Wigmore Hall
Schumann – Gedichte der Königin Maria Stuart
Wolf – Selection from Mörike-Lieder: ‘Begegnung’, ‘Neue Liebe’,
‘Nimmersatte Liebe’, ‘Das verlassene Mägdlein’, ‘Elfenlied’, ‘Verborgenheit’, ‘Wo
find ich Trost?’, Auf ein altes Bild’, ‘Lebe wohl’, ‘Nixe Binsefuß’, ‘Abschied’Dvořák – Love Songs, op.83
Schoenberg – Brettl-Lieder
Magdalena Kožená seems to be an
increasingly controversial artist. I did not hear the Proms Dream of Gerontius, conducted by her husband,
Simon Rattle, but much comment focused upon her assumption of the role of the
Angel. Some of what was said then seemed relevant to this recital, especially
its first half. I was less troubled by the overt emotionalism of her singing;
such matters are to a considerable degree a matter of taste. However, there was
an unvariegated stridency to much, although not all, of this first half that I
found it difficult to warm to, especially when contrasted with the unerring
rightness of Mitsuko Uchida’s piano-playing.
Schumann’s late Geidchte der Königin Maria Stuart are
unquestionably a case of ‘less is more’. Not, alas, so here, at least vocally, ‘Abschied
von der Welt’ sounding more like a refugee from the opera house, although the
declamatory approach to ‘Nach der Geburt ihres Sohnes’ had worked better.
Uchida’s way with Schumann’s piano writing, however, was in quite a different
class, as careful, as meaningful, as connected, as if she had been playing his
solo music. Indeed, connections with earlier music – the C major Arabeske, for instance, or indeed, Bach’s
48 – announced themselves straight
away. In the final ‘Gebet’, it was the piano harmony that told, encasing – not unlike
Robin
Holloway’s Reliquary for the same
songs – the Queen’s plea to the Almighty, preparing the way for that dreadful,
sombre close.
The selection from Wolf’s Mörike-Lieder opened in urgent contrast,
at least so far as the piano was concerned, with ‘Begegnung’. To begin with,
that was less in evident vocally, but Kožená captured its later cheekiness
well. Planning of the sequence impressed too, with a weightier, more
metaphysical note struck in the following ‘Neue Liebe,’ ‘Nimmersatte Liebe’
bringing together qualities from both of its predecessors. Moreover, the
opening harmonies of the latter song seemed to prefigure some of those to be
heard in Schoenberg’s Brettl-Lieder.
Uchida’s piano chimes in ‘Elfenlied’ had one gasp for their melting tone as
piano music at least as much as for their pictorial quality, whilst the
combination of exquisite sadness and true strength in ‘Wo find ich Trost?’ seemed
just right. Kožená by contrast, seemed too ‘public’, at times downright shrill.
Musical continuity was once again very much the province of the piano part in
the final ‘Abschied’, whose harmonies not for the first time brought Wagner as
well as Schoenberg to mind.
Dvořák’s Love Songs and their simpler style seemed far better suited to Kožená.
With respect to language, I can say little more than that it sounded right. Doubtless
those with Czech would be able to say much more concerning what she did with
the words, but my impression was a good deal, without it being too much. There
was certainly a far more variegated vocal line in, for instance, ‘V tak mnohém
srdci mrtvo jest’ (‘Death dwells in so many a heart’), its final line in
particular. Uchida’s pellucid tone for the arpeggios and their variants in the
closing ‘Ó, duše drahá, jedinká’ (‘O dear matchless soul’) would have justified
attendance in itself.
Shorn of my favourite ‘Nachtwandler’,
which requires additional piccolo, trumpet, and snare drum’, Schoenberg’s Brettl-Lieder nevertheless packed quite
a punch. Again, Kožená seemed quite in her element, words, music,
words-and-music full of incident, of fun, of ‘life’; Uchida put all of her
Schoenbergian experience, lightly worn, to splendid effect. (I cannot for a
moment concur with Misha Donat’s claim in his programme note that these songs ‘would
be of no more than marginal interest were it not for the fact that out of them
grew … Pierrot lunaire.’) The knowing
heaviness in ‘Einfältiges Lied’ showed a true meeting of performers’ minds (and
the composer’s too). ‘Mahnung’ tilted more towards outright cabaret, Kožená’s
voice often coloured by tuning, and not afraid either to shun conventional ‘beauty’
or to speak rather than sing. That tendency was taken still further in the
final Schikander aria, a highly ‘masculine’ rendition of certain stanzas and
lines not the least of Kožená’s surprises. Janáček’s ‘Lavečka’ was the
deceptively simple, profoundly moving encore.
