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Photo by Fadi Kheir
At the excellent Stern Auditorium, on the night of Monday, October 27th, I had the privilege to attend a fabulous concert—presented by Carnegie Hall—featuring the superior Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra, admirably led by its Music Director and Conductor, Jaap van Zweden.
The event started brilliantly with the US premiere of Inferno by Jung Jae-il, who is known for his score for Bong Joon Ho’s extraordinary 2019 film, Parasite. The composer has commented on the work as follows:
This is the very last section of Italo Calvino’s novel Invisible Cities. Marco Polo says this to Kublai Khan:
“The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.”
This piece began with that passage.
As I reflect on the countless deaths, suffering, and farewells caused by wars, plagues, and natural disasters occurring around the world, I realize that their scale is far beyond what I could ever fathom.
In the face of darkness and flames, where not even an inch ahead is visible, I tried to think about how we are to go on living.
Though I am a composer without formal classical training, I would like to express my deep gratitude to Maestro Jaap, who encouraged me from our very first meeting and gave me the courage to take on the challenge of composition.
Inferno opens forcefully and dissonantly but soon acquires a more meditative and elegiac cast; this section is succeeded by more exciting music, with a driving rhythm, and then a dulcet, more affirmative interlude arrested by dramatic measures. The composition concludes quietly but beautifully with another solemn episode. Jung was present to receive the audience’s acclaim.
An amazing soloist, Bomsori Kim—she wore a gorgeous, bright yellow gown—then entered the stage for a terrific performance of Felix Mendelssohn’s marvelous, Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64, which underwent its final revision in 1845–in the period after Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and before Samuel Barber and the modernists, Mendelssohn’s concerto’s only peers may be those of Ludwig Van Beethoven, Johannes Brahms, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and Jean Sibelius. The initial, Allegro molto appassionato movement begins lyrically and emotionally with some urgency but there are exquisite, reflective moments amidst the bewitching virtuosity; the music builds to a thrilling climax. The ensuing Andante is introspective but song-like too, an uninterrupted flow of irresistible melodies; it becomes more serious in inflection, ending softly. In the finale, a brief, pensive, Allegretto non troppo introduction is followed by an Allegro molto vivace main body that is propulsive and joyous; it closes exhilaratingly. Enthusiastic applause elicited an enjoyable encore from the soloist: Fritz Kreisler’s “Schön Rosmarin” from his Old Viennese Dances.
The second half of the evening was maybe even more memorable: a sumptuous account of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s magnificent Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27, completed in 1907. The composition starts somewhat lugubriously with an extended Largo introduction; the movement’s Allegro moderato main body is livelier, although an undercurrent of sadness is discernible throughout—there are moments that recall the Sibelius of his Second and Fifth symphonies. Towards the end of the movement, the music accelerates, but it finishes abruptly. The succeeding Allegro molto is even more spirited—it has some playful qualities but it also expresses the longing that is a hallmark of Rachmaninoff’s creative personality. A central episode has an unusual intensity and turbulence; after another agitated section, it concludes quietly.
The Adagio is the most sheerly lovely of the movements, an outpouring of pure Romanticism; the music is much sunnier and more serene towards the close, ending pacifically. The finale, marked Allegro vivace, is largely exuberant, with a more consistently positive valence, although it is not entirely free from disquiet; it concludes triumphantly. A deserved, standing ovation was rewarded with another splendid, indeed exultant, encore: Antonín Dvořák’s delightful Presto from the Slavonic Dance in G Minor, Op. 46, No. 8.
| Mathis and Hayden in The Honey Trap (photo: Carol Rosegg) |
Diego Matheuz conducts the New York Philharmonic. Photo by Chris Lee
At Lincoln Center’s excellent David Geffen Hall, on the evening of Saturday, October 25th, I had the privilege to attend an outstanding concert presented by the New York Philharmonic, under the extremely impressive direction of Diego Matheuz, whose subscription debut with the ensemble was with these performances.
The event started brilliantly with a sterling realization of Innocente Carreño’s marvelous, seldom played Margariteña, glosa sinfónica, from 1954. According to notes on the program by John Henken, “The work’s title derives from Margarita, an island off the coast of Venezuela, east of Caracas,” the composer’s birthplace. He adds that “Solo horn opens the work, with a motif that introduces the popular song Margarita es una lágrima”:
Margarita es una lágrima,
que un querubín derramó
y al caer en hondo piélago
en perla se convirtió.
Margarita is a tear drop
That a cherubim shed,
And upon falling into the deep sea
It changed into a pearl.
He continues: “The piece quotes several other popular and traditional songs, using Margarita es una lágrima in different guises as a recurring reference point, including a powerful climax. One of these songs is Los Tiguitiguitos (The Little Tigers).” The notes report that: “Other traditional material Carreño uses includes a religious song sung at wakes and funerals and an Afro-Venezuelan social song (Canto del Pilón, a pilón being a small gift or free bonus on a deal).” Margariteña, glosa sinfónica is mysterious at first, and then more exultant, ushering in more music in an affirmative register; it closes triumphantly.
Also rewarding was Erich Korngold’s melodious Concerto in D major for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 35, from 1945, admirably played here by concertmaster Frank Huang—it contains much lovely music. In notes for the program, James M. Keller comments:
Listening to his Violin Concerto, one may hear echoes of familiar film music. Indeed, most of its themes are drawn from Korngold's film scores: in the first movement, from Another Dawn (1937) and Juarez (1939); in the second, from Anthony Adverse (1936, though the movement's misterioso middle section is original to the concerto); in the mercurial finale, from The Prince and the Pauper (1937).
The first, Moderato nobile movement begins lyrically and Romantically with a lush primary theme and concludes forcefully and joyfully; the cadenza that follows the initial development is surprisingly spiky—at moments, the music is strongly reminiscent of that of Richard Strauss. The opening of the ensuing Romance is even more song-like in character, although much of the movement has a wandering, almost ruminative quality; it closes gently. The Finale, marked Allegro assai vivace, starts dynamically and cheerfully and ends spiritedly—much of the first section has a dance-like, even galloping, rhythm.
The second half of the evening was even more memorable: a thrilling account of Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s magnificent Symphony No. 5 in E minor, Op. 64, from 1888. In a letter from that year to his benefactor, Nadezhda von Meck, the composer wrote the following about the work:
Having played my Symphony twice in Petersburg and once in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure. There is something repellent in it, some over-exaggerated color, some insincerity of fabrication which the public instinctively recognizes. It was clear to me that the applause and ovations referred not to this but to other works of mine, and that the Symphony itself will never please the public.
Elsewhere he said:
the organic sequence fails, and a skillful join has to be made… . I cannot complain of lack of inventive power, but I have always suffered from want of skill in the management of form.
The Andante introduction to the initial movement is somewhat lugubrious, even mournful, with its “motto theme” that recurs throughout the piece, while the main body of the movement, marked Allegro con anima, becomes quite impassioned, although it is not without reflective passages—at times, maybe surprisingly, one can discern anticipations of some of the symphonic music of Jean Sibelius. Toward the movement’s finish, music with a driving rhythm abruptly engenders a quiet close. The second movement, with a tempo of Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza, starts softly before stating a gorgeous, radiant, Romantic theme—some of the composer’s most exquisite music may be found here. Although some of the movement has an elegiac ethos, it ultimately evinces a compelling, if not unchallenged, optimism; it concludes on a subdued note.
The succeeding Valse, marked Allegro moderato, is imbued with immense charm—some of it has a very playful character but with more serious interludes—and it ends emphatically, if somewhat unexpectedly. The Andante maestoso introduction to the Finale, is solemn, if majestic; the main body of the movement conveys a sense of exhilaration, even of extravagant exuberance, despite some more relaxed but still delightful episodes—it closes in a blaze of glory.
Deservedly, the artists received an enthusiastic ovation.




