A Concertgoer’s First-Year Experience in Rome

                
                
Rome is studded with plenty of architectural wonders dating back to the ancient age. In the very contrast, the major concert hall complex of the Eternal City, Auditorium Parco della Musica, is a 21st-century accomplishment. The multifunctional complex, designed by legendary Italian architect Renzo Piano, was formally inaugurated in December 2002. Visitors may have the impression that it consists of three separate beetle-like spaceships, laid out in a head-to-head-to-head fashion and connected by a crescent-shaped corridor with glass walls, but often fail to recognize a small amphitheater cunningly nested in the “head-jointing” area of the three beetles. The amphitheater is formed utilizing a small circular square embraced by the corridor. The roof of the corridor conveniently serves as the base for dozens of lines of tiered seats. The inclusion of an amphitheater fits perfectly in the context: It is in this very city that the amphitheater, as a form of architecture, was invented; even arguably the most famous architecture of Rome — the Colosseum — is essentially an amphitheater.
The ocher and grey complex, although by every measure a gigantic one, lies unobtrusively and tranquilly in a small area of evergreen woods, offering an dynamic comparison with the smaller but more outspokenly extraterrestrial Maxxi by Zaha Hadid, which is just a stone’s throw away. After all, senatore a vita Piano probably understands Rome more profoundly than Dame Zaha and is more willingly to conform to and carry on its tradition rather than go against it.
Going to classical music concerts has been my long-time hobby. When travelling, I often check if the destination has a concert worth attending that falls in the period of travel, and try to spare time for it. Over the years, I have had some wonderful musical experiences in metropolises like Los Angeles, New York, Tokyo, Beijing, and Guangzhou. I have also watched many not as spectacular but nonetheless thoughtfully executed performances in college towns where I studied: Lexington, Kentucky and Columbia, Missouri. However, it was not until I came to Rome that I had, for first time in my life, both the opportunity to live in a world-class cultural center and the financial capacity to afford the better-than-the-cheapest seats without much hesitation. So when at the ticket office I saw the lineup of Rome’s 2014–15 concert season with so many names that I had been familiar with through CDs, I purchased the season ticket in the blink of an eye — this idiom being both figurative and descriptive here: I am sure that I did blink quite a few times to confirm that the names indeed represented those people, and I had to look up what abbonamento means.
Unlike in many other places, the Auditorium is not located at city center, nor is it conveniently accessible. To reach there by public transport, a common route is to take metro or bus to Piazzale Flaminio, ride Line 2 tram towards Piazza Mancini for four stops, get off at Piazza Apollodoro, and walk northeast along Viale Pietro De Coubertin for yet another a few minutes. From my apartment in Viale Guglielmo Marconi on the west bank of Tiber, following this daunting route (including a change of metro lines at the infamous Termini station) takes as long as an hour. The time, commitment, and effort invested in every such trip make it almost resemble a pilgrimage.
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The “official” symphony orchestra of Rome has a name that looks elegant and antique, well echoing the ambiance of its location: Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia (Orchestra of the National Academy of Santa Cecilia, OANSC henceforth). The name finds its root in the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, one of the oldest musical institutions in the world, whose name in turn is based on Saint Cecilia, the patroness of musicians. A Grammy-winning Mexican-American band based in Los Angeles also paid tribute to the saint by naming itself after her, among countless groups and institutions related to music around the world.
Each famed symphony orchestra has established its own personality: Berliner Philharmoniker, solemn and Gothic; Wiener Philharmoniker, elegant and smiling; Koninklijk Concertgebouworkest, mystic and seductive; London Symphony Orchestra, grand and disciplined; Los Angeles Philharmonic, sunny and exuberant. I had never listened to any of Santa Cecilia’s performances before; judging solely from the name, it had seemed antiquated — and just as almost all judgments made solely based on the appearance, it turned out to be totally wrong.
The season’s program faithfully reflected the organizer’s intention of demonstrating the wide repertoire of symphonic music. From Vivaldi to Beethoven, to Rossini, to Wagner, and even to Ives, representative composers of baroque, classical, romantic, and contemporary eras were included. A typical arrangement of the concerts was to juxtapose two to three highly contrasting but subtly connected compositions. So on one night I found my heart bathing in the warmth of Mozart’s Magic Flute Overture and Sinfonia Concertante before trembling in awe of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5, and on the other night I first heard the premiere of La nuova Euridice secondo Rilke, a cantata by Italian contemporary composer Salvatore Sciarrino, totally bewildered by it, and was then shown its root by a magnificent rendition of Bach’s Magnificat.
The overall performing style of OANSC may be described as “adequately all-around.” Despite the vastly diversified program, it constantly put out solid performances under the batons of many conductors from around the world. Except one performance of Mozart’s Requiem during which the orchestra and the chorus went a bit out of sync for a few seconds, I don’t recall any other glitches in the about 15 concerts I attended over the season.
However, OANSC is Italian after all. Its true color shines with Italian composers and religious compositions. So when a combination of the two such as Rossini’s Stabat Mater was put on the stage, even a firm atheist such as I would feel as if the Lord had descended.
Rossini’s sudden, complete withdrawal from opera composition in his heyday is probably one of the most perplexing enigmas in the history of classical music. The composition of Stabat Mater had begun in 1831, two years after the premiere of William Tell, but hadn’t been completed until a decade later. What had caused the stellar composer to lay down his pen and pick it up again have been extensively discussed ever since Rossini was still alive, but no general consensus has be achieved.
In his memoir, École buissonnière (partly translated to English with the title Musical Memories), Camille Saint-Saëns wrote:
Rossini was accustomed to success and it was hard for him to run into a half-hearted success (of William Tell) when he knew he had surpassed himself. … In my opinion, if Rossini committed suicide as far as his art was concerned, he did so because he had nothing more to say. Rossini was a spoiled child of success and he could not live without it. Such unexpected hostility put an end to a stream which had flowed so abundantly for so long.
Being one of the greatest opera composers, Rossini endowed this version of Stabat Mater with his signature exquisite, vibrant melodies. Most of the songs seemed as if taken directly from a grand opera, of which Rossini could be recognized as one of the creators, rather than being part of a composition that was supposed to be used in catholic liturgies. With its overall dramatic and intense atmosphere, the work invited the audience and the performers to a direct dialogue with Mary (or the Lord); the humble, self-depreciating worshiping only came in the last few hymns that had followed the traditional religious fashion. By infusing the zeitgeist of the Romantic era into the ancient music style, Rossini succeeded in preserving for future generations a cross-section of his time.
It was actually not a surprise that the conductor, Nicola Luisotti, was able to weave the orchestra, the solo singers, and the chorus into a splendid spectacular, because his professional career, beginning from the chorus master for Teatro La Fenice in Venice, has been dominantly on the vocal side. He has proved his competence by serving as the incumbent music director of San Francisco Opera and Teatro di San Carlo in Naples. The influence of the music director of OANSC itself, Sir Antonio Pappano, is also noteworthy. He is an expert on vocal works and currently holds the music directorship of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. (By the way, the Royal Opera House produced a highly controversial version of William Tell earlier this year, directed by Damiano Michieletto and conducted by Sir Antonio.) In 2010, OANSC released a critically acclaimed record of Stabat Mater, featuring Sir Antonio on the podium and the outstanding Anna Netrebko as solo soprano.
The two artists cooperated in a performance of selected music from Verdi’s Macbeth this season. The idea of putting an opera on stage in a concert hall, however it is adapted, always seemed too audacious for me, and the performance partly reconfirmed this perhaps prejudiced judgement. Although the singers and the orchestra did very well jobs, the limited stage space made it impossible for the characters to establish interpersonal links, let alone sentimental connections. The opera was thus reduced to a collection of songs; the theatrical component, particularly powerful in Macbeth, was regretfully missing. The captivating scene that Birnam Wood was moving just has be perceived visually. In a rendition of Macbeth by the Metropolitan Opera that I watched live in a cinema a few years ago, the scene was manifested almost exactly as Shakespeare had described: A chorus, in soldiers’ costumes, marched across the stage with vertical branches tied around their heads. Even theatrics as simple as this couldn’t be realized in a concert hall.
Another concert that impressed me especially was the closing of the season. By dedicating the last performance to one of the most influential jazz composers — George Gershwin, the diversity of the season’s repertoire was pushed to an extreme. William Eddins, an American conductor and pianist known for his interpretations of American 20th-century composers, led the orchestra both on the podium and in front of the piano. My knowledge of Gershwin does not extend too much beyond the maybe overly popular Rhapsody in Blue; that night’s program, including two overtures, a song collection, a suite adapted from an opera (Porgy and Bess), and of course Rhapsody in Blue itself, greatly broadened my horizons. It was refreshing to hear deeply jazz-flavored, swingy melodies sung in bel canto style, and observing the conductor interacting with the orchestra while playing the piano was a first-time experience for me. Although trained as a classical pianist, Mr. Eddins noticeably applied jazz piano techniques extensively when playing Rhapsody in Blue. This, combined with his choice of using a small orchestra (the work was originally arranged for a jazz band) and a relatively slow but steady tempo, resulted in a rendition oozing the Roaring Twenties inside out. To my taste, it is way better than some virtuoso, grandiose presentations such as one by Lang Lang.
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I missed the chance to watch Lang Lang’s recital last year. The date fell in the period of ICN2, during which time FAO staff who were not directly involved in the event were forbidden to come to the offices. I decided to stay in Rome not long before the recital, and the tickets had already been sold out by then. Online photos and video clip show that not only all the seats were occupied — including the “backstage” sector that is usually not for sale — but additional seats were put on the stage. I don’t approve of Lang Lang’s extravagant style of performance and I don’t think his interpretation of music, while undoubtedly first-class, lives up to all the hypes, but he is unquestionably a phenomenon.
But I was not particularly regretful for not attending this concert because the program, which included three Mozart sonatas and four Chopin ballades, did not really excite my urge to listen to them. These pieces have been studied so thoroughly by generations of masters that I didn’t think Lang Lang could present anything completely new.
This was not the case for some other soloists who took the stage of the Auditorium in the last season. In the first half of his recital, immensely gifted Daniil Trifonov played an organ piece by Bach (transcribed for piano by Liszt) and the last piano sonata by Beethoven, both of which are generally considered too abstruse for his age (he was born in 1991). His rendition of the Bach piece reminded me of Glenn Gould, in both posture and tone quality. The interpretation of the Beethoven sonata, although didn’t quite emit the feeling of facing the death (Beethoven had finished composing the sonata only five years before he died) — an unreasonably tall order for a 24-year-old man — was adequate and confirming. In a sense, the significance of prodigies’ performances of these “very deep works” in their early careers is to leave a mark, just to be compared with their later renditions of the same compositions, which offers a peek into their career trajectories.
The program of the recital by Yuja Wang was dauntingly challenging in both technique and style even for a pianist famed for her virtuosity and ability to “play anything.” The recital opened with Liszt’s transcriptions of two collections of songs by Schubert, followed with Chopin’s extremely difficult Piano Sonata No. 3. After the intermission, Ms. Wang presented selected pieces by Scriabin, including the mystical Piano Sonata No. 9 “Black Mass.” She finished the recital with the explosive Islamey by Balakirev. Executing such a program with unwavering, top quality of performance throughout has become the touchstone of modern pianists, and Ms. Wang lived up to this demand.
She opted for gorgeous long dresses sporting her back instead of short skirts. She was in a city where tank tops are banned in churches, after all.
What Ms. Wang put out requires great physical and mental strength that may be only bestowed on young, vigorous souls (perhaps the only exceptions are Richter and Horowitz), but this doesn’t mean that masters who are in their senior stage of life have gone out of fashion. I felt fortunate to still be able to see Martha Argerich and Grigory Sokolov play the piano in person. Ms. Argerich’s gripping power that had conquered the audience of the world didn’t flinch a bit; and Mr. Sokolov’s profound understanding of the tone, rhythm, and syntax — the more intangible components of piano music that need more than just the techniques to grasp — set the bar, awaiting aspiring up-and-comers to prove themselves with. The audience were so frenetic about Mr. Sokolov’s performance that the master reciprocated by playing six encores. By contrast, despite answering curtain calls for five times, Mr. Trifonov did not offer any out-of-program bonuses.
Watching Mr. Sokolov giving encores was a soul-moving scene. When responding to a curtain call, the master, dressed in a solid black tailcoat suit, all hairs silver, would walk slowly but steadily from the side door onto the dimly-lit wooden stage, put one hand by the side of the piano keyboard, bow slightly twice to different directions, and walk back in the same pace, like a solemn largo. On every third curtain call, he would sit down by the piano and play a delightful or thought-provoking piece in his usual curling posture. The encores were probably selected not to showcase marvelous techniques — he no longer needed to prove that he had them — but to convey his taste and philosophy on music accumulated from a magnificent lifelong career to the audience. By running fingers on the black and white keys, Mr. Sokolov was making a statement:
I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. (2 Timothy 4:7)
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When I tell new friends “I have a classical music concert to go this weekend,” they usually show a seemingly astonished expression and might tag me as a “cultural person.” However, I don’t feel classical music is something especially cultural, and I don’t think one needs to be cultural to appreciate classical music. It is ridiculous to regard some music genres — such as classical — as more elegant, advanced, or sophisticated than others. There is no absolutely “good” music — as long as the music evoke the right emotion at the right time and place, it is qualified as “good.” Sometimes even the emotion-arousing function is not necessary: You just need something in the air, to feel as if the sound-filling surrounding were silent. I often resort to Beatport and 22tracks for this function.
Furthermore, the term “classical music” has become vastly loose. Technically, there are very few similarities between the works of Bach and Sciarrino except that the same set of instruments are employed. (Even this is not actually true: Musical instruments nowadays are drastically different from the ones of Bach’s time.) It is unreasonable to put the immeasurable numbers of musical compositions dating from the Renaissance to this year under a single category whose name suggests obsoleteness. (Oh the music you’re listening to is “classical”! It must be pretty old!)
There is a not so uncommon misperception that there has been a best interpretation of every popular classical music piece (the “unpopular” pieces are rarely performed, anyway), and that other renditions are not worth listening to. It may be due to the habitual thinking formed from listening to other genres that a song is inseparably linked to a singer, and that this singer is “original” and other people afterwards are just “covers.”
This is particularly not true for classical music because the playing and composing of classical musical works are detached. Compositions of this genre are meant to be played over and over again. Interpretations by different musicians, and in some cases even by one musician at different occasions, could vary so greatly that it is hard to believe that they are based on the same score. The different versions not only reflect the performers’ skill levels and understanding of the composition at the time but also carry the backdrops of both the composer’s and the performers’ era. There are very few types of art that can communicate so much information in such a relatively short time.
These factors push many people away from wonderful compositions and performances that they are actually perfectly capable of enjoying. This is a great pity, because it is safe to say that classical music is one of the most expressive genres. Sir Antonio Pappano explicitly elaborated in 2005 when responding to the question “why classical music matters to you” asked by The Gramophone:
In this world of labels and compartmentalisation, I am increasingly uncomfortable with the word ‘classical’ in front of the word ‘music’. Music, from the most sentimental of melodies to the most primitive pounding rhythms, provokes and/or demands us to feel. Nostalgia, sensuality, danger, curiosity, triumph — classical music can do it all.
The feelings that Sir Antonio put forth are not easy to experience in daily life. If you would like to embrace them in a delicate yet heart-trembling way, I strongly suggest trying listening to some carefully selected classical music.
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If a kind of music can only be enjoyed by sitting in the performance venue for a few hours, it has no life. Classical music, along with folk, pop, jazz, and rock, is easy to encounter in Rome and contributes greatly to the city’s liveliness. Take a walk in Villa Borghese in a sunny afternoon and you will find a young man playing bayan under a tree near Galleria Borghese. A girl will greet you with Bach and Beethoven violin sonatas in Via del Corso not far from Piazza del Popolo on breezy, relaxing nights. Next time when you hear a touching melody, no matter in an ever-crowding piazza or in a gloomy metro walkway, try to stop or at least slow down for a few seconds, and savor the moment. It is worth it.
However, the most unforgettable street performance of classical music I have seen so far occurred in Copenhagen.
One summer night, after a somewhat overpriced seafood dinner at Nyhavn, I went to Kogens Nytorv metro station to return to the Airbnb apartment I stayed in. There was a large crowd outside Royal Danish Theatre. It seemed that a play had just ended. The halogen lights cast bright, warm orange rays onto the glorious building of Magasin Du Nord’s flagship store across the street. As I approached the entrance of metro, a whirlwind of forceful piano chords was spurted into the air. It was Chopin’s famously (or notoriously) difficult Revolutionary Étude. The execution was no way professional, but it was impressive that the performer could finish the opening at all — and this happened on a street. Out of curiosity, and also to make sure that it was not another Joshua Bell experiment, I walked towards the sound maker.
The piano player sat at the door to Magasin Du Nord. The place was well lit but far away from the pedestrian stream. The instrument was a real piano, as I could tell when hearing the sound. As I came closer, I saw clearly the person who was striking the keys. A beard-bearing young man in his twenties, he was sweating heavily because of fierce piano playing and only wearing a T-shirt in the chilly night. (Although it was August, the temperature at night could fall below 20°C in Copenhagen.) Like perhaps the majority of street musicians, he was neither tidy nor neat. His clothes, although not ragged, were quite old. His blond hairs were shaggy and he obviously needed a shower, but he was totally immersed in playing this dynamic piece that he looked full of vitality. There was a sign board beside his stool: “CHOPIN – BEETHOVEN – LISZT – MOZART. FAMOUS PIECES. UPON REQUEST.” There was no score on the piano. He memorized it.
I stood at the piano, watching him play. I was the only audience. He was apparently just practicing or familiarizing himself with the piece, because at a difficult part he stopped, tried again, and stopped again.
I said: “It’s Chopin, right?”
His eyes on the reddened face lit up. He looked at me, smiled joyfully, and said: “Yes! You know this? Révolutionnaire?”
“Yeah I know. The Revolution — sorry I don’t speak French … Because I play the piano, too. You play very well!”
“You play, too? So, do you wanna play?” He became excited and stood up with an inviting gesture, showing me to the well-maintained piano.
As if out of instinct, I flinched. “Oh, without scores I actually can’t play a thing, sorry … But keep playing! I like your playing.”
He nodded, sat down, and continued to practice that part. I stood for another minute, put a two-euro coin on the piano, said goodbye to him, and headed to the spaceship-like metro station.