February 10-16, 2005

music

Back in Black

GREAT, MISUNDERSTOOD? "Some people say I have a rough, mean exterior. That on the podium I look arrogant or angry. It's not intentional. My face is what I was given."

Badass conductor Riccardo Muti returns to the Orchestra in the concert hall he pushed for.

by Steve Cohen

Riccardo Muti and Philadelphia. You wouldn't call it a love-hate relationship, but there's definitely something going on between those two. Uneasiness and disappointment, yes, but also strong affection.

That's what makes Muti's return to the Orchestra — in the concert hall he long pushed for — so exciting.

When Muti left town in 1992, after a 12-year run as music director, he accepted the title of conductor emeritus and promised to return for guest appearances. But after 1993, despite repeated invitations from Orchestra management, he came back only once for a single concert, a 1998 benefit. This has not gone unnoticed in classical music circles.

It took a chance encounter with a rogue group of musicians to finally lasso Muti. In May 2004, he was conducting in Vienna at the same time that the Philadelphia Orchestra passed through on tour. Several of the Philly players had dinner with the maestro at a restaurant near the Musikverein concert hall. Oboist Richard Woodhams, timpanist Don Liuzzi, violinist Barbara Govatos and violinist Larry Grika sat around the table with Muti, talking cordially over Italian cuisine. They discussed politics and music, the renovation of La Scala Opera House that was under way and the acoustics of the new Kimmel Center. Muti said that it would be nice to get together again, but the players had no authority to make an official proposal. "We told him how we would love to play with him again, if he could return to Philadelphia for a reunion," says Grika.

Mid-meal, current conductor Christoph Eschenbach and Orchestra president Joseph Kluger walked into the restaurant and stopped by Muti's table. Their talk was social, and brief. No business was discussed.

Then, during the labor negotiations in July 2004, management told the players it needed to close a deficit. The topic of bringing Muti back for a benefit concert came up. Management agreed to the suggestion. Grika phoned the maestro in Italy and made the request. Muti's response was simply "'When do you need me?" Grika was thrilled: "My next question to him was how much would his fee be, and he said he would work without fee because "you are my musical family.'"

But why has Muti been so reluctant to conduct here until now?

When this reporter visited him in Milan in 2000 he spoke bluntly: "People in Philadelphia try to say that the Academy is a faithful copy of La Scala Milano. I tried to tell them differently but they wouldn't listen. This is an example of the lies that some Philadelphians tell. There were many other lies. I love Philadelphia and I lived there for years, but people said I didn't. Your city has a lot to be proud of. But people shouldn't claim what isn't true."

During his time with the Philadelphia Orchestra, Muti was branded an outsider. Some compared him unfavorably to his predecessor, Eugene Ormandy, who made a permanent home at the Barclay Hotel. Muti kept his principal home in Italy, where he raised his family. Muti's perception is that he put down some roots in Philly, yet was rejected as a carpetbagger. He's also been called arrogant, a criticism he acknowledges with a smile. "I can be difficult."

Philadelphia was a frequent target of Muti's criticism. He frequently, publicly, longed for a new concert hall, but it wasn't just that. When he'd dine at restaurants he'd spot a misspelling — such as linguini — on a menu, cross it out in ink and write in the correct linguine. Then he'd shake his head over the ignorance of the proprietors. His dining companions, however, found him to be a jovial and interesting friend.

Not long ago, Muti spoke to a group of Italian journalists in Ancona, in the Abruzzo region on the eastern coast of Italy. "In America they like the big stuff," he said. "They love Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff and spectacular pieces. But when I played Haydn in Philadelphia, a newspaper critic said it was banal and tiresome. In America, the people interested in culture are very few, and they are usually of European origin. The culturally literate are a very small part of society, almost like a ghetto."

He was on a roll. "American orchestras have great technical merit, no dispute. Their orchestras are built like grand machina — big machines. But they often lack interpretive skill. In the 1930s the United States bought a bunch of conductors and musicians. But it's not enough to buy them. An orchestra needs a heart. It needs to play as a unit. It needs to know the cultural traditions of the music. America is senz'anima — without a soul."

In Milan, he said he's frequently misunderstood. "Some people say I have a rough, mean exterior. That on the podium I look arrogant or angry. It's not intentional. My face is what I was given. The severity of my appearance when I work comes from my teachers, who instilled in me the ethic that you must be severe and serious when you work. Inwardly, however, I always find things to laugh about.

"I try to work cordially with my orchestra, to build music together," Muti continued. "Like a stonemason, I'm a laborer of music. I'm a builder, putting everything together. A craftsman, like me, has to know how to make the final product. You can be an architect and draw all you want, but without the craftsman the building doesn't get built."

Making a life in music meant giving up some things. His teenage years were devoted to study. His three children — now an architect, a lawyer and an actress — were essentially raised by his wife, Cristina, while Muti was nomadically building a career. During his last years in Philadelphia, Muti began to reprioritize.

"In the Catholic Church," he says, "we're taught to put our mind and soul ahead of our body. But we should not ignore the physical as if every day is Good Friday. Recently I took a boat on the Adriatic and stopped at a little town in Croatia. In an old tavern, there were barrels of rough, homemade wine and a woman was serving cheese and salami. In the simplicity of her life, I realized what I was missing."

Sun., Feb. 13, 7 p.m., $130-$150, Kimmel Center, 300 S. Broad St., 215-893-1955.