The circus and the spider

(Note: This review is based on Saturday (March 4) afternoon’s dress rehearsal. The performance was Saturday night.)

For the past month or so, Lansing has been home to several billboards that simply proclaim “Shostakovich Symphony No. 9.” The brave decision not to filter the work of a troubled, mid-20th-century Russian master through a marketing slogan like “turmoil and joy” or “triumph and tragedy” reflects Lansing Symphony Orchestra maestro Timothy Muffitt’s approach to the music at Saturday’s MasterWorks concert.

Muffitt and the musicians showed total respect for both the composer and the audience by emphasizing every detail in the score and letting the dense symphony speak for itself, in all its delights, twists and contradictions, leaving the audience to draw its own conclusions.

You knew a strange dance was in store when the peeping piccolo of flutist Kathryne Salo persevered over a slight, lilting melody, ignoring a series of workovers from pounding drums and brass with merry monomania. The queasy blend of circus ballyhoo and ominous blasts set the tone for the rest of the night.

When out-and-out beauty rears its ugly head in one of Shostakovich’s symphonic storms, the effect is always memorable. A lyrical duet by clarinetists Guy Yehuda and Tasha Warren-Yehuda opened the second movement with honey-caramel tones until their sweet colloquy was acidified from above and below by flutist Richard Sherman and bassoonist Michael Kroth. With oboist Stephanie Shapiro in the mix, the winds twisted themselves into a piercing, astringent sound that is the essence of Shostakovich. The slow movement moved into quiet, uneasy flatland, an abandoned yard (did the circus move on?) where a few shoots of life ventured out and asked dire questions.

But no answers were forthcoming. The orchestra quickly resumed its big rush to nowhere in particular. A chest-out, Spanish-toreador solo by principal trumpeter Neil Mueller came out of nowhere, only to be appropriated by a bullying gang of low brass.

It sounds like chaos on paper, but the section work was so precise and crisp that you could relax and enjoy the disorientation. Muffitt wasn’t interested in fluffing the cushions, sanding the edges or lacquering the finish as he did in the Mozart piece that came before. 

Pompous, almost Wagnerian horn fanfare set the stage for a purple-hued, arresting solo by Kroth.

It’s impossible to do full justice to every individual contribution, but Kroth’s solo inspired me to adopt an old Prussian army trick and single out one scapegoat for extra lengthy “punishment.” After the nervous bustling, forced merriment and mercurial mood shifts that came before, Kroth crawled out of his crevice like a spider and spun a dark thread of loss and mourning. He achieved a miniature requiem that bore the weight of the entire symphony on one dark thread and placed the whole work in perspective. He seemed to be pulling you into a corner of the house where Big Brother couldn’t hear, whispering, “Now, let me tell you what is really going on here.”

After Kroth had his say, he dutifully but hesitatingly lifted up his shackles and pushed himself to play the sarcastic circus tune that dominates the rest of the symphony. It was a profound and unsettling moment.

Bit by bit, that scruffy, rat’s-tail melody grew in volume and scope until the tail became a full-on rat and began to loom like Godzilla, but instead of getting slower on its feet, the monster danced faster and faster on the remains of the hapless city.

Muffitt steered through the tumult with almost chilly professionalism, moving out of the way and letting the music do its mysterious work on the mind and soul.

The other major work of the evening, Mozart’s intricate and lovely Sinfonia Concertante, was superficially similar to the Shostakovich Ninth in form and length but worlds apart in mood.

Saturday’s concert offered the rare experience of dual soloists — two for the price of one.

Violinist Hye-Jin Kim and violist Ara Gregorian, who are married, were fascinating to follow, both individually and together. Musicians love to tell you that great music should be a conversation, but that’s usually just a figure of speech. This performance, though, really was a conversation — civilized, loving and even spontaneous, a minor miracle when you consider that the music was all written down some centuries ago.

Kim led the way, playing with boundless warmth and a juicy, plummy tone that seemed to light up every note from within. Gregorian appeared slightly more reserved and played with a drier sound, making him the perfect foil and dance partner. When they played together, their mesmerizing mix of contrast and convergence made you wonder why there aren’t more concertos that feature two soloists instead of one — probably because it’s devilishly hard to make music with this many moving parts flow as naturally as it did Saturday.