Two Centuries of Cello Music from Robert Howard

Cellist Robert Howard (from his Web site)

Last night’s Old First Concerts recital, prepared by cellist Robert Howard, covered almost exactly two centuries worth of repertoire. The earliest work on the program was the first (in C major) of Ludwig van Beethoven’s two Opus 102 sonatas for cello and piano, composed in 1815, while the most recent was a solo cello composition by Akshaya Avril Tucker, completed earlier this year and given its West Coast premiere last night. The other eighteenth-century piece came from the other end of the century, Max Bruch’s 1880 Opus 47 “Kol Nidre,” while the twentieth century was represented by Leoš Janáček’s 1910 “Pohádka” (a tale) and Dmitri Shostakovich’s 1934 Opus 40 sonata in D minor for cello and piano. The accompanist for this program was pianist Kevin Korth.

Howard kept his remarks about the Tucker premiere to a minimum. Basically, he attributed it to Indian influences on Tucker’s life (including the choice of her first name) and the paradox of emptiness and fullness (which he did not elaborate). He did not mention that Tucker was, herself, a cellist, as well as a trained Indian Classical dancer.

Philosophical allusions aside, the piece was an engaging study in alternative techniques in which the aforementioned paradox presented itself on the scale of audibility, between the emptiness of near silence and the fullness of more aggressive sonorities. It is easy to imagine Tucker experimenting on her own instrument, finding subtle ways to draw the bow that yielded sound just on the audible side of absolute silence. Whether the piece itself was a product of improvisation or a more calculated layout of opposing sonorities could not be decided on the basis of a single listening experience. More relevant is that the experience left this listener curious to attend subsequent performances of the composition, perhaps even one by the composer.

If this experimental experience was situated near the middle of the entire program (just before the intermission), the evening itself was flanked by the two major sonatas from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, respectively. Those who know their Shostakovich probably know of the influences of Johann Sebastian Bach and Gustav Mahler on his work. However, Beethoven also played a role in shaping Shostakovich’s approach to composition, albeit primarily through the earlier composer’s late string quartets.

Thus, the Opus 40 sonata is not so much a reflection on Beethoven’s legacy as it is an early effort of a composer beginning to command the craft through which he could establish his voice. From a rhetorical point of view, the music can dwell on past traditions, rhapsodical darkness, and, perhaps just for the sake of contrast, outlandish prankishness. Ironically, this piece was completed just before Shostakovich was subjected to denunciation by the Soviet authorities for the “offensive” qualities of his opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. (Many years ago, when James Conlon visited the podium of the San Francisco Symphony, he played instrumental excerpts from this opera, pointing out a musical depiction of sexual intercourse that may have been the straw the broke the camel’s back for those Soviet authorities.)

Needless to say, there is nothing offensive about Opus 40. Thus music just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the more recent past cellists such as Mstislav Rostropovich revived interest in the sonata; but I must confess that I am more familiar with this piece through recordings, rather than in performance. As a result, I welcomed the opportunity to listen to Howard play the piece last night in recital; and, as is often the case, the rhetorical subtleties came across with greater clarity in performance than through the sterility of most recordings. There is clearly much to be gained from listening to this composition, and I certainly would not mind listening to Howard play it again on a later recital program.

To the extent that Shostakovich was seeking out new approaches to expression in Opus 40, the Beethoven selection was an appropriate complement. The Opus 102 sonatas are some of the earliest efforts in what is sometimes called the “late Beethoven” period. While many like to point out the extent to which Beethoven was pushing the limits of tonality towards the end of his life, just as important was the way in which he was rethinking overall structural plans. Thus, the C major sonata consists of only two movements; but there are a few key moments when the second movement reflects on the content of the first. Thus, we encounter some of the earliest efforts to deal with a multi-movement composition as an “organic whole.” Howard’s interpretation provided a first-rate vantage point from which the attentive listener could recognize and appreciate those organic qualities, making it clear that this was far from a “same old Beethoven” performance.

Bruch’s Opus 47 is a bit of an anomaly, particularly since the composer was Protestant. Indeed, I suspect that the most orthodox Jews would object to finding what is probably the most solemn chant in the liturgical calendar transformed into a richly harmonized instrumental composition. Removed from the liturgical setting, however, the music serves up a lush rhetoric of minor-key tropes, allowing listeners of any faith (or no faith at all) to appreciate the intense expressive qualities of the solo cello part. Howard’s account did not short-change any of those expressive qualities, serving up a thoroughly satisfying, albeit secular, experience.

The Janáček selection turned out to be a “first encounter” for me. The “tale” of the title is the epic poem The Tale of Tsar Berendyey by Vasily Zhukovsky. It is basically about a man whose wife cannot bear a child; and a child only appears at the end of the tale after the tsar has returned from a very long journey (leaving the reader of the poem to draw his/her own conclusions)! (Any resemblance to Eddie Jefferson’s “Benny’s from Heaven” is probably coincidental.)

The score for “Pohádka,” on the other hand, is not narrative. Rather, it serves as a reflection of certain qualities of the narrative distilled down into three short movements. Both the brevity and the fragmented approach to thematic material will be familiar to those with past encounters with Janáček’s music, and Howard endowed this music with enough expressiveness to suggest an underlying narrative without explicitly accounting for it.

It is also worth pointing out that, over the full breadth of this repertoire, Korth’s accompaniment always made for an excellent match to Howard’s rhetorical stances. There was consistently a highly satisfying clarity to the interplay of soloist and accompanist. Thus, everything that was convincing about the four duo compositions on the program can be attributed as much to attentive accompaniment as to first-rate solo execution.