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Número 276 - Zaragoza - Diciembre 2023|
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FORO
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| Artículo sobre Horenstein |
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Hola a tod@s: hasta que el "güebmeister" atienda (si es que llega a hacerlo) mi sugerencia de abrir en ForoClásico un espacio (se me ocurre darle un nombre de resonancias buñuelianas: "Los olvidados") dedicado a "los otros directores", utilizaré este venerable (¡un año ya!) y venerado vehículo que es Wagnermanía, para difundir entre los fans de Jascha Horenstein (we few, happy few), este artículo aparecido en la edición del 18 de Enero de "The Independent". Hablando de Horenstein, en el Foro Beethoven de ForoClásico, Ignacio ha mencionado la estupenda Novena de Horenstein que apareció en CD en Tuxedo (yo la tengo en un vinilo de Belter). La acaba de reeditar Vox (www.voxcd.com), junto con otros dos discos de Horenstein (un Requiem de Mozart con Ludwig Weber) aunque de momento parece que sólo está disponible a través de www.hbdirect.com. Un saludo, Alberich "The man behind the baton" An orchestra is a conductor’s toughest judge, and, as the viola-player Ian Pillow recalls, in the pit, Jascha Horenstein was feared and revered in equal measure 18 January 2002 A distinguished orchestral principal was once asked what was it that made conductors great. He replied that they were all dead. Now that the CD market is being flooded with "historical" reissues, we have the chance to reassess the efforts of various maestri who, while they were still alive, were a taken-for-granted part of our lives, but who now bask in a posthumous rosy glow of greatness. One such conductor, who is receiving a lot of column space at the moment, is Jascha Horenstein. In his case, though, due recognition of his qualities is not before time. Horenstein was our most revered (and most feared) regular guest conductor of the Bournemouth Orchestra in the Sixties and early Seventies. He had even been offered the principal conductor’s position that Silvestri eventually took up. His refusal to accept the post was probably a blessing in disguise. Conductors who are all smiles as guests can become dictatorial ogres once they achieve the number-one spot. Not that one could ever describe Horenstein as "all smiles". He had the face of a chimpanzee who had had a long but unsuccessful career as a boxer. This, along with his wiry frame and wispy flyaway white hair, hardly placed him in the heart-throb category. And yet he exerted a peculiar fascination over women ? and, indeed, a powerful magnetism over all of us. Quite why is hard to pinpoint. I tend to be sceptical of "charisma". To me, it is a word invented by media-hungry agents. However, if I had to come up with a name to whom "charisma" could apply, it would be Horenstein. But hard as it is to define what constitutes charisma, it is equally hard to define why Horenstein had it. It was partly fear. Horenstein came with a fearsome reputation. Stories of him throwing tantrums ? and his scores about ? came to us via players who had eye-witnessed these events with other orchestras. It was a lot more besides fear, of course. There was respect, and affection. Maybe it was because he had mellowed, maybe it was because the Bournemouth was one of his favourite orchestras, but we always saw him at his most genial. This by no means implies uproarious thigh-slapping laughter ("Did I see Horrors smile last night?" "No, that was wind.") but behind the mask was, so often, a dry half-smile, and a sardonic observation. He spoke deliberately, punctuating his sentences with pauses for closed-mouthed chewing movements as if he were trying to bring to heel rogue dentures. "A lady came up to me after the concert last night," he once said at the following day’s rehearsal, "and told me that she wanted to cry after the Prelude and Liebestod. I felt like saying to her, "So did I". He then went on to explain to the strings that we would get more sound if we made less physical effort. Economy of movement, word and facial expression were his hallmarks, and, indeed, the hallmarks of his interpretations. I had always admired his recording of Bruckner’s Eighth Symphony with the Vienna Pro Musica, which, thanks to reissue, once more sits proudly on my shelves. In all other recordings, I could make neither head nor tail of the piece, lurching and spluttering in fits and starts through its amorphous 80 minutes. But in Horenstein’s hands, it made sense. I plucked up courage one day to ask him why the piece had so many problems. "There are no problems," he replied. The less you did, the more you said. Apart from an occasional screwing-up of eyes and clasping of a trembling hand to a deeply corrugated forehead ? as if the volcano was at last about to erupt ? he conveyed so much with so little gesture. I suppose this is one definition of charisma. In Strauss’s Don Juan, the violas have a particularly tricky couple of bars to themselves. I was not long out of college, green, and, sitting at the front, terrified. In the rehearsal, Horrors gave us the cue. I made a pig’s ear of it. His look was one of amazement, horror, disbelief and hopelessness. Quite withering. And yet it was somehow achieved with hardly a single change of facial muscle. He could also say much with few words. On another occasion, sitting in the same seat, I was trying to grovel my way around a mass of double sharps and naturals situated in a gloomy far corner of Hindemith’s Concert Music for Strings and Brass, like a swarm of swatted flies. He stopped the orchestra and pointed his long baton at me. "Why" ? pause for chewing movement ? "did you put your first finker on the D double-sharp?" The answer I’d give now ? that it happened to be available at the time ? was not the sort of thing a rookie viola-player would even think of saying. I just hoped the ground beneath which I sat was prone to subsidence. Sometimes, the little he said took a long time to say. "You have a diminuendo for twelff barrss before letter C. This meanss" ? chewing pause ? "that the 11th bar ? is softer than the twelff bar. The 10th bar" ? chewing ? "is softer than the 11th bar. The ninth bar..." This went on until, eventually: "And, you will be surprised to learn, the firsst bar ? is softer than the second bar." At one rehearsal, he stopped the orchestra. "Trombone’ss" he said. "Oh, God, here we go," I heard the principal trombone murmur. "Trombone’ss" ? before letter M one bar..." (he smacked his baton hard on the bar concerned, like an enraged Viking with his sword) ? "two barrss ? before letter M ? three barrss" (more chewing) "four barrss ? before letter M" (now wielding his Viking sword in the direction of the trombones) ? "fife barrss ? six ? seven ? before letter M ? eight. Eight barrs before letter M ? trombone’ss..." (more wielding of baton at score and at trombones, who were by this time reduced to jelly, then more extended chewing) "Very good!" Well, he did study philosophy. Ian Pillow is principal viola of the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra |