Di Castri's "Lineage" breaks with the past, and Bronfman kills it (again)

Zosha Di Castri

Lineage, by 28-year-old composer Zosha Di Castri, is the first commission to come out of a new partnership between the The San Francisco and New World Symphonies and the music publisher Boosey & Hawkes. In the program notes for its West Coast premiere Di Castri describes it as “a combination of change and consistency, a re-imagining of places and traditions I’ve known only second-hand, the sound of a fictitious culture one dreams up to keep the memories of another generation alive.” It's a disarmingly honest statement about the work, and an accurate one. Intentionally or not, it's also a revealing truth about the music from a new generation of composers now emerging in concert halls- a generation which views (and experiences) 20th Century composers as being of  a distinct era, now past, and notably not their own. These are composers whose living role models aren't Copeland, Stravinsky, Ives, Harrison, etc. Not Messiaen, or even Carter. Their living models are composers like Adams, Glass, Penderecki, Golijov and and Saariaho. I imply no judgement regarding these contemporary composers vs. their predecessors, but bring attention to this only to illustrate a distinctly new era is underway. It is taking place now.

More importantly, these younger composers are coming of age during an era when there is much more than just the Western Art music tradition to draw from, more than just music itself, actually. Technology may prove to be a greater influence on them than Beethoven or Berg ever will be. So is it a surprise that Di Castri's first piece written for a full orchestra has a structure more closely resembling the rapid-fire, montage style of an MTV video or current film than a tone poem or anything resembling sonata form? She wasn't even alive when Michael Jackson's Thriller was released. 

As Lineage unfolded the musicians kept issuing snippet after snippet of arresting, alluring music- little threads that I kept hoping would expand and develop into full themes, but none did- one would just be taken over by another in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of texture and sounds- some soft and scratchy, some noticeably melodic, but none for maybe more than 20 seconds. A constant tease, especially since many of them sounded so promising. It was a technique resembling sampling- something that has been going on in pop music for the entirety of Di Castri's life, and a form as familiar to someone her age as a triad is to earlier generations. For some listeners that may have proved frustrating, possibly even uninteresting, but for me it was like hearing what the future is going to sound like- and it sounds pretty damn interesting, though it is quite different- at least for those of us raised on a set of musical assumptions that may have been declared obsolete or irrelevant while we weren't paying attention. But the "change and consistency" she mentioned, those "places and traditions I’ve known only second-hand" proved to be true. Nicely done.

Next, Yefim Bronfman strode onstage to perform Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 (speaking of which, what ever what happened to No. 2? Is it ever performed?). I've mentioned before that Bronfman is my personal favorite pianist to hear in concert and he proved why again with this astounding performance. His ability to play with such a substantial difference of force in each hand boggles my mind. During the first movement his left was a constant source of deliberation, almost relentless, while his right always seemed to float gently above the keys, still making each note distinctly heard within and above the orchestra, which was in rock-solid alignment with him. The first movement was so brilliantly played it drew a substantial ovation when it concluded from throughout the house. 

The second movement, the tone of which to me has always alternated between an acknowledgement of winter's melancholy and a paean to the potential found in every spring, and the dancing propulsion of the third, found Bronfman steadfastly refusing to linger over any of it, refusing to milk a single note, a common practice with lesser pianists which so often turns this masterpiece into romantic gloop. This was true of his approach to the first movement as well, but became more obvious here with their briefer lengths and less luxuriant orchestral parts, which MTT led with a surprisingly taut, muscular sound. Once again, Fima killed it. In fact, this may have been the best performance of his I've attended so far.

After the intermission the orchestra played Prokofiev's Third Symphony, a relative rarity, and I can understand why. It utilizes elements from the composer's opera The Fiery Angel, which I'm unfamiliar with but now am rather keen to at hear if not see, because musically this thing is an assault on the ears led by the most overpowering brass section I have ever heard in my life. It was initially frightening, as befits the opera's story, but in the end it felt wearisome, all but obliterating the afterglow of Bronfman's gorgeous performance. There was one superb moment where Mark Inouye and another trumpet player, breaking apart from the phalanx of brass, delivered a brief passage played so softly the sudden contrast was stunning. But the bombast of the whole largely eclipsed these few fine moments scattered throughout the piece, despite fine playing from the entire orchestra, especially the strings, which sound better than ever.