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EARLY MUSIC REVIEW
A Strange, Disquieting Marriage,
November 16, 2000
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By Michelle Dulak
Baroque violinist Andrew Manze has built up a reputation for himself in the weirder byways of 17th century music. Most recently, he won a Gramophone Award for a disc of sonatas by one Giovanni Pandolfi, a composer so thoroughly obscure that his sonatas are very nearly the only evidence we have of his existence. Manze's Berkeley recital last year, centered on 17th century repertory, was a marvel. But there were some strange goings-on in his appearance last Thursday at Zellerbach Hall, together with the strings of the Academy of Ancient Music.
I'm sure I'm not the only listener who was surprised when Manze was named codirector of the AAM. The multitude of small period-instrument orchestras in London overlap so much that one critic has dubbed the aggregate The Great London Period Orchestra. Of TGLPO's many offshoots, the AAM has long been about the least interesting — drab, dry, and depressingly literalistic, from its "pioneering" Mozart symphony cycle of the '70s right through to its continuing Haydn symphony cycle of today. (That both of these, as well as most of the ensemble's work in the interim, were directed by Christopher Hogwood must account for much of the prevailing tone.)
An ensemble less likely to take to Manze's hyperkinetic performance manner it is scarcely possible to imagine. How the heck did he get the gig? Was it the rough equivalent of the orchestra's hitting itself on the head with a hammer, in order to wake itself up? A blow like that is more likely to produce disorientation than clear-eyed purposefulness.
Manze's one official solo turn Thursday, the A Minor Violin Concerto of Bach, was a pure disaster — blustery, histrionic, and barely coherent. The chief pleasures of the outer movements were the tuttis, where the inner voices were powerful and present in a way that they often aren't in this music. However, Manze's solo was forced and wayward, full of "effects" but sounding, in the end, all too desperate to make a stir.
The slow movement had something more — at least Manze's gentle cantabile had room to be heard. Yet even here he was deliberately "different," slithering way up the A string, to no particular effect, and affecting a whispery, barely audible tone suddenly and seemingly at random. Manze's 1997 recording of the piece (with the same orchestra) was nowhere as weird as this. I admire his determination to take risks in live performance. But, really, there are risks, and then there are suicide missions. Things only got stranger with the Corelli/Geminiani Follia that ended the program — a bizarre performance that began with a two-minute, free-form guitar improvisation and later featured an extraordinary Gypsy-style rhapsody from Manze, virtuosic, free, and intensely personal. Anyone looking for the seeds of it in the actual score would have been disappointed. This was just Manze taking an opportunity (a spot in the score where not much was going on) to have some fun. The orchestra kept up with its director as well as it could. But apart from cellist Allison McGillivray (who did her level best to match Manze's improvisational frenzy), no one seemed especially enthused. The rest of the program was quite different (not a little strange in itself). The opener was Purcell's music to The Gordian Knot Untied, a suite full of tiny but piquant dances, crisply and elegantly dispatched. The best was the concluding Gigue, based on the old tune "Lilliburlero" (probably best known around here as the theme song of the BBC World Service). Purcell puts the tune in the bass and then builds on it. Manze had the whole thing played through three times over, beginning with bass (and harpsichord) alone and ending with the full band, his own wacky divisions on top. Then there were three Bach "puzzle canons," which Manze introduced and explained in his ingenuous, artlessly didactic manner; a long and melancholy Passacaglia by Biagio Marini; and one of the van Wassenauer Concerti Armonici (a set of gloriously rich chamber concerti, with four violin parts, long attributed to Pergolesi). The performance of the van Wassenauer Concerto Armonico No. 5 in F minor was too strident in the outer movements, but exquisite in the long, muted slow movement.
Then came the best of the night's "straight" offerings, Handel's B-flat Concerto Grosso, Op. 6/7, in which Manze kicked the AAM players into a degree of animation that has hardly been natural to them in the past. The concluding Hornpipe crowned all. There may be other ensembles that have dug into Handel's rhythms with comparable abandon, but the sheer fun that can be wrung out of the legato viola line in the second half of the piece seems to be Manze's own discovery. There were two encores, movements from a Vivaldi ripieno concerto (RV 149) and from a Handel concerto grosso (Op. 6/10), predictably fluent and full of fun. But there was a disquieting discord about the whole evening. I had the impression of an ensemble not wholly committed to its director's sense of the music, and of a director not wholly comfortable with the music at hand. To speak plainly: The AAM doesn't sound quite ready for Manze, and Manze certainly doesn't sound quite happy in the 18th century, a few extravagant Italians apart. (Manze is coming out next spring to direct Philharmonia Baroque in a Mozart program, heaven help us. I can't think of any violinist less temperamentally suited to Mozart.)
As it happened, the following evening found me at San Francisco's Herbst Theater, where the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra was opening its November set, and so I saw what a good orchestra can achieve when conductor and players alike seem to have a single understanding of the music. Nicholas McGegan is one of those rare conductors who really "gets" Haydn. And his orchestra is one of those rare bands that is really attuned to its conductor. The combination made for a Haydn "Surprise" Symphony that I'll remember for a very long time indeed. It was brash, coarse even, but also subtle. The sheer exuberance of Haydn — the elemental joy in playing with musical materials — lit up the entire performance as though with hundreds of candles. But the whole effect depended on McGegan's and the PBO's understanding one another, so to speak. There was no friction between conductor and orchestra. Instead we got a whole-hearted effort in a single direction that moved me as much by its earnest single-mindedness as by any outward gestures. That is a quality that Manze and the AAM don't quite have yet. I hope they will succeed quickly. (Michelle Dulak is a violinist and violist who has written about music for "Strings," "Stagebill," "Early Music America" and The New York Times.) ©2000 Michelle Dulak, all rights reserved |
