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Rating: Unlucky artist par excellence, Modest Mussorgsky. His was a very short life (1839-1881), full of genius and unruliness, like a typical inspired yet inconsistent artist, that seems tailor-made for one of those dramatic period costume dramas that have recently been capturing large audiences.
Many insights, but practically not a single complete work, to the point that even on this memorable collection of piano pieces, inspired by an actual exhibition of paintings seen by a friend, touches were added first by master Rimsky-Korsakov, to make them performable, and then, decisively, by Maurice Ravel, to whom we owe the unparalleled orchestral version that has always been associated with the title "Pictures at an Exhibition". A lone wolf, poor Mussorgsky, chronologically a late romantic, yet already endowed with a pictorial imagination that a true impressionist like Ravel could not ignore.
The ideal listening to this timeless composition involves comparing the original piano version, which gives a vague idea of Mussorgsky's flashes of genius, with the definitive orchestral version, which gives instead a precise idea of the infinite range of colors that could be derived from these flashes of genius through an adequate orchestration ability. If there is time, out of curiosity, one can also listen to the rock version of this work, known as "Pictures At An Exhibition" and performed, not poorly, by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. The theme of the promenade ("Promenade") in addition to being universally known, is the fundamental glue that, especially at the beginning, holds together many of the pieces, each depicting a painting, and it accompanies us practically almost to the end, although towards the end it reemerges increasingly transfigured, barely recognizable. It's a simple theme, so realistic that it almost feels like hearing the footsteps of the exhibition visitor, moving from one painting to another, and also from one mood to another.
It starts with "The Gnome", a deformed wooden puppet, hobbling forward, described by grotesque music full of irregular jolts, in some ways akin to certain atmospheres of Tom Waits, who in my opinion could derive an excellent modern version from it. "The Old Castle" is instead a singable theme, although tremendously melancholic, entrusted to the mournful mumble of the bassoon and then the warmer voice of the saxophone; "Tulieries" takes us inside a bright picture, of gardens and children's games, but immediately "Bydlo" (for me the most moving painting of the entire gallery) plunges us back into a grim winter atmosphere, in a vast desolate plain, crossed with laborious slowness by a poor ox-drawn cart. The crescendo of this piece, introduced by the deep, dark sound of the tuba, is truly of an impressive dramatic intensity. No sooner have we calmed ourselves with a more lively painting like the "Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks" than we are disturbed again by the "Dialogue of Two Polish Jews", one wealthy and chatty, voiced by a sparkling, almost jazz, trumpet, the other poor and desperate, expressed through a mournful motif played by the strings. An almost onomatopoeic dialogue. Another stark contrast is given by a serene painting like "The Market at Limoges" that suddenly and without warning plunges into the macabre depths of the "Catacombs", where the echoes of the brass resound ominously and spectrally. "Cum mortuis in lingua mortua" does not lift the spirits much: the theme of the initial promenade reappears, or rather what remains of it, little more than its ghost. A real jolt from this obsessive climate of death is given by "Baba Yaga", where the sense of the grotesque prevails once more: the music is brisk and animated, a perfect springboard for the grand triumphant finale, "The Great Gate of Kiev", also known as a point of great performance difficulty, where mediocre orchestras flounder, and every instrument seems to go its own way. The conclusion of this last painting, after a buildup of tension that accumulates gradually, is of a devastating power, involving the entire orchestra in a truly frantic manner.
If the orchestra in question is the Berliner Philharmoniker and Herbert Von Karajan is conducting, the legendary difficulties of this piece, like all the "Pictures at an Exhibition", seem non-existent, but it's mere appearance. And if the description of the "Pictures" is entrusted to a mere piano? Well, then the task becomes more challenging, and not even a virtuoso like Lazar Berman can hide the limits of the piano version, which nevertheless is the original one. The good Liszt used to say that a piano could replace an entire orchestra, but in his time orchestras like the one envisaged by Ravel for this work were unimaginable, and in certain circumstances, especially in the majestic final painting "The Great Gate of Kiev" the piano struggles, managing only partially to express the sonic power of this piece.
However, the "Pictures" deserve to be listened to on the piano as well, if for no other reason than to get a vague idea of the first form they had in the genius but somewhat confused mind of Modest Mussorgsky.
Tracklist
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