MUSIC REVIEW : Controversial L.A. Debut for Celibidache

The Munich Philharmonic, which made its much ballyhooed U.S. debut over the weekend with concerts at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and UCLA, is a solid, uneven, sometimes brilliant, sometimes untidy orchestra. Most experts agree about that.

What they don’t agree about is the conductor of the Munich Philharmonic, Sergiu Celibidache.

He is, without question, an original--an iconoclast, a mystic, a philosopher, a teacher, a cult figure, a bona fide musical maverick. He demands endless rehearsals. He refuses to make recordings. He strikes innocent, democratic poses while ruling the band like a willful autocrat.

At 76, he has become an international celebrity almost by default. He plays by his own, old-fashioned, indulgent, anti-commercial, intellectually and physically demanding rules, or he doesn’t play at all.

That makes him either a sinner or a saint, depending on one’s perspective. That explains why we haven’t seen him until now.

The fundamental disagreement about Celibidache involves his actual prowess on the podium. Some observers regard him as a genius, pure and complex. To the devout he represents a living bond with the standards and aspirations of a distant golden age. The unmoved view him--and dismiss him--as a gimmicky eccentric who hides his weaknesses behind a network of carefully manipulated mannerisms.

The standing ovations that he elicited--an uncharitable observer might say orchestrated --at the Music Center on Saturday would suggest that Celibidache belongs among the lonely elite in a profession dominated by malpractitioners. Still, there were moments when a cool, objectively analytical head could wonder if the visiting and conquering emperor was really all that well dressed. A few boos reportedly punctuated the cheers on Friday.

For his second program here, Celibidache concentrated on the massive, sprawling, convoluted, potentially uplifting rhetoric of Bruckner’s Fourth Symphony. Originally, he had scheduled Mozart’s “Jupiter” as a curtain-raiser, but the bonus ultimately was abandoned. In context, one was grateful.

Without much personal fuss or histrionic flair, Celibidache delineated Bruckner’s romantic impulses on a heroic, majestic scale. This was Germanic music-making in the broad yet brilliant, increasingly obscure tradition of Furtwangler and Knappertsbusch.

Celibidache carefully unraveled all the linear knots. He lingered over inner voices. He lent new meaning to the concept of pianissimo. He gauged the zonking climaxes with infinite care. He allowed the lyrical utterances to soar. He concentrated on sustaining organic tension, mindful that this is one long--very long--cumulative statement, not four isolated movements.

It was wonderful.

He also tended to slow everything down, often without warning or obvious motivation, sometimes with willful determination. Bruckner’s markings for the grandiose finale include the instruction, “nicht zu schnell” (not too fast). In this instance, the composer needn’t have worried.

The maestro lavished 90 minutes on this symphonic journey. He paused along the way for all manner of expressive detours, surprising accents, distortions and distentions.

It was awful.

Admittedly, the performance was interesting even when it was awful. At a time when so many celebrated conductors are faceless, efficient technicians, Celibidache remains, if nothing else, a stubbornly compelling, fiercely independent force.

We will, no doubt, have to hear more of him to judge whether he is a genuine interpretive giant or a talented, egomaniacal eccentric. It might be noted, however, that the impression he created last week at an open rehearsal for a staggeringly mannered Brahms Fourth reinforced the possibility of the latter.

The Muncheners responded attentively to their boss’ subtle urgings. Nevertheless, one heard a lot of strident winds, blaring brass and scrambled strings. Although spirits were obviously high, unanimous precision seemed a low priority. The playing tended toward the “gemutlich.” One wondered where all those vaunted hours of rehearsal had gone.

In some ways, the best part of the show came when it was over. The house had been bathed in darkness for the Bruckner, but the lights came on for the a magnificently choreographed series of curtain calls.

First the maestro stood rigidly with his back to the adoring crowd and absorbed the good vibrations. Then he issued sharp commands for the orchestra to sit and rise and sit and rise, acknowledging the applause en masse. Then came painstakingly manicured bows by every soloist within the orchestra, followed by militaristic bows by individual sections.

Then and only then did a frail and tired Celibidache turn, descend from the podium and face his admirers. He did this oh-so humbly, standing amid the lowly violins. He seemed to want to insist that he is merely a team player, a selfless member of the ensemble.

Wethinks he doth protest too much.