Arnold Schoenberg’s Gurrelieder (1913), that gargantuan romantic cantata based on the translated poems of the Danish poet Jens Peter Jacobson (1847-1885), is a truly exotic beast. Its decade long gestation takes it from late German romanticism – al a Richard Strauss - through to early sprechstimme. Hybridity rules.
On this scale, Schoenberg, like Mahler, knows how to summon his forces for overwhelming impact – sheer heft and amazing sonorities - while also demonstrating a chamber like poise with the delicate use of such massive forces. The narrative it essays is archaic but engaging, via a stylised and doomed medieval love story.
The lovers, Tove (soprano) and Waldemar (tenor), never sing together (adhering to Wagner’s general injunction) but reflect on their love. The stylised rhyming scheme in their early songs makes us focus on the beauty of their mutual desires, but also hints at the erotic current that informs this desire, The text suggests medieval sacred love, with the profane to follow.
Tove sings four songs in answer to Waldemar’s five. They are set in isolation of each other, with the first songs presaging monologues. By the time Waldemar glimpses Tove in the castle window (“hat Tove Gesehen”) they are engaged in a dialogue of increasing intensity. They are separated yet transmitting across time and space, somewhat like Voss and Laura do in Richard Meale’s Voss.
At times the work is almost cinematic, as though we are immersed in their experience, particularly Waldemar’s. As in “Ross! Mein Ross” when he urges his horse wildly onwards to Gurre and Tove. This immersion becomes more pronounced in Part 3 when Schoenberg essays the wild hunt with a gigantic surround-sound ambience.
Simon O’Neill was magnificent as Waldemar. His heldentenor is a gleaming shaft of light that breaks through the powerful orchestration. Waldemar is a brother of Tannhauser, totally consumed by the power of love and desire, but in consequence of the loss of his Venus he is shattered and unrepentant. Like the Flying Dutchman, he is ultimately doomed to endless repetition,
In despair, Waldemar turns on God, cursing the old man of scripture. He worships and seeks out his love beyond the grave. In mythic terms, he is forced into the endless wild hunt for this phantom love, damned for his profanity and wilful psychology. O’Neill remained in character throughout the evening, even when not singing, responding to his Tove and his chorus of deathly retainers with a taut body and glistening, searching eye.
Tove requires a Brünhilde voice. At times the role has some almighty orchestral forces to contend with and rise above. Ricarda Merbeth displays a strong and heroic voice that can also slim down to filigree when required. She held her own against the orchestral onslaught and was deeply ecstatic in her final song where, like Schubert, Schoenberg gives his singer increasingly tempestuous variations on “Sein Kuss” (his kiss). Thus, “Liebe weckenden kuss”/ “ein flammender kuss”/ “im seligen kuss”. The latter was crowned by Merbeth with a stream of glorious sound. She also captured the sublimation of Tove in “O Wen des Mondes Strahlen leise Gleiten”, seeing each natural beauty as part of a divine mystery. Unlike her impassioned lover, she has no need to curse god.
Deborah Humble at the Waldtaube (Wood Dove) uttered her glorious music with deep gravitas and beauty. Like Erda, like a spinning norn, she recounts the death of Tove and shockingly tells of her own demise, shafted by the Queen’s’ falcon. Her voice and the words seemed to summon truth from the earth in great arcs of refulgent sound. This was a deeply satisfying performance. This young singer blended words and notes with powerful effect, showing why this song is one of the better-known sections of Gurrelieder: sung in the past by greats such as Janet Baker and Yvonne Minton.
The short interventions of the Bauer (the Peasant) and Klaus-naar (the Fool) were well sung by Sava Vemić and Andrew Goodwin. Vemić: tall, handsome and of sonorous voice. His peasant was almost patrician. Goodwin avoided the Mime excesses that some tenor’s think is mandatory for his role. Instead, he gave us a strange, caustic beauty, beautifully pitched.
Warwick Fyfe as the Narrator bestrode the stage like an angry satyr bursting from his tuxedo, spouting nonsense and invective and lulling us - like a true storyteller - into willing the return of natures’ awesome beauty and its sublimation of the love death that has haunted the work. His baritone strode the sprechstimme with sardonic beauty, with spleen, with whimsy.
The assembled choruses – Sydney Philharmonia, Melbourne Symphony Chorus, Tasmanian Symphony Chorus - were magnificent. The first shout of the retainers was overwhelming, and the energy of their narrations was something to behold. We were in the middle of their deathly ride, breathless with wonder at the darkness that Waldemar endlessly invokes. The terror was coruscating, Verdian almost, in a Dies Irae kind of way.
The final hymn to the sun was beautifully paced and sung with a full and open-mouthed wonder. At times it seems to hint at the final pages of Szymanowski’s Krol Roger. This was a paean of noble proportions.
The massive orchestral forces – including 10 horns (4 doubling as Wagner Tubas), 7 trombones and 7 clarinets, and 4 Harps - were totally committed to the architecture that Simone Young outlined for this somewhat hybrid work, with its disarrayed narrative. Her through line kept the pulse and trajectory on a fulsome arc of beautiful and startling sounds. Players from the Australian National Academy of Music were dotted through the orchestra. At the end of this flawed but magnificent work, the audience erupted into a standing ovation of shouts and cheers. This was a once in a lifetime musical experience that allowed us to listen in wonder at one of the constellations of modern 20th century music.
Sydney Symphony Orchestra – Concert Hall, Sydney Opera House, Sydney – March 15, 2024
Gar Jones
On this scale, Schoenberg, like Mahler, knows how to summon his forces for overwhelming impact – sheer heft and amazing sonorities - while also demonstrating a chamber like poise with the delicate use of such massive forces. The narrative it essays is archaic but engaging, via a stylised and doomed medieval love story.
The lovers, Tove (soprano) and Waldemar (tenor), never sing together (adhering to Wagner’s general injunction) but reflect on their love. The stylised rhyming scheme in their early songs makes us focus on the beauty of their mutual desires, but also hints at the erotic current that informs this desire, The text suggests medieval sacred love, with the profane to follow.
Tove sings four songs in answer to Waldemar’s five. They are set in isolation of each other, with the first songs presaging monologues. By the time Waldemar glimpses Tove in the castle window (“hat Tove Gesehen”) they are engaged in a dialogue of increasing intensity. They are separated yet transmitting across time and space, somewhat like Voss and Laura do in Richard Meale’s Voss.
At times the work is almost cinematic, as though we are immersed in their experience, particularly Waldemar’s. As in “Ross! Mein Ross” when he urges his horse wildly onwards to Gurre and Tove. This immersion becomes more pronounced in Part 3 when Schoenberg essays the wild hunt with a gigantic surround-sound ambience.
Simon O’Neill was magnificent as Waldemar. His heldentenor is a gleaming shaft of light that breaks through the powerful orchestration. Waldemar is a brother of Tannhauser, totally consumed by the power of love and desire, but in consequence of the loss of his Venus he is shattered and unrepentant. Like the Flying Dutchman, he is ultimately doomed to endless repetition,
In despair, Waldemar turns on God, cursing the old man of scripture. He worships and seeks out his love beyond the grave. In mythic terms, he is forced into the endless wild hunt for this phantom love, damned for his profanity and wilful psychology. O’Neill remained in character throughout the evening, even when not singing, responding to his Tove and his chorus of deathly retainers with a taut body and glistening, searching eye.
Tove requires a Brünhilde voice. At times the role has some almighty orchestral forces to contend with and rise above. Ricarda Merbeth displays a strong and heroic voice that can also slim down to filigree when required. She held her own against the orchestral onslaught and was deeply ecstatic in her final song where, like Schubert, Schoenberg gives his singer increasingly tempestuous variations on “Sein Kuss” (his kiss). Thus, “Liebe weckenden kuss”/ “ein flammender kuss”/ “im seligen kuss”. The latter was crowned by Merbeth with a stream of glorious sound. She also captured the sublimation of Tove in “O Wen des Mondes Strahlen leise Gleiten”, seeing each natural beauty as part of a divine mystery. Unlike her impassioned lover, she has no need to curse god.
Deborah Humble at the Waldtaube (Wood Dove) uttered her glorious music with deep gravitas and beauty. Like Erda, like a spinning norn, she recounts the death of Tove and shockingly tells of her own demise, shafted by the Queen’s’ falcon. Her voice and the words seemed to summon truth from the earth in great arcs of refulgent sound. This was a deeply satisfying performance. This young singer blended words and notes with powerful effect, showing why this song is one of the better-known sections of Gurrelieder: sung in the past by greats such as Janet Baker and Yvonne Minton.
The short interventions of the Bauer (the Peasant) and Klaus-naar (the Fool) were well sung by Sava Vemić and Andrew Goodwin. Vemić: tall, handsome and of sonorous voice. His peasant was almost patrician. Goodwin avoided the Mime excesses that some tenor’s think is mandatory for his role. Instead, he gave us a strange, caustic beauty, beautifully pitched.
Warwick Fyfe as the Narrator bestrode the stage like an angry satyr bursting from his tuxedo, spouting nonsense and invective and lulling us - like a true storyteller - into willing the return of natures’ awesome beauty and its sublimation of the love death that has haunted the work. His baritone strode the sprechstimme with sardonic beauty, with spleen, with whimsy.
The assembled choruses – Sydney Philharmonia, Melbourne Symphony Chorus, Tasmanian Symphony Chorus - were magnificent. The first shout of the retainers was overwhelming, and the energy of their narrations was something to behold. We were in the middle of their deathly ride, breathless with wonder at the darkness that Waldemar endlessly invokes. The terror was coruscating, Verdian almost, in a Dies Irae kind of way.
The final hymn to the sun was beautifully paced and sung with a full and open-mouthed wonder. At times it seems to hint at the final pages of Szymanowski’s Krol Roger. This was a paean of noble proportions.
The massive orchestral forces – including 10 horns (4 doubling as Wagner Tubas), 7 trombones and 7 clarinets, and 4 Harps - were totally committed to the architecture that Simone Young outlined for this somewhat hybrid work, with its disarrayed narrative. Her through line kept the pulse and trajectory on a fulsome arc of beautiful and startling sounds. Players from the Australian National Academy of Music were dotted through the orchestra. At the end of this flawed but magnificent work, the audience erupted into a standing ovation of shouts and cheers. This was a once in a lifetime musical experience that allowed us to listen in wonder at one of the constellations of modern 20th century music.
Sydney Symphony Orchestra – Concert Hall, Sydney Opera House, Sydney – March 15, 2024
Gar Jones