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The Telegraph, 5 Jan 2015 |
By Rupert Christiansen |
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Liederabend, Wigmore Hall, London, 4. Januar 2015 |
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Jonas Kaufmann and Helmut Deutsch, Wigmore Hall, revew: 'Oh what precious kitsch!'
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This lieder recital went on a remarkable journey from furious anger
to sumptuous sensuality, says Rupert Christiansen |
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As so often in song recitals, the clinching magic was sprinkled over the
encore: when Jonas Kaufmann sang the nocturne “Mondnacht” from Schumann’s
Liederkreis in a half-voice of perfectly controlled quiet rapture, he held
his audience entranced in a breathless hush. At last, he seemed fully human.
Previously the dominant notes had been those of forthright virility,
heroic intensity, impassioned ardour. With his romantically handsome
appearance and knightly nobility of demeanour, this great German tenor
unstintingly brandished his vocal weaponry as though he wanted the walls of
the Wigmore Hall to shake – throughout, the steadiness and the power were as
admirable as the musical intelligence, but in all the emotional turmoil and
extravert expressivity, the essential person-to-person intimacy of the lied
sometimes got lost.
The programme started with a selection from
Schumann’s Kernerlieder – before he sang himself in, Kaufmann’s tone sounded
glassily hard and unyielding; the music was being comprehensively attacked
rather than subtly seduced. Only in the last two songs, “Frage” and “Stille
Tränen”, did some vibrant warmth begin to glow through a beautifully
articulated head voice.
He and his electrically alert pianist, the
youthful veteran Helmut Deutsch, went to give a bleak but forceful reading
of Schumann’s Dichterliebe – the poet’s despair always bubbling toxically at
the surface, spitting venom and irony over “Ich grolle nicht” and “Im
Rhein”. “Ein Jungling liebt ein Mädchen” could have done with a lighter
touch (the thought of nuts and sledgehammers was irresistible), but “Ich
hab’ im Traum” and “Allnachtlich” were both imbued with the requisite
dream-like poise and delicacy. Overall, the projected effect was impressive
rather than moving – an angry young man, and not a very nice one either.
After the interval, Kaufmann took to the original piano version of
Wagner’s Wesendonck lieder, usually the domain of mezzo-sopranos. Here “Der
Engel” was painted in a creamy legato, and “Im Treibhaus” exuded all the
sickeningly sweet perfume of erotic obsession.
Yet it was only when
he turned to Italian and Liszt’s Petrarch sonnets did the singer begin to
relax. These settings are as much about the piano as the voice, and with
Deutsch sometimes boldly taking the lead in playing of blazing clarity,
Kaufmann could soften his stance and dig into the sumptuous sensuality of
the vocal lines. Kitsch perhaps, but – to misquote Lady Jane in Patience –
oh what precious kitsch!
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