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Bachtrack, 03 April 2014 |
Von Christie Franke |
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Schubert: Winterreise, Berlin, Philharmonie, 1. April 2014 |
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A Winter's Tale: Jonas Kaufmann sings Winterreise
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***** |
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Jonas Kaufmann, German singer extraordinaire, may not be fully human. His
exquisite chocolatey tenor, coupled with his extraordinary command of
diction, tone and emotion, lend him an other-worldly air, whether performing
opera or singing lieder. This man can do no wrong, as was witnessed Tuesday
night at his Berlin Philharmonic performance of Schubert’s intense song
cycle Winterreise. Accompanied by his long-time friend and mentor, Helmut
Deutsch, Kaufmann inhabited a world of his own, one so far removed from that
of the concert hall that he appeared dazed when the audience broke into
applause.
Schubert composed Winterreise in 1827 while dying of what
may have been syphilis. Set to text by Wilhelm Müller, the cycle tells the
story of a man rejected by his beloved, condemned to wander in a frozen
winter landscape, pursuing a death that eludes him. The cycle horrified
Schubert’s friends when he presented it to them, filled as it was with snow
and ice and existential despair. Even today, with stories of horror and pain
at our fingertips, Winterreise still has the power to bring listeners to
tears. In the hands of a consummate artist, the effect is devastating.
Winterreise seems tailor-made for Jonas Kaufmann. Part of his
considerable fame stems not only from his voice, but from his uncanny
ability to slip into a character’s skin and psyche (director Richard Eyre
likened his acting skills to those of Robert De Niro). If anyone is going to
evoke the horror and grief of a man stunned by his loss, and do it with
extraordinary vocal sensitivity to boot, it is Kaufmann.
From the
ironic, helpless farewell of “Gute Nacht” to the false hope of “Die Post”
and the despair of “Der Leiermann”, Kaufmann exhibited a range of emotions
that would leave any mere mortal devastated, but which only served to
heighten the intensity of Schubert’s music. That Kaufmann was in some other
world, unaware of his audience, was obvious. He caressed and snarled, spat
phrases and sang through his teeth, not a narrator telling a story from
afar, but a man living the pain in the very moment. Kaufmann’s dark tenor is
ideal for Winterreise, for this is not the naïve lover of Die schöne
Müllerin but a mature man confronting his loss head on. Neither too big nor
too deep, Kaufmann’s singing was of exquisite beauty and passion.
Helmut Deutsch was equally passionate at the piano. Tenor and pianist have
known each other for twenty years, and that they are perfectly attuned to
each other was clear. Deutsch sometimes took the lead, his piano becoming
the roaring wind and howling dogs that drive the wanderer on. At other
times, he allowed Kaufmann to stride ahead, his playing soft and
understated. Together they delivered a gorgeous, despairing end to the
cycle, as Kaufmann’s wanderer accepted his fate in “Der Leiermann”, his
singing the softest beaten piano while Deutsch urged him on to a final
crescendo that embodied the man’s final howl of pain.
Silence filled
the hall for several seconds after the last note faded away. Then Kaufmann
came back to himself with a dazed smile, and the audience shouted and
stomped their approval. Looking slightly punch drunk, Kaufmann bowed again
and again. However bleak the world may be for the poet in Winterreise, for
Jonas Kaufmann it can only be golden.
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