Was für eine bizarre, wie in Regenbogenfarben schillernde und am Ende tragische Gestalt! Adalbert von Goldschmidt, der als 1848 geborener Spross einer jüdischen Wiener Bankendynastie ausschließlich für die Kunst leben konnte, tat das nicht nur in eigener Sache als Dichter und Komponist, sondern auch nach vielen Seiten fördernd. Er kommunizierte mit Anton Bruckner wie Johann Strauss, unterstützte Richard Wagner beim Bayreuther Theaterbau, war für jüngere Künstler wie Hugo Wolf und Arnold Schönberg da; Felix Mottl und Arthur Nikisch dirigierten seine Werke, Franz Liszt und sogar Karl Kraus schätzten sie. Doch schon wenige Jahre nach seinem Tod im Dezember 1906 folgte die Auslöschung: keine Aufführungen mehr und später, in der Tonträger-Ära, eine einzige Liedeinspielung aus seinem Œuvre von mehr als 200 Stücken oft monumentalen Formats.
Bei Goldschmidt, der gegen Ende seines desolat gewordenen Lebens noch zum Katholizismus konvertierte, schien komplett gelungen, woran die aussortierende Spielplanpflege eines seit der Jahrhundertwende in der Kulturwelt grassierenden, nach dem Ende der faschistischen Ausrottungspolitik in die Latenz gewanderten Antisemitismus bei Gustav Mahler oder Kurt Weill scheiterte: Er wurde ins Vergessen gestoßen.
Given these circumstances, the two performances of “The Seven Deadly Sins” at the Berlin Volksbühne can be called downright revolutionary. The three hours without a break with more than 200 participants left a deep emotional impression, despite some ambivalence. Other fin-de-siècle composers such as Franz Schreker and Eugen d'Albert have long since made their way back into venues and recording studios; The new development of Goldschmidt was overdue. It was initiated by Christian Filips, who published a monograph about the artist in 2020, the title of which – “The Immortality Clown” – already suggests something about the often esoteric, but occasionally also pleasurable, nature of the protagonist, who is quite capable of self-irony.
This is how the idea arose to present Goldschmidt's first major work, premiered in 1876, in conjunction with the Chamber Symphony, Sing-Akademie and the Berlin State and Cathedral Choir – all known for their openness to the unknown. The fact that there were only two well-attended evenings under the direction of Filips seems understandable given the demands of this oratorio piece on the participants, whose score describes the cubature of a medium-sized table grill, but it is still a shame.
The oratorio by the man in his mid-twenties – Liszt was so enthusiastic that he accepted the young colleague as a master student – is by no means just the document of a young, wild top talent who was dubbed a “Jewish Wagnerian” and at times also saw himself as such. Although one actually hears a Tristanesque love duet (which brought together two lyrically blossoming top voices in Mima Millo and Yury Makhrov), and the virtuoso orchestral treatment is definitely “new German”, but in other places there are passages that, from today's perspective, are more reminiscent of Massenet or Let Puccini think; and once, with a rustic appreciation of the human stomach in the tableau of “Gluttony,” one even feels transported to Joseph Haydn’s “Seasons.” The plot is ambitiously symbolistic: a weary humanity is first destroyed by the sin demons, but is finally saved through art and transformed into a new, aesthetically transfigured form of existence.
The conductor Kai-Uwe Jirka led the four participating choirs just as confidently as he worked out all the nuances of subtle apocalypticism from tenderness to overwhelmingness with the chamber symphony. Gerrit Illenberger's robust baritone also stood out among the soloists – especially as “Zorn”, who brings human self-destruction to its evil goal in martial manslaughter.
There was also a considerable amount of spoken and gesticulated material – one was in the Volksbühne after all – with sources that were not always clear, but probably compiled by Filips and accompanied by entertaining scene, light and film arrangements (Daniela Zorrozua, Adrian Terzic, Sebastian Kaiser). embedded in a flickering, tingling optic. As a kind of satyr play to the high tone of the actual piece, this occasionally seemed useful in the sense of dramaturgical variety, but in terms of content it was often didactic and attempted. Susanne Bredehöft was delicious as the devotedly narrow-minded Wagner descendant from Lebensborn. And Sophie Rois, in addition to her role as the Princess of Darkness, also embodied Goldschmidt herself. She delivered a compelling study of a late infantile swampy but, despite all the naivety in between, suddenly clairvoyant almost-genius.
