THE NEW YORK TIMES
APRIL 6, 2002

MUSIC THAT'S A PAINTING, MUSIC THAT'S PURE SOUND
By Bernard Holland

Art and the art of illustration were topics at the New York Philharmonic on Thursday night. Mozart's Requiem persuaded the ear to enter into its world. Prokofiev's "Alexander Nevsky" – loud, extravagant, shrill with surprises – demanded the attention of its listeners. The two different kinds of music were well treated at Avery Fisher Hall. The New York Choral Artists sang with extraordinary fineness. The Philharmonic players seemed eager to serve their departing music director Kurt Masur. The Requiem seemed to touch its four vocal soloists deeply. It was a happy evening.

"Nevsky" is, of course, film music. It has something besides itself to sell and it does so with wonderful originality. Prokofiev's servitude to the Soviet arts machine caused him anguish, but it also curbed the nasty streak in his music. Like "War and Peace" recently at the Metropolitan Opera, this celebrated cantata was written knowing that the curdled cynicism of the earlier operas and concertos was unacceptable to his handlers. Here unashamed flamboyance gives great pleasure, and we should not be ashamed to enjoy it unconditionally. No orchestra, moreover, is better equipped for this piece than the New York Philharmonic. The solo playing was brilliant, the ensemble smoothly sophisticated. Nancy Maultsby took the brief, impassioned alto solo.

If Prokofiev's music "takes pictures" of Sergei Eisenstein's film, if it supplements impressions meant for the eye with impressions for the ear, Mozart reconstitutes the outside world in disembodied sound. Nothing is illustrated; there is only the music. And what strangely wonderful music it is. Repeated hearings of the Requiem tend to dull the senses, but when it is done as acutely as this, one listens and realizes afresh that the term "avant-garde" cannot be defined by age, style or period.

Indeed, the minor mode was Mozart's space ship. The Requiem is filled with its adventures: slippery chord progressions, arcane modulations and deceptive cadences that lead the ear halfway down dark passages and then send it back to look again. Edith Wiens sang the soprano part in a kind of ecstatic immersion, proving that beautiful singing need not require a beautiful voice. Ms. Maultsby was similarly involved. Nathan Berg's articulate and beautifully supported bass-baritone was a pleasure. Stanford Olsen's tenor was guarded but effective.

The New York Philharmonic never seems to honor its music directors until they leave. Thursday, at any rate, was a love fest from both sides of the footlights.