News broke on the morning of 9th February that Seiji Ozawa had died earlier in the week at his home in Tokyo. That afternoon at Symphony Hall, where Ozawa led the Boston Symphony Orchestra for 29 years, the mood was reflective and reverential. White bougainvillea wreathed a portrait of the maestro in the lobby, and his image was projected above the stage as the audience took their seats. Orchestra President Chad Smith described the moment as “a tough day for all of us who love music,” but hoped that the afternoon’s concert would stand as a tribute to Ozawa’s “eight decades of glorious, thrilling and deeply felt music-making.” Guest conductor Karina Canellakis led the BSO in a moving rendition of Bach’s Air on a G String in Ozawa’s honor.
After a moment of silence, the scheduled program commenced with Haydn’s Cello Concerto no. 1 in C major. Canellakis drew a juicy, full-bodied sound from the small assemblage of string players onstage, and she didn’t shy away from employing spacious rubato, especially in the Adagio. Soloist Alisa Weilerstein brought an impish humor to the outer movements, where she often used vibrato as a stylistic tool without obscuring pitch. Her sound in the central movement was lush and Romantic, an ideal match for Canellakis’ conception of the score. In some ways, the choices on display felt like a throwback – these days, big orchestras frequently try to sound like HIP practitioners in this music, often to their detriment – but in the best possible way.
Bartók’s Duke Bluebeard’s Castle filled out the bill. Although minimally staged and with no director credited, the BSO found ways to infuse the entire experience, and not just the music, with drama. Actor Jeremiah Kissel spoke an English translation of the Prologue (by the composer’s son, Peter) from behind the cello section, his frame barely visible to the audience. Using subtle amplification, the sound of his voice filled every corner of the auditorium, creating an unsettling aural experience that felt appropriate for a psychologically fraught opera. Elsewhere, smart lighting cues signified the contents of Bluebeard’s seven doors, all eventually washing back to blood red. At the moment Judith opened the Fifth door, the house lights fully illuminated as the orchestra let loose an exultant C major blast.
Canadian bass-baritone Nathan Berg stepped in at the last minute to replace an indisposed Johannes Martin Kränzle. He was the very definition of a luxury substitute. Although never lacking in power, Berg’s voice is essentially a lyric instrument, and the sweetness of his sound added an intriguing layer to Bluebeard’s characterization. This dark Duke seemed less purely malevolent than usual, genuinely saddened by Judith’s inability to simply trust him. You felt deeply when he implored his wife to “love me and ask no questions”. Karen Cargill brought similarly admirable dramatic instincts to Judith, although her voice turned pale in color as it moved through the middle and lower registers. Still, she charted Judith’s journey from lovesick young bride to Bluebeard’s latest resigned casualty with intense fervor.
Canellakis built this castle into a cathedral of sound, though sometimes to the detriment of the singers (Cargill’s high C at the Fifth Door was inaudible). Her reading was notable especially for the riot of colors she drew out of the larger, massed forces required by the score. I’ve rarely heard individual details pop so distinctively: the martial brass that signifies the Second Door’s armory, the “lake of tears” that flow from spindly harps and an eerie celesta. The organ was appropriately hair-raising, and the first violins remained edgy and conspiratorial throughout. This was a music drama with all parts being equal.
