Gergiev Commands Kirov in Fiery Wagner

It is hard to believe that it was only eight years ago when Valery Gergiev--scrawny, pasty-colored, almost completely unknown--made his American debut conducting the Boston Symphony at Tanglewood. The first piece on the program that memorable day was the prelude to Act 1 of Wagner’s “Lohengrin.” At an open rehearsal before the concert, he simply walked on stage and, with no preliminary anything, immediately began the prelude’s shimmering opening. He commanded so little attention that the audience hardly seemed to notice him at all.

But something unforgettable happened. It was as if a wave of electric energy suddenly charged the atmosphere, and within seconds the audience was quiet and hooked by the intensity of this young Russian conductor who had been plucked from obscurity to head the Kirov Opera in 1988.

Sunday night at the Orange County Performing Arts Center, Gergiev conducted the “Lohengrin” prelude again, this time with the Kirov Orchestra, which he has since made famous. He has changed. He is now one of our most celebrated conductors. Bearded, confident as a general, he now immediately exerts undeniable authority on the podium. But the electricity not only remains, the wattage has never been higher.

Gergiev works this orchestra mercilessly, herding it on one punishing tour after another. Currently it is blazing through the U.S. in major cities and college towns alike with five different programs. Working conditions at home in St. Petersburg are not good, what with the current Russian economic chaos. Every year the orchestra seems to get younger, with a constant stream of fresh, young players plucked directly out of the conservatory across the street from the Kirov’s Mariinsky Theater.

I don’t know if it is despite these conditions or because of them, or simply the force of Gergiev’s personality (most likely a combination of all the above), but every concert by the Kirov Orchestra is an event. The orchestra plays as if it means it. Sunday’s program was not a particularly monumental one--it also included Prokofiev’s Second Violin Concerto, the “Dance of the Seven Veils” from Strauss’ “Salome” and Scriabin’s “Poem of Ecstasy.” The orchestra is hardly a flawless machine. But it was a magnetic evening.

Gergiev is full of interpretive ideas. The “Lohengrin” prelude was unusually slow and mystical; an encore of the prelude to Act 3 was insanely fast. In almost anything Gergiev conducts you can expect to hear details come to life that you had never before noticed. His wonderful new recording of Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker,” for instance, will make you think you’ve never heard the famous ballet score before. But the key to Gergiev’s mesmerizing performances is that he always begins with pure sound.

He builds orchestral sonorities like a pyramid, from the bottom up. Every sound is supported by a bass that feels rooted to the ground, and so profound is this notion that even in those shimmering high strings that open “Lohengrin,” one sensed the bass by its absence. The sound was not the typical ethereal sheen, it was rougher. Bowing wasn’t exactly even; vibratos were individual, not unified.

But this offered a physicality so vivid that it seemed possible to reach out and grab the sound as it floated above our heads. And as Wagner gradually adds lower instruments, the orchestra seemed to fill the hall, engulfing us, setting every crevice vibrating. Wagner is describing a mystical force descending to earth, and Gergiev gave it corporeality a prophet would envy.

Salome’s dance requires a different sort of corporeality, and Gergiev responded just as enthusiastically. Here the strings became fleshy and the percussion brought arresting glitter. But still there was that deep, deep bass presence, and it was there that one felt the dance, the power of movement.

For Scriabin in his over-the-top orgiastic symphony, ecstasy is both spiritual and physical. The playing wasn’t perfect, but Gergiev’s control over waves of sound, receding and crashing like the surf, was overpowering, and the brass rang out with brilliance.

For the Prokofiev, Gergiev introduced to America a young Russian violinist, Sergei Levitin, who was born in 1972. He is not as colorful as is this orchestra; his tone is more like a consistent gray felt. He is an intently serious and technically secure artist, satisfyingly straightforward yet satisfyingly aggressive when need be. He let the music speak, and Gergiev mostly respected Levitin’s scale.

Still, every now and then Gergiev did plump up the sound a bit and swamp the soloist. It seemed as if the conductor couldn’t help himself. He lives, in his music, for the moment, and that may be his best weapon of all for weathering the craziness in Russia right now. If not, we will have cause for grave concern.