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| Paul Huang |
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| Dimitri Shostakovich |
José Luis Gomez, conductor
Paul Huang, violin
Daniel Asia: Gateways (1993)
Dmitri Shostakovich: Violin Concerto No. 1 (
Johannes Brahms: Symphony No. 4
Friday, 18 March, 2022, 7:30 pm
Tonight was to be all about the Brahms. I viewed this maiden voyage for Maestro José Luis Gomez conducting His Own Orchestra through the prized, darkly luminous, and always-craved supreme pinnacle of late 19th Century romanticism--Brahms 4th Symphony--as a natural sort of cultural Holy Day; an evening to meld with and melt into the artistic depths of an all-time musical master would soon commence. YES! This is what true love is all about...
The evening began quite agreeably, as wise programming tagged renown Tucson composer Daniel Asia's 'Gateways' to lead off the performance; a rousing, 5-minute exhibition of brilliantly crafted orchestral colors, bound in fanfare rhythms, and brandished in a dazzling, metrically shifting, momentum gathering drive to a fitting finishing flourish. This fine composition requires a very large orchestra, every player of which is needed to execute Asia's striking, closely-focused, continuous shading of orchestral sonorities. Maestro José and the TSO gave a highly skilled, enthusiastic reading of this little 1993 gem, making for a most grand opening indeed. Bravi tutti, and to composer Asia!
Next, innocently enough, or so I thought, onto the Linda Ronstadt Music Hall stage strode Paul Huang; steely-eyed, with violin carried in strong, supple hands, giving an even-keeled smile in acknowledging the crowd's warm welcome. And then, all hell broke loose, as this super virtuoso proceeded, in superb collaboration with Maestro Gomez and the Tucson Symphony Orchestra, to pour out, savagely at times, the torn and shorn mid-20th Century soul of Dimitri Shostakovich, in a searing, gut-wrenching performance that I, and likely no one else in house Friday night, will soon forget. I was virtually blown out my seat and into the rafters somewhere. Both the composition and the performance were clear and powerful. I am a different person tonight than I was this afternoon.
Great artistic performance is not just a show, but a hard-fought-for opportunity for deep spiritual communion. Here, a world once overflowing with life and love has been senselessly carpet-bombed into oblivion, leaving only a non-stop, plaintive, melancholy wail for this survivor. So goes the Nocturne opening of this post-WWII epic. Penned in 1947-48, Shostakovich and other top Russian composers were censored by the state for nonconformity to Socialist Realism dictates. Thank those creatives who would not bend their art for forced state directives! These restrictions died in March, 1953, when Stalin was laid to unrestful rest. Violinist David Oistrakh, who consulted on rewrites before the premiere, premiered the concerto in Leningrad, 1955, with Mravinsky.
The violin, from the very beginning, leans and presses, long and hard, in conventional expressive terms--big sound with heavy vibrato--as if spinning out a most romantic, Romantic Era melody. Its setting, however, over tersely constructed "steel and concrete" Shostakovich harmonic and tonal foundations, is unsettling at best. From the violin, tears of sorrow flow, yet they land not on the warm, understanding shoulders of a beloved's shoulder, but onto empty, scorched earth. The inconsolable wail never transforms, awakens, or flowers into something more hopeful or resolved. These extreme communicative means, the sustained outpouring of energy and emotion, eventually started to feel pointless. No matter how long the attempt is made to face such stinging isolation, all longing gains nothing. Like begging forgiveness from a pile of rubble is this all-too-human confrontation with grotesque inhumanity.
It is one thing to be led on an illuminating journey; even a painful one. And quite something else to be ushered so deeply inside the tortured soul of another human being that you soon realize this is no journey at all, but an intimate exposure to extreme awareness, personal alienation, outraged mourning, and unbearable sorrow. Maestro Gomez had given high praise for Paul Huang beforehand. I can only say that he understated this young virtuoso’s talent and dedication. Huang showed immense understanding in his approach to this music, and off the scale mastery of the instrument and of himself, as the medium to deliver Shostakovich’s psychic devastation.
The second movement, a wild, hair-raising romp of a death-defying Scherzo, is another one-of-kind soundscape. Its driving undercurrent is constant, while the violin, again with no discernible breaks, alternately confronts, engages, and savagely leads this attempted assault on the meaninglessness of mid-20th Century war-torn “modern” life. Shostakovich captures the utterly vain nature of pursuing such a cause, as no matter how intensely and / or cleverly the task is taken on, represented by the ever-increasing rapidity and virtuosity of the violin lines, its frenetic and furious finish highlights a frail and futile purpose.
The soloist’s one break comes as the Passacaglia third movement begins. As the violin enters, the orchestra is silenced, an extended cadenza drives home the solitude of this aware and duly troubled survivor. The first movement’s cries of mourning return, rise into a series of terse, antiphonal single-violin dialogues, and into a searing, virtuosic climax. Huang's execution was brilliant with these interpretive, spiritual, and physical demands; holding high tension over this long, painful inner struggle and with no cathartic release. The cadenza leads directly into the Burlesque: Allegro con brio - Presto finale, commencing a tense musical working-out, earning momentum through great exertion, to finally yield a breakthrough from the preceding psychic wreckage.
This TSO audience cheered quite wildly as the concerto concluded, no doubt seeking to draw an encore from the young virtuoso. Huang remained very steady and calm receiving his ovations, with no apparent consideration to continue performing. It occurred to me, one, that the artist may not have fully resurfaced from the spiritual trance which allowed him to perform so freely in this intensely personal, yet publicly introspective music. Two, after so piercingly delivering Shostakovich' profoundly existential throw-down, to then play an encore--which by nature focuses on "me, the soloist"--would be anathema to the artistic communion just completed. This response / decision engenders my respect. Bravi, Paul Huang!
And while TSO's Brahms 4th Symphony was indeed the great spiritual gift I had anticipated, that critique, for now, waits for another day.
~ Steven Gendel
HEAR IT - Humanity's Expressive Artists Reveal & Illuminate Truth
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