Matthias Goerne sings Schubert

                One assumes that the poet in Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin is a stripling, young, callow and given to dreamy reveries on the banks of his beloved brook. From Wilhelm Müller’s poems, set by Schubert in 1823, he seems to be an apprentice, and not a very stalwart one, lamenting his weak arms, and passive nature. His strength is all in the imagination, where almost the entirety of his unrequited love for the beautiful miller’s daughter is played out in a solipsistic, perfervid drama of emotional projection, jealousy and despair.

                Baritone Matthias Goerne sang the twenty-song cycle last night at the Kennedy Center’s Terrace Theater, with National Symphony Orchestra conductor Christoph Eschenbach at the piano. Goerne’s emotional wanderer is not the delicate poet suggested by the poems, or the usual understanding of Schubert’s music. Instead, he conjured a more robust, even violent figure, given to mercurial rages and operatically scaled declamation. This poet is definitely living in his head, too, but he is battling demons more than he is indulging in dreams; his wounds drive him to fury, not retreat or resignation.

                I found the performance mesmerizing, especially after the first few songs which depict the idyll before the clouds gather. Goerne has a big voice, and so the entire dynamic range was scaled up. But it was still a wide range, and when he needed to convince you that something was small and delicate, he did so—just in a bigger way than other singers. He had a peculiar but endearing tendency to use his hands when suggesting intimate ideas, as if physically drawing forth the delicacy, sculpting it in the air in front of him.

                He used his power well. It was hard to tell in “Mein!,” an exuberant love song in which the poet boisterously asserts the power of his love, commanding nature itself to yield to its force, if Goerne was feeling joy, or some kind of violent ecstasy. The mania of Wagner’s Siegfried seemed to creep into the oversized reading of this besotted song. But a long, ominous crescendo at the end of “Trock’ne Blumen” gave this song, and the cycle itself, an almost symphonic scale. The stock romantic figures who play on the stage of Schubert’s song cycles cast very big shadows behind them; Goerne’s reading constantly referred to that shadow play, in which bigger things are intimated than the sometimes flimsy poetry can bear. The last two songs were wrenching.

                Only two quibbles: The piano made unfortunate buzzing sounds throughout the evening, perhaps a sign of dry air in the hall. Eschenbach didn’t seem able to work around the problem, and his playing was scattershot and often clumsy. He is attentive, and the two artists were never at cross purposes. But a better pianist, or a better rehearsed pianist, would have made this very fine performance all the better.

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