But before we (we will be switching from the "I" of the writer to the "we" of Wagner & Heavy Metal, as with the pluralis majestatis) 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. 

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.

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).

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. ​

​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)