Mammoth mounts of mournful ecstasy: Günther Groissböck and Malcolm Martineau in Recital at Wigmore Hall - Review
Melancholy was conveyed with military might by the imperious performer and his apt accompanist in a melodious manifesto of the wretched.
Günther Groissböck. Credit: Dominik Stixenberger
Steep steps short-circuit at the summit of the sterling-silver coloured Eiger: a colossal mountain of the Bernese Oberland in Switzerland. As winter sun melts glaciers glossing rugged ridges, passable paths camouflage for climbers seeking stable stretches; splitting into shards of racing rock. Peaks become perilous for suitors courting the celestial border.
Such is the fate befalling many an ambitious singer bent on blasting top notes that could burst the sky: ultra-terrestrial expulsions of emotion. It’s a temptation that besets the song recital much more strongly than the operatic stage, whose storming players test each other’s imperturbable tenacity.
Summoning the suffering of Schumann in his Wigmore Hall recital, bass Günther Groissböck took a magnifying glass to gloom. As he dealt with duelling brothers in “Die feindlichen Brüder” Groissböck distanced himself from their deeds by proclaiming their deaths with panache: the phrase “Grausig Blendwerk schleichet nachts” (“Night brings cruel deception”) was delivered like a general’s dictum. Dire pronouncements such as these more deftly suited declarations such as, “Ich bin der König von Babylon!” (“I am the King of Babylon!”) in “Belsazar”, a piece to which the bass appropriately proffered onomatopoeia in a whispery emission of “Es wurde leichenstill im Saal”(“It became deathly still in the hall”).
Yet frequently attempts at artistry tripped over verbal artefacts; straddling the precipice of pitch at ends of stanzas with emphatic words like “umgebracht” (“killed”) and, later in “Die beideren Grenadiere” (“The two grenadiers”), “schützen” (“to protect”). Swaying waves appeared to characterise certain syllables that Groissböck slurred towards or stumbled from in overexcitation.
Crescendos cradled skyscrapers in Hans Rott’s “Geistergruss” (“Ghostly greeting”): a lugubrious monologue by a dead naval hero. Demonstrating the determination of the warrior, Groissböck simultaneously disclosed his own in the declamatory line “Der Becher angefüllt” (“this [spiritual] goblet filled to the brim”). Sentimentality shoehorned the shape of “Wälde” (“forest”) in the “Wanderer’s nightsong” (“Wandrers Nachtlied”); souring the notes as pianist Malcolm Martineau paced arpeggios with caressing caution. Emotions were immutably on full display; at times more lyrically than others.
Vacillations veered more notes off course in Bruckner’s “Im April” (“In April”), unravelling the “Veilchenduft” (“scent of violets”) into throbs of overused vibrato. As autumn dawned in “Herbstkummer” a close rapport was spawned between the nature-worshipping narrator and his little rose (“ein Röslein”): an object limned formidably with forte. Endearing properties of awe aligned “verglommen” (“lost its glow”) with a majestic jostling of the notes that fed them feeling to the point of straining musicality.
Imperforable potency cast poetry by Michelangelo in an imperishable light as Groissböck channelled never-ending energy into “Und, dass ich da bin, wissen alle Leute!” (“And the entire world knows I exist!”): the self-emergence that crowns Hugo Wolf’s “Wohl denk ich oft”. Cursive curls made up the contours of the start of “Alles endet, was entstehet” (“All must end that has a beginning”); slackening the verse’s spread-out notes until their suppleness was bendable. Legato lingered far behind in instances like these but luckily enlaced “die Sonne sieht” (“the sun sees”) with a slowly-growing volume that suggested daybreak.
A military might immersed Mussorgsky’s “Songs and Dances of Death” in the ominous voice of a despot: it was here that the bass best projected his craft. Impersonating the grim reaper in the gruesome “Lullaby” – an ode to cot death – Groissböck embellished “blednoe utro” (“pale morning”) with portentous plangency. The monster’s false assurances, “on skoro uimnyotsya” (“he’ll soon calm down”) were offered with a goblin shark’s protracted rattling roar.
Elsewhere the swagger of the singer’s timbre echoed sounds of a seized sturgeon being battered in its fishing net as terms like “Rytsar nevedomyi” (“a mysterious knight”) were thrashed with thickly-laden throbs in “Serenade”. When death announced to a young woman, “Tyi moya!” (“You’re mine!”) the force in Groissböck’s instrument could have sufficed to carve an outpost from an island. In the role of battle commentator in “The Field Marshal” some syllables were onomatopoeically chopped up to sound a pair of clashing swords in “Vragi vse yarostnei i zlei” (“[men fight]… more violently, more fiercely in conflict.”) It was apparent that the vocalist’s vociferations best embodied ruthless tyranny; the kind found in Rachmaninov’s Aleko and Méphistophélès in Gounod’s Faust.
Across songs from Des Knaben Wunderhorn - a set of German folk poems made musical by Mahler - pitch was again sabotaged in dramatisation’s favour; felling both the end of “Rosengarten” (“rose-garden”) and “grünen” (“green”) in “Der Schildwache”’s (“The sentinel’s night song’s”) floral realm. Diminuendo nevertheless thinned “gestellt” to end “Ich bin gestellt” (“I am ordered”) with nearly perfect measure.
Gurgling sea straits swept chords’ currents as accompanist Martineau trickled tentative arpeggios through the shoreline of “Reveige” (“Reveille”), providing a stark contrast to the soldier’s impetus that dealt “Ich muss marschieren bis dem Tod” (“I must march towards death”) a sturdy confidence at Groissböck’s helm. Portraying the titular drummer-boy in “Der Tamboursg’sell”, the singer thrust forth the repeated line “Tambour von der Leibkompanie” (“drummer to the king’s bodyguard”) with vigorous aplomb – sending it tumbling off legato in the process.
Stones seemed to snap off steps atop a cliff scarcely surmountable as Groissböck’s vocal strength vied with a troublesome technique. Absorbing his fierce efforts was akin to watching feet scale snow-caked heights: a marvel of a monument both magnitudinous and menacing. Amendments to his self-control could muster the composure to collate the elements of song into a whole - forging a sculpture that his art is yet to mould.