There was a time, I remember, when this was the only future I could envision for myself. The smell of rosin, horsehair, and sweat. An A droning relentlessly while brass, woodwinds, and finally strings tune their instruments. The restrained energy when the conductor lifts his baton, bows hovering over strings, fingers tensed, trembling in anticipation, waiting, waiting for that down beat. And then, the outpouring of sound as bow meets string, breath meets reed and mouthpiece.
I think a higher power really wanted me to see the Berlin Philarmoniker during my stay here. Concert tickets are typically sold out months in advance. And yet, I managed to get my eager hands on a 20 euro ticket for a spot in the nosebleed section at the Philharmonie. Saturday October 25, 2008. Section G (left), seat 24.
The Philharmonie is renowned for its perfect acoustics. Before coming to Berlin, I'd heard that no matter where you sit inside, you can hear perfectly. If I were to go hear Shostakovitch's 11th, for example, the English horn in the last movement would sound just as ethereal in Section A (right) as it would in Section K (left).
I was excited, to put it mildly.
The concert hall itself is fully round. Audience members are seated in front, to the sides, and behind the orchestra. They literally surround the orchestra on benches and seats that are as comfortable as movie theater seats. Why shouldn't this be the case, I've often wondered? Tucking into a great piece of classical music should, like leaning back for the latest thriller or action flick, be a comfortable experience. Sinking into a rusted gold seat cushion and up against the polished wood panel seat back, I took in the view.
Not pictured is the Philharmonie's organ, off to the right, which I was ecstatic to have so close. Organs are one of my favorite architectural and musical phenomena, and I seldom enter a church without scrutinizing its organ. This one was massive and built straight into the hall. Its shiny silver pipes resembled a metallurgic cactus garden from the future.
Before the concert, orchestra patrons promenaded outside of the concert hall in the waiting area. Distinguished men and women, dressed in tailored suits and minimalist dresses, stood around high tables sipping champagne and wine out of tapered glasses. The older members of the audience smelled of rich perfume.
When I bought the ticket, I hadn't even bothered to see what they were performing. I could have cared less at that point. But leafing through the program at the concert, I was glad to see that they were performing Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, a piece that gives each section of the orchestra a chance to shine. And surprised and wowed to see that Gil Shaham was joining them to play the Elgar violin concerto. Gil Shaham, for non-classically inclined readers, is something of a celebrity in the classical violin world, a wunderkind turned acclaimed adult performer. I wasn't familiar with the Elgar, but seeing both the Berlin Phil and Shaham play was a pretty amazing coincidence.
So, how to describe the concert? The orchestra exceeded my expectations. Shaham, not so much.
Gil Shaham's sound felt thin the whole way through the Elgar, and he got excrutiatingly sharp as the piece progressed. I tend to be extremely critical of soloists (chalk it up to the influence of an ex-boyfriend who fancied himself a music critic and a painfully exigent violin teacher), so maybe I was too hard on him.
But the orchestra! Elgar writes so beautifully for strings, and the Phil's string section reveled in the lush and supple texture of the music. I know it's mixing metaphors, but hearing the strings felt like eating bar of really top-quality chocolate. The chocolate spreads everywhere, it sticks to the roof of your mouth, fills every nook and cranny with an almost unbearably rich taste. My entire body was coated by the sound, radiating everywhere from my toes to my ears to the inside of my eyes.
The Bartok was really just breathtaking. I've played it twice, once as a violinist and the second time as a violist. Both times, it was a shitshow. That piece is written to reveal where the weaknesses lie in your orchestra. If one section, or even one player falters, the entire thing will come crashing down on you. The Phil blew me away, and everyone shone (of particular note, the woodwinds in the second movement: perfect rhythm, perfect intonation, perfect unity in one of the most tortuous movements ever written).
And, upon leaving the Philharmonie, I was greeted by the cold night air and a duo of street musicians playing folk songs on the bouzouki and accordion.
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