The Chiara Quartet: Strings From a Brass Perspective
Granted, a brass player’s reaction to a string quartet is likely akin to a democrat reacting to a conservative, or an apple reacting to an orange (I love them both equally. I’m also single and love dark chocolate). But I believe in the power of music, really great music, to transcend the instrument and become part of the great above-and-beyond universe devoid of labels, jargon, and contextual muddling. And that’s what I’m here to measure. Whether a string quartet can move a cynical brass player whose only loves are Mahler and Strauss, for the sheer fact that they actually wrote for us, to forget the scoring and remember the music.
To lay some ground rules: the quartet was great. Each player was solid, lovely; I tried and tried but just couldn’t find a weak point. They’d done their homework. If nothing else, I can tell you that they knew the pieces up and down, top to bottom, and I’m sure in retrograde. You could feel the intelligent thought they’d put into the performance, their constant awareness of the contours, dynamics, the textures on the page and in the air. Three members of the quartet even introduced the pieces (the cello was definitely my favorite. What a post-intermission delight he was) - - not only can they play their instruments, but they can put a sentence together. Impressive. Onto the rep:
I’d like to rename Brahms’ 3rd String Quartet (in Bb major, op. 67, just to alienate all who don’t care) “Survival of the Musically Fittest.” I never thought that my first great orchestral love could be used as a tool for natural selection, but as the unwitting children of the University of Iowa sprang from their seats after the first movement, the second, one after the third, and still two more (right in front of me, thank God) after the fourth and final movement, I realized just how trying it can be for mere mortals to endure “classical” music. And yet somehow, I felt like leaving, too.
I love the turkey stuffing out of Brahms, but this was not my greatest experience. Having adored his symphonies and chamber music in the past, I thought this would be no different. I entered the church, shivering, wiping the rain spit from my face, thinking that I would find comfort in more than just the heating. But that was just not so. It wasn’t my favourite (yes, let’s go British for this one) Brahms piece, and there was just something about the performance that didn’t click with me. In some moments, the time seemed to float away; or entire beats felt silent, even though they were still playing. I found myself grasping for something to hold onto as I listened. Rhythm? Time? Anybody? Maybe it was too romantic? Too dramatic? After all, Brahms was a romanticist who ate classical for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When Berlioz, Liszt, and others were going crazy living, feeling, being, enduring the greatest limits of romanticism, Brahms was all like, “Whoa, slow down, guys. Put your clothes back on.” But bear in mind: I am beyond cruel in judging Brahms. Grain of salt, here I come.
Next up was Bartók’s 6th String Quartet (Sz. 114 - - he didn’t give us a key. Wonder why…). The violist introduced this one (I was already impressed by his playing), mentioning that Bartók wrote this as his last piece, assuming the world was going to end thereafter. Insufferable gravity fell upon me as a listener, knowing this very fact. And I began to wonder. What would I write, either literature or music, if it were my last work before the death of the world? My own ridiculous musings aside, they did a great job with this piece. He isn’t the easiest composer, and I appreciate anyone who can make it sound like it’s supposed to sound. Crisp, measured, a little strange and uneven, but connected and thought-provoking overall. He may not adhere to the usual pop progressions to which our ears are accustomed, but when I hear it, my breath leaves my lungs; it’s as if I’m hearing the underlying current of my soul. The style was impeccable, the (extended) technique was sparkling, and the cognition involved was nearly palpable. They moved in and out of thick textures seamlessly, breathtakingly. Each player got a chance at the spotlight, and none squandered it.
Intermission. One thumb up, and one down. The third piece would be the tie breaker. I explored the balcony at this time, a good decision on my part.
The third and final piece was a string quartet by a composer to whom I was new, Erich Wolfgang Korngold (the piece was his third string quartet, in D major, op. 34). And if I thought I liked the Bartók, then I really loved the Korngold. Still, more twentieth century; still, a triumph on their part. Just as the audience found its niche after disposing of the children, I think the quartet found its niche in the twentieth century.
Excepting the ever-classic imposing sounds of the watch alarm, the truck backing up outside, and the lovely roar of drunks down the street, it was spotless. The cellist’s introduction was relaxing, refreshing, hilarious. I always knew I liked the cello the best. The second movement featured a “ridiculous theme,” I think he described it, while the violin played a “melody,” as he made air quotes with his hands. Oh, air quotes. One moment was especially great to me, when the two violins traded the same “lick,” as a jazzer might say, back and forth. It wasn’t until I looked at them (my eyes do enjoy wandering as I listen) that I realized that they were trading it back and forth. Flawless. The third movement was a “walk through D major,” I think he said. It was wonderful, a beacon of hope, seemingly, and yet it still had its dark moments. I wrote “heartbreaking. I think it’s part of my soul now.” This doesn’t happen often, and I’m still puzzled as to how such a reaction could be provoked in me. The octave at the end was impeccable. The fourth movement was just as great; I remarked to myself on how it all just clicked together, fit perfectly. It was like looking through a diamond (or maybe it was the giant advertisement next to the program that prompted this thought).
Two thumbs up, one down. Good overcomes bad, and love conquers all. They managed to melt this little empty heart for a few moments in time, and that is no easy task.
Hugs, kisses, and heartlessness.
Your Classical Guest Correspondent,
Kery Lawson
