It was probably the force of gravityrather than the Force of Destiny that caused Zubin Mehta’s baton to leap outof his hand and fly into the viola section: we were in the early moments ofVerdi’s Overture The Force of Destiny. A few seconds later another batonappe-ared, as if by magic, in his hand. But there wasn’t much magic in themusic-making. Mehta was conducting the Bavarian State Orchestra in the second oftwo concerts they gave in India the week after Christmas.
The orchestra played a popular programme of Beethoven, Schubert and Verdi to adistinguished, and—in the cavern of the Indira Gandhi Indoor Stadium—ratherisolated group of VIPs. Some distance away, the audience of unwashed watchedfrom the bleachers.
We heard each piece several times: first, pumped out by huge but inadequatespeakers, and again, a second or so later, when the soundwaves echoed from theback of the stadium.
Differences between loud and soft, and the high quality of the instrumentalplaying—both so important in classical music—were impossible to appreciate.
The force of gravity was much in evidence again in Schubert’s UnfinishedSymphony. Schubert’s vision of man’s struggle with fate is alwaysutterly personal and consoling, but it vanished in Mehta’s slow, ponderousreading. Even the famous opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, starkand ominous, was swathed in a winter smog like the city we had struggled acrossto attend the concert.
The orchestra were unable to keep a steady pulse until Mehta’s genius finallyasserted itself towards the end of the movement; there was, suddenly, like theDelhi sun breaking through the dust, music in the air. But the lilting theme ofthe second movement was disturbingly loud, and the long transition from thethird movement to the fourth had none of the mystery Beethoven intended.
Then, again, with blazes of glorious brass and filigree piccolo, Beethoven andthe orchestra won the battle with the gnomes: Mehta led all to a rousing close.
Now the orchestra had found the measure of the stadium. The encore, a polka byStrauss, was the highlight of the evening. But until we in Delhi can provide aproper venue in which to hear and appreciate great orchestral music, and untilthe amplification Mafia are finally confined to rock concerts and politicalrallies, all subtlety, all nuance, all the marvellous and persuasive point ofclassical music, Indian and Western, will escape us.
We must insist that live means live, not piped.
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This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, January 31,2006
