The Dutch National Opera brings 'Die ersten Menschen' from Rudi Stephan, a compelling work that blends late-Romantic intensity with psychological depth, making it a significant yet long forgotten gem of early 20th-century opera. In the enchanting world of post-Wagnerian opera, it is remarkable to notice that Wagner's influence may have been even greater outside the realm of opera than within it. Perhaps even more than in opera, Richard Wagner left his mark on the world beyond. In film, for example—a medium that did not yet exist during Wagner’s lifetime. Film music would draw directly and extensively from his use of leitmotifs. His influence can be heard in the soundtracks of the 20th and 21st centuries. While 20th-century operas distinguish themselves from Wagner, stepping beyond the boundaries of tonality (Berg, Schoenberg) and embracing extreme dissonance (Ligeti, Penderecki), creating more alienating and unpredictable listening experiences that stray from Wagner’s direct, expressive musical language, film music built upon Wagner's techniques in ways that many modern operas did not. Wagner’s influence on opera after him was, of course, still significant. Where his impact on German opera was undeniable, his influence on Italian opera was even nothing short of revolutionary. In response to Wagner, Italian opera underwent a profound transformation, resulting in fundamental stylistic adaptations. Verdi broke away from traditional number opera in Otello and Falstaff, while Puccini later used leitmotifs to create dramatic unity. Composers such as Pietro Mascagni (Cavalleria rusticana), Ruggero Leoncavallo (Pagliacci), and Umberto Giordano (Andrea Chénier) adopted Wagner’s orchestral richness and continuous musical flow, incorporating them into darker, psychologically charged dramas, influenced by Wagner’s intensity. This led to more through-composed forms, breaking away from rigid aria structures. The world of post-Wagnerian German opera is one of evolution rather than revolution. Composers such as Richard Strauss and Hans Pfitzner refined Wagnerian principles while developing their own styles. Richard Strauss expanded Wagnerian orchestration and chromaticism, with Elektra pushing harmonic tension toward modernism. Hans Pfitzner retained Wagner’s orchestral richness and leitmotifs but blended them with Renaissance polyphony in Palestrina. In the world after Tristan und Isolde, we also encounter names like Franz Schreker and Erich Wolfgang Korngold, who, after a period of being forgotten (canceled by the Nazis), have returned to considerable (Korngold) to moderate (Schreker) prominence. Another composer who was long forgotten is Rudi Stephan. In 1915, Stephan enlisted in the German army. "As long as nothing happens to my head—there are still so many beautiful things in it," he said to his mother upon departure. Ten days after leaving Worms, he was shot in the head by a bullet from a Russian sniper on the Eastern Front. "I can't bear it anymore," were his last words before, in an attempt to escape the horrors of war, he raised his head too far above the trench. A promising composer was tragically taken too soon. Stephan had already composed several orchestral works, as well as pieces for solo violin and ensembles. His opera Die ersten Menschen was his first major work and had just been completed when war broke out in 1914. It premiered posthumously in Frankfurt in 1920. Although a few performances followed, Stephan's name faded into oblivion. However, as a recent rediscovery shows, Die ersten Menschen is a fascinating addition to the early 20th-century opera repertoire. Its late-Romantic style aligns with the musical language of Max Reger and Franz Schreker but possesses enough individuality to suggest that Stephan would have developed in his own, unique direction. The libretto of Die ersten Menschen was written by Otto Borngräber, based on his own play of the same name. That play, an erotic mystery drama, was banned throughout the Kingdom of Bavaria after its first performance in Munich in 1912. Borngräber based the story on the biblical Genesis and the origins of humanity. Transforming biblical drama into opera was nothing new—Richard Strauss had proven its success with Salome (based on a play by Oscar Wilde, which itself was inspired by a short biblical passage). And a potential scandal only helped. (Strauss famously remarked that the “scandal of Salome” earned him a villa in Garmisch.) The opera begins when Adam and Eve have two adult sons, Cain and Abel. The characters are: Adahm (bass-baritone), Chawa (soprano), Kajin (baritone) and Chabel (lyric tenor). Adahm has grown with creation and is no longer the attractive young man Chawa once fell for. "But then the time came. I just grew on and out of me grew man," he sings. He plunges fully into farming and animal husbandry, while Chawa remains stuck in a phase dominated by primary, hormonal drifts. In the opera, she acts like a sensual, horny woman who feels trapped in her circumstances. Chabel experiences a revelation in which he discovers a higher power, bigger and older than Adahm, and names this being God. Thus, religion is born: the evolution from Homo Sapiens to Homo Religiosus. He demands a sacrifice and the construction of a temple (the sacrifice takes place by slitting the throat of a toy rabbit, embellished with stage blood). Chawa briefly finds meaning in this, but soon realizes that her situation remains unchanged. Adahm embraces Chabel’s religious vision but remains distant from Chawa. Kajin, on the other hand, fiercely resists. He does not desire a god but a wild, untamed woman. When Chawa mistakes her son Chabel for the young Adahm in the dark, and Chabel is drawn to her, the situation escalates. Kajin, who has long desired his mother, sees in her the wild woman he craves. When Chabel is once again favored, Kajin loses control: he kills his brother and has sex with his mother. Chawa’s desires are unintentionally fulfilled, but the death of her favorite son overshadows everything. This tragedy brings Chawa and Adahm back together; they essentially begin humanity anew. Kajin is banished to the forest, where he continues his search for a woman. Director Calixto Bieito focuses entirely on the sexual tensions and neuroses of Chawa and her sons. Bieito more often seeks extremes in his productions and often this flattens the richness and versatility of the source material. This is also the case here. Perhaps surprisingly, I found his Parsifal in Germany some years ago - in which he set the grail knights in a post-apocalyptic world, like a kind of Parsifal episode of The Walking Dead, one of the few productions in which his approach really worked (perhaps because he really went all-out there). The action largely takes place around a table, the stage for conflict and desires. Initially, the table is laden with fruits and flowers, but as the drama progresses, the scene becomes increasingly chaotic. (“Don’t play with your food,” is what your parents always said—but the first humans don’t care.) Annette Dasch shines as Chawa, a woman driven by lust and frustration. Her acting, as always expressive, and singing make her a perfect fit for the role. She moves seductively across the table, while Adahm, played by bass-baritone Kyle Ketelsen, remains stoic, focusing on his work—on his laptop. Ketelsen convincingly portrays the distant father, while his sons, initially dressed neatly in tuxedos, slowly lose control. Leigh Melrose as Kajin masterfully brings the role of the rejected child to life. In the Bible, his sacrifice is refused, while Chabel's is accepted. In the opera, it is the parents' stated preference for the gentle Chabel that drives him to anger. Along with dreamy and unworldly acting, John Osborn's impressive, lyrical singing makes him a perfectly cast Chabel. As far as I am concerned, the standout in a very strongly cast performance. That performance takes place on the front stage, with the orchestra, the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Kwamé Ryan, placed behind a translucent cloth on the back stage. Die ersten Menschen is a fascinating opera that digs deep into human instincts and the primal history of humanity. The drama of the opera deliciously chafes against the drama of the daily news - a drama that is cold, unpleasant and disturbing - and slowly massages it away with a music whose tingling chromaticism, while certainly not shunning the grand gesture, has a pleasing sense of understatement. Music, art must be about something, always, and all the way now, it must have substance, it must be the real thing. And Stephan's opera has that. An opera that besides offering titillating, full-blooded drama has the added drama of a composer who saw the promise of everything he had left in him broken in the bud. Die ersten Menschen, Rudi Stephan / Dutch National Opera, Amsterdam, 24 January 2025 Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra Conductor: Kwamé Ryan Director: Calixto Bieito Adahm:Kyle Ketelsen Chawa: Annette Dasch Kajin:Leigh Melrose Chabel:John Osborn - Wouter de Moor
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Reading time: 9:20 minutes With NOSFERATU, Robert Eggers fulfills his lifelong dream to give F.W. Murnau's century-old horror film a modern, 21st-century update. Dracula, Nosferatu, Orlok. Everyone's favorite bloodsucker has been reincarnated once again. This time, in a film by Robert Eggers, who is fulfilling a lifelong dream by giving Murnau's century-old film a 21st-century update. Updates don’t necessarily mean improvements (as this computerage has made abundantly clear) but in this case, they don't have to. The unrelenting fascination with canonical (horror) cinema makes a new Nosferatu an event, and the curiosity paired with the excitement that accompanies it cannot be sufficiently valued, especially in these dreary times. Nosferatu, phantom of the night, a symphony of horror, scourge of humanity, was brought to film over 100 years ago by director F.W. Murnau, screenwriter Henrik Galeen, and designer Albin Grau. The story can be considered familiar. The first cinematic adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula was a case of copyright theft. The creators attempted to obscure this by changing the names of the main characters: Dracula became Orlok, Jonathan Harker became Thomas Hutter, his wife Mina was renamed Ellen and the boss of Jonathan Harker, Peter Hawkins, merged with the psychiatric patient Renfield into the role of Knock. Stoker's widow wasn’t fooled and successfully had the film ordered out of circulation. She even managed to have the court mandate that all existing copies be destroyed. That effort, thankfully, failed—darkness be praised—and the rest is film history. Nosferatu may well be the most iconic horror film ever made, one that continues to capture the imagination to this day.
A film, or any work of art, generates its greatest power through the story the audiences can add to it themselves—when the film takes on a life of its own in the viewer’s mind. Murnau's film feeds this storytelling in ways few others do. The lack of sound and the gritty, high-contrast black-and-white visuals amplify the imagination, making the movie feel like found footage. With its documentary-like quality and the appearance of the actor with the perfect name, Max Schreck, Nosferatu almost looks like a real vampire caught on camera (a concept explored in Shadow of a Vampire, where Willem Dafoe portrays Schreck as an actual vampire). Nosferatu is definitive in its rawness—a silent film for which hundreds of soundtracks have since been composed, from classical symphonic ones to modern rock. Watching the film accompanied by live music remains a unique experience. Werner Herzog was the first to venture into a remake. It was more of a free adaptation than a remake as he himself said. A tribute to the greatest film that had ever come out of Germany. With his remake, Herzog wanted to build a bridge to the grandfather of German cinema, Murnau. A bridge that necessarily skipped a generation because the generation of Herzog's potential film father(s) was tainted with a Nazi past. In Herzog’s film, unencumbered by copyright issues, Orlok is once again Dracula, and Thomas Hutter is Jonathan Harker (his wife, however, is Lucy, Mina’s friend in Stoker’s novel who is notably absent from Murnau’s film, leaving her name vacant - or something like that). In Klaus Kinski and Isabelle Adjani, Herzog finds a couple that is incredibly photogenic and, as a modern incarnation of Orlok and Ellen, refers to the era of silent film. Herzog’s Nosferatu is a poetic meditation on isolation and decay. It doesn’t try to be a horror film. Kinski’s Dracula is a socially awkward figure, someone who has lost all social skills through centuries of isolation. Kinski’s vampire is menacing without ever trying to be scary. His haunting presence, combined with Herzog’s understated style, creates a profoundly unsettling experience. The film’s pale, chilling ending heightens this unease. Jonathan Harker’s wife sacrifices herself, as in Murnau’s version, to free the world from Nosferatu’s curse. But Herzog adds an epilogue: Jonathan himself, transformed into a vampire by Dracula’s bite, rides off into the horizon in daylight, suggesting that Nosferatu’s curse not only persists but has evolved into a more resilient form. The woman who saves the world (or not). A reminder: Mina Harker: Stoker (1897) Ellen Hutter: Murnau (1922) Lucy Harker: Herzog (1979) Ellen Hutter: Eggers (2024) “It's a scary film. It's a horror movie. It's a Gothic horror movie. And I do think that there hasn't been an old-school Gothic movie that's actually scary in a while. And I think that the majority of audiences will find this one to be the case.” (Robert Eggers) In the 21st century—an era where the light just won't break through—a creature of the night will find its natural habitat. Robert Eggers seems attuned to this. While his motivation leans more toward entertainment than catharsis, Eggers understands that the time is ripe for an “old-school gothic horror film that’s genuinely scary.” Eggers consciously places his version of Nosferatu within the tradition of vampire films sparked by the 1922 original. Drawing inspiration from sources as diverse as Hammer movies and the Mel Brooks spoof Dracula: Dead and Loving It, Eggers adds his own flair by adjusting and introducing key scenes. For instance, Knock’s death is altered: Hutter kills him with a stake through the heart, a moment where Knock seems to regain his sanity, realizing that his devotion to Orlok hasn’t secured him eternal life but left him as vulnerable as anyone else. Unlike Herzog, Eggers reverts to the names of the original. For the roles, he cast Lily-Rose Depp as Ellen Hutter. Nicholas Hoult is Thomas Hutter. (Hoult is no stranger to the Dracula repertoire; he was previously seen as Renfield in the film of the same name in which Nicolas Cage smirks his way through the role of Dracula.) Simon McBurney, theatre director with a creditable acting track record, is Knock and Willem Dafoe returns after Egger's previous film, The Lighthouse, as the doctor of occult affairs, Albin Eberhart Von Franz (the Van Helsing-role and yes, the name refers to Albin Grau). Bill Skarsgård is transformed beyond recognition into a monstrous Count Orlok. The film is unmistakably a product of our time—a time in which buildup and proper tempo are often sacrificed for action and rapid editing. Despite the fact that Eggers demonstrated a strong sense of pacing in his previous films The Witch and The Lighthouse, Nosferatu too falls prey to the trend of keeping tension arcs short. Yet the film still feels overly long, mainly because it contains too many scenes and burdens its characters with too much (mediocre) dialogue. It seems as though the film fears its audience won’t understand it without everything being explained, leaving little to no room for ambiguity. For the soundtrack, Eggers wanted to rely on the sound of instruments from the period in which the film is set—a (fictional) 19th-century Germany. No electronics, then. Composer Robin Carolan, who also collaborated with Eggers on The Northman, stays in the spirit of James Bernard, the soundtrack composer of many Hammer films. While the soundtrack didn’t particularly stand out while watching the film—it’s no Popol Vuh for Herzog’s Nosferatu—my appreciation for it grew after listening to it separately. It’s a beautiful symphonic score with enough dissonance to avoid excessive sweetness, although it could have used a bit more edginess in the final scene. The visuals also reference romantic artworks. It looks stunning, and lovers of classic gothic horror will delight in it, but the film feels like a collection of trailers lacking a cohesive overarching tension arc. While it has plenty of atmosphere, it lacks buildup. Each scene feels like an elevator pitch that needs to make its point, evoke instant scares, and provide instant gratification. In Herzog’s version, for instance, the ship bringing Orlok/Dracula to Wisburg is shown in a mundane way, with the impending doom settling into the viewer’s mind through the preceding buildup. By contrast, Eggers shows us a wrecked ship with rats stranded on the harbor, immediately leading to the conclusion that the plague has arrived in Wisburg. It’s instant information without buildup. Herzog’s film draws us into a story with real people confronting supernatural evil. Eggers’ film, on the other hand, is a pressure cooker of instant hysteria where the connection between the human factor and the supernatural is insufficiently developed. In that pressure cooker, not only does the story fall apart, but so does the world in which it takes place. Herzog presents us with a world that feels scalable. We see Harker traveling through a landscape, arriving at an inn and castle, and when we follow him inside, we remain in the same world. Eggers’ world, however, breaks apart into isolated, enclosed spaces that have an artificial gloss on them. It can be considered the curse of many modern productions: even when computer-generated imagery is avoided—Eggers opted for practical effects like a real castle, real animals (wolves and rats!), and potato flakes as snow (a technique borrowed from a 1940s film)—post-production still makes the end result look like CGI. There, the tragedy of the filmmaker reverting to analogue sources and getting trapped in contemporary pixels manifests itself. In terms of visuals and direction, Nosferatu seems more inspired by Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula from 1992 than its predecessors from 1922 and 1979 (though it is by no means as bad as Coppola’s film, which looks beautiful but gives us actors who walk around like they’re failing an audition). As Ellen Hutter, Lily-Rose Depp carries the weight of all the misfortune; she awakens Orlok from his centuries-long slumber. Eggers had her watch a series of films for inspiration for her role, including Ken Russell’s The Devils. And it shows. Depp portrays a woman gripped by melancholy—not the kind of pain that secretly feels good, but the 19th-century version: a state of deep depression. When her depressive episodes escalate into Exorcist-like hysteria, the supposed intensity becomes somewhat tiring. There’s room for beautiful and poignant reflections on Ellen's relationship with Orlok—on the allure of evil, on unfulfilled desires and vague fears seeking a dark outlet. However, the film doesn’t connect us to Ellen Hutter’s deeper psychology; it fails to explore her character’s layers. The film falls flat here. Now Orlok is a flat character by nature. His motivations seem purely nihilistic. He comes across as someone obsessed with bureaucracy and formal agreements. He meticulously follows the process of buying a house, ensures that both Thomas and Ellen "consent" to her marriage to him, and has it confirmed in writing. This obsession with bureaucracy makes sense—it serves nobles and landowners exceptionally well. Deeds and contracts outlive people, and mastery of bureaucracy enhances power. However, Orlok’s betrayal of the pact he made with Knock reveals something crucial: Orlok doesn’t actually respect oaths or agreements. No two-way street here. For him, they are just means to subjugate others. His motivations are purely selfish—he’s driven by the desire to consume, spread chaos and disease, and feed on Ellen. He doesn’t even want to make Ellen immortal or his eternal companion. As a vampire, Orlok shows no interest in creating legions of followers. The rats spreading the plague are merely byproducts of his presence, not tools for a greater goal like conquering the world. His focus is entirely on consumption, particularly of Ellen—even if it leads to his own destruction. It’s only at the end that Eggers finds poetry within the horror, and it is there that the viewing experience gains depth. The ending is a stunning modern representation of the archetypal image of the Beauty and the Beast, Death and the Maiden. It’s grotesque and baroque—exactly what my gothic horror-loving heart desires. Without beauty, no horror and drama. Ellen sacrifices herself, and Orlok ultimately goes along with it. This makes their final, intimate moment a macabre duet—a necrophilic dance of death. It carries the chilling essence of Richard Strauss' (or Oscar Wilde's) Salome, a scene where horror is sustained by beauty, providing the film with a grotesquely beautiful and harrowing final chord. Nosferatu is a film with flaws, that much is clear. With its adrenaline-fueled direction it’s like Solti conducting Der Ring, made to impress instantly but something that lacks flow--it doesn’t breathe. And for film, even the ones about undead bloodsuckers, the same rule applies as for music—it must breathe (like a Slayer song or a Bruckner symphony - you have this website for these kinds of comparisons, you're welcome). Nosferatu is a film that struggles to balance style and substance. It’s a film with stunning imagery and great moments (the scene where Orlok welcomes Hutter into his castle is wonderfully dark and intense) without becoming a great film. But know that this observation, along with all preceding comments, stems from a love for and engagement with the gothic horror genre. It’s wonderful that films like this are being made. And it’s wonderful that this gothic-romantic horror work of art frees us, if only for the duration of the film, from the everyday news, a world filled with real horrors and real monsters. - Wouter de Moor
In a world increasingly drawn to authoritarianism, the question of separating art from its context might feel urgent (again). In the last blog post of the year a reflection on some personal struggles and resulting findings. And so we come to a new year. Normally, I would immerse myself in a good Götterdämmerung to massage my mind. Music of an ending that harbours in it the promise of a new beginning. But this time, I find it difficult. The looming prospect of darkness in 2025 and beyond makes art with apocalyptic themes feel like something best put on hold. I simply can’t enjoy it right now. My current diet consists mostly of Haydn and (blackened) death metal—a kind of sonic aspirin to deal with the hangover of daily news and a sledgehammer to crush what lingers too long in my mind. Starting the day with Haydn, though, has been a gift from a change in my social media behaviour. Like many others, I’ve migrated from Twitter to Bluesky (check out #A-Haydn-A-Day). That became inevitable when the owner of the former platform unabashedly presented himself as an advocate for global fascism. (Not that it was surprising, but there’s always a drop in the bucket, a moment of irreversibility. Ultimately, you do it for yourself, for your own mental well-being. Apparently, I’m not quite ready for Den Totalen Oligarchie yet.) With fascism one comes, via music, quickly at Richard Wagner—the usual suspect among artists with a tainted reputation. I was made aware of Wagner’s association with unsavory history early in my journey of exploring his music. Years ago, during my ongoing quest for recordings of Wagner operas that demanded my attention, I met a very kind man in a record store. We talked about classical music, about Mozart and Solti. When Solti’s name came up, I mentioned something like, “He’s mostly known for Wagner, right?” (I was still in the homework phase, hadn’t yet bought a complete Ring cycle, and was debating the choice carefully—I wanted to avoid making the wrong decision. I still thought of Solti as a Ring that would render others unnecessary.) The man kindly but firmly stated that Wagner wasn’t welcome in his home. Part of his (Jewish) family had perished in World War II. Wagner was the composer of the Nazis; his music was the soundtrack of the Holocaust. I could only listen in silence, given the gravity of that association. He added that Richard Strauss was his limit; he was still willing to listen to Strauss. The man who became head of Germany's Reichskulturkammer in 1933 could count on his clemency. And he added, with a twinkle in his eye: “But I also really like Strauss.” In every listener, the egoist probably ultimately wins out over the moral judge. The way art can speak to us in a highly personal way, the enrichment one owes on an individual level to that art, often transcends the artist's wrong views, or wrong behaviour. (Moreover, with people who want to ban books and music, it often seems that they do so with art they didn't like anyway). Of course, there are limits—especially when current events force us to stare the moral depravity of an artist straight in the eye (see box). After Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Russian-born pianist Evgeny Kissin gave an interview in which he mentioned a a fellow piano player, a friend, who supported Putin. “After decades living in the West and becoming a British citizen, Berezovsky now claims that Western media only say what the U.S. wants to hear and supports Putin. I haven’t spoken to him since and don’t intend to. After 1945, it was a huge mistake to allow musicians who supported the Nazis, such as pianist Walter Gieseking and conductor Karl Böhm, to perform again. That should no longer happen. Russian musicians closely aligned with Putin and refusing to condemn the war in Ukraine should never perform in the civilized world again. By supporting Putin, they have become accomplices to a mass murderer. Being a genius cannot excuse such actions. Only by excluding them can we deter others from doing the same under a future Russian dictatorship.” My relationship with Wagner is so ‘personalized’ that I can view him in layers, separating his music from the Nazi contamination that clung to him posthumously. His anti-Semitism and racism may attest to a morally deficient character, his music speaks differently. If it didn’t, we could let him rest on the trash heap of history. But that music! The quintet in Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg is one of the most beautiful, humane moments in all of Wagner’s operas. Each character in the quintet contributes unique depth, weaving individual emotions into a unified, resonant whole—a testament to Wagner’s mastery of polyphony and drama. Yet Die Meistersinger is perhaps the Wagner opera most tarnished by the Nazis. Whether Beckmesser was intended as a Jewish caricature is still debated, but for the Nazis, he certainly was. That’s why I’ve never felt completely comfortable listening to the 1943 Bayreuth performance under Furtwängler (which, incidentally, omits the quintet). Although I can evaluate the music on its merits and find Furtwängler an intriguing conductor, it doesn’t rise above the stench of its context. The mockery of Beckmesser on stage, the laughter in the audience—it’s more than just a bit unsettling. Among all performances of Die Meistersinger, I’d rather skip this one. In 1974, filmmaker Hans-Jürgen Syberberg interviewed Winifred Wagner. The interview remains a staggering document. As a fan of the music of her father-in-law (whom she never met), I’ve always felt a bit like a disaster tourist watching it. Winifred is clearly cultivated, well-versed in Goethe, but she was also a Nazi sympathizer. As an ‘excuse’ for that she claimed her affiliation with the Nazis was solely due to Adolf Hitler, whom she considered a good friend. Even 30 years after the war, she stated that if Hitler were to enter the room, she’d welcome him as a long-time close acquaintance. The combination of cultural sophistication and an apparent lack of a moral compass has always intrigued me. But in light of recent events, I’ve lost that curiosity. When the richest man in the world openly goes Full Metal Nazi, it becomes clear that a significant portion of humanity, even those presumed to possess functioning brains, is eager to return to it. To fascism, to the end of all that drivel about democracy and the rule of law (what has the rule of law ever done for me?). L'enfer c'est les autres. The U.S. elections and their outcomes mean my interest in Winifred has completely evaporated. Where once her opinions on Bayreuth productions could coexist with her approval of the Nazis banning Jewish artists (she didn’t like Mahler anyway, so she didn’t mind that the Nazis canceled him), current geopolitical developments now cause me to become completely disinterested in how she thinks about staging an opera. In a world that seems to have fallen into a kind of ‘Fascism is inevitable’ psychosis, the luxury of a past safely behind us has disappeared and with it my tolerance for pernicious views. Because what was then is now again. In today's world, yesterday's world looms large (also in the opera house, as became clear at a performance of Iphigénie en Tauride). As for Winifred and her friendship with Hitler, it’s now clear to me that her story wasn’t exceptional. There’s nothing particularly fascinating about it anymore. She was simply not a very good person. It happens. I don’t need to engage with it anymore. The Wagner family of the 1920s and 30s will manage without me while the music of that old bastard remains. - Wouter de Moor
'Absolutely Elsewhere’ is a masterpiece on which BLOOD INCANTATION boldly go beyond to where they did go before, further perfecting their blend of death metal and prog rock with ambient flavours. It's a trip through time and space, where myth and meaning collide. There is music that, upon first encounter, feels strange to you—and remains so for quite some time. It’s music you don’t immediately embrace, yet find fascinating enough to want to listen to again and again. I think of Alban Berg's Wozzeck, the first opera I saw live in a theater. I think of Messiaen, particularly his Catalogue d'oiseaux for piano, with its intricate evocations of the natural world, suggesting a musical landscape both elusive and enchanting, but also of someone like Milton Babbitt, whose (in)famous essay Who Cares if You Listen? seems to reflect a complete disregard for his audience, yet his music invites a continued curiosity. And then there is music that feels familiar, even from the first listen. Music in which all the elements you encounter evoke warm feelings of recognition and appreciation, yet whose mixture is so much more than the sum of its parts that it completely surprises you. The sonic world of Blood Incantation is such music—a music where the landscape unfolding before your ears feels familiar, offering moments of déjà vu, yet in which the contemporary mix of death metal, symphonic rock, prog rock, and ambient soundscapes transforms the landscape you know into something infinite. A wondrous experience. Blood Incantation has often enriched their death metal with symphonic and ambient tones, venturing far beyond the genre’s typical boundaries. They did sail into ambient waters on Hidden History of the Human Race (2019) where the death became spaciousness. And on their album Timewave Zero (2022), not even a single death grunt or guitar riff can be heard. It is an ambient work that even yours truly, self declared sceptic of everything too soundscapish, finds engaging. The long, expansive sonic fields on Timewave Zero draw the listener slowly into their depths, much like the sands of an endless desert that stretch toward the horizon, while never letting their focus wane. Blood Incantation draws its inspiration from a wide and eclectic array of sources, ranging—naturally—from metal to ambient and pop, with nods to acts as disparate as Klaus Schulze and, indeed, Tears for Fears (brrrr). Influences that remind us that even sources which might not immediately capture the imagination (to put it mildly) can achieve profound value when they lend themselves to the creation of something singular. For their latest endeavor, Absolutely Elsewhere, the band from Denver, Colorado collaborated with notable musicians like Thorsten Quaeschning of Tangerine Dream and Hällas keyboardist Nicklas Malmqvist, who contributed rich piano, synth, and mellotron soundscapes. Additionally, Malte Gericke from Sijjin and Necros Christos provided death growls and German spoken-word vocals. The result hits the ball out of the park, straight into space. Here, the blasts of death dwell into ethereal realms with staggering musical substance. This collaboration has yielded a work that reaches a peculiar depth, with an unique sense of atmosphere. It’s as though Blood Incantation had merely uncovered another facet of a musical vision long latent within them. The interplay between gradual development and abrupt shifts becomes a central characteristic that here is shaped into perfection. Just as the listener becomes acclimated to this cosmic drift, there is a rupture. For instance, the transition between The Message (Tablet II) and The Message (Tablet III) is one of those serious eargasmic moments. With its nod to the melancholy of Pink Floyd (it even has a literally quote from Wish You Were Here), the music at the end of The Message (Tablet II) suddenly shifts—as the death metal from Tablet III crashes in, brutal and relentless. It is a moment akin to the mythic and divine forces embark in a cosmic cataclysm. One moment you are floating in the void; the next, the stars themselves are collapsing into a black hole. Coming from another era is that notion of an opera, a Bühnenweihfestspiel, where time itself seems stretched into a spatial experience, where time becomes space. In Richard Wagner’s Parsifal, the delicate balance between gradualism and upheaval reveils something more about the ways music can open our ears and mind. The opera unfolds slowly, hypnotically, its music stretching out in endless melody. The first act alone feels like a pilgrimage, a slow awakening into the mysterious landscape of time and grace. But in the measured unfolding of these solemn sounds, Wagner inserts a moment of revelation, where the carefully cultivated atmosphere is pierced by a transformative, shocking, event. The Grail is revealed. Time collapses, and what was eternal becomes immediate, pressing, like a divine force breaking through the mundane. It is precisely this duality in Parsifal that fascinated the writer Philip K. Dick. In his novel Valis, Dick explores Wagner’s opera not merely as a religious or philosophical meditation but as a work that pierces the fabric of reality itself, a story where the gradual and the sudden coexist in an almost schizophrenic tension. Dick, whose own life was defined by sudden, revelatory experiences, saw in Parsifal something of his own search for truth—his search for a reality beyond the one we perceive. The story of Parsifal, with its gradual journey toward enlightenment and its sudden, transcendent moments of grace, mirrored Dick’s own experiences with what he called "anamnesis"—the sudden recovery of lost, hidden knowledge, the abrupt realization that the world is not what it seems. In Valis, Dick’s protagonist, Horselover Fat, grapples with the shocking revelation that reality is not linear, not gradual, but layered with hidden dimensions that can break through at any moment. This breakthrough, for Dick, was akin to Wagner’s use of time in Parsifal. In the opera, time is stretched, elongated, as though Wagner himself sought to escape the bounds of ordinary temporality. But then, in key moments, time shatters. The divine irrupts into the mundane. Dick saw in this the perfect metaphor for his own visionary experiences: the slow, gradual unfolding of reality suddenly ruptured by moments of transcendent truth, or what he referred to as "the divine invasion." Parsifal’s quest was not merely for the Grail but for the true nature of reality, for that hidden layer beneath the surface of things where time and space are malleable, and where truth comes crashing through like a bolt of lightning. Both Parsifal and Dick's novel act as bridges between the enchantment of mythical lands in childhood and adults' search for meaning. The music of Blood Incantation and the images it evokes are like a tribute to those childhood fantasies of pyramids in mythical lands in which wonder is more important than factual history. Listening to it, it’s like traveling back to a mental temple built of all my old ideas, a salute to the mysteries I once concocted for myself. It draws me into visions of vast and shadowed halls, guarded by silent, timeless statues, and I feel the thrill of a child’s limitless imagination. It is a music, an art, that represents not just structured sound and silence but something from which the value cannot be overstated: providing a refuge from the untamed mysteries of the mind and its imagination. - Wouter de Moor
Rafael R. Villalobos' interpretation of Gluck's “Iphigénie enTauride” unfolds against the haunting remains of the bombed-out theatre of Mariupol in Ukraine. There, the audience is immersed in a grim scene where ancient myths meet contemporary horror. This production, created by Villalobos in 2022, is a co-production between Opera Ballet Vlaanderen and Montpellier, where the work premiered in 2023. This season it has its premier in Belgium. Director Rafael R. Villalobos presents Iphigénie en Tauride against the devastated backdrop of the theater in Mariupol, which was destroyed by bombings during the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022. This is the setting where ancient myths intertwine with the harsh realities of our time. Once a beacon of culture and civilization, the theater now stands as a symbol of wartime destruction, a grave for hundreds of civilians who lost their lives there due to Russian aggression (the word "Children," chalked into the ground at the main entrance in Russian, was mainly an incitement to throw another bomb on it for the invaders). The production begins with a piece of “traditional” theater by Euripides. Agamemnon attempts to console his wife, Clytemnestra, reminding her that their daughter, Iphigenia, now dwells among the gods. Yet Clytemnestra is inconsolable—furious and vengeful, as will become evident. This is the final scene from Iphigénie en Aulide. The opera cast looks on, they are the audience of a performance whose sequel, Iphigénie en Tauride, they themselves will perform. In this meta-theatrical setting, the orchestral storm Gluck evokes in the overture is interrupted by a bombardment, we see smoke and the roof collapses. Survivors seek refuge. Iphigénie appeals to the gods for help against the avenging lightning, to spare the innocent and stop the violence. These are lyrics that fit well with an opening that is set against the backdrop of war crimes. Placing ancient operatic repertoire in the modern era often has an alienating effect, with certainly not always satisfying results but here, coupled with a present whose future we do not yet know, it deprives us of the comfort of hindsight. And that gives Gluck's 18th-century opera a heartbreaking and uncomfortable immediacy. The opera's story, rooted in the aftermath of the Trojan War, is itself a tale of survival and suffering. Iphigénie, long thought to be dead, is rescued from the sacrificial block by the goddess Diana and now finds herself stranded in Tauride (located in the Crimea, the linkage of war-then with war-now is not far-fetched) where she serves as a priestess. King Thoas, who has been told by an oracle that it is a foreigner who will endanger his life, has decreed that all foreigners who set foot on Tauride should be executed. And it is Iphigénie who is entrusted with that task. Fate brings her brother, Orestes, to these shores, though neither recognises the other at first. The drama that unfolds between them -confusion, grief and eventual reunion- culminates in the intervention of, again, the goddess Diana who will eventually grant them both safety and a return to Greece. The ancient story of Iphigénie, who narrowly escapes death and to find herself in exile in a world of endless violence, feels terrifyingly contemporary. Here the myth becomes a mirror for a world still in a state of conflict. At the beginning of the third act, just after the interval, there is another piece of theatre (this time to Sophocles' text) in which Clytemnestra lashes out against Elektra and explains why she killed her husband, Agememnon (Richard Strauss would later go all out on the house of Atreus in his own Screaming for vengeance-opera Elektra). The idea behind those inserted bits of stage play is better than the execution. The acting is stiff and awkward, the stage acting contrasting in a blunt way with the sophistication of the opera - that sublime interplay of text, song and music. Iphigénie en Tauride is Gluck's last so-called ‘reform opera’. In it, he says farewell to the Da-Capo-Aria, sacrifices (baroque) form to dramatic progress, and provides a mature accompaniment of the recitatives by the orchestra. In these ways, he makes the dividing line between aria and recitative more diffuse (Wagner would willingly be inspired by it). With his reforms, Gluck thus presents himself as the best of both worlds: the delicacy and melodiousness of 18th-century opera with the pulsating progress of a through-composed 19th-century musical drama. In Michèle Losier 's performance as Iphigénie, we see and hear a mezzo-soprano who embodies drama and artistry in a role often sung by a soprano. With emotional power and exquisite technical subtlety, she navigates the turbulent waters of her character's inner world. In doing so, she is both musically astute and heartbreakingly sensitive. Reinoud of Mechelen is a Pyladus of ardent, passionate loyalty. A friend -a lover- who is willing to sacrifice his life for Orestes, his cousin. His tenor is warm and bright, conveying the fervour of his character with verve. Kartal Karagedik is Orestes, a brave and raw character whose baritone is richly and aptly matched to Van Mechelen's lyric tenor. Their singing together is the voicing of a deep entanglement, as harmonious as it is tragic and fateful. Lucy Gibbs appears briefly as Diana, yet leaves a lasting impression. Her portrayal of the goddess emerges with ethereal beauty and deliberate authority, supported by a voice that resounds like an unyielding celestial decree. In his portrayal of Thoas, Wolfgang Stefan Schwaiger brings to life a man whose gestures and vocal expressions exude a ruthless menace. In him, the disturbances of war and lust for power find an impressive theatrical representation. He violates women, an illustration of a king's brutality that echoes an extremely bleak, harsh reality (Tens of thousands women and children are reported to have been victims of (sexual) violence since the Russian invasion of Ukraine). As Thoas, Schwaiger is a sinister stage personality (that's a recommendation) who embodies the devastating power of human cruelty. The choir conducted by Jori Klomp is of an almost unearthly beauty. Witnessing tragic fate, the choir carries a timeless wisdom. Its words - poetic, rhythmic, often solemn - express what individuals cannot: the universal and eternal suffering of humanity, our shared fears, doubts, and questions. Very beautiful is the resurrection of the Furiae who throw themselves at Orestes like tormentors, hauntingly imposing themselves on his conscience (after all, he killed his mother). The orchestra led by Benjamin Bayl plays with a fiery intensity that feels both dramatic and nuanced, in which each musical phrase is carefully constructed as a story in itself. The strength and depth of the orchestral sound evokes emotions ranging from passion to stillness, while remaining surprisingly transparent throughout. Every detail, from the velvety strings to the fiery brass, is heard crystal clear, like a web of sounds in which everything falls harmoniously into place. When the final notes of the opera die away in the silence of the ruined theatre, we are left, not with the catharsis of a myth, but with the uneasy realisation that, unlike Iphigénie and Orestes, we cannot count on gods to come to our rescue. It is impossible to watch this production, the world of Tauride set in a theatre violated by war, without reflecting on the state of the world and the fragility of the European project - the dream of a continent united by shared values of peace, democracy and human rights. The more a drama we witness in a theatre is palpable, the better, overall, the theatre experience. I spoke to a few people from Mariupol who attended the premiere. From them, I wanted to know whether a theatrical representation of a drama so close to home, a drama that is still ongoing, can still be experienced as theatre, whether there is anything left to ‘enjoy’. More important than any objections from the (sensitive) audience was the urgency and importance that the story was told and re-told. And that theatre, with the resources at its disposal, had to be used above all to tell (also) stories that were not mere entertainment. At that reception afterwards, I stood among people from different parts of Europe; besides Belgians and Dutch, people from Italy, France, Poland and Ukraine. People from different backgrounds, with shared interests, coming from different places. It was a look at the present with a promise of a future in which we live together peacefully, want to solve problems and not use them as an excuse to play scapegoat politics. I could hardly shake off the feeling that we might later look back on this time as ‘The World of Yesterday’. Stefan Zweig's 1942 requiem for a Europe that had been crushed by turbo-nationalism and fascism. It was like looking back from the past to the present in which the cold reality of Russian imperialism and the imminent rise of fascism (on the eve of the US presidential election!), was too pregnant to be considered comfortable. Perhaps therein lay the real drama of the evening. That this poignant production of Iphigénie en Tauride from Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck, the man who loved to look across borders, who thought the national differences between Italian, French and German opera were just nonsense, was a catalyst for the realisation that the Europe looked to from Ukraine (but also from Georgia) as a promise of freedom may soon no longer exist. It is a final note in which melancholic wistfulness extends like a silent, compelling recommendation to experience this opera in the theatre. For that is preferably the place to enjoy art, and it is desirable, necessary even perhaps, that there the stories that most deeply confront us with our own fragility and the raw reality of things also find their voice. And you get beautiful music to go with it. Iphigénie en Tauride, Christoph Willibald von Gluck / Opera Ballet Vlaanderen, Antwerp, 25 October 2024 (Belgian premiere) Benjamin Bayl Conductor Symfonisch Orkest Opera Ballet Vlaanderen Rafael R. Villalobos Director, Costume Designer Jori Klomp Conductor choir Koor Opera Vlaanderen Michèle Losier Iphigénie Kartal Karagedik Oreste Reinoud van Mechelen Pyladus Wolfgang Stefan Schwaiger Thoas, King of Scythia Lucy Gibbs Diana Hugo Kampschreur Scythian Dagmara Dobrowolska First priestess Bea Desmet Second priestess - Wouter de Moor
This year, we celebrate Anton Bruckner's 200th birthday. Composer of massive, timeless and time-consuming symphonies. Ever since I was introduced to Bruckner's music (via a recording of the 7th symphony, in a performance by the Wiener Philharmoniker conducted by Karl Böhm), Bruckner's music has never failed to move me. Whereas Bruckner was initially still a kind of symphonic Richard Wagner to me, his music has since increased my awareness of him and I grant him, unconditionally, his well-deserved place in the Pantheon of Greats on his own merits. I kept and keep discovering new layers, new meaning, in the symphonies - so often referred to as cathedrals of sound - of dear Anton. But before we embark upon our journey through the music of the composer and organist from Ansfelden, we pause briefly and lend an ear to the brooding, dark sounds of heavy metal. Up the Irony! There is a peculiar irony in the modern mind's pursuit of comfort through what is, ostensibly, discomforting music. The scream that rends the air, the violent cacophony of guitars and drums, the suffocating symphonic blackness of gothic metal – these elements, one would assume, are designed to unsettle, to disturb the soul, to plunge it into an abyss of existential terror. And yet, it is precisely here, amidst the frenetic intensity of symphonic deathcore or the baroque theatrics of gothic metal, that we find a curious solace, a strange and disturbing sense of comfort. For all the ostensible chaos and violence, the listener is, in fact, ensconced in a realm of safety, shielded from true peril by the very structure of the music itself. The roaring abyss, it seems, is neatly framed. I spent some time with Cradle of Filth's latest studio album, Existence is Futile, a hallucinatory metal masterpiece where ideas and execution find each other in stunning, edifying ways. Darkness be praised. But I noticed, with all the carefully curated darkness and immaculate brutality, that everything remains in place, that the form and content are kept neatly delineated. There is talk of death, there are invocations of the void, thrilling in their artifice, but ultimately rendered as mere entertainment. There is no terror here that can linger in the heart, no shadow that truly threatens to consume the soul. The violence is contained, the darkness tempered by its own predictability. In this respect, such music – for all its intensity – is as comforting as any pastoral symphony (ha!), offering not a glimpse into the void, but a carefully controlled masquerade of dread. If we really want to hear something grand that alienates and disconcerts us, we have to turn to something else, to the modern, avant-garde composers of the 19th and 20th centuries for example. To music that questions form as well as content. Enter: Anton Bruckner (1824-1896) My affinity for metal, without question, rendered Bruckner's music, much like Wagner's, more accessible. In Bruckner, as in metal, I discovered a profound resonance between grand, sweeping gestures and the intimate stirrings of the soul—a connection imbued with a depth of feeling not unfamiliar to those who journey through life with a certain melancholy and reflective mind. And it was, in turn, through listening to heavy metal—that "other music" to which this very website owes its name—that the surprising and innovative nature of Bruckner’s work became so vividly clear to me. It is not the loudness or the violence of music that disconcerts us most. It is when it dares to question the very nature of sound, when it peels back the thin veneer of order to reveal the chaos beneath, that we are truly alienated. Especially after listening to a few hours of metal, the music of Anton Bruckner can sound unusually unsettling and nervous. Like in metal, Bruckner comes with grandness and evocative power but here the music trembles on the precipice of revelation, unable to find comfort in its own beauty. Beautiful things, indeed, happen within his symphonies, but they are not an end in themselves. There is a sense, as one listens, of something deeper at work – something that cannot be safely contained within the formal bounds of composition. The music is seeking, striving towards a form that, in turn, must define its content, and yet there remains an uncertainty, a nervousness, as if the composer himself is unsure of the end towards which he gropes. Anton Bruckner, often associated with the grandiose and spiritual symphonic traditions of the 19th century, is perhaps paradoxically one of the most forward-thinking composers of his era. While his symphonies may evoke the majesty of classical forms, they also possess qualities that align him with modernist and avant-garde composers who would come decades later. His music, characterized by unconventional structures, complex harmonic language, and a defiance of traditional compositional norms, challenges the boundaries between tradition and innovation. Bruckner's Radical Use of Form At first glance, Bruckner’s symphonies seem to adhere to the grand Austro-Germanic tradition established by Beethoven with expansive symphonic structures and a reverence for spiritual expression. However, beneath the surface, Bruckner’s approach to musical form was far more radical than his predecessors or contemporaries. Unlike Brahms, who worked meticulously within the constraints of classical forms, Bruckner took an entirely different approach. His symphonies are vast, architectural works, often spanning over an hour, but they do not conform to traditional expectations of symphonic development. Bruckner’s music builds through massive, almost static blocks of sound, interspersed with long periods of quiet contemplation, creating an architecture that feels suspended in time. As if time becomes space. The scale and pacing of these blocks reject the conventional dynamic flow and linear progression expected in symphonic movements. His use of repetition and cyclical patterns, rather than continuous development, draws the listener into a more meditative and abstract sound world. This technique foreshadows the “block” structures of 20th-century composers like Igor Stravinsky and György Ligeti, who similarly fragmented and reorganized the linearity of music. In Bruckner, there is a essential unease – a tension that arises not from the mere imitation of achieving an effect, be it dark, solemn or grandiose, but from the composer’s very struggle to grasp at something ineffable. The music does not simply seek to please or to titillate; it seeks to offer an experience that may, in some shadowy, uncertain way, illuminate the mysteries of life and perhaps even that which lies beyond. The Adagios of his last three symphonies are expanses of magnificent, sublime vastness. Spaces in which time stands still and expands. Yet, as with the works of his great predecessor, Richard Wagner, the staggering beauty of Bruckner's music does not reveal itself through conventional harmony or easily discerned melodies. Instead, it is a strange, elusive beauty, distinguished by an uncanny abrasion—a wearing away of familiar forms—against a backdrop of enigmatic chord progressions. His music quivers on the edge of dissolution, as if the composer himself is lost in the very darkness or eternity he seeks to comprehend. The nervousness of his symphonies is the nervousness of a man who peers into the void and does not know what he will find there. The Greatness of Music Thus, we return to the notion of music as a conduit to something greater – something that transcends the mere performance of discomfort and instead confronts the listener with the raw, unmediated essence of existence. In metal, form and content are safely entwined but in Bruckner there is no such safety. Against the grandeur and triumph of the hard-rocking finale of the 8th symphony stands for example the finale of the 5th symphony in which the music seems to strain against its own form. Searching for a way to express that which cannot be contained, and in doing so, it forces us to confront the most essential questions of our lives. What are we? Where are we going? What, if anything, lies beyond the darkness that awaits us all? In this light, the true power of music lies not in its ability to entertain or to comfort, but in its capacity to unsettle, to disrupt our complacency, and to force us to grapple with the mystery of existence itself. For those willing enough to listen, Bruckner’s monumental symphonies offer not only the comfort of unadultered beauty in well-worn forms, but also the disquieting promise of something far more profound – an experience that, like life itself, refuses to be safely contained. - Wouter de Moor
The Mahler Academy Orchestra, conducted by Philipp von Steinaecker, gave a special performance of Mahler's 5th Symphony at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. With instruments from Mahler's time they brought the composer’s sound world to life, where tradition and innovation came together in an immersive performance. Mahler on period instruments—how does that sound? The Mahler Academy Orchestra, conducted by Philipp von Steinaecker, gave us the opportunity to explore this question. Amsterdam is well-acquainted with Mahler and while debates occasionally arise here about whether his extensive presence in the concerthalls keeps new composers away from their well-needed time of exposure, his symphonies remain a singular phenomenon in the annals of classical music. On September 12th at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, the Austrian maestro once again ensnared a fresh audience in his spectral allure, hinting at his timeless charm. (At least the average age of the audience, which was a lot lower than that of Der Fliegende Holländer almost a week earlier in this hall, suggested something like that.) The inexorable pull of the past continues to mesmerize us, and performances on period instruments offer a striking glimpse into this mystic voyage. Far more profound than a mere visit to the museum, the quest to reawaken a symphony as it might have sounded a century and two decades ago seeks to dispel the cobwebs spun by an age-old musical tradition. Does it unlock our senses anew? Do we rediscover a composition that we have delved into through innumerable versions and interpretations? Philipp von Steinaecker was once a cellist and assistant conductor to the illustrious Claudio Abbado, who founded the Mahler Academy in Bolzano in 1999. Here, youthful musicians from the far reaches of Europe immerse themselves in chamber music and historical Viennese instruments. This endeavor culminated in the Originalklang Project, where students and seasoned musicians from top European orchestras strive to capture the sound that Mahler himself might have envisioned. What stands out about the historical instruments is their transparent sound. Additionally, the orchestral balance is different (and perhaps better); modern brass instruments are much louder than their predecessors that have a greater emphasis on color rather than volume. Along with the sound of period instruments, Von Steinaecker gave us an interpretation that referred to Willem Mengelberg, the founding father of the Mahler tradition in the Netherlands. Rich in portamento in the strings and a rather free, almost capricious use of rubato. The efficacy of this approach was variable. At times, the deliberate delays intended to heighten tension seemed burdensome. The Adagietto unfurled with an intense, fiery fragility that I found profoundly moving, though my partner deemed it excessively languorous. The nature of perceived slowness is intrinsically subjective. The appropriateness of tempi is a matter of context. Von Steinaecker allowed the orchestra to blaze with fervor and the fin-de-siècle ambiance resounded with formidable power and grandeur, yet in evoking tension through contrast—a domain where Mengelberg reigned supreme—Von Steinaecker fell short of the Dutch maestro. The strings, warm and resonant, performed beautifully as the orchestra's beating heart. They excelled in expressive pizzicato, almost as if dancing a Sirtaki, and were glowing pillars of support for the brass and woodwinds that were revealing a delicate, almost trembling vulnerability. With the period instruments, it was as if you could hear the building blocks of Mahler's 5th Symphony finding their place. The result was refreshing and by times perspective-altering (for instance in the 3rd movement where the horn was given a solo spot, as if in a concerto). Though as a whole, it was not a drastically daring departure from what might be expected. Next year, on the occasion of the Mahler Festival in Amsterdam, which was previously cancelled due to Covid, orchestra and conductor (they previously recorded Mahler's 9th using period instruments) will return for a revival of the 5th. Before the intermission, Rachmaninoff's 3rd Piano Concerto served as a warm-up, with the excellent soloist Leif Ove Andsnes returning for a well-received encore. While Andsnes's pianistic skills were unquestionable, I couldn't shake the feeling, as often with Rachmaninoff, that his music is most compelling when performed by Rachmaninoff himself. When the virtuoso aspect of his music does not unfold too explicitly before our ears and eyes but remains more hidden, like a potential that can be unlocked. In compositions that resonate deeply, the notes appear where you don't expect them but where you definitely want them. With Rachmaninoff, the notes often fall where you expect, which can make them seem somewhat redundant. The imposing sequences can become complacent, with the moments of excitement and transcendence proving too infrequent to deliver a wholly satisfying listening experience. But this, I concede, may be a solitary perspective given the fervent reception of the audience (my partner was ecstatic). Mahler & Rachmaninoff, Concertgebouw Amsterdam, 12 September 2024 Mahler Academy Orchestra Philipp von Steinaecker (conductor) Leif Ove Andsnes (piano) Rachmaninoff - Piano concerto nr. 3 in d, op. 30 Mahler - Symphonie nr. 5 in cis - Wouter de Moor
Once more, Jaap van Zweden has raised his baton to deliver us a Wagner opera to remember, casting a spell over the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam with a haunted interpretation of Der Fliegende Holländer. After masterfully handling Lohengrin, Meistersinger, Die Walküre, and Parsifal on earlier occassions in this venue Van Zweden plunged into the supernatural depths of the Flying Dutchman, and it was nothing short of electrifying. Wagner is a master of turning sound into narrative, and that’s precisely why his operas thrive in concert form. Here, the orchestra isn’t just accompanying the drama—it is the drama. With the orchestra laid bare before us, the music rises like a tempest, a vast, churning sea that threatens to engulf all in its path. The storm is the manifestation of eternal unrest, of passions so intense they border on madness. The wind howls, the waves crash—an allegory for a soul adrift, seeking redemption in a world where only the most harrowing sacrifice can bring meaning. And in the hands of Jaap van Zweden this tumultuous force is masterfully controlled. He grasps Wagner’s complex score with grim determination, guiding us in moderate tempi through a musical landscape that allows every haunting moment to breathe, every sinister whisper to be heard. In this world, so vividly brought to life, the fate of both men and women is far from enviable. Yet, it is particularly the fate of women that offers little to no hope. Wagner's vision of womanhood is one fraught with peril, for in his universe, the woman holds the key to the man’s salvation. This burden is a cruel one. Wagner’s reverence for the feminine form is a double-edged sword, exalting women only to bind them to a role of servitude. Independence, in this desolate realm, is but an illusion. The woman is supposed to do what the man requires, bring redemption for need or desire. It’s a dynamic that’s still alive and kicking in many of today’s love songs and power ballads—a painful reminder of how far we haven’t come. A power ballad of sorts in Wagner’s opera is Senta's ballad. An aria that's supposed to be a gut-wrenching confession of longing, a dream spun from the darkest corners of her soul. Yet Ricarda Merbeth, stepping in at the eleventh hour, lacked the spectral quality required to summon Senta’s vision of the pale, cursed man of her dreams. Instead, she belted it out like Brünnhilde torching Valhalla, or Venus unleashing her wrath on Tannhäuser. The vulnerability, the quiet desperation that should have drawn you into Senta’s world was absent. Merbeth did better later on when Senta’s passion tipped into bordeline insanity, but by then, the spell had already broken. Merbeth, also when taken into account that she was a last-minute substitute, was the weak link of the cast. With Brian Mulligan as the Dutchman there was a man with a tortured soul whose every note was steeped in doom. His bariton was dark, resonant, and filled with the weight of centuries spent drifting on a ghost ship, cursed and haunted. You could feel his torment. Andreas Bauer Kanabas as Daland—the man willing to sell off his own daughter's future for fortune—had a bass voice that rumbled like thunder, matching his character’s moral decay. And Benjamin Bruns as Erik, the hapless lover who watches Senta slip away into the abyss, gave a solid performance that was laced with desperation and sorrow, a portrayal that lingered like the final echo of a dying storm. The roles of the men were well covered with the Helmsman of Matthew Swensen as possible exception. His nasal tenor didn’t exactly steer us into safer waters. But the real stars of the afternoon were the Radio Philharmonic Orchestra, Van Zweden leading them like a man possessed, and the voices of the Groot Omroepkoor and Cappella Amsterdam. Together, they created this tidal wave of sound, this massive, overwhelming force that swept over everything in its path. It was pure, unfiltered Wagner—no pretense.
It was an adrenaline-inducing listening experience, something that blows you away and gets under your skin. On this afternoon, the ghost ship sailed again in all its gothic grandeur, a vessel of dark passion that made hearts race and souls tremble. May we not have to wait another seven years to once again be drawn into its cursed embrace. DER BLEICHE MANN (the pale man)
In 1901, Der Fliegende Holländer was performed for the first time at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth (the opera had premiered in Dresden in 1843, the Bayreuther premier was posthumous, Wagner did not find Der Holländer worthy for his own Festspielhaus). In the audience of 1901 was an Irish writer who had made a name for himself a few years earlier, in 1897, with a novel: Dracula, the name that has since become almost synonymous with the word 'vampire'. Bram Stoker was friends with Bayreuther house conductor Hans Richter, discussed with Richter theatrical matters such as stage lighting. Because next to being a writer, Stoker was also a man of the theatre. As a friend, admirer and manager of the famous English actor Henry Irving, he had made acquaintance with the Holländer-myth through Irvings' interpretation of Vanderdecken, a play about the Flying Dutchman. It was one Joseph Harker (a set designer from the environment of Irving, who designed the stage sets for productions of Lohengrin & Parsifal for Convent Garden in London) that gave Jonathan Harker, main character in Dracula, his name. The fate of the Dutchman (the pale man) shows striking similarities with that of a vampire. Infamous for wandering the earth for eternity.
Der Fliegende Holländer - Concertgebouw Amsterdam, 7 September 2024 Radio Filharmonisch Orkest Groot Omroepkamerkoor Cappella Amsterdam Jaap van Zweden conductor Benjamin Goodson chorus master Brian Mulligan bariton (Holländer) Ricarda Merbeth soprano (Senta) Benjamin Bruns tenor (Erik) Andreas Bauer Kanabas bass (Daland) Matthew Swensen tenor (Der Steurmann Dalands) Iris van Wijnen mezzo soprano (Mary) - Wouter de Moor
The Philharmonie de Paris is host to an exhibition that whispers of power chords and guttural growls, of twisted riffs and thunderous drums. The event, Diabolus in Musica, lays bare Heavy Metal in all its monstrous glory. The air was thick with expectation as I approached the Philharmonie de Paris, its jagged modern facade looming against the sky like some unearthly temple of a forgotten, diabolical cult. I had long anticipated this pilgrimage, lured not by the strains of classical masterpieces, but by something far darker—an exhibition that whispered of power chords and guttural growls, of twisted riffs and thunderous drums. The very name of the event, Diabolus in Musica, had an eerie resonance, as though the devil himself had inscribed it in the ancient tomes of damnation. Here, Heavy Metal would be laid bare in all its monstrous glory. THE GODFATHERS As I crossed the threshold into the exhibition, a blast of sound engulfed me—Black Sabbath's primal, doom-laden tones, the very genesis of the genre. The air vibrated with a palpable energy, thick with the weight of decades of rebellion and unbridled passion. On a screen there was next to the mighty Sabbath, concert footage of Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple. Epitomes of hardrock and metal. Sources of inspiration for many bands that were to follow. Metal comes with imaginings and images and since we were in France, a country where they know how to honour their cultural heritage we saw, as part of Black Sabbath’s illustrious back catalogue, an authentic sculpture by Auguste Rodin: 'Idole éternelle' from 1889. In 1986, Black Sabbath had sought to immortalize this very sculpture on the cover of their album, The 'Eternal Idol'. The intention was to fuse the esoteric with the eternal, an homage to both the dark arts of music and the immortalized flesh of Rodin's creation. Yet, they were denied permission to do so. For the cover photo, they therefore used a re-enactment of that sculpture, by two models covered in bronze paint. That did not end well. Due to the toxicity of the paint, both man and woman were hospitalized after the shoot. HAUNTING THE CHAPEL The exhibit was structured around Seven Chapels of Metal. In these chapels several musicians were commemorated. Icons of metal, representing several subgenres: Cliff Burton (trash), Bon Scott (hardrock), Chuck Schuldiner (death), Per 'Dead' Ohlin (black), Riley Gale (hardcore), Chester Bennington (nu) & Nicole Bogner (prog). Their lives celebrated, their demises mourned. Their images flickered in the dim light of stained glass, spectral and solemn. Each chapel, in its own way, evoked a sense of reverence, not unlike the gothic splendor of Sainte-Chapelle, where I had earlier stood awestruck by the stained glass that recounted stories of divine suffering. But here, in this modern shrine, the tales were of human suffering, human rebellion and human transcendence. (That visit to Sainte-Chapelle was combined with a visit to the Conciergerie, because of Marie-Antoinette and Gojira - of course.) But it was at the shrine of Lemmy Kilmister where I felt the full weight of the exhibition's power. At the moment I laid eyes on his bass guitar, enshrined in glass like a holy relic, the haunting strains of Motörhead’s "God Was Never on Your Side" filled the room. The world outside ceased to exist. Time itself seemed to unravel, and I found myself lost in a vortex of sound and emotion, where only the music mattered. I was both here and elsewhere—in the crowded halls of a live concert, in the solitary refuge of my room where music had been my only companion in endless, lonely hours. In this realm, sound was not merely heard but *seen*—images of horror and beauty intertwined, like the serpentine curves of a Giger monster, or the sinister grin of a killer clown. The exhibition reveled in metal’s affinity for the macabre—guillotines and demons and "Frankenstein" (Eddie Van Halen’s guitar, a creation more alive than any mere instrument, its jagged body invoking rites that liberate and expand the mind). METAL EXPANSION And heavy metal, with its roots so embedded in the West, is spreading its tendrils towards other continents. To Africa for instance, as shown on a wall full of photos with African metalheads. A continent steeped in its own rich traditions, rhythms, and struggles—a place where the music of the land had always been powerful, alive with both pain and joy. A place where metal, a genre that has always thrived on rebellion and the exploration of darkness, found new furtile soil to flourish and grow (Botswana has some deliciously death metal bands with Overthrust being the most well-known). METAL REDEMPTION Few buildings, I mused, could so aptly contain the dark, wild energy of heavy metal as the Philharmonie. Its vast, angular roof seemed to stretch toward the heavens like the spires of some infernal cathedral. As I stood on the rooftop, the view of Paris below seemed distant and almost unreal. This, I thought, could be the setting for a staging of Wagner's Parsifal. Backdrop for the story of a hero seeking redemption in a world that had long since forgotten what it meant. And when I was listening to the silence on that spacious rooftop, with the distant rumble of drums and the faintest wail of a guitar echoing in my brain, Heavy Metal, I realized again, was not merely a genre of music. It was a big toy in the hands of a kid, a gateway to liberation, a way to your place in the world. It was a key to a door that, once opened, could never be closed. And as I walked downstairs I was already looking forward to my next visit. The Grande Salle de Pierre Boulez, with its modular design, the concert hall where Behemoth performed in April, as part of the Philharmonie's focus on heavy metal until the end of September, is something I must definitely experience in concert. - Wouter de Moor
From the chronicles of the Rhine comes the story of Wotan and the cursed gold. A Gothic tale of madness, betrayal, and eternal lament, whispered in hushed tones by those who dared to remember. The moon hung low over the jagged peaks of the forested mountains, casting an eerie silver glow on the mist-shrouded Rhine. Deep within its inky waters lay the Rhinegold, a treasure of unimaginable power and malevolence. For centuries, it had remained hidden, guarded by the ethereal Rhine Maidens, whose haunting beauty was matched only by their mysterious nature. In a decrepit castle perched atop a cliff, Wotan, the Vampire Lord, brooded over his decaying domain. His once-glorious reign was threatened by the relentless spread of death and decay. Beside him, his wife Fricka, a vampiress of unrivaled beauty and cunning, whispered dark prophecies of doom. "We must act, Wotan," she urged, her eyes glowing with an unholy light. "The power of the Rhinegold can restore our dominion over the night." But to seize the Rhinegold, Wotan needed the cunning of Loge, a shape-shifting trickster, a fire starter, whose allegiance was as fluid as the mists of the river. Loge had whispered to Wotan of a vile creature, Alberich, who had stolen the Rhinegold and renounced love in order to forge a ring of immense power. In the depths of Nibelheim, Alberich, now a monstrous, rotting lich, commanded a legion of his fellow Nibelungen. The ring had twisted his soul, turning him into a necromancer of terrifying might. His army of the enslaved, animated by the dark magic of the ring, spread terror throughout the land. Wotan and Loge descended into the bowels of the earth, where the air was thick with the stench of death. They found Alberich in a cavern lit by the sickly glow of the cursed gold. His eyes, sunken and lifeless, gleamed with malice as he caressed the ring. With a serpentine grin, Loge whispered into Alberich's ear, promising him eternal dominion over the living and the dead if he joined forces with Wotan. Blinded by his lust for power, Alberich agreed, not knowing he was ensnared in a web of deceit. Back at the castle, Wotan, with the ring in his grasp, felt its dark power coursing through him. But as he donned the ring, a terrible curse was unleashed. The skies darkened, and the once-vibrant forests withered into a wasteland of twisted trees and skeletal remains. The ring's malevolent influence began to consume Wotan, turning him into a being of pure darkness. Fricka watched in horror as her husband transformed, his vampire essence corrupted by the ring's insidious magic. Desperate, she sought the counsel of Erda, the ancient earth goddess, who revealed the ring's ultimate doom. "Only by returning the Rhinegold to its rightful place can the curse be broken," she intoned, her voice echoing like the whispers of the dead. Before Wotan could respond, a terrifying crash echoed through the castle. The giant Fafner, a colossal undead beast with hollow, glowing eyes, had come to collect a debt. Years ago, Wotan had promised Fafner the lovely Freia, the goddess of youth and beauty, in exchange for building the fortress Valhalla. Now Fafner had come to claim his prize. With a roar that shook the very foundations of the castle, Fafner seized Freia in his massive, decaying hands. Her screams of terror echoed through the halls as Wotan and Fricka watched helplessly. The giant's strength was too great, even for Wotan in his corrupted state. "We must save her!" Fricka cried, her eyes blazing with desperation. "Without Freia's apples of youth, we are doomed to wither and die." Loge, ever the schemer, saw an opportunity. "We can trade the Rhinegold for Freia," he suggested. "Fafner's greed is boundless; he will accept the gold in her stead." But Wotan, now a shadowy wraith, refused to relinquish the Ring's Power. Consumed by madness, he unleashed his fury upon the world, commanding legions of the undead in a reign of terror. The Rhine Maidens, sensing the growing darkness, rose from the depths to reclaim the Rhinegold. Their voices, haunting and mournful, echoed through the desolate lands, calling forth the spirits of the fallen. In a climactic battle beneath the blood-red moon, the Maidens confronted Wotan, their ethereal forms shimmering with a ghostly light. But the battle turned against them. Wotan's newfound power proved too great, and one by one, the Maidens were driven back into the shadows. Loge, true to his duplicitous nature, betrayed them, ensuring Wotan's victory. As the final Maiden was cast down, the ring's malevolent power surged, binding the Rhinegold irreversibly to Wotan's dark soul. In the aftermath, the mournful lament of the Rhine Maidens echoed through the lifeless forests and desolate lands as the daughters of the Rhine, once epitomes of all good and grace, themselves turned into creatures of the night. The Rhine River, once a symbol of life and beauty, flowed black and corrupted, its waters a testament to the darkness that now reigned. Software: DALL-E & Adobe Photoshop
- Wouter de Moor |
TIMELINE
January 2025
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