San Francisco Classical Voice

Shadows of Time was inspired by the horrors the Nazis inflicted on Jewish children during World War II. One entire orphanage was shipped off to the death camps in a single blow. Written for a large orchestra, the music is laid out in five continuous sections that are so interrelated that I didn't spot the exact point where one movement blended into the next through its approximately 20-minute span.

Dutilleux used rhythmic formations as much as melodic material to weave his textures. Slow, deliberate repeated patterns are nearly always just below the surface in Shadows of Time. Sometimes they sit quietly under musical outbursts. Sometimes they lie well forward and obvious, always suggesting a ticking clock — hence both the passage of time, and time running out. That ticking sound emanated from all around the instrumentation, often from a percussion instrument, and nearly as often from strings or brass playing in extreme registers.

As a master of orchestration, Dutilleux devised a number of original touches to fit the players of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, for whom the piece was written. It also contains a tiny quotation from his Second Symphony, his other Boston commission. He obviously had the orchestra's virtuosity in mind — for this is a highly virtuosic piece, especially for the double basses, of all things.

The composer divided the basses into two units standing about four feet apart. One unit may be playing pizzicatos while the other uses bows. Or one might be playing support as the other runs through extremely quick passagework of the sort more typical of a solo violinist. Dutilleux even wrote individual harmonics, to be played in super-high registers. I was astounded to see as well as hear what those players were doing. (In recognition of it, Tortelier gave them the first standing bow, which was appropriately greeted with a thunderous ovation.)

But Dutilleux had another surprise for us. Around the middle of the work, we suddenly heard a quiet, wordless vocalise, seemingly coming from nowhere. It was haunting. Only a little later could we see Polen at the back of the rows of high seats to the immediate left of the stage, singing a text. All this was set forward with utmost delicacy and made all the more effective by Polen's exceptional beauty of sounds and musicality. For a young man like that to command such pinpoint intonation and phrasing was uncanny. The whole of Shadows of Time proved at once exhilarating and extremely moving.

Gutiérrez took a sturdy, forthright approach to Mozart's witty 19th concerto, shunning overly dainty effects and reminding me of Rudolf Serkin's Mozart. I happen to like my Mozart that way, particularly for so gleeful a concerto, one packed with insider jokes. It doesn't even contain a genuine slow movement, substituting instead a lyrical Allegretto. With no direct connection, it somehow always reminds me of Mozart's Figaro. Gutiérrez managed to capture all this tastefully, not to mention with absolute accuracy. I especially admired his cadenza playing, with excellent use of discreet rubato that was neither coy nor exaggerated.

While both the Mozart and the Dutilleux were impressive, the high point of the afternoon was the Vaughan Williams, which sounded richer and more beautiful than usual. It simply couldn't have been better played. Written for triple string orchestra of varied size, the work uses antiphonal effects to ping-pong sonorities around the stage.

This is in keeping with the 16th century composer Thomas Tallis, who was one of the first to set the Anglican liturgy with the spatial effects of the Venetian style. Vaughan Williams' ultrarespecting piece apes that general concept — to a degree. Davies Symphony Hall nearly glowed with the radiance of the composer's meditative sonorities, the Symphony's strings sounding out as a match for any in the world.

Using no baton, Tortelier molded phrases in ways that almost seemed as if he were playing the notes himself. For the first three works, this was a demure element. In the Dutilleux, his gestures were more animated, particularly during violent sections. On the whole, this was sensible, clean conducting reinforced by obvious musical sensibilities.

Ravel once commented of his Boléro: "I have written only one masterpiece, and unfortunately there's no music in it." He was being facetious, of course. Yet Boléro is more a brilliant orchestration study than a traditional piece of music. It has almost no contrast other than an abrupt key change from C minor to E major at the end.

Believe it or not, Boléro can easily be a bore if the conductor isn't careful. As composer-conductor-writer Constant Lambert noted long ago, there are limits to how long a person can stand one repeated rhythm, "a thing Ravel approached somewhere near the end of La Valse, and somewhere near the beginning of Boléro."

Perhaps Tortelier feared the tedium factor. He set a standard tempo, and most of the time achieved elegant balances. But he decided to play Boléro with added theatrical podium stunts, creating a choreographic crescendo of his own. He began with only his right hand, barely motioning to the players, simply nodding here and there. This lasted for some time. But as instruments joined in, he became increasingly animated, to outlandish extremes: swooping, leaping, crouching, and generally flailing about. At moments I feared he might fall off the podium. Even Leonard Bernstein, who often got carried away with his gestures, never went that far.

While the orchestra played well during the first 10 minutes, toward the ending it started to blare harshly. The audience loved it all. I didn't.

(Heuwell Tircuit is a composer, performer, and writer who was chief writer for Gramophone Japan and for 21 years a music reviewer for the San Francisco Chronicle. He wrote previously for Chicago's American and the Asahi Evening News.)

©2006 Heuwell Tircuit, all rights reserved