Thoroughly Good heads to Oslo for concerts given by the Oslo Philharmonic conducted by Klaus Makela — an opportunity to compare and contrast
Premiered in 1957, Shostakovich’s eleventh symphony is an hour-long unbroken musical commemoration of the 1905 Russian Revolution. Tense anticipation pervades the opening movement, preceding a sequence of grim battles fought by the bold, committed and determined. Amid the carnage of battle, a terrifying menace takes hold. The horror and anguish are unrelenting. An ominous rhythmic motif first heard on the timpani appears in a variety of forms throughout. At its heart is a gut-wrenching shift from brutality and white-hot rage to tender consolation. An uneasy but determined hope takes hold, before one last cacophonous blast brings the symphony to an end.
This tour-de-force pushes the musicians to their limits and puts the audience in the heart of the action. It is not for the faint-hearted. Premiered at the height of the Cold War, critics initially dismissed the symphony as glorified Soviet propaganda. Yet performed only a year after the Hungarian Uprising of 1956, the symphony was also seen as a thinly veiled criticism of Soviet brutality crushing popular unrest. Nearly seventy years later at a time when rage feels dangerously close to the surface, this doesn’t feel like escape, so much as a stark reminder of what happens when oppression and unrest are met with brutal suppression.
At 29, conductor Klaus Mäkelä is for some the complete package. He strides onto stage with elan, hands poised at his waist signalling intent long before he’s picked up his baton. On the podium he is balletic in his moves, utilising every inch of his long frame and every joint to create a tableau of vignettes. His demonstrative style is a focal point, shaping stories for musicians and audience alike. This undoubtedly makes him well-suited to the immediacy of Shostakovich’s visceral score.
But a more playful side emerges in the Tchaikovsky Serenade, in which he conjures up a fierce intensity in the opening sequence. He toys with us at the beginning of the second movement, eventually giving way to the will of the score. Joyous rapture ensues, peppered with musical hesitations, anticipation, and flirtation all judiciously deployed.
Subtler gestures on the podium hint at Mäkelä’s love of detail. A feather-like caress in the strings is signalled with an extended arm, a gentle turn of the wrist and a graceful extension of the fingers. Transitioning from second to third movement, Mäkelä moves slowly and deliberately, suspending sound but maintaining performance, whilst musicians lean forward to turn pages in preparation for the next movement.
Later in the third, he pays close attention to refining the phrasing in a violin counter-melody, trusting the cellos to revel in their moment. A resounding and unequivocal conclusion to the fourth isn’t reflected in the audience’s initially hesitant response. The audience makes up for it by insisting Mäkelä returns to the stage three times.
Pairing Tchaikovsky’s sunny Serenade with Shostakovich’s visceral score makes for a stark before and after, contrasting a naïve world of privilege with an oppressed class’s attempts at revolution. In comparison, programming the Shostakovich in a one work concert the night before gave the work more narrative weight. It made it much rawer—urgent. Jeopardy heightened the senses, making detail easy to pick out.
A distant trumpet cue high above a taut snare drum roll (the subsequent performance didn’t possess the same precision here) established a grand theatrical space at the beginning of the first movement. From the ominous square, massacre climaxes build systematically in intensity, deftly avoiding the distortion that comes from excess. In direction, Mäkelä avoids obvious dynamic cues, focusing instead on phrasing, style and attack. The highly disciplined strings readily responded with tantalising sounds that deepened the story.
An inexorable air of menace swirled at the beginning of the second movement. Forces were later galvanised and focussed come the terrifying cacophonous massacre, determined strings pushed to their very limits, musicians leaning in with gritted teeth. Mäkelä capitalises on the sudden contrast between battle and aftermath in Shostakovich’s score, heightening the tension in preparation for the funeral march that follows.
The third movement ‘Eternal Memory’ lament saw the violas meandering solo line move at pace, balancing remembrance with a defiant resolve for the future. The achievement here was remarkable — twelve violas playing as one matching the texture that gave this noble lament ‘for life, for honour, for freedom’ an arresting human quality. Underneath, the basses brought character to every pizzicato note, making this a multi-faceted story.
To rank one concert over another is to overlook the joy inherent in live performance. Noticeable differences in the precision of cues dulled things slightly in the second performance. Cohesion was more discernible towards the end of the second movement. From there on, narrative secured the second concert, but it was the first standalone performance that had a razor-like edge.
Sceptical detractors aside, Mäkelä remains an incredibly exciting conductor to watch on the platform. Contrary to those who question whether he’s overreached with three international posts, it is his commitment to detail makes the prospect of future works a must for the calendar. How he tackles works of more profundity will continue the fascination with one of Finland’s most exciting young exports.
