MUSIC REVIEW - Sanderling Brings Insights to Schumann, Tchaikovsky

The Los Angeles Philharmonic re-examined two familiar fourth symphonies at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on Thursday--Schumann’s and Tchaikovsky’s. Ho hum.

The conductor was Kurt Sanderling. No ho hum.

Sanderling is rapidly achieving cult status hereabouts. He deserves it.

He invariably makes our orchestra play as if it were one of the finest in the world. The Philharmonic doesn’t often rise to such heights, but he proves that it can.

He doesn’t seem to know the meaning of routine. He takes nothing for granted, never relies on second-hand solutions to old problems, never confuses traditional Schlamperei (sloppiness, if you will) with authentic tradition.

He actually makes audiences listen. Not one of the normally half-hearted but automatically demonstrative subscribers dared clap between movements on this occasion. Even the climactic cadence of Tchaikovsky’s opening Andante was met with tense, attentive, ultra-appreciative silence. That means something.

Sanderling doesn’t dance on the podium, and he doesn’t translate the musical sentiment into histrionic indulgence. There is nothing detached, however, about his conducting. He deals in essentials, sustains taut energy and rapt concentration, savors clarity and illuminating detail.

In a day when most successful maestros tend either to be efficient technicians or muscular showmen, he remains a stubborn exponent of the old German school. He calmly analyzes the task at hand, defines the emotional content and projects inner meaning. The right notes in the right places are never enough.

He does all this with degrees of warmth, clarity, dedication and intelligence that make even a stale ritual sound fresh. When was the last time you heard a tired critical churl--amateur or professional--get excited over the Tchaikovsky Fourth?

This, indeed, was an exciting performance. It was dark and somber, for all its speed. It was stark and bleak, for all its dynamic sensitivity.

Sanderling gave us Tchaikovsky on a heroic, tragic scale. It was always soulful, never vulgar.

He made the strings throb and the brass blare. Yet he sustained whispering pianissimo phrases in the Andantino, an extraordinarily gentle Scherzo and, wherever possible, ethereal flights of lyricism. Nothing was exaggerated.

The program magazine reprinted a rather self-conscious apologia in which the conductor claimed that the jubilation of the fiery finale was filtered through the composer’s personal melancholia. The idea proved more persuasive in reading than in listening. Still, the performance remained a revelation on its own lofty aesthetic terms.

The Schumann Fourth enjoyed comparably discerning virtues: strength without bombast, sentiment without gush, nuance without fuss. Romanticism lives.

Sometimes.