Richard
Strauss (pictured right) once declared himself ‘every bit as
interesting as Caesar or Napoleon’ and then wrote his quixotic,
exuberant Ein Heldenleben as some sort of autobiographical
proof. Such men simply can’t be taken too seriously. But thanks to
Toscanini and his textual scruples it is heresy not to take a
composer seriously. That’s why modern Heldenlebens tend to be
either insufferably self-regarding (Karajan) or brutally
mechanistic (Solti). Our poor hero Strauss has been clad in clunky
armor and swathed in shiny paint and what can he do but sit
stoically on his steed and wait for the rain to start rusting the
gloss away? Things weren’t always so tedious. Before the cult of
textual objectivity, I am glad to say, conductors used to sneak
around Hero Strauss and tweak his nose. Clemens Krauss did that,
Conductor Strauss himself did that. Thomas Beecham might have
snuck pyrotechnics under the seat of his pants.
Willem Mengelberg is of this hallowed tradition. What else can one
say about this wonderful performance, by turns as glorious and
infuriating as the work itself? The program notes claim that
Mengelberg toned down his characteristic textual emendations for
this performance, which emerges as a triumph of Toscanini-esque
literalism. Patently untrue. There is nothing literal about this
performance—the string theme at the outset, played staccato where
the score says legato, will tell you as much—but there is much
that is startling and extravagant, and Heldenleben is a startling
and extravagant piece. The hero of Mengelberg’s imagination is of
a swashbuckling good nature and not even the carping critics can
dampen his spirits. Those critics are less caustic than usual;
instead they seem bleatingly insistent. The beloved wife of
Mengelberg’s hero may not possess the shapely contours of
Beecham’s, or the feline silkiness of Karajan’s, but she’s a
cheery old gal all the same, ready to contribute her share towards
domestic bliss and certainly able to turn on the sultriness when
necessary. The hero’s battles are chaotic but eminently civilized,
without the slightest hint of brutalism, and the tapestry of his
works of peace tellingly woven. The allusions come thick and fast
and are marvelously managed by Mengelberg—the often-absent Till
Eulenspiegel,
for example, here slyly but very palpably sneaks under the nose of
lovesick Don Juan. After all this the hero’s retirement may come
as something of a disappointment—it is a little too
conventional—but its measured poignancy is heartwarming all the
same. This is a wonderful performance, full of self-parody and
amiable grandiloquence. Above all it is fun, and that is exactly
what Strauss’ music should be. The Concertgebouw plays with an
abandon that has long since abandoned its concerts. (left,
Mengelberg)
Perhaps that outrageous Heldenleben put me in a mood too
goofy to appreciate the virtues of Mengelberg’s equally celebrated
Tod und Verklärung. The latter inhabits a no-man’s
land between seriousness and frivolity that I find unconvincing.
It is not the architecture of the piece that is in doubt—in fact,
Mengelberg’s conception moves more fluidly than any other except
Furtwangler’s, and the arch of its line is very clearly
delineated—it’s the tone of the performance which wavers. The
performance is saturated in a pathos that seems to be acted rather
than genuinely felt; Strauss’ spiritualist pretensions come off as
even more cloying than usual. There is vitality, of course, and
dazzling virtuoso playing from the Concertgebouw, but Mengelberg
does not relish it as he does in Heldenleben, and this performance
is duller for it.
Still, this is a Tod und Verklärung of rare distinction and
imagination. As for the Heldenleben, it’s possibly the most
enjoyable interpretation I’ve heard. These performances will
dispel any memories of the supermarket Strauss with which any
half-decent contemporary conductor continues to assault us.
Mengelberg is a paragon of wit and panache, and his
Concertgebouworkest a magical, beguiling instrument equally
attuned to delicacy and virtuosic brilliance. The recorded sound
is excellent; the balance between treble and bass has been
carefully calibrated and much of Strauss’ internal part-writing
emerges with impressive clarity. There could have been a little
more bloom, especially in the climactic sections of Tod und
Verklärung, but the sound of the Concertgebouworkest is admirably
preserved.
