the edgy neo-classical
Stravinsky of 1947 than the impressionistic one of 1911.
Left:
Stravinsky in 1911, with Nijinsky as Pétrouchka.
Many
conductors today use the revised Pétrouchka,
but the opulence of the original more fully portrays an aura of
fantasy - the aural equivalent of looking at brightly colored Russian
lacquer boxes, with their illustrations of fairy tales and winter
scenes - which makes this recording all the more fascinating.
Lorin
Maazel's conducting is not a disappointment by any stretch of the
imagination. After his early recordings showed considerable promise,
many of his interpretations in the 1980s and 90s seemed lackluster.
More lately, however, Maazel's music-making has come into a second
bloom, with the sparkle of his early years grafted onto tempi that
are relaxed but by no means dragged-out or dull.
From
the opening notes, there is a joy in the music and a strong sense
of fantasy and in the scenes it depicts. While Maazel does not overdramatize
anything, he mines quite a few more touches of character than most
conductors in this score, and through his measured pacing gives
us more time to appreciate and savor them.
All
the wide-eyed wonder of the First Tableau is present, along with
a thoroughly rustic quality that fits the scene flawlessly. The
scenes in Pétrouchka's and the Moor's rooms show the puppets
to be children - innocent, sensitive and bad-tempered in short order
- which makes Pétrouchka's death in the Fourth Tableau all
the more chilling when it occurs. The details in these two middle
tableaux, especially the Third, bring Pétrouchka, the Moor
and the Ballerina to life so completely that I can not only see
and hear them, but almost touch them as well.
Nor
does this almost tactile scene-setting end with the characters.
For once, I can hear children running through the Fair in the Fourth
Tableau, listen to people chattering and actually become excited
with the crowd and the sights. The bear is terrifying - a foreshadowment
to what happens between Pétrouchka and the Moor shortly afterwards
- but once he is gone, the joy and excitement return. When the Moor
chases Pétrouchka, sword in hand - not spotlighted but unfolding
within the rest of the music, as though you notice it amidst everything
else going on - the sheer fright of the spectacle itself and the
crowd's realization that this should not be happening if these puppets
are not alive is almost palpable.
Even
with the large orchestral forces demanded in this score, there is
a transparency to the playing and recorded sound that allows us
to hear everything. And there is quite a lot going on. Maazel encourages
the players to articulate the notes cleanly, pointing up the rhythms
while never sacrificing the sense of line and blending the orchestral
colors into one whole fabric. No one color or texture stands out,
but exist as part of the complete picture. Even the snare drum which
plays between tableau is set back further than usual - an interesting
touch.
A further
bonus is the Vienna Philharmonic, never sounding better in music
one would normally not associate with it. How much Maazel has encouraged
them or they have encouraged him is possibly open to debate (the
Vienna Philharmonic has the uncanny knack of bringing out the best
in the conductors with whom it plays), but in any case, the result,
as in Maazel's recent Debussy and Ravel discs with the orchestra,
is outstanding.
 Maazel
and the VPO acquit themselves equally well in Le Chant du
rossignol ("The Song of the Nightingale"), the
symphonic chinoserie that Stravinsky cobbled together from his opera
Le Rossignol for the Ballets Russe in 1917. The director, Sergei
Diaghilev, requested that the composer rewrite the opera in the
form of a ballet, and gave detailed instructions for the adaptation.
Stravinsky fulfilled the request, and the Ballets Russe premiered
Le Chant in 1920. The work has since been more popular as a concert
piece but is not programmed as frequently as The Firebird, Pétrouchka
or Le Sacre du Printemps.
Right:
Portrait of Stravinsky (1915)
by Jacques Emile Blanche
Based
on a fairy tale by Hans Christian Anderson, Le Chant closely
follows the second and third acts of the opera. Courtiers hurriedly
decorate the Emperor of China's palace in anticipation of the Nightingale's
song. A "Chinese March" announces the ceremonial entrance
of the Emperor. The Nightingale sings, and the crowd expresses its
approval.
The
song has barely died away when a courtier presents a gift from the
Emperor of Japan - a mechanical nightingale, which can sing at the
regent's beck and call. However, the mechanical bird's song is a
pale imitation of the real thing, and the Emperor angrily dismisses
the gift, a muted trumpet portraying his pique.
In
the final part of the drama, the Emperor lies ill as Death hovers
nearby, ready to escort him away. The Nightingale arrives unexpectedly,
charming Death with its song and saving the Emperor. The courtiers,
expecting to find the Emperor dead, are stunned to find him greeting
them when they arrive the next morning.
While
not exhibiting the coiled-spring intensity of Fritz Reiner's performance
with the Chicago Symphony (RCA 68168, with Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade
- mid-price), Maazel and the VPO fully capture the score's exoticism
and wit. Where Reiner gives a more acerbic, post-Sacre reading to
the score, Maazel tackles the work from an impressionistic, pre-Sacre
vantage point. Both views work equally well.
For
once, the early sections of this work come off with considerable
tongue in cheek - not a quality normally associated with Stravinsky
- with those servants in the opening Presto genteelly almost running
one another down as they make sure every piece of furniture shines
and every cushion is straightened. And restraightened. And straightened
some more. The Chinese March lurches from pomp and pomposity,
and while the Nightingale's song, played by the flute at the beginning
of track seven, is very sensitively done, the poor mechanical nightingale
not only sounds stilted, but - dare I say it - just a little rusty
in the gearbox.
Maazel
is also perceptive of the darker tone the score takes later on.
The low brass and winds give the deathbed scene a thoroughly malevolent
air, and the rest of the scene up to the Nightingale's appearance
plays like Le Sacre's evil twin. Even when the Nightengale
appears, the tension does not abate until the Emperor sleeps peacefully
near the end of the movement. Altogether, while this score is generally
not as fulfilling as Pétrouchka, Maazel and the VPO make
as good a case for it as anyone probably could, and show how rounded
and interesting it can be when in the right hands.
At
the end of this disc, played as an encore, is Feu d'artifice
("Fireworks"), the short orchestral score Stravinsky wrote
for his teacher, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, to celebrate the wedding
of the elder composer's daughter. (Unfortunately, Rimsky-Korsakov
did not live to see or hear the score.) Sergei Diaghilev was in
the audience when the piece was performed in St. Petersburg, and
was impressed enough to compose music for the Ballets Russe. The
rest, as they say, is history.
JONATHAN
YUNGKANS does
not mind fireworks or nightingales, but he watches out for those
clowns.
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851:
20.8.2000 ©Jonathan Yungkans
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