United Kingdom Schubert: Simon Bode (tenor), Igor Levit (piano). Wigmore Hall, London, 13.1.2023. (MB)
Schubert – Die schöne Müllerin, D 785
Die schöne Müllerin, Schubert’s first song-cycle, is 2 centuries outdated this yr. As Frankie Perry factors out in her illuminating programme notice to this Wigmore Hall recital, it has ‘inevitably been heard and understood differently’ over that interval; it was first carried out in public in its entirety as late as 1856. Now, after all, it stands as a pillar of the tune repertoire, if typically struggling somewhat by comparability with the later Winterreise. It needn’t, shouldn’t; it’s a completely different work with completely different challenges and rewards. One would possibly count on Igor Levit, whose re-examinations of, say, Beethoven piano sonatas, at all times based within the textual content but at all times providing one thing contemporary, to have one thing fascinating, highly effective, and in some sense new to say about these songs. That he did, in simply that vein. Likewise his established Lied-partner, tenor Simon Bode. Again, there was no signal of novelty for its personal sake, however of thought of, clever, extremely dramatic performances that took wing within the warmth and lightweight of the second.
Youthful impetuosity marked the piano introduction to the opening ‘Das Wandern’, a name to journey, Levit’s articulation startling while sounding proper. Bode adopted go well with, likewise startling with such vivid communication of the phrases, a trademark of his efficiency all through. A shocking hush to the ultimate stanza’s starting, broadening to climax, was however one occasion of illuminating element that helped unlock the puzzle of what’s maybe the cycle’s principal problem: how does one honour the strophic nature of its songs, as opposed both to tried concealment, or perish the thought, veering into monotony? ‘Wohin?’ naturally went deeper, extra clearly metaphysical in conception; but, as with the remainder of the cycle, nothing was laboured. This was not straining (and failing) to be Winterreise. Here, once more, repetitions had been by no means mere repetitions; the nixies beneath the brook’s floor won’t ever fairly sing the identical manner twice.
Levit’s piano-playing, in its manner as developmental as if this had been a sonata, but actually not ‘abstract’, propelled music, verse, and sure, drama. Music appeared to present rise to phrases, as a lot as vice versa. In ‘Am Feierabend’, for example, this would possibly nearly have been Schubert transcribed by Liszt: not that it didn’t sound like Schubert, nor that it was unduly romanticised; however somewhat, the introduction was so communicative that one felt no use for the voice. Until, that’s, it entered, and one felt each want for it. In that tune’s second stanza, Bode different his tone with such quicksilver intelligence — color, vibrato, and far else — that tune and story sounded as if invented earlier than our ears.
There had been actually character and line to the entire. When we reached the central (so it appeared) ‘Pause’, dropped at our consciousness with a deep unhappiness that once more was by no means laboured, lightened by eager chiaroscuro in piano and voice, one felt all had led right here — and it had. By the identical token, all that had led there may by no means be decided upfront; there was nobody measurement to suit all, simply as each imploring ‘Dein its mein Herz’ within the butterflies of ‘Ungeduld’, while ever acquainted, was by no means similar. That mentioned, the closing line of the next ‘Morgengruss’, placing into phrases the care and sorrow that already are love’s hallmark, made its level: all had modified.
For the sublimated, post-Mozartian ache one felt within the strains, vocal and instrumental, and harmonic progressions of ‘Tränenregen’ grew to become very a lot our world: our journey, not merely a journey noticed. When it went additional, towards expressionist impact, if not expressionist means, in ‘Der Jäger’ and ‘Eifersucht und Stolz’, this had been ready, fatally, although with out stepping onto an inappropriate, proto-Winterreise stage. Was that, within the latter tune, maybe a touch of Sprechgesang? Perhaps, but in that case, only a trace; Schubert’s lyricism remained its guiding power. Anger spent, the desolation of ‘Die liebe Farbe’ was equally consequent, the horrifying eloquence of the piano’s left hand a dramatic masterclass in itself, just for fury to return on the shut of the cleverly responding tune in (metaphorical) mirror picture, ‘Die böse Farbe’, inexperienced’s color and all it signified reworked from love into hate.
No marvel Bode’s wan tone and in the end triumphant but embittered irony in ‘Trockne Blumen’ so shocked; no marvel the ultimate two songs so haunted, the decision or completion of the brook’s lullaby hypnotically horrifying merely, or so it appeared, by being itself. Levit appeared already to be on this planet of the late piano music, but continued to play with all of the delicacy of Mozart. Bode continued to withstand any temptation to pull us right into a world past Schubert, the lyricism of ‘Des Baches Wiegenlied’ all of the extra haunting for it. Both musicians proved excellent guides not solely to the journey, however to its panorama, bodily and metaphysical. Heartbreaking.
Mark Berry