And while it was difficult to not look at the central couple, the other performers—Lorrin Brubaker, Daphne Fernberger, Audrey Sides and Hope Spears—added to the ethereality of the work with their smooth and slithery strides executed on Planet Boulez as interpreted by Salonen and musicians.
Wriggly satyrs, the performers also seemed to share a kind of Kubrickian scene: Instead of declaring, “I am Spartacus,” though, they were proudly proclaiming, albeit through their bodies, “I am Terpsichore.”
But the lifts were gentle in this chorus line where, in one passage, Conovan and Coachman noodled through the brass section, and during another, Sides and Fernberger deployed shrugged shoulder motifs. There was also, well, a dollop of Fosse’s jazz hands, while the constant finger-fluttering might have served as a beating heart prayer to the goddess Shiva.
The instrumentation contained bits of humor, as well, its rhythmic essence stemming from both non-Western musical sources and the more familiar European foundations, with the seemingly random and unexpected sounds providing a broad canvas for motion in what could be called a multi-layered dream.
There was also the perfection of the ending: Conovan, somehow managing to curl up at the feet of Salonen on the podium, might have been signaling her gratitude—to the music, the maestro, and the moment.
Then again, the entire program dazzled: Salonen and pianist Pierre-Laurent Aimard opened the concert with selections from Boulez’ “Notations” (composed and revised over 60-plus years, beginning in 1945), with Aimard then tackling Bela Bartók’s fiendishly difficult Piano Concerto No. 3 (1945), his devilish precision and gobsmacking glissandos worth the price of admission. These pure musical pleasures were then followed by a stirring rendition of Claude Debussy’s “La mer” (1903-05).
And, since earlier that day white smoke had billowed from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel signifying, “Habemus papam,” “We have a Pope”—the first American, Robert Prevost, who would take the name Leo XIV had been elected—it seemed only fitting that, after the performance, this writer would gleefully declare, “Habemus ars!”
“We have art!”
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