Charles Ives: Complete Symphonies, Los Angeles Philharmonic & Gustavo Dudamel
4.1. The performance felt like a church service yanked out of shape – or into shape. Into another kind of order. Not a spoof at all, but earnest, with expressionist detonations in a dreamscape. The chorus – as if overheard from somewhere else – asking, “Watchman, tell us of the night / what its signs of promise are. … Tell us ….”
4.2. Taking the listener on a wild ride. The real jolts come in the quiet passages between the noisy explosions. The strings keening off key. The tiny taps, parps, and gurgles resounding without clear direction or trajectory. Joanne Pearce Martin nailing the concise piano concerto that's folded inside. At the performance last February, the non-fanatics sitting around us seemed restless and uncomfortable. Still able to unsettle. In the recording, the different elements are clear and sharply defined. No blur, no muddle, heroically defined. Each element retains its integrity.
4.3. Then another kind of disruption: a lush fugue. A hymn – and the people singing the hymn – figuring as parts of a pattern.
4.4. Drums barely audible far off. Gagaku ghosts drone. A string detonation, then screech. Bits of tunes with ragged edges. Not afraid of sounds that are ugly or unmusical. The Phil brings out things I’ve never heard before: the flat horn blast about four minutes in, the goofy razz a bit later, the soloists standing out from the wordless chorus. Individual elements of a mobile, balanced against each other, circling overhead.
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