Not Out of Breath (Redux)

Dan Albertson

[March 2025.]

[Revisiting old terrain for the first time, if such a postulation makes sense. To you, Romeo Talento, in gratitude and admiration, with affection and best wishes for your convalescence – and always.]

Bear with some autobiography: Slightly more than two decades ago, Mike Silverton invited an unknown, then working on a project about Helmut Lachenmann, to submit a one-off about the reigning German composer of our time for La Folia, which turned into an ongoing collaboration. (Thanks, Mike, and congratulations on your own imminent birthday.)

Meanwhile the personal connection to Lachenmann has long since gone bust (the emails documenting its demise are priceless, and a later comment was, “Dan, what an infidel!”), and being pegged as a Lachenmann fan – which remains true, by the way – has nonetheless had some unfortunate consequences in terms of the ability to write about other music or hold other opinions. If Lachenmann is seen as part of a lineage involving centuries of composers who knew the tradition that they were intending to subvert, which he most assuredly is, he becomes a conservative if not reactionary figure. Such a pity that he is not seen in this light more often, or at all, and that audiences view him instead as a radical. But the endless debates about modernism and progress can be safely buried now – and could have been in 1968. Why not cherish Lachenmann the sensualist composer for what he is? The Tanzsuite mit Deutschlandlied must rank among the most engrossing and, yes, sensual experiences of the present age: The real scandal is not that crusty fuddy-duddies get upset by it, but rather that this music is not appreciated for the formidable, intoxicating beast that it truly is. The bland, saccharine mediocrities that populate orchestral programming these days – whether Anna Clyne or Missy Mazzoli, Jessie Montgomery or Mark-Anthony Turnage, or on the opposite end, Clara Iannotta, who inhabits an unrelenting state of vacuousness all her own – are beside Lachenmann what a gerbil is to an elephant, both in terms of artistic substance and impact on the listener’s mind and body.

Lachenmann, who has never met a debate he did not like and who longed ago passed into thou-must-worship-me mode (not unusual in artists above a certain age, it must be pointed out), has himself brought no new ideas to the table since the mid-1990s at the latest, and of his music post-Das Mädchen mit den Schwefelhölzern, only the third string quartet Grido, a towering achievement, stands out. If he had stopped composing then, it would have stood as his Sibelius 7. Knowing when to stop, goodness, now there is an essay and a lifetime all its own. (Yes, you were heard, before you raised your objection, and the irony is not lost on this writer.) The musical world – on the composing end, if not the listening one – long ago caught up to Lachenmann, whose position in the musical firmament is secure. A few péchés de vieillesse cannot undo four solid decades.

Lachenmann’s creation of music has threatened to halt many times. Pieces have been scheduled for première and canceled, rescheduled and canceled again, in the past quarter century. My Melodies, an aimless and tame and meandering rehashing of his catalogue of sounds, for instance, was thought to be a chimera until it was finally finished and performed. Whether it would have been better left as a chimera, others may decide. There was often also talk about a piece for Maurizio Pollini, which never could have happened anyway, the pianist’s abilities having deteriorated long before his demise.

With this caveat, Mes Adieux may or may not be the end of a composing life that, in terms of surviving works, begins in 1956. Its appearance at Witten in 2022 was not unexpected. Rather than string quartet, a medium to which he made mighty contributions, he returns to the string trio that, in 1965, helped him move a step closer to the cusp of his breakthrough, simply entitled Streichtrio.

A work haunted in many ways, by specters all his own, Mes Adieux bears undeniable links to Lachenmann’s former teacher Luigi Nono, especially the period ushered in by Con Luigi Dallapiccola and Fragmente-Stille, an Diotima (a late period endlessly discussed here at Laffo) – from a time when teacher and pupil were not on speaking terms (might a reconciliation be ahead for us, too?). Aging increases the tendency to look back and look around, and to grasp at connections that may only in hindsight exist, though here these sideways glances are inscrutable. Long – interminable? – stretches of Mes Adieux rustle at the fringes of the audible, whittling away any sense of tension and release. Ennui, not a state one would associate with Lachenmann, is a legitimate fear here. Indeed, its emphatic opening could be seen as a false start, as almost nowhere else, except halfway through, where a sustained passage recalls Grido, and in the final quarter of the work, does he bring his ideas to a transparent state, preferring the shadows, the underside of sound, the politics of resignation, perhaps the evocation of a different century. The gesture that fades before the pizzicati right at the end is not far at all from the viol consorts of William Lawes. No idea here lacks a more cogent counterpart in earlier stages of his œuvre, true, but the prevailing and profound sense of abandonment may be considered fresh soil.

Even so, whether to weep at the obvious seriousness of purpose of this trio, in an ever-darkening world, amid the futility of a work of art to make change, or to take pity at the time that has passed its master – and all of those counted as his listeners – by, is not clear. There could moreover be justification to be reminded of all that we have in our lives, and to go enjoy those instead (never a bad idea, in fact). However one sees and hears Mes Adieux, and whether it is indeed Prospero’s farewell to his art or not, the collective debt owed to Lachenmann, a gentle giant in his 90th year, is undeniable.

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The illustration for this article is the cover for: “Helmut Lachenmann: Mes Adieux.” Helmut LACHENMANN: Allegro sostenuto (1986-88)¹; Notturno (1966-68)²; Streichtrio Nr. 2, “Mes Adieux” (2021-22)³. Trio Catch¹: Boglárka Pecze (clar), Yen-Ting Liu (vlc), Sun-Young Nam (pno), Karolina Öhman² (vlc), WDR Sinfonieorchester², Lin Liao² (cond.), trio recherche³: Melise Mellinger (vln), Geneviève Strosser (vla), Åsa Åkerberg (vlc). Bastille Musique 29 (1 CD) (bastillemusique.bandcamp.com).