Conlon makes a case for himself

James Conlon, in town for two weeks to conduct the Los Angeles Philharmonic, is on a mission to interest audiences in forgotten composers who perished in Nazi concentration camps. It’s valuable work, and no doubt he is achieving something. But it turns out that interest is just as great in Conlon himself, since Los Angeles Opera recently named him to succeed Kent Nagano as music director of the company in 2006.

The composer getting the attention last week was Viktor Ullmann, a particular passion of Conlon’s. After having conducted the opera “The Emperor of Atlantis” at the Wilshire Boulevard Temple on Tuesday, Conlon opened his Philharmonic concert at Walt Disney Concert Hall on Saturday afternoon with Ullmann’s Second Symphony. The composer’s last work, the symphony was not quite finished when Ullmann was sent to Auschwitz and its gas chambers. The German composer and conductor Bernhard Wulff is credited with the reconstruction and orchestration.

A good composer was lost. The symphony, in five movements, has much of the character of Mahler and Berg, and maybe a bit of Hindemith. It opens with a jaunty neo-Classical tune, swerves suddenly into pure Mahlerian yearning, then quirkily swerves back and forth between the two for the first movement. A march and a scherzo are more grotesque. The middle movement is intense and dark -- here’s the Berg. The Finale is a touching set of variations on a Jewish folk song.

Wulff’s orchestration is a question mark. He underscores the neo-Classical style with a harpsichord; he underscores the Mahler bits with imitation Mahler orchestration and does likewise with the Bergian bits. But the sound is big and the colors are varied, giving the orchestra something to dig into. Conlon’s advocacy was persuasive, and he got the Philharmonic to do the proper digging. The playing was firm, committed, a pleasure to hear.

Still, it was a good composer lost, not a great one. In a preconcert talk, as in extensive comments that accompany a DVD documentary on Ullmann, Conlon contends that 20th century music might have taken a different direction had romantically inclined figures such as Ullmann survived. Instead it was progressive composers who were able to escape the Nazis and emigrate to America, and history belonged to the survivors.

But it is more likely that Ullmann, and the others who died in concentration camps, were, in fact, the Telemanns, Cherubinis and Metners of their day -- always worth hearing but never destined for history in a big way. Romantic voices did get away. Alexander Zemlinsky, as fine a composer as he was, faded into obscurity in New York City (although Conlon has done yeoman work to undo that obscurity). Berthold Goldschmidt landed in London, where he continued to write boring music. In Hollywood, old-fashioned Korngold turned to the movies. Schoenberg, on the other hand, moved to Los Angeles and continued to alter the course of music.

Perhaps the most damning argument against the historical importance (as opposed to the worth or emotional depth) of Ullmann’s Second Symphony was the astute performance of Mahler’s First Symphony that Conlon conducted after intermission Saturday.

Even in his early stages as a composer, Mahler’s voice is unmistakable and his pioneering incorporation of folk elements into a high symphonic art altogether dazzling. Ullmann in his Second Symphony -- written 60 years after Mahler began working on his first -- rarely goes further in his musical language than his predecessor.

Conlon’s performance was notable principally for its levelheadedness. He is a non-neurotic conductor of one of the most neurotic composers in history. He finds a middle ground between the hyper-expressivity of Bernstein and Tilson Thomas on the one hand and the illuminating detailing of Boulez and Salonen on the other.

At the start, I missed the magic. The hushed, otherworldly opening sounded too loud and determined. But Conlon eventually demonstrated other attributes. He knew where he was going, and he kept a musical argument in focus no matter how easily sidetracked Mahler got.

Conlon’s work in opera showed. He was prepared for the drama, and when Mahler erupted, Conlon demonstrated the good reasons for it. By the end, when the eight horns stood to blare their triumph, the stage was set for the kind of goose bumps only Mahler can raise. It was a thrill.