MUSIC REVIEW : Blomstedt, Bartok and Bruckner at Pavilion

The stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion was bedecked with fancy flowers on Wednesday, decorations left over from the opening of the Los Angeles Philharmonic season the week before.

But this was no ordinary Philharmonic concert. In fact, it wasn’t a Philharmonic concert at all, official Philharmonic sponsorship notwithstanding.

The orchestra assembled on the risers was the touring San Francisco Symphony. Its rather ponderous program was dominated by the Three Bs: Bartok, Bruckner and Blomstedt.

The last-named--in case you haven’t had your second cup of cappuccino yet--is Herbert Blomstedt, the incipient ex-maestro of the Northern California ensemble.

The San Franciscans brought us a very serious evening of imperfect music-making. It was so serious, in fact, that it may have intimidated a large portion of the public. A Philharmonic official estimated the 3,200-seat house to be a third empty, and that estimate struck at least one veteran observer as wishful counting.

Blomstedt began the non-festivities with a fascinating curio: “Kossuth,” a 22-minute tone poem written by Bela Bartok at the tough age of 22. Until now, it had never been ventured at a local Philharmonic concert.

Bartok wasn’t really Bartok when in 1903 he produced this ultra-romantic, intrinsically idealistic, quaintly programmatic ode to Lajos Kossuth, a dauntless leader of the Hungarian Revolution of 1848. The music is brilliantly crafted, the heroic orchestration more than competent. The integration of leitmotifs and narrative quotations may not be notably subtle, but it certainly is effective.

Young and obviously impressionable, the pre-paprika Bartok proved here that he had learned his Wagnerian and, perhaps more significant, his Straussian lessons well. He just hadn’t found his own voice yet.

Blomstedt led his charges through a performance more notable for fervor than for finesse. The grand line was well served. The details were a bit fuzzy. The orchestral fabric, in any case, tended to sound rugged (which is fine) and raucous (which isn’t).

Then, after a long intermission, came the spiritual agonies and dramatic solemnities of the Bruckner Ninth. Here, Blomstedt--objective to a fault--seemed content to deal with generalities. One can applaud his reluctance to exaggerate music that is already predicated on exaggeration; one also can worry, however, about his observance of the thin line that separates restraint and blandness.

“Bruckner’s favorite method of getting from one thing to the next,” wrote Michael Steinberg in his illuminating program note, “was simply to stop, take a breath, and resume.”

Some conductors do all they can to sustain continuity, minimizing the episodic interruptions and stressing the inherent progression of overlapping tensions. Blomstedt tends to stop and take a breath with the beleaguered composer. He tends to get out of the way, just when one wants him to seize command.

Still, his mild-mannered Clark Kent approach is preferable to the introspection-be-damned attitude favored by more glamorous Supermen on the podium. Despite an awkward abundance of orchestral crudities--dull strings, twangy winds, unisons that weren’t--Blomstedt sustained balance and logic. It was only the poetry that eluded him.

The Wednesday night subscribers tried to make up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in numbers. Cries of “bravo,” not to mention “all right,” began to pierce the air before the final pensive chord could even begin to fade.